#do soul magic in a Right and Proper manner. both the two who were at the trials and once they get the message back the entire house will be

[iamthescalesofjustice]

you are john. it has been, what, like eight or ten months since you sent out the notices about the new round of lyctor trials? you have a weird dream one night and decide, on a whim, to check in on how the trials are going. 

you phone home (its not home, home is gone). no one picks up. thats weird, and kind of concerning, so you go to check. canaan house is empty, even of the constructs you left to act as bodies for the partitioned bit of your soul-conglomerate you left there. there seem to be a lot of weird zombies on various continents. whoops, looks like some of the partitions of your soul-network need to be tuned up. well, you can do that after you figure out where the contestants went. 

an extensive round of investigation later, you land on the ninth. yep, that sure does seem to be the missing contestants. and the canaan house priests. and cytherea is here, for some reason. probably plotting against you. and... oh, annabel, good morning. 

while you are getting stabbed by your cavalier, you cant help but notice that it looks like some of the contestants did, in fact, achieve lyctorhood. but uh, definitely not the way they were supposed to. 

[saphirered]

I’m in love with your writing and binged your entire page one night lol

Could I request a story with Caleb where the M9 find a wounded reader on the run from people who want to use her for her very powerful magical abilities. She doesn’t trust Caleb at first because he’s a wizard and just as she opens up to him and starts to develop feelings discovers he has been studying her powers - thought with no bad intentions. Some good old angsty enemies to lovers type of beat. Preferably with a good ending but do what you wish ;))

Apparently I'm giving you more stuff to binge as this is looking more and more like a several parter 😅. Prepare for loads of angst and conflict and some good hurt/comfort to come but for now, here comes part 1! 😘

Nobody pays attention to a vagrant dressed in rags, looking about a week past their last proper bath begging on the side of the road for money or standing by a shop, mouth watering at the food. Nobody pays attention to what they don’t want to see in their pristine cities. Not unless they want to chase you away because you’re in their way or you’re tarnishing their image. Speaking about image, sometimes some rich folk will take pity upon you, casting a coin your way to make themselves look good and generous in the eyes of others.

That’s exactly what you became when you needed to disappear. You needed to become unseen, unnoticed and a shadow among a crowd. You succeed casting away all remainders of your previous life because in the end, your life is worth more to you than your earthly possessions. Survival above all. You’ll live this way until you can get somewhere where no one will question you, or where you’ll be under the protection of others, far away where your enemies cannot reach you. Maybe Vasselheim is a good place to go? They’re not fond of the arcane magics. Sure you’ll have to give up using some of your own gifts but it’s worth being able to live your life freely.

You’re still a ways away from Vasselheim and you don’t have the funds to get there yet. Even if you make it to a port, stowing away on a ship is fine but you can’t trust them to not throw you overboard or leave you stranded at the nearest island to save provisions. And that’s if they don’t hand you over to any authorities and risk you getting back to square one. You’ll have to wander around Wildemount until you’re able to book passage or find somewhere to lay low, forever on the move. It’s not the worst and you get used to it pretty quickly.

Weren’t you lucky when you saw the recent champions of the Victory Pit were strolling around town flaunting their winnings. You need food. You need warm clothes. And most of all, you could do with some extra change in your pocket. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to steal all of it of course. Just enough to get by and they wouldn’t notice. So you trail them, sticking to the shadows. They don’t seem to notice you.

Then you struck. You got the coin pouch from the ostentatious one. It was child’s play really. He didn’t even notice you lifting the pouch from his belt when you brushed against his shoulder muttering an apology. You were already amidst the crowd when you heard the tiefling exclaim his coin pouch was gone and he put two and two together quickly, the charlatan he is so before you knew it they were on the lookout for someone fitting your description. You had to move quick, buy your necessities and get out of the market. You know just the place to hide out; the Evening Nip. Nobody asks questions there.

Once you found yourself safely sipping on the shitty ale served at the Evening Nip you didn’t expect the colourful group of strangers to stroll in. It was already too late when you spotted them and you had no where to go. Still your quickly gathered up the coin back into the ornate velvet pouch and put it in your own pocket hidden beneath the layers of your clothes putting your hands behind your back as you tried to make a break for the exit. They did not let you pass, a relatively buff looking woman gripping the handle of her sword stepping in front of you while another one, though shorter blocked your escape by interposing her staff.

“No funny business, friend. You have something that belongs to my companion here, and he wants it back.” The half-orc speaks as you grit your teeth. You’d really hoped to avoid this but you weren’t stupid enough to bring out the big artillery… yet… so you lift your hands in surrender and allow them to lead you over to one of the tables taking a seat of your own accord while you’re flanked by the buff woman on one side, the purple tiefling on the other and the rest of them takes up seating of their own around the table keeping an eye on you.

“Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way…” The half-orc leads as the tiefling next to you holds out his hand brushing his other over your shoulder in a soft push, mimicking what you had done when you pickpocketed him. Are they mocking you? Bastards.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, friend.” You speak innocently. You know they won’t buy it anyway, their minds already made up, but it gives you just a second more to get a grasp on all of them. You’re already plotting your escape, despite the odds being turned against you. You have to try.

“Oh, I think you do, and we simply want a conversation. You wouldn’t want to tarnish this new friendship now would you?” The tiefling grins as you look at him. You can feel the strings of enchantment pricking into your mind but you know how this works. You’ll just have to play along. You smile, like being faced with an old friend, just as the spell would have you have, letting your defensive mannerism fade.

“You’re quite right. It’s no way to treat new friends. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot.” You glance between all of them and you feel a pair of blue eyes stare into you, right through you. There’s just something about him that doesn’t add up and you’re almost afraid he knows you’re not under the tiefling’s spell after all but you do whatever you can to not show that on your face and play along.

“Should we get some drinks to commemorate new friends?” You suggest about to get up but the woman in blue’s staff moves across the table right onto your shoulder urging you to stay in place. You don’t look fazed and merely amused with this action as if it is a harmless joke and not a threat. The tiefling moves the staff from your shoulder as you turn your attention back to him as he smiles.

“I think that’s an absolutely wonderful idea. Drinks on me.” He stands with you and begins leading you over to the bar. Clive takes the order and begins pouring the ale as requested while the tiefling keeps conversation with you, completely oblivious and detached from his friends. You play along and when you reach to the coin pouch, you pull out the coins owed to the barkeep. The tiefling smiles and you can see from your peripheral the red head notices too. Both confirm you have the coin pouch. So once you pay you reach for your pocket grasping for a short iron rod placing it in your hand, whispering words under your breath as the tiefling talks to the barkeep, your hands begin to move according to the familiar motions and before the redhead can warn his lavender companion, the tiefling is frozen in place unable to move and you’re making a break for the door.

Spells fly left and right and you dodge a few, take the damage from others as the fighters dependant on close range rush for you. A crossbow bolt hits your thigh and a large cat’s claw appears in front of you. You try to dodge it reaching for you but it catches you and holds you in place despite your struggling to get free. They circle you, bind your hands, take back the coin pouch and your own limited belongings from you as you fight back trying to keep them away from you but you’re just alone and they are the many.

You feel helpless and desperate. That’s when you make eye contact with the blue eyed wizard. There’s a look of recognition in his eyes. Not for who you are directly, but the way you’re acting and lashing out, like some caged animal wishing desperately to be free, like a creature on the run, like you’re two sides of the same coin. His eyes reveal to you pain and suffering and pity but you don’t need his pity. You don’t need anyone’s pity.

“Why did you steal that coin?” The wizard asks as you glare at him from your seated position on the ground.

“Why does anybody steal anything? I’m hungry. I’m cold and I’m broke as hell.” You spit none too kindly.

“Then get a job. Make some money. Or at least learn to be a good thief.” The rude woman snorts. You roll your eyes. Typical. You know plenty of people like her, maybe you even used to be like her but not anymore. You grew out of that the hard way. She will too, in time.

“None of you noticed until you went to pay for something.” You grin and the woman is about to lunge for you at your provocation. So easy to piss that one off. Funny, actually.

“I don’t think she can just get a job. Not a regular one anyway.” The wizard observes as he stares into you. “You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?” Your silence, biting your lip says enough. You don’t have anywhere to go. Once you did but that’s gone. Torn away from you.

“How about this? You spent a good deal of my friend’s coin but we’ll give you the opportunity to make it back as a repayment. Stick around for a little bit and go our separate ways when the debt is repaid?” There’s some protests but the half-orc quiets them down when the wizard speaks up in your favour. He doesn’t trust you, not after the stunts you just pulled, especially not when the look on your face mirrors his own so closely but perhaps it’s something within him that calls to him to make right a wrong, or prevent another soul to be lost to the troubles he’s faced.

With these idiots bound to make a scene they’ll call attention to themselves and by default that means away from you. This might work in your favour. They’re adventurers and given that they seem somewhat familiar with the Evening Nip, you can only assume they’re not exactly always on the right side of the law. You’re not judging but that gives you some safety and assurance should things go south or you need a quick way out. And if things really do turn in your favour, they’ll be your cover to places and funds to get you far far away from this hell hole.

“Looks like you got yourselves a new companion then, friends.” You don’t smile, only displaying an expression so neutral that makes the wizard think for a second he might have made a mistake but for now you have mutual interests and if there’s anything he can count on, it’s the reliability of a common goal, and a lot to lose should you get outed.

So next you know, you’re somewhat absorbed into their little group, learning their names and where they’re from, chatting happily but you can’t help but notice that yours and Caleb’s stories are similar in some ways, mostly the lack of detail. You’ve been raised within the Empire, but found yourself on a less fortunate path fending for yourself. The only difference between you and him is that he found Nott on his path while you had remained alone. The group didn’t seem to mind your lack of details, going with the excuse you’re not about to bare your life story to the people you only just met and you’re lucky. You hadn’t told anyone what happened since you’ve been on the run and you don’t plan on doing so anytime soon, especially not to people who haven’t earned your trust yet.

Of course you’ve been roomed with Caleb and Nott, finding yourself in one of the most expensive inns in the city, paid for by the group. Unlike Nott, who goes through your stuff when she thinks you’re not looking, Caleb is the perfect roommate. He doesn’t cross any boundaries, ask too many questions or has any annoying habits. He just reclines on his bed, going through his spellbook, transcribing new spells to add to his own collection. Every time he does you get extremely uneasy and snappy and do whatever you can to not be in the same space as the wizard. It doesn’t do your roommate relationship any good and may leave you at odds at times. Caleb may not understand why but it’s not his place to ask questions, nor does he think you’ll actually answer them. Instead you make up excuses, helping Beau with training, letting Jester braid your hair, keeping Fjord company while Molly claims their room for one of his escapades, getting some booze for Nott, or when Yasha is there, watch the storms with the woman, anything to get you out of that shared room with the wizard.

————

Rain hits the window of your room in the Pillow Trove as the redheaded wizard strolls in throwing his backpack on his bed and sitting down with a deep sigh. You look up over the edge of the book you’re reading seeing the wizard soaked through the bone wringing out his hair best he can. With a wave of your hand and words uttered under your breath you grin as the water evaporates from Caleb’s form, leaving his hair slightly more curly and frizzy, and his clothes warm and comfy. He gives you a look as you continue reading as if you’re completely unaware of anything going on in the room, completely absorbed into your book. Ignoring Caleb.

“I didn’t take you for the type that reads smutty romance novels.” He comments and gestures towards Courting of the Crick. You finally look at Caleb as if he only just gained your attention, as if you’re only just aware of his presence in the room. Both of you know better but this is how it is.

“You wouldn’t. But according to Jester you enjoy them very much.” You grin, having gotten to hear all about their little trip to the Chastity’s Nook. Caleb gives you a disapproving look as he begins to unpack his things, taking out the fresh ink and paper, setting out his spellbook and you mark your page, putting the book on your side table as you quickly get up and go for the door.

“Where are you off to all of the sudden?” Caleb asks as you grit your teeth. Can he not just leave you alone? Does he really trust you so little you’re not allowed to leave of your own accord?

“I’m going to see Jester and Beau in their room. Now I will bid you good day unless you think I need an escort for the room two doors down.” You snap. Okay, that may have been unnecessary. You could have at least been neutral. Too late for that now. Caleb waves his and as if dismissing you. Act like a child, get treated like a child. So you leave the room letting the door fall closed a little harder than you normally would in protest and make your way over towards Beau and Jester’s room.

Jester, happily lets you in and while Beau has definitely warmed up to you, things are still rocky. She wouldn’t go as far as calling you a friend, but more that one neighbourhood kid her parents tried to get her to play with despite the two of you never really having been friends at all. At least you can bond over your slightly criminal tendencies. It’s Jester who’s completely accepted you as one of her own, questioning you about anything and everything, preaching to you about the Traveler, gushing about her romance novels, specifically Oskar, which you’re pretty sure is actually reflecting her major crush on Fjord but let the girl dream. Who knows what will come of it?

[venusdeus]

Court of Kings - Chapter 2

Summary: Sent to a neighboring kingdom to secure an alliance, forced to give up your dreams and ambitions, disregarded as a means to an end. You however have no desire to fulfil their wishes. And neither does Oikawa.

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x female reader

Genre: Fluff, comedy, angst, royalty au, arranged marriage au, enemies to lovers au (more like enemies to allies to friends to lovers), eventual smut maybe?

Word count: 2165

Warnings: All the characters are adults unless specified. This chapter is sfw. Minors do not interact.

Notes: This is part 2. To start from the prologue, you can use this link.

Chapter 1 <...> Chapter 3

You prided yourself in not expressing your thoughts or your emotions on your face and having full control over your body language. In this situation, you thought, it was certainly a blessing. You did not want this man to read your thoughts even though hawk like eyes of his that were focused on you made you think he could.

“A very beautiful garden indeed.” Oikawa remarked for a second time that night, his hand resting behind his back “We do not have this many varieties when it comes to plants up north. It is rather cold there, especially when compared to here.”

The ball was still going on inside the palace walls and the music that was filling the rooms still managed to reach your ears no matter how far in the gardens you went. You two were thrown out together after the first few minutes into the reception, suggested, or more like ordered, by both parties to take a walk in order to get to know one another. Followed by royal guards and an entourage of maids and butlers of course. Thankfully, other nobles that would usually be following you, such as your ladies in waiting, were not present thanks to the ongoing event inside. Never truly alone as it wouldn’t be proper. And you never did something that wasn’t proper. Or at least when someone else could see you.

“As you mentioned previously your Highness.” You replied looking ahead. It was not because you were scared that you did not look at him, or so you tried to lie to yourself, it was because you concluded from his rather rude entrance that afternoon that he disliked you. A man who had disgust and anger written on his face before just as he was supposed meet his future betrothed was not a man worth knowing.

He went as far as not to speak unless spoken to when your family decided to give him and his company a tour of the palace that afternoon, your father being absent of course. And even your normally chatty brother trailed hiding behind you, not daring to talk to him. Oikawa looked too broad, too much like a giant next to his sickly form. His hand never left his sword either. Did he not know what a grave insult he gave you when he behaved as if you were after his head, you wondered. You would not blame him of course, not like you did not know the strained relations between the two countries. But it was rude, nonetheless.

The only interaction you had that day before the ball was limited to greetings and if you counted it, walking next to each other in the halls. In the evening, a dance to open the ball. And that was it until now.

“Princess,” he started as you winced at the name, he did not even bother to use your proper title when addressing you “I heard you also had an exquisite greenhouse. Would you be so kind to show me? I am quite curious.”

You finally decided to look at him, fully expecting to see the previous icy expression on his face but found him to be surprisingly smiling. No, maybe not a smile but a smirk, you thought, the kind that gives you shivers and makes you speechless.

You were certainly not stupid. Nor blind. Since the first time you laid eyes on him that day, you knew that all those rumors about him were true. He had a face that looked like it was painted by the master artists of the past, an angelic feeling to it. He was also tall, towering over you or even the guards. The ladies gushed about how lucky you were and how regal he looked.

If only he did not have that God awful expression on his face when you first saw him, you would have been as starstruck as the Palace staff. It was evident that he made up his mind about you before he even met you. So why should you try to get to know him.

“It would be my pleasure.” you answered turning right towards the greenhouse. You have passed it once or twice every week in your walks but you were never allowed in when the gardeners were present.

He did not speak again until you both stopped at the gates of the glass building. That's when he turned towards the staff and the guards that were following you and addressed them with a voice so sweet that could catch vermin.

“If you could please give her Highness and me a few minutes to tour inside I would really appreciate it.”

It was such an inappropriate suggestion that you could feel your face getting hot with anger. You knew he was rude, but you did not expect him to behave with the manners of a dog. It was no secret that he had done countless things you did not dare voice with other ladies or even commoners in places that seemed innocent enough until he was left alone with them. But to taint the reputation of a royal with such suggestion was another thing.

One of the wives of a southern Duke even recalled one evening, after the announcement of his upcoming visit, that one of the most magical nights she had was at his library at his court, giggling while you sat at the same round table as her, playing cards not even a meter away. It made your stomach turn and not just because of the story, but because of the look she gave you afterwards. It reminded you of the smug look your father’s mistress gave you whenever your paths crossed.

You couldn’t stomach the thought of having a similar faith wherever you went.

One of the butlers, god bless his soul, opened his mouth to object but was quickly shut down by Oikawa’s honey voice.

“The path inside looks very narrow you see. And I am not used to being in such a humid and small space with too many people. I can promise you that we won’t take longer than five minutes.”

In hindsight they should have not let him get away with such proposition. But he was the crown prince of one of the strongest kingdoms in this part of the world and he was also to be your future husband. You were not betrothed yet officially but it was as good as done. If it wasn’t they would not even be invited here.

Or maybe, you should have refused his request or asked only two guards to follow you. But one look at his face and your curiosity was peaked. You wanted to know what he wanted to achieve with such a risqué favor. So, you followed the wolf to its den. If any of the nobles heard of this, or god forbid your family, you would be as good as dead. But you could always order your maids to keep their mouths shut. You could never trust anyone to not talk of course, but a threat could do the work.

“I am bit of a botanist myself.” Oikawa said just before the doors closed behind you.

You couldn’t properly see your surroundings as the only light inside came from the moon shining above the tall glass ceiling, and sadly it was not enough to illuminate your path. Oikawa on the other hand was behaving as if he owned the place itself, walking ahead of you, only turning once to check if you were still following him.

“Though it is mostly a hobby.” He continued, finally stopping in front of a cactus like plant with lovely white flowers and turning to you.

“I am guessing you did not ask to come here alone just to talk about your botanical knowledge. What is it that you want to know?” You asked with a cold tone just as your eyes started to adjust to the dark setting.

The corners of his mouth lifted into what could be called one of the most sinister similes you have seen so far before he chuckled.

“I’ve been told you had a kind and warm disposition but that you are very naïve and certainly not very bright.” He said seizing you up.

You knew of your reputation. What other people did not know, however, was that this reputation of yours was created by non-other than you. Carefully thought of and highly fabricated. The life was easier when people did not expect much from you. It also made it easier to listen in on conversations. Afterall, they did not think you would understand or care. But something about Oikawa aggravated you so much that your delicately built facade crumbled into pieces in seconds.

“And I’ve been told you are a very handsome, intelligent and proper gentleman. What a shame we’ve been both lied to.” You replied before taking a step towards him as if to challenge.

He let out the first genuine laugh since his arrival at your rebuttal, his head tilting back. If it were any other person, they would be insulted at your words, but he seemed to be amused.

“What a shame indeed.” He answered also stepping towards you. “Truly disappointing.”

“Is it what you wanted? A naïve, dull and ignorant wife?”

“Is it important what I want?” he pondered crossing his arms.

“A submissive wife than.” You replied “Let me rephrase that. You needed a submissive and naive wife. For what reason may I ask?”

He acted as if he did not hear your question, opting to not even acknowledge it “If we are to come back to the topic at hand, you are right your highness. I wanted to come here alone to see your true character. I know firsthand how exhausting it is to play pretend with others around.”

“And what did you find?”

“That you are very spirited.” He said moving closer.

“Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment Princess.” He stopped a step away from you.

“Anything you deem disappointing in a woman is a compliment to me.” You replied closing the distance between you two, your bodies only inches apart. He seemed to be taken aback for a second before his eyes narrowed and he turned his head towards the plant you were standing next to.

“Selenicereus grandifloras.” He sighed.

“Huh?” the unladylike sound left your mouth over your confusion before you could stop yourself.

“It is also known as the ‘queen of the night’ for it only blooms once every year at night before its petals wither before the morning. We must be extremely lucky.” He elaborated tilting his head towards the fully blossomed flowers. “Even the most beautiful and spirited of flowers cowers when the light shines. Do tell Princess, where will you be once the morning comes?”

He inched towards you, bending down until his face was directly opposite of yours. It was the most indecent position and against your better judgement you were at a loss of words over it. The humidity inside felt ten times worse than it was as you could feel his hot breath on your face. He was so close that you could smell the soft leather, citrus and cinnamon in which you did not know if it was coming from him or from all the greenery around you. Only thing you could think was one wrong move and your noses would be touching. He seemed to be thinking the same as his gaze fell on your lips before he took a step back.

“Because I do not know where you will be your Highness, but I can tell you where you won’t be.” He scoffed “You won’t ever be standing next to me. You certainly won’t do.”

Turning his back, leaving you stunned and stuck he walked towards the path you took just a few minutes ago.

“I can tell you this with the uttermost confidence. You will never rule beside me. I will never marry you.”

And with that, he was gone.

Finally an interaction? Reblogs are appreciated! And also this was not edited I posted it right after writing it so if you see any mistake let me know.

I would love it if you could give me feedback! Thank you!

Disclaimer: No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without permission. I do not own the character of Oikawa Tooru. This is a work of fiction.

TAG LIST: Let me know if you want me to tag you. If your name is in bold it means I can’t tag you.

@sassyglassesbunny​ @triskoof​ @m-a-r-i-a-s-b-l-o-g

[oftenderweapons]

Mold Me New (1) – Taehyung

A Small Town Swoons story

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Wordcount: 3.2k

Genre: ceramic artist!Taehyung, divorced!reader, Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Angst, Slice of Life

Rating: 18+ (for future smut and explicit thoughts)

Hello to my readers!!!  Welcome to the Small Town Swoons Universe! 🥰✨

In this episode: Introducing the reader’s backstory, exploring her life as a wife and then as a single woman who is slowly getting to know herself as an individual person.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: There are mild curse words, a bit of a sad vibe regarding falling out of love and getting a divorce, description of several bad dates and good ones that end badly, mention of getting drunk, mention of sex toys, mention of one night stand.

In case you like my writing, here is my directory for idol!AUs, scenarios and imagines, and in case you need it, here’s the Spotify music companion.

I forgot to mention, bc I’m dumb and bc we’re becoming one body with two souls, but this chapter (as most of the decent, edited things I post) was beta read by the magical @joheunsaram​ (she’s recently lost her previous blog and she’s rebuilding it, please go say something nice and YOU SHOULD FOLLOW HER SHE’S A QUEEN ,,,,, my queen 🥺✨)

Enjoy 💜✨

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7 

When you fall in love with someone, the feeling is like entering a chocolaterie. The scent engulfs you, full and rich and sultry, igniting your senses, the heat making your skin glisten in a light sheen of perspiration, making you exceedingly vulnerable to pointless stuff, like the way your lover exhales. Or their hands skimming your arms.

At least, that was what your best friend had told you.

You had none of that. To you love was a daisy being twirled under your nose, sharing cotton candy, the smell of crisp apples, flannel sheets, the sound of dead leaves crackling under matching footsteps, a sturdy but shiny steel band around your finger suddenly substituted by a golden one.

That had been the beginning of the end. When practicality and simplicity had turned into conventionality and disinterest.

When gifts stopped being things you loved and became things he thought you loved. And then things everyone loved.

When love became a chore, that's when everything crumbled. When kisses became just a good morning and a welcome back, when there were no more laughs echoing in the kitchen, when leaves kept falling but it was your footsteps alone making them crackle, when flannel sheets kept feeling warm but still something was missing — because someone was missing — when suddenly there was no more time for fairs and cotton candy, when daisies became roses, Love stopped making sense. It stopped having a meaning for you.

You were no longer sure of the life you had built with the man of your dreams, the boy you had fallen in love with when you were eight, the guy who had walked with you across the corridors of your high school, who had made you twirl under the lame disco ball of your prom, who had gone through college finals with you, who had spent three summers making your hangout spot into a home, turning the small old shack into a proper place for you to build a new life together. He was your first kiss, your first valentine, your first time. He was the man at the end of the aisle, the man who would walk with you until the last of your days.

But one day he started running and you still walked.

Or maybe you were both running in different directions, no longer on the path to the same destination, your priorities somehow switched.

Of course, it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't yours either.

You had both participated in this small unraveling, and you had both expressed the intention of changing, of finding compromise, an in-between, without either of you actually making the effort of fixing your trajectory, small habits and old pet peeves pulling you even farther apart.

The attempts — multiple ones — were painstakingly embarrassing. There were tears on both sides as you wondered what had caused this sudden rift that separated you — except it wasn't sudden, only your realisation was; the crevasse had been there for way longer. Maybe it had started as a small chipping the very day you met him, and it wasn't until now that you realised how the small sign had turned into an ominous presence, and then into unfathomable, inevitable doom.

And then the divorce.

It had been disgustingly easy, both parties agreeing on the procedures.

You didn't want the house. And you didn't need it. He didn't either.

Selling it had been exceedingly painless, you had shared the money, since he wanted to offer you stability. He already knew you would both suffer and he didn't want you worrying about rent. He was still your friend, after all.

Going back to being alone scared you at the beginning, until you realised that few things were truly bothering you. At least there wasn't this ghost of a human making you doubt all of your plans. You could plan dinner five days ahead or improvise. You could go to the restaurant as a last minute deal. You could go on long walks without the 'I'm sorry baby, emergency' making you rush back to town.

It felt like a bit of a liberation.

And your family's bookshop was doing well enough, since it was situated near the college and it also offered printing service.

Of course there were bad days. Sometimes you woke up searching for a body beside yours, however that feeling had significantly subdued after you had gotten used to the new bed. You missed human contact, being close, intimate with someone, having someone who knows you that deeply.

And then the true nightmare.

Finding someone new.

You were genuinely uninterested in dating. You had given it a go and it had sufficed.

It wasn't your world.

How could it possibly be?

You had never dated. You had basically offered your heart to the person that has always owned it. It's not like you had any experience in that labyrinth that is dating. All those unspoken social norms and the pining and tension. You only knew the comfort of a warm hug, the beauty of a kiss sparking from innocence and affection and slowly turning into steady, warm passion. You didn't like infernos, you liked candles. You liked the domestic hearth. You liked moderation.

And dating was all about extremes, from strangers to 'I'm inspecting your throat' on date one. And then suddenly it's date three and the same guy who brought you to a pizza place and a diner is suddenly going out of his way to bring you to a pretentious, expensive restaurant as a way to propitiate the possibility of you dropping your panties.

You had allowed this foolery only three times. Apparently all the suitable suitors were either really prone to pushing the pedal or had a passion for tongue gastroscopies.

The first one, Albert, had been quite the gentleman on date one. On date two he started making inappropriate jokes with a heavy body shaming undertone — a bit cliché for the stereotypical gym rat. And on date three he had dropped all pretenses at politeness and had outright palmed your ass in public, which made you rightfully uncomfortable. As you pointed that out, he proceeded saying that after all it was your third date and it was time to loosen up a little.

You didn’t even bother staying for dinner, left a bill on the table and left.

No matter the first disappointment, you decided not to let that disrespectful fool slow you down. And since your best friend knew everything about rat headed number one, you allowed her to set you up with one of her colleagues after she reassured you he was nothing like the one before.

Except somehow he was. The first date was at the local pub, and you somehow found yourself getting along well, his jokes were funny and he had good timing, he was relaxed, confident but still a bit clumsy and shy. He could be a good candidate.

But that was before he pushed his tongue to your tonsils as he kissed goodbye.

You gagged.

On date two he admitted you weren’t exactly his type. You were glad to reciprocate the statement after he told you his dream was having four children and a farm, alluding to the fact that his bride needed to be the perfect housewife.

You were pretty adamant that was not the kind of future you wanted for yourself.

Candidate number three was a guy you had met while grocery shopping, and somehow he had impressed you in an absolutely positive way on date one and two. Everything had been perfect, he was kind, considerate and well-mannered. Date three had been innocent, simple, down-to-earth. And then date four. Perfect dinner at his place. He had made you swoon and he had a very pretty cat he was very affectionate with.

He was the first man you had felt desire for in a very long time — almost eight months after your divorce.

The sex had been decent for being a first time.

And then he had entirely disappeared and never texted or called you back, which didn’t sit entirely wrong with you. You wished him all the best but you were actually glad. You liked being you and doing your own thing: having someone too much down your neck, getting in a relationship, having to check in with another person again felt more like a burden than a win.

Maybe it was just a coping mechanism to avoid facing the fact that he had been someone you could have liked, someone you could have built something with.

You were a happy woman, and it’s not like you really felt lacking or incomplete, like some of your single friends felt. And you had no intention of starting a family anytime soon, no matter if your old high school classmates had begun popping out kids left and right. You were more than happy to live the teen and early-twenty years you had spent in a relationship.

You were getting to know yourself in a way most of your friends didn’t have time to — you could already see them going through a midlife crisis after their kids became old enough to navigate life by themselves, which meant no more need for overprotective, and sometimes borderline suffocating, mothers, who suddenly found themselves with too much free time and too little tasks to complete.

Knowing your needs made you a stronger, better woman, and solitude had gifted you a level of introspection and balance that you doubted they could ever reach; maybe that was an arrogant consideration, but you knew there was no way knowing and loving yourself would ever bring you to crying over disrespectful, ungrateful youth whose only fault was that of growing up out of their mothers’ plans.

Unfortunately, there was no way your family — especially your grandmother — could ever tolerate the idea of you not needing a man and a family to be happy.

“Oh, come on, isn’t it time for you to bring a nice fellow back home?”

You shook your head as you and your grandma took a walk along the river, the sunny March afternoon feeling way too nice to stay at home. “Granny. There’s no people like Grandad anymore.”

“Oh, darling. You’re starting with the wrong role model. Not even back in my days we had men like him. He was the exception.” She nodded to herself with a sweet smile, remembering the husband she had lost a few years back.

“It’s so frustrating. And after all that happened… You know how it was. We were together for years. He was the only one I had. I don’t even know how to do these things. And books cannot teach you stuff like that. The more you read, the more you realise that most of these men had never even seen a rom com.”

“Oh, come on, but you have the internet these days! Can’t you find him in there? You have all these phones and computers and everyone has them, there must be a good one in the internet.”

She always said that “in the internet”. Like it was a physical place.

“I don’t even want to look in there, Granny. There are so many dangers in there.” You shuddered as you thought at the funny instagram pages where the people posted screenshots of the worst descriptions. All the embarrassing playboys and the fishermen and the lame wanna-be poets.

“Right… How can you know he is really is a person?” She considered, patting your back proudly. “You’re pretty. And you’ve always had the most perfect bum of all your cousins. Just like mine!” She grinned cockily, giving a playful smack to your ass, making you laugh loudly.

“It won’t last long.” You said, looking down. Solitude scared you sometimes. Being old and alone could be hard on the spirit and you had a feeling that old hag you would curse your dumb arrogance and inconsideration. However, for now you were still somehow making it through. Your divorce was finalised almost ten months ago. You could still consider yourself just fresh out of it.

“You’re smart. And I’m sure you have a lot to offer. You’re a good woman, and you’re far from being too old. There’s never a thing such as too old. Don’t let yourself be fooled. Look at me.” She said. “I’m still living a good life. Herbert has left me but I’m still here. Walking. Cooking. Drizzle keeps me good company.” She smiled sweetly at the mention of her dog, a lovely large poodle elegantly strolling at her side, its light grey fur finely trimmed by your grandmother’s expert hands. She had been a hairdresser for decades: learning how to keep Drizzle’s coat had been a cup of tea for her and he’d kept her distracted from grief after your grandpa passed away.

Her face formed a meditative pout. “Maybe you should just get a dog. Or even better, a cat. You’ve always looked like a cat child to me. So quiet and focused, like you knew some secret that nature would speak to you alone. You were always so attentive as a child!”

You smiled and looked at the path under your feet. Drizzle stayed unbothered as a loud, angry dachshund walked towards him, barking annoyingly. You had never felt sympathy for that small evil breed.

“I think I could get a kitten one of these days. Or a cat, from the shelter.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it in the internet!”

“So we’re really doing the party thing?”

“Listen, baby. It’s gonna be your first party as a free woman. Real mind blowing birthday sex.”

“I’m not a virgin, you know?” You stared at your face in the mirror, spreading some moisturiser over your forehead, inspecting the small lines there. You shrugged and let them be.

Maybe you would spend your best years single and find a sugar baby in ten or twenty years. Wait, weren’t those called toy boys?

Who cares.

Maybe it was time to get the post-grad you had always dreamed of. You would need to check your bank account before making that decision — maybe finally telling yourself yes could be the real birthday gift. That is, beside the huge dildo waiting in your drawer. Not being attracted to men or women didn’t mean you didn’t like sex.

You just found it difficult to imagine being with someone.

“Darling I’d bet an arm and a leg he never gave it to your right. You just need a bit more experience.”

All you needed was a hot bath, some candles and a good book. No man, no one night stand, no birthday sex could possibly make you as happy as decent jazz, wine and a novel.

“Why aren’t we doing that wine tasting at the winery out of town?”

“Because I want you choking on cheap alcohol, having all the fun you didn’t have on your twenty-first birthday because you were planning your own wedding. And I bet you’re the only one who wasn’t fucked in the bathroom of the Wickhead.”

Terry could be incredibly crude, but you loved her nonetheless. You loved her even more for it. She had never hidden anything from you, she had told you even the most embarrassing details of her own life. And she had always been the kindest, most faithful friend: she had driven you way out of town when you were eighteen and your period was late and you needed to buy a pregnancy test without all everyone and their dog knowing; she had chosen your wedding dress for you, spotting it and telling you it was going to be the one before you could even see it. When your marriage had started crumbling, she had spent countless nights with you, keeping you company when your husband was busy with his business trips. Though Terry had insinuated cheating, you knew he would never break your trust like that, and she had decided to trust your better judgement.

You had simply fallen out of love with each other.

And when you had moved into your new apartment, Terry had helped you repaint the walls and build the extra bookcases and install the shelves and fill your wine stand. Before leaving she had grabbed an unfamiliar box from her car, placing it on top of your bed, opening it and spreading out a set of “single necessaire”, as she called it. A couple toys, lube, condoms. To celebrate your re-found sexual promiscuity, she had said, though you objected, it was hard rediscovering something you had never had.

She had shaken her head and left you to “familiarise” yourself with everything.

“You know I’m not exactly a party person, Terry. This will end badly.” You said, sitting on your bed with your back against the headboard, your legs stretched out before you.

“You can allow yourself some fun once in a decade, you know?” You could hear her scoff on the phone.

“But I do have fun. Book. Wine. Bingo!” You explained, rolling your eyes as the booed.

“Come on, do it for me. Do it for your single friend who wants to get drunk and possibly sixty-nine? Please?” The other thing wrong with Terry is that if you ever met her in person, you would face the sweetest five foot three and a half — she insisted on the half — human being you could ever meet, with pretty wavy blonde hair and wide, sweet green eyes, the most boopable button nose and a sprinkle of freckles on her golden skin. She literally glowed in sunlight and her flowy gowns always made her look like a goddess: you could see men fighting for her, dying for her and going to war for just one of her gentle smiles.

“Don’t you have a FWB for that sixty-nine thingie?” You asked with an exceedingly inquisitive tone. It had been a while since she last updated you.

“Dumped him.” She replied curtly.

You tutted before exhaling. Emotionally constipated people — what’s wrong with them?

“He’s dating someone since he was ready for a relationship.” Terry sounded a bit colder than usual.

“And you weren’t?” You asked. You felt your tone hesitate with slight concern. You knew she would just put up a wall and ignore your question.

Fortunately, she didn’t. “I’m not ready to talk about that. It’s complicated, Frog.”

She was hurt and wanted a distraction.

“Okay, Terry. We’re going to get rip roaring drunk this Saturday.”

The line went silent.

“You know I love you right?”

“I love you too, sweetie. Now go to sleep, you have an early shift tomorrow.”

The line went silent after you bid each other goodnight, your body settling underneath the sheets once you realised your eyes were fluttering shut  as you tried to read a few pages to put yourself to sleep.

Placing down the book, you hugged the extra pillow, settling your face in the corner between your sleeping pillow and your spare one, the heavy woolen comforter acting like a weighted blanket. You placed another pillow behind your back, making a soft cocoon all around you.

Yes, sometimes you still missed being hugged to sleep.

The taglist is open!

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

[thebadchoicemachine]

The egg and the Carrys

Nat frowned at Charlie- the currently possessed Charlie- as he fought to get up. For a moment Quackity breathed a sigh of relief watching his friend struggle, he had never been more glad the old women were so much stronger than they let on. He never wanted them to lose, but he especially didn't want them to be pulled into this mess. Even with all his efforts of isolation it was getting out of hand. For just a moment, Quackity bathed in the joy of their victory. Then Bonnie kicked Charlie; as he fell back to the ground with a pathetic yelp the moment ended.

--

Bonnie tisked, pulling out a tube of lipstick to fix her makeup as the young man flailed on the ground. He was much stronger than he ought to be in that scrawny body of his but she trusted her dear Nathan wouldn’t let him up. She finished up and tucked the tube back into her purse, straightening and preparing herself for a lecture. She’d never needed to give one to Charlie before, he was always very kind if a bit vulgar but that was to be expected. Honestly he reminded her of Nat when they were young and on the scene. He’d never needed more than a swat to fall back in line. Today though, he had crossed a line. 

Not only had he run up and bombarded them out of nowhere but he refused to leave and even had the audacity of attempting to physically drag them away. Whatever he wanted to show them she hadn’t bought it for a second. There was something rotten going on in this town, something a field’s flight away from liquor, and everyone knew it. The police knew it, the gangs knew it, the children knew it, and her and Nat certainly knew it. Though, the problem wasn’t the strange air that had opened up like a gravity well (they could deal with new trouble just fine). No, the problem was how so many seemed to be exited by it. Intrigued to the point of erratic behavior. Really, what people these days wouldn’t do. 

Now, Bonnie Carry had no intention of ending up some old fool rambling on about traditions and the proper way things ought to work. She’d gotten her fill of that already being a double breed. However, the way people were changing, the way everyone rushed home rather than going out to party, how cops and mobsters alike would suddenly act like the best of friends and turn on their own kind, it was suspicious at the very least. Not to mention the way every now and then certain reds seemed to stick around outside. She didn’t care how pretty or awe-inspiring it was, colors in the outdoors was unnatural!  

With all that in mind, you can imagine how she went from taking her weekly stroll with her wife to peering over the knocked-down figure of a boy named Charlie.

“You don’t- you don’t know what you��re doing,” he wheezed, fighting to catch his breath but smiling. He looked deranged. “You don’t know what you’re giving up. We’ll forgive you though. When you join us, we’ll forgive you.“

Bonnie turned her nose up. “Manners, child. Manners,” her voice was firm but proper, as though she was scolding an unruly customer rather than reprimanding a crazy man try to drag her into some unearthly love of unnatural colors. “You are in desperate need of them. I don’t know why you think it’s alright to harass your elders when we clearly told you we were not interested, much less lay your hands on two old women simply out for a stroll.”

“Ha... hmm, I’m only trying to help,” he grinned deliriously. “Trust me! My buddy didn’t care for it either but... we set him straight. If you won’t look, why don’t you to come have a stay at the Chip? Deluxe, youse can have whatever you want to eat or drink or spend, on the house! No wooden nickels or nothing.”

“Oh, sure.” Nat rolled her eyes sarcastically. 

“I mean it! I just want to help you sweet ladies. You’re so kind, I want to give you something nice. I want to show you the best thing you’ll ever see. Make you feel like a real egg, promise.” 

“Well, thank you for the horsefeathers, love. I’m afraid we’re rather comfortable remaining in our own home. In fact, we’ll be returning there now.” Nat looked over at to Bonnie who nodded. 

“Yes, I think we’ve had quite enough of your business for today.” The two set themselves in the opposite direction, Nathan making sure to step on his stomach rather than over him, ensuring he wouldn’t get up right away and attack them again. “Oh, go chase yourself.”

“Wait,” he rasped. They didn’t turn around, moving steadily forward as they heard him struggling to his feet. “WAIT, PLEASE!” They stopped. Bonnie could see Nat’s ears twitch although her face remained neutral. Bonnie heard it too, you didn’t need any canine genes to understand the desperation in his voice. She sighed, already regretting her decision and slowly turned to face him. He was barely on his knees, scrambling like he was weighing himself down. They frowned, there’s no way Nat had hurt him that bad. She’d barely done anything other than restrain him a little roughly and knock him down. 

He was far too strong to be so weak and he had no right having such strength in the first place, being just a little frog. He was no willow but should not have been able to match with Nat as he did, yet he took on damage like a sponge one water. This wasn’t something you could excuse even if he was half-seas over, and she was fairly certain he was dry as a match. They shared a look, something was off here and it wasn’t just some trendy infatuation. 

“You... alright, son?” 

“You should... please... you should really come by!” He snapped his head to a tilted, awkward, angle, smiling wide and clicking his voice back into its chipper mockery of itself. “We’ve got something new there, something you’ll love. Something everybody loves! The Red Room... it’s what changed my pals mind, you know the one I mentioned before? He hated it at first, didn’t care for the blood vines at all, he tried to-” Charlie broke himself off to laugh. “He tied to take me away from them! Can you believe that? Just drag me away from them and Quackity, oh... but he’s never leave Quackity behind. So in the end, I was able to teach him better. A few days in the Red Room and he came around like the sun. Bright as the sun! He’s happy now... ahah...”

Bonnie placed a hand on Nat’s wrist, slowly dragging her backward. Careful, like so not to disturb a rattling snake. She cursed her age, something she rarely found herself doing, wishing nothing more than to be able to sprint like she used to. He mirrored their movement, dragging himself forward ever so subtly. “Goodness, child,” she felt herself murmur “when is the last time you slept?”

He either ignored her or didn’t hear, continuing to ramble and force himself to his feet. He had one foot upright now but remained crouching much longer than he should have. It was almost like he didn’t really want to get up. “You want to be happy too, right? Otherwise would you have stayed to long? You’re waiting for me to help you, aren’t you?”

Oh, of course not you blithering fool. Bonnie snapped in her head, haughtily straightening her blouse. We can’t be expected to just leave your poor soul the way you’re acting, can we?  

“You should just come with me. I came for you on purpose, you know! You’re so kind to us when we stop by. My friend really likes you, he calls you his nans sometimes, did you know that? You’re good people. You deserve good things. I want you to-” he swallowed, faltering for a split second. “I- I don’t want to hurt you. You have to believe I don’t want to hurt you.” He was fully standing now, hand reaching for something in his belt. The smile remained gone from his face but his tone grew forceful and fake again. “But if you make things difficult then they will be difficult.” He took a full step towards them. “I promise you they will be difficult. That’s why I came to find you, to try to be nice. I can be nice. I can give you everything you need to be happy!”

“Thank you young man,” Nat firmly spoke, placing an arm around Bonnie and turning as though to leave. “We are plenty happy on our own.”

“Oh...” She caught a flash out of the corner of eye. Charlie was now holding up a knife, walking towards them so slick as if the ground move beneath him. “I really wish you’d just let me be nice,” he glowered. All hesistence gone from his movements, he drew closer, brandishing the weapon as if it would magically force them to change their minds.

“Hmph.” Bonnie scowled. She wanted to help but had absolutely no intention of being chilled off nor pushed around by this palooka. For a moment she pondered the idea of just trying to leave, before he was stumbling over himself as though he’d struggle just to stand up. There was the possibility he couldn’t or wouldn’t go after them. Then he tensed, as though ready to make a point, and she realized that simply wouldn’t do. “Oh,” she sighed, disappointed as her grip tightened on her smasher. A purse filled with stones made for a rather cruel and subtle weapon, one she never left home without. “And I thought you were such a nice young man, too.” 

“WAIT!” A shout rang out, causing both parties to halt. They all turned their heads to spot Quackity sprinting up the otherwise empty road. He flung himself between them, hands gripping Bonnie’s arm, and shook. “Wait, don’t hurt him! Please, it’s not his fault...” he gasped, clearly out of breath. “It’s not his fault... it’s not his fault, I swear...” 

Bonnie spluttered. “I- Quackity, dear, he’s pulled a knife on me!”

“I’m only trying to help!” Charlie cheerily called over Quackity.

“Charlie, go home,” Quackity ordered. 

“But-”

“NOW!” He whipped around, snarling. Charlie backed off a bit. He frowned, looking from Bonnie and Nat to Quackity with genuine concern. His mouth opened as if to question or protest. Insead, his face went blank and he followed the order, turning to ankle off rather robotically. Quackity turned back to the ladies, huffing as though he’d just been through a marathon. Nat reached out for his shoulders, probably fearing he’d collapse, but he jerked away. “DON’T TOUCH ME.” 

“Quackity?”

“Oh, dear boy, what's gotten into everyone?”

He ignored them, preoccupied with growling and pulling at the headband on his head. The bright... vivid... red... headband. Bonnie took a step back. His eyes flashed up, pupils shrinking at alert. He held up a hand, not to grab or push them, but to say stop. “It can’t control me!” He exclaimed, as though that was meant to clear something up. “It’s infected me but it can’t control me.” He rubbed his arms, for the first time Bonnie noticed how red and sore they were. “Karl- you know Karl? Of course you know Karl- I think it has something to do with him. I don’t know. Yeah. He left... um- uh...”

“Oh... you poor thing,” Nat took a step closer, reaching out to examining his arms. He absentmindedly allowed her to as he rambled on with his stammerings, tying his tongue in circles. “He really left you?”

“Uh- yeah.”

“What about Sapnap?”

“Karl took him with him when he left.”

“Oh, I am so sorry Quackity.”

“It’s- oh, it’s not like that,” he laughed exhaustedly. “They would never... they would never, right? Of course not. It’s good! It’s so good they’re away, everyone should be-” he yanked his arms back, realizing what she was doing. “Everyone should be away. I’ve been trying to isolate it, it’s been working but only to delay. A bunch of workers fell and several customers too. Charlie got it real bad... and then Schlatt... at this rate it’s only a matter of time until I’ve lost control completely.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to clue us in on what “it” exactly means, dear.”

“And don’t think you’ve gotten out of explaining your arms, young man,” Nat scolded affectionately. 

“Oh,” Quackity laughed again. “Right. I uh... there’s an- an egg.”

“Some rich bastard is behind all this? Should have seen that coming,” Bonnie scoffed.

“No, it’s an actual egg. I think? That’s what we call it, it hasn’t hatched anything but it’s red. It likes power, it grows and grows and takes all it can. Infects everything like a disease. Gets in your mind. Makes you... love it. Love it more than anything else in the world. A-and the worst part is it lets you stay yourself just enough for it to hurt everybody else. That’s why Charlie wanted Schlatt so badly and it worked! Ain’t no reason Schlatt got stuck other than it was Charlie he was dealing with. They’ve been trying to cheer me up but... y’know... it’s not really them.” He paused. “I- I guess that’s why he came after you. Oh, hell, “He ran his hands up his face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, shush.” Nat tisked. “If it’s not his fault then it’s certainly not yours either.”

“Of course not.”

“Heh... thanks,” Quackity sniffed. “He really didn’t want to hurt you, he thought he was doing what was best.”

“I do have a question, how did you know what was happening?”

“And again, how did you get those injuries? They’re minor, sure, but don’t try to play them off to me. Friction burns are still burns and you deserve some treatment.”

“Well- I- this is strange to say out loud...”

“Try us.”

“The egg... likes me. I don’t know why but it refuses to get rid of me. It can’t control me so you’d think it’d just drop me and save itself the trouble, right? But it just keeps trying to make me give in willingly so I can be the rng leader or whatevers. Everyone infected seems to take orders from me.”

“That sounds good.”

“Well, it’s somethings of a silver lining, sure, but some of them started calling me a prophet? Which, I guess? I can hear it and see through it which is how I knew what what going on with youse. As to my arms, it can’t control me mentally but apparently decided it was gonna keep me in my room, the bitch,” he snapped at the vine around his head like it personally had upset him. “So, yeah. It kept grabbing my arms.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Nat reached out to Quackity’s shoulder but pulled back, remembering his request for space. “I can’t imagine...”

“No, no, it’s- it will be fine. Karl’s coming back soon. He will... he will.”

And when he does he’s going to answer to me. Bonnie humphed internally. She didn’t dislike Karl, far from it, he was rather like an old friend, but he clearly was used to being the one in control. That didn’t make him bad at all, he just needed a reminder of etiquette. There’s no way she was letting him off the hook for up and leaving his partner, no matter the reason. He simply needed a smack on the wrist every once in a while. She did hope he was alright, and dear Sapnap. Poor Quackity, this all was terrible. “Ugh, all this over some gross little red weeds,” 

“Yeah, it- wait- you don’t like them?”

“Ha! Not at all,” Nat scoffed. “They’re just despicable, especially now that we know what they’ve done to you. How could you even ask such a thing?”

“Everybody... likes them...” he began carefully, forming something in his mind. “No- Schlatt didn’t... but...”

“Dearie, what do you mean to say?”

“I HAVE TO GO!” Quackity jumped up suddenly, backing away. 

“What?”

“Quackity?”

“Trust me!” he smiled, exhausted but genuine, filled with relief and nervousness. “R-remember, it’s infected me but it doesn’t have me! It can hear everything I hear... the egg is the cause...” he winked with a shaky smile and abruptly hurried away. 

“Wh-” Nat turned to bonnie, stammering. “What in the world was he trying to say do you think?”

Bonnie frowned, squinting at the distance. Not a speck of vibracy from any color, especially not red, yet still she played coy. She turned to Nat and smiled sweetly, “Nat, my love, lets head back home now. I do believe we’ve got some work to do, with a recipe that calls for one egg.”

----

@thecatchat I finished hurray. Haven’t revised it at all just wrote it out. 

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die - Chapter 2

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 2)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Names are powerful things--and after ten years, Logan's has acquired quite a bit. The restoration of his power is something he has to fight viciously to keep secret...But he's not the only necromancer who's in hiding. Above his head, Roman is being introduced to the people of the Kingdom's as his father's successor--but someone in the shadows is coming for the royal house of Sanders, of which Roman is part.And Logan will not stand for someone laying figurative hands on anyone that belongs to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. In this particular chapter, CW for angst--I’ll post what kind at the end if you want to avoid spoilers, but I’m warning because for me? It’s a triggery subject. Be safe, you’re all so sweet and ILU.

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1025, A.A.

“Berry?”

Logan was yanked from a sound sleep by the utterance of his name—not the sound, but the feeling of it. Crawling around inside his skull like ants, static electricity shocking his neural pathways and the core of his essence. It was red strings and his first meal after that one stretch in the dungeon's blackout cells after he punched the guard that dislocated his shoulder.

Logan Berry. Logan Berry. The gift from his guardian angel was two years old at this point...and Logan was starting to wonder if it was more than just a small reminder of his personhood, to keep the harsh world around him from breaking his spirit.

Sitting up, Logan rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses where they sat on the floor beside his pallet. When they had finally given them back to him two weeks after his arrival, the right lens had been all but shattered. The guard who had returned them—the same one who injured him—smiled far too wide for Logan's liking, inciting the attack that had gotten him punished.

“I am awake.” he announced softly, sliding his glasses on and rising from his pallet to approach the bars of his cell. Squinting in the low torchlight, he searched...

A point of bright yellow sunlight, slit down the middle by a reptilian pupil gleamed in the shadows before the body it was attached to came into view. Swiftly, it was joined by another eye, very much human and dark as chocolate. A sweep of hair as black as Logan's own fell across his forehead, and the torchlight gleamed across the burnished surface of the scales that covered half of the young drake's face and neck.

“Of course.” the drake shot back dryly, not quite managing to hide the sibilant accent inherent to his species. “That's why you were snoring.”

“What do you want, Janus?”

The eighteen year old Janus narrowed his mismatched eyes at Logan—but quickly gave up on trying to look intimidating. He hardly needed it, being not only older, but the son of the captain of the guard.

“A favor.” he admitted, sparking enough of Logan's interest to banish the last of the cobwebs lingering in his head. Janus didn't like being indebted to anyone—and, to that end, usually came to Logan for favors, as Logan was always perfectly willing to trade his assistance for some commodity, be it books, food, or the repair of his glasses.

“What is the favor?” Logan asked.

Janus said nothing for a long moment, staring into Logan's face...no, not his face. Squinting, he realized Janus was quite deliberately avoiding direct eye contact by focusing on a point just above Logan's eyes, somewhere around his forehead.

“Janus?...”

Shutting his eyes, Janus ducked his head.

“I...need a name.”

“A...what?”

“A name, all right? Like the one you picked for yourself.”

Logan was startled by that request—he told no one about the boy who came to him, claimed he made up his own surname to replace the Name that was stripped away. Some of the guards disliked it, stirring fresh retellings of the legends of the Lazari: necromancers with the power not merely to raise the dead, but craft true, living souls from sheer force of will.

He even heard some new ones about the Animata: a theoretical balance to the Necromata, magic practitioners that could manipulate life the way necromancers manipulated death. From the stories Logan overheard while pretending to sleep with guards outside his cell, the Animata had been wiped out by the rise of the Animator, the First of the Necromata, leading to his rise and attempted enslavement of the Kingdoms. With the Animata gone and unable to keep the balance in check, the king had been forced to slay the Animator and had outlawed necromancy soon after.

All stories, of course...but over the last two years, as his name wormed through his brain the way the power of the prison mages had, it sometimes made him wonder. After all, mythology and legend served two functions in human history: explaining natural phenomenon that were not yet understood, or hyperbolic retellings of one or many actual events.

So the prison guards talked, wondered if Logan had designs on restoring his own Name through the adoption of a new one—but Janus, for all his trust issues and ilicit dealings, was an intelligent boy with a good head on his shoulders. He wasn't one for fanciful stories—only those that he could tell in the name of manipulating others.

Perhaps that was why he felt some measure of shame or embarrassment for asking Logan this favor? There was clearly some...unidentified emotion behind the request, and Logan wasn't particularly good at coping with emotional issues. He highly suspected that, when he still had a Name, he had been essentially the same.

“...I want to be allowed to keep books in my cell.” He hadn't meant to say anything indicating agreement—but the words fell out of his mouth without any conscious permission.

Janus's head snapped up sharply. This time, he met Logan's gaze with an intensity that was decidedly threatening.

“That's all?” he asked, squinting after a long moment. “No...commentary?”

Logan shrugged. “You know I do not care for sentiment. Your obvious flirtation with it, in this situation, does not interest me so much as what I can gain from the moment of weakness on your part.”

“Are you sure you're only fourteen? You sound way too much like my grandpa sometimes.”

Logan rolled his eyes, declining to rise to the bait. Instead, he gave the matter what he felt was a comically superficial amount of consideration.

“Hart.” he finally decided.

Janus raised an eyebrow at him, mismatched eyes losing focus for a moment before he nodded to himself.

“That...works surprisingly well.” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than anything. Refocusing on Logan, Janus straightened and once again resumed his attempts at exuding as commanding a presence as he could manage.

“You'll get your books.” Janus assured him. “I always pay my debts.”

“Past performance indicates this is an accurate assessment. Hence my request.”

“Oh...go back to bed.”

“Gladly.”

********** 1033, A.A.

“Ladies, lords, non-binary royalty, and all of my valued subjects!”

By the gods, I'm going to throw up.

Roman stood behind the curtain on the balcony, his heart in his throat. Every part of him was screaming to run, to hide, to sink into the floor and vanish through sheer force of his desire to not be there—to push Remus out to take his place when the king made his proclamation. Already, he could feel the weight of his impending responsibilities threatening to crush him, the world narrowing and the walls closing in...

He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready. He wasn't smart like Remus or as patient as his father, he wasn't commanding enough—he couldn't be king.

But he would be. One day.

Peering through the curtain, he saw his father turn...and though the pride in his face only made the terror worse, at the same time...

He could do this. He had to.

Smiling, King Thomas Sanders IV extended a hand towards him in silent encouragement. It was the same hand he offered to those subjects that knelt before him at court to have their grievances heard, the same hand he offered to both Roman and Remus as children when they felt shy or had fallen down while playing...

...or leading him back into the house when he was out to hunt a Lazari...

“I give you your future king—Prince Roman Sanders!”

A hand fell to his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Give 'em hell, Ro Bro!” Remus hissed gleefully in his ear.

It was strange, but some of the weight lifted itself off of Roman's shoulders, with his brother's hand there instead as he stepped out onto the balcony and into the sunlight.

For a moment, it was...magical. The ghost of Remus's fingers pressed into his shoulder, his father's hand curling warm around his nape—the people of the Kingdoms below, smiling and cheering in a symphony that filled his lungs as readily as it filled his ears, turning his heart into pure starlight.

For a moment, basking in his father's pride, his brother's confidence, and his people's love—he didn't just feel like he could do this, he knew that he could.

For a moment—that was all he got before his heart stopped beating.

It happened suddenly, but somehow it felt as natural as breathing. The tension of that missing engine powering the body and soul, the inability to draw breath. It was the peace of sleep, the flow of one step into the next while walking down an evenly paved road—he knew something was wrong, and yet he could not escape the manner in which it felt so normal.

Standing there, dying in front of the very kingdom he was meant to serve with no rhyme or reason for it.

Let it go...it felt so right, it felt proper.

As his vision began to dim, and the hand he'd raised to wave to the crowd started to fall by his side, he felt the urge to fight sliding out of him, eyes already slipping shut...

Easy as existing. Getting dark, time to sleep.

Until he heard a sigh next to him that was chilling.

The king.

Death no longer felt so inevitable, nor did it feel right. It was wrong, but...it was inside him, twisting and warping to form words that echoed inside his head. Something was slipping into the void left behind by the absence of a heartbeat, speaking to him in the Reaper's voice...

The necromancer.

**********

Logan was only aware of it in passing—however, Logan wasn't supposed to be capable of even that, and had to take such painstaking care to make sure that no trace of his magic could be felt anywhere. He had to keep the fact that he had power hidden, had to beat back every trace of it.

So he was aware of his magic, far more than he was aware of the distant stars that were the lives of every creature within the palace and beyond.

And the feel of his power waking, straining towards death? That hit him hard, made him focus on that awareness of what was happening.

“Lo? You okay?”

Logan spun in his seat and stood, stalking up to the bars of his cell. It was little more than a voice in another house, reaching him barely through thin walls and great distances...but it was growing closer, crossing that distance, too close too close too close...

“Logan? You're scaring me.”

Patton was at his side, watching him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Someone is killing the king.” Logan breathed.

“What? How can you possibly know that?” Patton hissed.

Logan opened his mouth...and nothing came.

Until that voice, hollow and honeyed, was suddenly in his house and in his veins and in his...in his.

For the first time, Logan understood why the Necromata were so feared—why he was locked below ground, why he had no Name of his own and why it was so desperately important to make sure no necromancer could ever practice their art.

The moment he sensed that foreign power encroaching on something that belonged to Logan alone, everything was chilling instinct and cold, calculating fury. The power swept up and took over, took action to reclaim what was being stolen.

The king was dying, but so was the Green Man.

Logan's last rational thought before an eerie blue light swallowed up his eyes and the power wiped his mind clean was that, if the Green Man was close enough to the king, he might actually be able to save them both.

********** The necromancer in the dungeons. Roman could feel it, he was certain of it...it felt cold and airy, thick morning fog swirling through his marrow yet rendering his mind strangely clear. It was familiar, not all that different from the way it felt when they touched in Roman's dreams.

The necromancer was there. He was...helping Roman.

You have to get to the king.

He didn't know, even after all these years didn't realize who Roman was, and that was the way it ought to be, and yet...he was warning Roman, he was--

The wrongness of it filled his chest in the space of a blink, filled his lungs, forced breath into his body. The fight squeezed every muscle, including his heart, in a steady rhythm that started his blood moving again. Roman tried to clutch at his chest, but he couldn't.

He felt cold all over, but his body was working, warring with some outside force, struggling to stay alive.

His body was no longer his to control, he realized with a rush of fear. The necromancer...chill fog, thick and light and clear, in his head and his veins and his heart...

Roman's body was turning, his head swiveling around, obeying an order he did not give.

The necromancer was animating him now, manipulating his every move—and all Roman could do was stand there and let it happen--

Go.

...Father!

This time, when he tried to move, his body obeyed him, his will and that of the necromancer uniting as one.

He rushed forward, reaching out...

In just enough time to catch the king as he fell, a corpse gone cold by the time the both of them reached the ground. ((CW: parental death--but this IS a necromancer AU. Just keep that in mind. XD))

[qm-vox]

Let The World Never Falter - Playing Paladins in D&D

(Pictured: Anastasia Luxan, Knight of the Tainted Cup, one of only two people in her friend group that are not evil-aligned. Her wife Aisling is not the other good-aligned person. Characters are from my novel Mourners: Scum of Shatterdown; art credit goes to J.D)

Paladins are one of Dungeons and Dragons’ most striking, and most controversial, character classes. Few character classes and character concepts capture the imagination as quickly or start arguments of such ferocity. I’ve been in this game awhile - I remember when D&D 3e was released - and paladins have been one of my most loved and most hated parts of D&D and its legacy systems that entire time. So here I am again, about to write a long-ass article offerin’ my perspective on paladins through the ages (hopefully highlighting the strongest parts of each vision of them), talk about their pitfalls and problematic elements, and offer some advice on bringing your own paladin to life.

While this article draws on my long experience with D&D and will be citing specific sources, it would not be possible without the help of some other people in my life. I mention Afroakuma a lot in the context of D&D, and our friendship has once again been invaluable here. @a-world-unmasked , also one of my oldest friends, has long been a source of ethical discussion and debate, especially about thorny questions of justice & mercy, amends, redemption, and punishment, and provided information on D&D 4e’s paladins and paladin-like classes. SSG Jacob Karpel, United States Army, brought a Jewish perspective on paladins and their themes into my life and has borne questions of faith, dogma, and tradition with remarkable enthusiasm and patience. @swiftactionrecovery provided further perspective on D&D 4e, and her current paladin (”paladin”; it’s complicated), Aurora, is a great example of a non-traditional take that is at the same time very on-brand. Emerald has long provided the service of beating my ass when I start getting stupid about my own values and beliefs, and @ahr42p‘s fascination with fantasy ethics has informed a lot of my own thoughts on the same. None of this would be possible without you folks.

This article’s title is drawn from Maverick Hunter Quest, written by Cain Labs & Hunter Command. It appears as the motto of the 10th Urban Unit; dedicated soldiers whose specialty was preserving lives, preventing collateral damage, and steering disasters away from the innocent.

None of my articles are quite complete without Content Warnings; the following will contain mentions and descriptions of violence (including state-sanctioned violence such as executions), mentions of high crimes such as slavery and forced conversion, discussion of religion in both fictional and non-fictional contexts, and discussion of fascism and fascist ideology. It is also the end result of more than 20 years of both passionate love for paladins and equally passionate hatred of the same. If you’re wondering what some of that has to do with paladins...well, you’re in for a ride.

So, without further ado, let’s get into...

The Order Of The Kitchen Table - Paladins Through D&D’s History

I hope you like walls of text because I am about to fuck you up with some.

D&D and Pathfinder have a long history with paladins, and they’ve changed a lot through the ages. The following is an overview of the different editions of paladins, what each introduced, and their strengths & weaknesses as a vision of paladinhood. Though the advice in this article is weighted towards 3.PF and 5e, it should in theory be applicable to any of these editions; I should also note that while Pathfinder 2e has its own version of paladins, I am not familiar enough with its vision of paladins to be able to speak on it in good faith. Let’s start with the oldest first, shall we?

AD&D 1e & 2e: Rise A Knight - 1e and 2e were fucking wild. The original incarnation of the paladin showed up as a sub-class of the cavalier, a warrior-group class which had an aura of courage, rode a horse, and had other ‘knightly’ abilities. Paladins had to be a cut above and beyond cavaliers, but unless they also violated the code of the cavaliers in addition to the paladin code, they would become cavaliers when they Fell rather than fighters, which was a bit of a better spot to be in. These paladins were very specifically part of the military arm of a feudal state, with all that entails, and had restrictions on what they could wear and what weapons they could use that were rooted in their social status. In point of fact, in 1e? Paladins couldn’t use missile weapons at all; bows, crossbows, and their kin were for “peasants”. These paladins had to tithe 10% of all income to a ‘worthy’ institution (usually a Lawful Good church of some kind, but other examples include hospitals, charitable initiatives, orphanages, and monasteries), had sharp limits on how many magical items they could own & of what kind, and were beholden to a strict code of conduct rooted in medieval feudalism & romantic ideals of chivalry. While the very original paladin had many of the iconic powers associated with them today (laying on hands, curing disease, an affinity for holy swords), it was not until AD&D 1e proper that paladins developed the ability to cast spells for themselves.

AD&D 2e’s vision of paladins was similar in many ways; they had the same powers, similar ability score requirements, and were similarly rare and elite. They had wealth limits, had to tithe from their income, could only own certain numbers and kinds of magical items, and had to be of Lawful Good alignment. Where things get interestingly different here is who becomes a paladin, and why. In both editions, only humans could be paladins, but where 1e required paladins to be drawn from or else become nobility (because they were derived from cavalier, which was all about status), 2e opened up many origins for paladins. The majority of these can be found in The Complete Paladin’s Handbook, just under 130 pages of nothing but paladins. Reading that book is a fucking trip; it was published in 1994, and while I am not gonna pretend that it’s woke or unproblematic, it has some stunningly modern takes. Do you expect to open up an old D&D supplement about paladins and find it defending poly relationships as valid? NEITHER DID I.

It’s important to note that in both of these editions, paladins lacked magical avenues of attack entirely; Smite Evil was a later invention, and paladin spells, in addition to coming online late in their career (9th level), were sharply restricted to a specific list that included no offensive magic whatsoever. Therefore, any paladin origin had to explain from whence one’s martial skills came, since you are in many ways a warrior more than anything else. There’s some expected ones; religious patronage, which ignores social status but requires an organized church that’s permitted to raise men under arms. Government sponsorship, generally conducted in urban areas where you can actually retain recruiters. Inherited title, if you wanna run a paladin that really hates Mom for forcing them into this. Mentors, for running paladins that are just straight-up shonen protagonists, and my personal favorite, DIVINE INTERVENTION, where one day your god starts talking to you but instead of filling your soul with martial skill she makes you sew training weights into your clothes and miraculously makes a bear live in your house so you can learn courage. It’s fucking amazing.

From those origins, anyone who manages to swear their oath and become invested with the power is essentially part of the nobility from then on; paladinhood marks them as an exemplar of noble ideals, which even in a non-romanticized culture sorta grabs the bluebloods by the short hairs. It’s a bit hard to argue divine right if you try to throw the embodiment of your supposed ideals out of your house. Since these paladins were often, though not necessarily, members of militant organizations they were generally expected to have superiors to whom they answer, a chain of command of which they are part, and to eventually construct a stronghold of some kind and put its services at the disposal of that organization in addition to utilizing it to serve the needy and defend the weak. 2e was a lawless and strange time in D&D, in which building such a stronghold and hiring followers was a class feature of warrior-group classes, and one of the paladin’s key benefits was the opportunity, but not the promise, to acquire some manner of holy sword, which which she gained powerful protections against evil that let her stand toe-to-toe with powerful spellcasters.

Tying all of this together was an in-depth exploration of the most complex and probably the most nuanced code published for paladins in any edition. Though the default was a rigid and inflexible code which defined acceptable behavior, associations, and even employees for the paladin, The Complete Paladin’s Handbook introduced an alternate method of handling code violations that ranked infractions by their severity & intent, and assigned penalties accordingly. Was it perfect? No. Not even a little. The Code was, is, and probably forever will be the most trash part of paladin. But it was a damn sight better than basically any incarnation before it, and most of them after. This code was broken down into (in order of importance), Strictures, Edicts, and Virtues. Strictures are the things a paladin must do and have simply to be a paladin; they must be Lawful Good, they must tithe to a worthy institution, they must abide by their wealth limits, and they must not associate (here meaning ‘serve, be friends with, or knowingly hire’) with evil people. Edicts are the commands of those to whom the paladin is sworn to obey; often this will be a church, a government, or both, but a paladin might instead or also swear to obey edicts given by their family, their mentor, their secular philosophy, or even their wider culture. Military commands and orders are edicts, but so are daily practices such as keeping a kosher diet, maintaining a family burial ground, or obeying a system of formal etiquette. A paladin freely chooses the source of her edicts, but once she’s sworn to obey she cannot selectively turn down a given edict unless it would conflict with one of her Strictures (for instance, if her king orders her to beat a helpless prisoner) or with a ‘higher’ source of Edicts (in general, a paladins religion or philosophy takes precedence over her liege or mentor, who in turn takes precedence over family or culture).

Virtues are where we get real interesting. Lemme quote The Complete Paladin’s Handbook, page 32:

Virtues are traits exemplifying the highest standards of morality, decency, and duty. They comprise the paladin’s personal code. Although not specifically detailed in the PH definition of a paladin, a paladin’s virtues are implied by his strictures as well as his outlook, role, and personality. Just as a paladin must obey his strictures, he must also remain true to his virtues.

Though most paladins adhere to all of the virtues described below, exceptions are possible. For instance, a paladin from a primitive society may be so unfamiliar with civilized etiquette that including courtesy as part of his ethos would be unreasonable. All adjustments must be cleared by the DM at the outset of a paladin’s career.

No system was attached to virtue ‘violations’, because they weren’t oaths to keep as such. Rather, virtues represented commitments to a paladin’s ideals and worldviews; they were the behaviors and values which someone serious about being a paladin would live by because that’s the kind of person they are. They were very Christian and very European in nature, tied up in Catholic ideas of knighthood from which paladins as a class were originally drawn, but there’s definitely a point to be made here. If you don’t walk your talk, can you call yourself a paragon? We’re gonna get into this specific topic more later in the article, when I start discussing other the virtues extolled by other kinds of warriors, but the ones listed and expanded on in this book are as follows:

Fealty - A paladin swears loyalty and service to, at minimum, a faith or philosophy that is lawful good in nature. This forms the foundation of her convictions and informs the kind of good she tries to do in the world. A paladin remains conscious of the fact that she is seen as an embodiment of those ideals, takes joy in her service, and pays respect to those to whom she has sworn her troth. Notably, this is not classic feudal fealty; a paladin swears service to institutions, not people, with some exceptions (generally in the form of paladins who swear fealty to their mentors).

Courtesy - Paladins strive to show respect by following social customs, being polite and well-mannered, and treating even enemies with dignity. A paladin responds to insults with grace, considers the feelings of others, and does not stoop to insults or slander. Remember the Kingsmen gentleman rules? That. This is just that.

Honesty - A paladin speaks the truth as she knows it. She is free to withhold information (especially from enemies), and may state that she would prefer not to answer when asked questions - or that she is ordered, enjoined, or otherwise required not to answer, if that is the truth - but does not intentionally mislead or deceive others. If you ask your paladin friend a question and they say they would rather not answer, think real hard about how bad you want their opinion.

Valor - Paladins display courage in battle. Given a choice between many enemies, a paladin chooses the most dangerous. If someone has to take a risk to defend the innocent, cover a retreat, or ensure the success of the mission, the paladin volunteers for that risk. A paladin only retreats from battle to fulfill a higher part of her ethos.

Honor - A paladin conducts herself with integrity even when no one is watching or when it is of no benefit to herself. She shows mercy, refuses to inflict undue suffering even on such wretched beings as demons, does not cheat or cut corners, and does not compromise her principles. The description of the virtue of honor contains the rawest line in the entire book: “It is an admirable act to comfort a dying friend, but an act of honor to comfort a dying enemy.”

The above are the ‘universal’ virtues a paladin is meant to embody. The book briefly touches on the idea that a paladin might also choose to uphold other virtues and work them into her Code of Ennoblement, the ceremony by which she is invested with the power of a paladin...or isn’t. The sample ‘bonus’ virtues provided are humility, chastity, celibacy, and my absolute favorite, industry, in which you swear to have no chill at all, ever, until the day you finally die, and instead spend all of your waking moments in some effort of self-improvement or work such as reading, building houses for the needy, repairing tools & equipment, and otherwise being completely incompetent in the art of self-care. It’s great, I absolutely love it.

Together, this code and the paladin’s abilities present a vision of classical knighthood, something like, oh...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35GUTY_Gr14

That. A defender and paragon of medieval virtues, who lives to help others.

“Alright Vox, surely you’re reaching the end of AD&D 2e now?” you ask. “We’ve been through the mechanics, we’ve been through the vision of paladins as members of feudal states who are figuratively and legally ennobled by righteousness, we’ve even gone into more detail about the code than was strictly necessary. 3e time right?” AFRAID NOT, MY WILD RIDE DOES NOT END. AD&D 2e didn’t have feats, didn’t really have spell selection in this context, and while it had a sort of skill system (the Proficiency system, greatly utilized and suggested by The Complete Paladin’s Handbook) that was hardly a way to make one paladin feel mechanically distinct from others. So how did players do that? Ability score rolls and loot drops?

Nope! We had Kits.

Kits modify a class or multiclass combo (not relevant to this article, but as a f’rinstance, the original Bladesinger was an elf-only Fighter/Mage kit found in The Complete Book of Elves); they give it additional features and additional restrictions. They could, but did not always, have ability score requirements above and beyond the typical ones for their class, and they might also have backstory or roleplaying requirements. A kit might who your character is in the society of the game world, the abilities they brought to the adventuring party, or both. Like Pathfinder’s Archetypes, some kits would strip abilities from the standard class, but not all of them did so.

So what did paladin kits do? In short, they changed the kind of knight you were. An Errant, for instance, is kept on a long leash by their liege and does not often have to fulfill edicts - but in exchange, she’s on her own and cannot expect funding from the state. Ghosthunters, who specialize in the destruction of the undead, gain the power to dispel evil, immunity to paralysis, turn undead just as well as a cleric does, and get access to a holy sword a minimum of 2 levels earlier - but they can’t lay hands, cure disease, cast priest spells, or enjoy immunity to disease. Inquisitors (I know) are paladins who see magic as a good and benevolent force, which is corrupted - profaned, even - by the practice of evil magic; they’re similar to ghosthunters in a lot of ways, but also represent an organized philosophy. The Complete Paladin’s Handbook has 22 pages of kits for standard paladin alone, which you can mix and match to create your own unique take on the concept, plus information on “demi-paladins” - non-human fighter/clerics who slowly gain paladin powers in addition to their own. This was back in the day when certain races just could not be good at certain classes due to level restrictions or being unable to take those classes in the first place, but here was the first glimmer of D&D confronting some of its own bullshit; before this book, the implication was that no non-human race was moral enough to be a paladin.

There’s so much more in this book but I’m not gonna get into all of it or this article’s just gonna be a review of one supplement; if you can get your hands on a PDF or even a hard copy, I highly suggest it as a read. It’s not that I endorse its vision for paladins as being the best or as being objectively correct, because I don’t; the potential of paladins is much broader than this narrow vision of Christian feudalism. It’s that no other book, before or after, has paid such loving attention to who paladins are in the game world, including thought given to details like their mortality rate (paladins that manage to survive to 40 are forcibly retired in the hopes that they can teach the youngbloods to do the same), the economics of knighthood, meta-commentary about how the class’s aesthetic and presentation is built to enhance themes about the game and the setting, and even a chapter on weaving faith into your game world and thinking about your paladin’s relationship to her own. The great strength of AD&D 2e’s paladins is that they, more than any others, have this loving care devoted to them that makes them feel like a real part of the worlds in which they live, and their great weakness is a vision that is more narrow than it wanted to be. You can see the author grasping for something broader, something more inclusive, only for it to slip between his fingers.

D&D 3.5: Up From The Gutter - Ah, D&D 3.5, the demon that will not die. This game spawned a million spin-offs and heartbreakers, love for it contributed to the rise of Pathfinder, and it remains incredibly popular and played. It’s also garbage, but c’est la vie, c’est la morte. Its vision of paladin is not as detailed as AD&D 2e’s was, and its main innovations were mechanical in nature. However, 3.5 did offer some in-depth explorations on what it means to be Good-aligned that previous editions did not, and given the context that’s about to be important to talk about.

3.5′s vision of paladin mechanics was remarkably similar to 2e’s, with the most notable change being race selection (anyone can now be a paladin as long as they’re Lawful Good) and the addition of Smite Evil, which can be used a certain number of times per day to gain more accuracy and damage when attacking evil-aligned creatures. Paladins are still warriors, they still cure disease, lay on hands, detect evil, and own a horse; in other words, they barely changed. Unfortunately, the game changed, and this left paladins high and dry. I’m not gonna mince words: for most of 3.5′s run, paladins lagged so far behind in terms of combat prowess, skill selection, and general utility that they were essentially unplayable, including and in some ways especially against classic foes such as demons and dragons.

I’m not gonna get into why, because that is a separate and much angrier article that will spark a lot of controversy due to people who run their ignorant mouths like they know what the fuck they’re talking about, not that I’m bitter. The relevant part of this is that over 3.5′s run, paladin did in fact slowly improve. The Serenity feat, published in Dragon 306, (and much more easily available to you in Dragon Compendium) helped clean up the dizzying amount of attributes upon which they were dependent. Battle Blessing (Champions of Valor) made it easier to incorporate their native spellcasting into their play (though nothing ever quite solved their sharply limited spell slots), and Sword of the Arcane Order (Champions of Valor again) both opened up an alternate vision of paladins as a different kind of magical knight & offered broader utility in paladin’s spell list. The Prestige Paladin in Unearthed Arcana converted paladin from a base class to a prestige class, which let you build it off of more mechanically viable classes - further enhancing your ability to customize your paladin, especially since as a PrC you could stop taking Prestige Paladin at any time you felt you were sufficiently knightly. Access to these and other options eventually made paladin, if not good, at least viable, able to be played in most campaigns and pre-made adventures without undue worry or getting chumped out of basic encounters.

In all of their forms, these paladins still had a code. Observe:

Code of Conduct

A paladin must be of lawful good alignment and loses all class abilities if she ever willingly commits an evil act.

Additionally, a paladin’s code requires that she respect legitimate authority, act with honor (not lying, not cheating, not using poison, and so forth), help those in need (provided they do not use the help for evil or chaotic ends), and punish those who harm or threaten innocents.

Associates

While she may adventure with characters of any good or neutral alignment, a paladin will never knowingly associate with evil characters, nor will she continue an association with someone who consistently offends her moral code. A paladin may accept only henchmen, followers, or cohorts who are lawful good.

Ex-Paladins

A paladin who ceases to be lawful good, who willfully commits an evil act, or who grossly violates the code of conduct loses all paladin spells and abilities (including the service of the paladin’s mount, but not weapon, armor, and shield proficiencies). She may not progress any farther in levels as a paladin. She regains her abilities and advancement potential if she atones for her violations (see the atonement spell description), as appropriate.

Like a member of any other class, a paladin may be a multiclass character, but multiclass paladins face a special restriction. A paladin who gains a level in any class other than paladin may never again raise her paladin level, though she retains all her paladin abilities.

You know all the horror stories you’ve read of DMs maliciously making paladins Fall, or miscommunications in groups leading to alignment arguments? The ones about youth-pastor paladin characters sucking all the fun out of a party? Meet the culprit. 3.5 did not have The Complete Paladin’s Handbook’s discussion on same-paging with your group to prevent these problems, and this vague code wording paired with immediate and extreme consequences didn’t do it any favors. That’s not to say that this code is unworkable, exactly, but trying to sit down and agree with 4-6 other adults on what ‘gross violations’ actually means is essentially the world’s shittiest round of Apples to Apples and your reward for it is resenting the character you just built.

And that’s the paladin part, which means we have to get into the “being good-aligned” part. Lemme tell you about Book of Exalted Deeds, a historically significant garbage fire of a book that is somehow both the best supplement released about Good and the worst supplement released about Good at the same time.

For those of you with the fortune to have never played 3.5, its books are like that a lot.

So, bad parts first: all the mechanics. Just all of them. The prestige classes? Bad. The feats? Generally bad. The redemption rules revolving around Diplomacy? Sloppy. Magic items? Bad. Spells? Look up an online discussion about sanctify the wicked and then get back to me on that one; they’re bad too. Ravages and afflictions (good-aligned poisons and diseases) were a bad idea that were also a case of stunning hypocrisy from a book whose stance was that dealing ability score damage is ‘needless cruelty’. Even the write-ups for the planar NPCs kinda make them into these basic bitch pushovers, which, you guessed it, is bad. There’s a lot to say against this book and you can find someone saying it in most open web forums if you want to take a journey into the godawful design of the liminal space between 3.0 and 3.5.

But the good stuff was real good. D&D had/has long been stalked by ‘ethical dilemmas’ such as the so-called Goblin Baby Problem, where players would ask if it’s good to let goblin children live since they would only grow up to become goblin adults. Book of Exalted Deeds was the first D&D publication to make a hard stance against racial genocide (hell of a sentence, I know), and it doubled down on The Complete Paladin Handbook’s implied stance that all forms of romance and sexuality are valid as long as they’re between consenting adults that respect one another. BoED strove to define Good not just as the avoidance of evil (”The utter avoidance of evil is, at best, neutral.”) but as actively striving to respect life, practice altruism, and make the world a better and more just place. While its take on ideas like forgiveness, redemption, and justice were not necessarily perfect, it went out of its way to try to offer nuanced takes on those ideas and to note emphatically that practices such as slavery and racism do not become good just because certain historical cultures thought they were at the time.

The other notable thing that Book of Exalted Deeds did for the idea of a Good alignment was firmly state on the record that NG and CG are just as valid and Good as LG is. The existence of paladins and their alignment-locked nature had long implied that Lawful Good was the “best” Good, or the “most” Good, but Book of Exalted Deeds didn’t just introduce material for characters that were paragons of other Good alignments, it provided examples of such characters in action. D&D is still somewhat stalked by that “Law is Good and Good is Lawful” problem, but BoED and other books in its niche (notably including Heroes of Horror - I know, it doesn’t sound like it but trust me - and Champions of Valor) helped push back against that problem and open the floor to other heroes.

I wouldn’t be wholly done talking about 3.5 paladins without mentioning Unearthed Arcana, which introduced the paladin of freedom (CG), paladin of tyranny (LE), and paladin of slaughter (CE). Their hearts were in the right place here, but all three of them were...better ideas than executions, as it were, without much to talk about for them. Still, they make good examples of 3.5′s great strength in paladins: breadth of concept. Ideas that were previously impossible as paladins became commonplace, including paladin-like characters who were not members of the class and which I would absolutely consider paladins myself. It didn’t stick the landing on the mechanics, but that’s just 3.5 for you; if you weren’t a dedicated spellcaster, chances are you were gonna have some manner of bad time. This idea of paladins from all walks of life, from all levels of society and all peoples, has become a cherished part of the popular conception of paladins and it absolutely should be brought forward to other editions.

Which, honestly? It was.

Pathfinder 1e: Two Steps Forward, One Step Back - Pathfinder 1e’s baseline paladin release was essentially 3.5′s in many ways. The key mechanical differences were a revamped Smite Evil (which finally made it effective against its intended targets), the aura line of abilities that begin adding additional effects beyond Aura of Courage at 8th level and up, and Mercies - riders for the paladin’s Lay on Hands ability that cause it to also cure status effects, which in turn greatly enhances the paladin’s utility as a support class. Pathfinder also cleaned up some of 3.5′s attribute problems by orienting all of paladin’s magical abilities to Charisma instead of splitting between Wisdom and Charisma. Another small but significant note is the alteration from ‘gross’ violations of the code to any violation of the code. “Gee Vox, that doesn’t sound like it would really help code problems,” you say, to which I reply: it absolutely fucking did not.

Once we leave core, we get quite a few quality-of-life improvements. Though Pathfinder 1e lacks Battle Blessing, it replicates some of its effects by having many swift-action spells in-house for paladin, notably including the Litany line. Pathfinder’s archetype system for class customization offers options for the paladin that further customize its concept, though on the balance it’s harder to mix and match archs than it was to do so with kits. Archetypes always trade something, so in taking an arch you will lose some part of the base paladin kit and gain something which replaces it.

Narratively, things get more specific outside of core as well. Paizo’s one-and-only setting, Golarion, is one in which paladins must swear fealty to a specific god they serve above all others, and their power is derived directly from that god, who can grant or withhold it as they see fit. These gods (generally LN, LG, or NG in alignment, though certain specific CG deities sponsor paladins who must still be LG themselves) offer their own codes of conduct, which their paladins must follow. A paladin may be obligated to oppose ‘heresy’ as vigorously as chaos or evil, which is an awkward fucking feel, and paladins in Golarion’s setting can be found working for organizations such as the Hellknights, or in the armed forces of nations that practice slavery and forced conversion. That’s not to imply that they’re not also depicted in unambiguously good contexts, but when it comes to establishing paladins (or, well...anyone...) as good-aligned people Paizo has a bad habit of dropping the ball.

Like 3.5, the great strength of the Pathfinder 1e paladin is customization, and in this case a more solid mechanical base in comparison to the rest of the game. Pathfinder similarly flounders in that its vision of paladins is narrow and not fully realized in the game world.

Discussion of Pathfinder 1e’s paladin wouldn’t be complete without mentioning the Anti-Paladin, the only “alternate class” to see mechanical support beyond its initial publication. Baseline anti-paladins must be chaotic evil and have abilities that are the inverse of the baseline paladin; similarly, anti-paladin has archetypes available that change it to different kinds and methods of evil. It has its fans, and in terms of playability it’s as good, if not a little better, than paladin, but on the whole I tend to break on the side of thinking that Good and Evil are not mirror images of one another, and thus an anti-paladin is inappropriate as an idea. At least, one done in this way, as an explicit reaction to a supposed paragon of virtue, as things are about to get real interesting in...

D&D 4e: The Knight Unshackled - D&D 4e built off of the foundations laid down by the Book of Exalted Deeds and Unearthed Arcana by completely removing all alignment restrictions from both paladin and its counterpart class, blackguard. This section will also need to talk about cousin classes to paladin; specifically, the Avenger and the Invoker. Let’s start from the top, shall we?

Paladins in 4e are predicament dommes defenders; they use their abilities to place Marks on enemies, who then suffer damage if they choose to engage someone other than the paladin (all defenders in 4e force choices of a similar nature, though the penalty for failing to make the ‘right’ choice is not necessarily damage). In 4e, paladins are not granted their power by gods, nor are they empowered by their faith in righteousness alone; in point of fact, 4e paladins have no restrictions on their alignment whatsoever and are the first paladins to be open in this way. Instead, a paladin in D&D 4e is invested with power in rites kept secret by individual churches. Once invested, that’s it, no take-backs; the paladin remains a paladin even if they forsake that church entirely. The other classes I’m gonna talk about - avenger, blackguard, and invoker - are similarly invested, with invoker being the exception in how they get invested, but not in their no-takebacks status.

So, what powers a paladin after that investiture? Virtue; specifically, caring about others in some way. An LG paladin empowered by their belief in justice might be a classic knight in shining armor, defending her allies in righteousness’s name, but an LE paladin empowered by the same virtue might easily turn totalitarian, determined to establish justice no matter who has to suffer and die. In this model, evil-aligned paladins are those who care too much about something, to the point where they trample and harm others to see it fulfilled.

Paladin’s inverse, blackguard, is a striker class focused on direct damage. They gain their power through vice, inward-facing desires such as greed, selfishness, lust, or five pounds of nachos in one meal (don’t @ me). Blackguards are also not restricted by alignment. A classically selfish blackguard, out for their own power and safety, might be an amoral mercenary who kills because they can’t be bothered not to, but a good-aligned blackguard who’s selfish is, well, Tiffany Aching: protecting the world because it’s her world and how dare you fucking touch it.

Avengers have more in common with barbarians than paladins, but are notable here for their commonalities with paladin as a divine warrior concept, and also for having bones in with the later Oath of Vengeance concept in D&D 5e. Avengers are invested to smite the enemies of their church; they tap into their power by swearing an oath against specific enemies, and then dissociate until those enemies in particular are dead at their feet. Are you really into Alexander Anderson from Hellsing? Do you want to explore the terrible consequences of power, consequences that might not have been clear when you signed up to become an avenger? This could be for you.

Lastly we have invokers, the odd duck out. They are ranged controllers who fight with pure divine power. Invokers are created directly by gods, but unlike the previous three have no associations with churches; instead, their job is to look out for threats to all of existence and make sure that they don’t happen. Even evil-aligned gods create and tend to respect invokers, because you can’t conquer the world and rule it as its Dread Master if there’s no world left to rule. Because invokers are invested by gods directly, they tend to have a lot in common with the divine intervention paladin origin mentioned waaaaay up there in the 2e section; you’re minding your own business when one day God goes “TIME TO LEARN HOW TO SAVE THE WORLD” and that’s just your life now.

D&D 4e’s paladins and paladin-like classes fully realize the breadth of concepts and characters that paladins could fulfill; they offer intriguing possibilities for roleplaying, engaging character and plot hooks, and mechanically distinct interpretations of divine power. In unshackling paladins from alignment, 4e opens them up to questions of heroism, conviction, and belief that were in many ways previously closed, especially because paladins in other editions were often made to Fall for asking those questions. Their big weakness is, well, being in 4e. It’s not that D&D 4e is a bad game - in many ways it’s the most honest edition of D&D, and certainly the most tightly-designed - but rather that 4e’s context is highly specific. It can be hard to find players or DMs familiar with it, might be frustrating to gain access to its books, and once you do adapting its material requires significant narrative changes if you remove it from the context of the Points of Light setting.

D&D 5e: This I Vow - D&D 5e’s paladin is, in many ways, a combination of and refinement upon previous elements. Like 4e’s, it is not restricted by alignment (though the three Oaths in core do suggest particular alignments). Like 3.5′s paladin, it combines magical power with martial skill, though 5e’s paladin is both more overtly magical and gains access to better spells, faster, than its predecessor. Though the paladin gains some warrior-type abilities (notably including their choice of Fighting Style and the Extra Attack feature), the majority of their abilities are supernatural in nature, including Lay On Hands (in the form of a pool of hit points that can also be expended to remove poisons and diseases), immunity to disease, an array of defensive and utility spells (as well as the Smite line for bursts of damage), a Divine Smite that trades spells for damage directly, and native auras that protect the paladin’s allies as well as herself. Their defining feature, however, is the Oath they select at third level, which defines what sort of paladin they are.

Your selection of Sacred Oath nets your paladin 2 utility abilities at 3rd level, an additional aura at 7th, a strong upgrade of some kind at 15th, and a capstone at 20th that neither you nor any other living being will ever see because 5e campaigns barely get to 14th, God forbid 20th. Each Oath also provides a set of tenets that you are meant to live up to, but unlike previous incarnations of a Code of Conduct 5e’s relationship to these tenets is more...human. The following passage is from the Player’s Handbook, page 83 (”Creating A Paladin”):

As guardians against the forces of wickedness, paladins are rarely of any evil alignment. Most of them walk the paths of charity and justice. Consider how your alignment colors the way you pursue your holy quest and the manner in which you conduct yourself before gods and mortals. Your oath and alignment might be in harmony, or your oath might represent standards of behavior you have not yet attained.

Emphasis mine.

The baseline assumption for 5e’s paladins are believers in righteousness, whose faith in virtue empowers them to protect the weak, but more than any other edition, 5e recognizes that paladins are still people, who have flaws, strengths, and ambitions. Its Background system helps flesh out your character both mechanically and narratively, and material presented both in the Player’s Handbook and Xanathar’s Guide to Everything encourage you to think about the things that drive and oppose your paladin. Importantly, though the books say that evil paladins are rare, no actual alignment restriction on paladins exist, which opens up some interesting possibilities in terms of character creation. We’ll get more into that down the article a bit, when I talk about same-paging and refluffing.

Because Oaths come with both mechanics and an ethos, there is a strong incentive to create new Oaths for 5e if you want to embody a new ethos, but this may not always be strictly necessary. Additionally, the Player’s Handbook implies that paladins who flagrantly fail or abandon their oaths might become Oathbreakers (Dungeon Master’s Guide, page 97, under “Villain Options”), but this too may not be the correct move, especially in cases where a paladin abandons one set of high ideals for a different, but no lower, form of belief. We’ll get into that later too.

5e’s paladins are in the best mechanical position they’ve ever been in; they’re one of the strongest classes in the game line, easy to build and play, and difficult to fuck up. They have strong thematics with their abilities and especially their Oaths, and the way 5e encourages you to make your characters helps you realize them as people in the game world. The great weakness of this vision of paladins is customization; 5e lacks player options in many senses, and quite a few of those options are gated behind rules that may not be in use (such as Feats). It can be difficult, in many cases, to make two paladins of the same Oath feel different when the dice hit the table.

And at long last, we have finished the establishing-context section of this article, and can move on to the actual fucking article. I did warn you, way up top, that you were in for a ride.

Raise Thy Sword - Paladins At Your Table

The following section is meant to help you in making and fleshing out a paladin concept to play or even to use as an NPC. Most of the advice will be edition-agnostic; advice that isn’t will be marked as such. Also covered herein will be the related topics of same-paging, refluffing, and the common pitfalls that paladins have fallen into over the years (and how to avoid them).

Same-Paging - In Which We Communicate Like Adults

Same-paging is the practice of talking to your group in a way that helps set mutual expectations, and it’s something every RPG group should strive to do regardless of the system they’re playing in. You’ve probably done this to an extent before, as part of being pitched a game (”We’re going to do a dungeon crawl through the deadly halls of Undermountain”), during character creation, and the like. In the specific case of paladins, you want to talk to your group and DM about topics like alignment & alignment restrictions, your code of conduct or oath, and whether or not the group wants to handle things like ethical dilemmas and moral quandaries. Though paladins are famous for those last two, they’re certainly not a requirement; you can just as easily play a paladin in a campaign like Expedition to Undermountain or Princes of the Apocalypse where there is a very clear bad guy who needs to be stopped with enormous applications of violence and guile. However your group wants to play it is fine, but you want to be sure everyone’s on board for it and that you’re ready to rock. If your group signs on for a kick-in-the-door dungeon crawl and then the DM decides to make you pass a series of ethics tests, that DM is an asshole; likewise, if you agree that you want to explore the morals at the heart of your paladin’s ethos and then you just don’t do that, you’re causing the problem.

Who Is Your Deity, And What Does She Do? - Making Your Paladin

Once you and your group have communicated your expectations to each other (and, again, same-paging is something all groups should be doing regularly, not just ones in which you want to play a paladin), it’s finally time to start sketching out your concept! There’s many ways to start this, and while I personally tend to start at the roleplaying end (with ideas about who they are as a person and the themes I want to explore with them), starting with mechanical ideas, with questions, or even with specific dramatic scenes in mind, are also viable. That is to say, “I’m interested in how Aura of the Guardian (Xanathar’s Guide to Everything, page 39) can help me play a damage mitigation tank,” is just as valid as, “Kass, my character, was lifted from a life of crime by a paladin who reformed her neighborhood and campaigned against a corrupt system, and she’s striving to become a paladin in his image.” That said, if there’s one thing D&D and its related communities are good at it’s mechanical guides, so I’m not gonna try and write one here. We’d be here all day; instead, the following questions are things to consider for fleshing out your paladin’s backstory, personality, and goals.

Why did you become a paladin? The origins of your paladin will probably color how they think of their virtues, as well as how they think of evil. A beaten-down girl from the slums understands that kicking the shit out of muggers doesn’t give the downtrodden food, medicine, or roofs that don’t leak, while the third son of a noble family is in a position to understand the damage done by corrupt leaders and faithless lords. In addition to your background and home life, think about what motivated your character to become a paladin specifically. Were they mentored by an older paladin who saw potential in them? Recruited by the militant arm of a church? Did they grow up with stories of paladins and yearn to become the sort of person those stories were written about, or were they, perhaps, seemingly called to paladinhood without much conscious understanding of what it was?

Where did you learn to fight? Paladins are warriors, and even a paladin that Falls (for those campaigns that use Falling as a concept) remains a warrior. 5e paladins, the most overtly magical of all the available options, still spend a lot of time randomizing the atoms of evil with sharpened metal, and that’s a skill you only get through training and dedication. Who taught your paladin to fight? What’s their relationship with that teacher or organization, and how did it shape their ideas about violence? We all catch things off of our teachers, and your paladin’s instructor in combat will, for better or worse, be as big an influence on their life and ideals as their faith and family are. Don’t be afraid to get wild here; AD&D 2e had full-blown godly training montages where the voice of a god ran you through drills, and paladins join warlocks and sorcerers for being fertile ground for some of the weirdest shit. Did you fight daily duels against a stained glass knight only you could see? Did you find a scimitar in the gutter and pick it up to defend your friends from gangs? Were you bankrolled by an old man who later turned out to be a lich, whose motives you still don’t understand? Live your best Big Ham life if that’s the life you wanna live, this is the class for it.

How do you imagine good and evil? What does your paladin’s vision of a Good world look like? What is the face of wickedness that comes to mind when they’re asked to think of Evil? A knight from a kingdom plagued by portals to the Abyss is going to think of both of these things very differently from a gutter rat whose ascension came with a prosthetic hand to replace the one she lost to gangrene, to say nothing of differences in ideals when one factors in Law and Chaos. Your paladin doesn’t have to be perfect, or even, honestly, correct. Your classic ‘noble, but kind of a dick’ paladin (such as Corran d’Arcy in the novelization of Pool of Radiance: Ruins of Myth Drannor, who we’re gonna talk about more later because he’s a weirdly great example of an adventuring paladin) thinks of evil as evildoers, who must be Brought To Justice, which while not entirely wrong is lacking in important nuance. He may conflate manners with virtue, or allow his prejudices to color who he does and doesn’t think of as ‘good’, but that doesn’t change his fundamental desire to Do Good - a desire that could be the catalyst for personal growth. A flawed understanding of virtue and wickedness could be a great character arc for your paladin, especially if it dovetails with the themes of the campaign.

What do you enjoy? Paladins are still people (shocking, I know) and people tend to have hobbies, preferences, and goals. Xanathar’s Guide to Everything has some nice material to quickly flesh out some of those aspects of your paladin (a personal goal, a vice that tempts them, a nemesis that dogs their footsteps), and I highly encourage you to think about such things as well. Does your paladin crave glory, wealth, or revenge? What sort of things do they turn to when they want comfort, or to have a good time? Do they still practice a trade from their youth, such as painting or blacksmithing? The archetype of a knight looking for their true love (or at least a series of whirlwind romances that always seem to end in someone’s bedroom) is a staple, of course. These things don’t necessarily need to be sinister temptations that lead you away from justice; they can just be nice things you like, or comforts that sustain you in your long fight against evil.

How do you relate to your faith? Many settings (notably including Forgotten Realms & Points of Light in D&D, and Golarion in Pathfinder) explicitly link paladins to churches and patron deities, and even in ones where this explicit link does not exist you see paladins who fight in the name of their faiths, serve in the militant arm of their churches, and otherwise seek to live their lives in accordance with their religion. D&D’s history is also full of paladins whose relationship to their faith is more distant, more questioning, or even outright rebellious. In Eberron, for instance, a paladin might dedicate herself to the Kraken - an evil god embodying sea monsters and catastrophes - with her understanding of that faith being preventing monster attacks and protecting the innocent from hurricanes and tidal waves. A paladin might be retained by the Church of St. Cuthbert as a barometer for their own morality, trusted to leash his peers when their retribution grows out of hand & play the devil’s advocate against them, or a knight might simply try to live their lives in accordance with the ideals of beauty, joy, and wonder espoused by Sune Firehair, without being for or against the actual church. What or whom does your paladin believe in, and why? Remember as well that not all, or even most, faiths are particularly similar to Christianity, and as a result your paladin’s relationship to that faith might just be business as usual. A Jewish paladin arguing with God is Judaism working as intended; similarly, a paladin dedicated to the Aesir doesn’t get to act surprised when they come home one day and Freya is chilling in their bathtub with a glass of wine and a ‘small request’.

You Wouldn’t Download A Class Feature - Refluffing & You(r Paladin)

So: you’ve come up with your concept, you’ve asked yourself all the relevant questions, but damn, some things just seem to not be fitting. What do you do? It may be the case that refluffing - changing the flavor of a mechanical option to better fit your campaign or setting - may be the right move for you. Refluffing gets a lot of pushback from a certain school of tabletop gaming that believes the flavor of an option is part of its mechanical balance. These people are wrong and I encourage you not to associate with them, in particular because the first party publishers often refluff material for similar reasons. For instance, the setting of Eberron has ‘anything published in D&D has a home here’ as one of its meta-tenets, and in the process of giving many of those things a home it changed their identity. Those hordes of angry ancestor-worshiping elves? That’s refluffing elves. In 3.5 you can see explicit discussion of refluffing in Oriental Adventures, which...well...it’s a book that exists, let’s leave it at that. Oerth having an entire alternate Material Plane where all the mirror of opposition copies come from? Refluffing.

So, when do you refluff? An obvious example is when your group is comfortable with an option being on the table, but is not playing in the setting that option comes from (for instance, the Sword of the Arcane Order feat from Champions of Valor when you are not playing in the Forgotten Realms). Refluffing is also great for when the narrative you’re building for a character implies or requires certain mechanics, but the flavor of those mechanics does not fit that narrative. In the ancient past I briefly GMed a game where one of the PCs was a ‘barbarian’ - a mean-streets kid looking to make a better life for himself, whose Rage was just the fight-or-flight kicking in from living in the garbage parts of Waterdeep. The important things to keep in mind when you choose to refluff an option is to stay on the same page as the rest of your group, and also to not replace the original fluff with nothing; mechanics do help define flavor (they’re the tools with which you interact with the game world), but you still need some reason that your paladin casts wizard spells, or has the abilities of the Oath of Vengeance when the original version of that Oath doesn’t exist in this setting. A very common school of refluffing is changing the origins of one’s power; rather than pure faith, for instance, a paladin’s powers might come from her innate spiritual energy, or from the favor of kami rather than gods.

Refluffing is also great for playing paladins that don’t have levels in the class named paladin. This option is especially relevant in the context of 3.5 and Pathfinder, when it may be more suitable to the needs of the campaign for you to be playing a more powerful or versatile class. In this context, clerics especially make very competent ‘paladins’, as do wizards (you wouldn’t think so, but I’ve seen that campaign played), inquisitors, crusaders, and even druids depending on how your concept is. You don’t need Fall mechanics to follow a code, after all.

For What The World Could Be - Defining Your Paladin’s Ethos

More than almost any other aspect of the class, possessing and following an ethos has defined paladins through the ages. For many years, this was a very specific ethos based on European ideas of chivalry and Christian virtue, and there’s something to be said for it when done well (certainly the Arab warriors from whom Europeans acquired the code of chivalry were lauded for their honor and virtuous conduct, so at a bare minimum one set of folks following these ideals in the real world absolutely nailed it). This is not, however, the only set of high ideals to which a paladin might cleave or aspire, and many fine homebrewers, players, and dungeon masters out there have chosen to craft their own, or to represent their own beliefs in the game world. Many cultures throughout history and all over the world have retained elite warriors held to high standards of conduct, and those traditions are rife for representation as paladins.

I fully intend to provide some specific examples of ethea (evidently this is the plural of ‘ethos’, no I didn’t know that before I started writing this, yes it looks wrong to me too) beyond the ongoing D&D default, but before I do you may want to consider how your paladin relates to those high ideals. After all, these are virtues that your character holds dear, but not everyone does so in the same way. Does she believe that everyone would be better off if they tried to live up to her standards, or does she believe that only certain people should (or must) do so? Does she consider her virtues an impossible ideal, something to strive for rather than fulfill, or does she not harbor such doubts? Is your paladin an idealist, who believes in the power of Good in itself, or is she more cynical?

The answers to these questions don’t necessarily make your paladin less Good as a person. A warrior who believes that there’s always a selfish bastard reason to do the right thing, who sees Evil as suboptimal, could still be a paladin if they work to bring Good into the world. An idealist who still needs to learn about the real consequences of barging into complex problems in a morally complicated world is equally valid, to say nothing of just...playing a genuine in-the-bones Hero, here to Do The Right Thing. Each speaks to a different kind of virtue, and a different life that has led them to these choices, and each deserves their day in the sun. You might have a lot of fun playing someone whose view of what Good is, and why, is different from yours!

Some specific examples of ethea (god that looks so wrong) follow. For the sake of convenience I’m gonna skip anything that’s actually showed up in a paladin entry before, or I’m gonna be here until I die. I am also very much not a member of just about any of the cultures and/or religions I’m about to talk about, and while I have sought the advice and review of those who are, I’m not about to claim that I’m an expert. Any errors in what’s presented are mine, and not those of my friends & readers; I welcome correction and discussion.

Irish Celtic: Blood & Troth  - The ancient Celts were not a people shy about death, and excellence - skill, improvement, and genuine growth - in all of your crafts was one of their high virtues. In addition to excellence, a Celtic warrior was expected to be honest (to never tell a direct lie, and to keep all promises given), hospitable (to be a gracious host & and honorable guests, and defend the sanctity of the home), to be charitable with their skills and their worldly possessions (to give to the needy, defend the weak, and fight for the helpless), to display loyalty to their family, clan, and gods, and to be courageous. That last virtue is an interesting one, because it dovetails with excellence; it’s less about acting in spite of fear, and more about enjoying fearful situations and the call of battle. A paragon of Celtic warfare should love her job, perhaps even revel in it; she relishes combat and the mayhem of the killing fields. Paladins following these virtues are likely to be Chaotic in nature, skewing towards Chaotic Neutral as D&D thinks of these things, and prone to contemplation on concepts of obligation, truth, and the nature of political violence. The crows know that there is always a final answer to injustice.

Irish Celtic paladins are likely to look towards Fionn Mac Cumhaill as a role model; as warriors with magical powers of protection, defense, and healing, they would be valued as keepers of lore, wisdom, and art, more warrior-poet than berserker. If your paladin is part of a wider culture from which she derived this ethos, she was probably expected to both learn knowledge and pass it on to others, and to restrain more eager warriors in favor of cunning plans and clever tactics. Imagine the look on your party members’ faces when they meet your family and realize you’re the sane one; that’s the exact emotion you wanna look to create if you really want to bring this out in the classic vein.

Jewish: We Shall Serve The Lord  - Judaism places a lot of emphasis on the sanctity of life, restorative justice, and doing the good you can do here, and now, with what’s in front of you. Though there is no tradition of elite Jewish warriors in the vein of knights or samurai, Jewish citizens tend to serve under arms slightly more often (about 5% more often) than their countrymen, and defending the innocent & helpless is certainly one way to do good now. A Jewish paladin would be expected to uphold the sanctity of life (preservation of life is the highest calling; a Jew may do anything except deny God in order to preserve life), to practice the principle of Tikkun Olam (’repairing the world’, working actively to make the world around them a more just, peaceful, and pleasant one), to show compassion and generosity to others, to uphold and defend hospitality, to know the Torah and the Law, and, where necessary, to practice intelligent and purposed dissent and skepticism. In the context of D&D, such a character is not likely to be particularly scholarly (paladins haven’t needed a decent Intelligence score at any point in the class’s evolution), but they’re probably conversant in the techniques of reading and research, critical thinking, argument, and debate, if only through exposure. Jewish paladins are most likely to be Good, leaning Lawful, as D&D thinks of these things.

The Jewish ethos describes a set of minimum standards for a righteous person, the Noahide Laws, and greatly encourages you not to associate with any person or culture that can’t meet that standard. They’re honestly not hard to meet either; you basically have to not be a dick about God (don’t try to stop folks from worshiping, don’t spend your time mocking and blaspheming their faith), know that lying and murdering are wrong, don’t be a sexual predator, don’t eat animals that are still alive, and bother to establish a system of laws for self-rule. Though Judaism lacks an elite warrior tradition, you might look to people like Joshua, Judah Maccabee, or Solomon as inspirations for a Jewish paladin character; warriors known for their wisdom, determination, and and in many cases, self-sacrifice. Solomon is also notable as an example of someone who swore the Nazarite Oath, a promise to God to fulfill a mission or task, and to not rest until one has done so. Nazarites are held to higher standards than their peers, notably including the expectation that the object of their oath becomes their only goal until they get it done or die.

As stated before, I am not Jewish and while this information was provided to me by Jewish friends, it is far from complete. @oath-of-lovingkindness might be by to expand on it, if they’re comfortable doing so.

Kemetic Pagan: The Power Of Truth - It’s difficult to talk about how the ancient Kemetic faiths were practiced; there was a lot of strife between the various cults of the gods, sometimes backed by pharaohs who were willing to revise history to get their way about thing, and then the English got a hold of the records. The English getting a hold of your culture’s history rarely ends well for just about anyone. The modern practice of Kemetic worship places great emphasis on service and identity as a member of the community, the promotion and preservation of knowledge, learning, and education, opposing is/fet (’chaos’, here also very much including the breakdown of social bonds and the systems which sustain life), and truth. A Kemetic paladin would be expected to oppose chaos by sustaining or creating such systems (funding schools, founding a neighborhood watch, finding or creating jobs for the poor), defend the defenseless, further her own education and knowledge & teach the ignorant, to be honest and forthright in word and deed, and value strength and justice. They are likely to be Lawful, skewing towards Good, as D&D thinks of these things. For a society to be just, it must first be a society; preservation of the order (both natural and artificial) which sustains human lives comes first.

Kemetic paladins are unlikely to be priests or even to be formally part of a religious heirarchy, again because they have traditionally had issues being scholarly people; instead, they uphold ma’at (what is true, what is just, what is necessary; ma’at is the principle that establishes a community, that relates one person to all other people and defines obligations between them, and opposes chaos) by fulfilling roles that assist their community. Such a paladin might look to one of their patron gods as an example of both the behavior they wish to emulate and their role in the community. A defender and guardian who supports the rural folk might look to Sobek, whose great strength guards the Nile; a would-be hero who craves power and the glory that power might buy her could instead look to Set, who guards the sun-barge and tests the established order so that it can grow strong. This is an ancient faith with quite a few gods, and I haven’t even gone deep enough to say I’ve scratched the surface; if they’re comfortable doing so, @merytu-mrytw may be by to expand on this topic for those interested in learning more.

Samurai: Reaching For Heaven  - You knew we were gonna go here eventually. As famous as knights, and perhaps even more known for their strict code of honor, the samurai were the elite warriors of feudal Japan and members of its ruling class. A samurai was expected to be a warrior, to cultivate an appreciation for high arts such as calligraphy, poetry, and sculpture, to be a scholar or patron of scholars, and to otherwise serve their lord and establish justice in that lord’s name. Today the samurai ethos is often called Bushido (”the way of the warrior”), but that name and conception of their code of conduct is actually a relatively recent invention, dating back only as far as the 20th century. It has its bones in with a 12th century dramatization of a war between two proud clans, and the ideals embodied by the warriors of those clans. Notably, these ideals were considered unattainable; something to strive for, and in striving grow as a person, but not a realistic expectation for a living human in a physical body. I’m gonna go ahead and quote the breakdown of this code that was given to me, because I feel the long form is going to be helpful here. These were the things to strive for, if one wished to call oneself a samurai:

Your duty calls on you to die if necessary. Your honor is more than your life; to live in shame is worse than death. You are expected to be righteous - to have integrity, sincerity, and honesty. To display heroic courage - to be intelligently aware of risks, but to face them boldly, not rashly or foolishly. To be benevolent and compassionate - for you have strength of arms that others cannot fathom. To show respect, even to your enemy. Cruelty, mockery, showboating, boasting, these are against the samurai code. Your strength and stature come through how you stand in adversity, unyielding. To understand that there is no such thing as a promise, or "giving your word" - you do not speak unless you mean what you say. Meaningless words are for shameful people. To safeguard your own honor, for you are its judge - and you will know what will cause you to live in shame, which as noted above, is worse than death. To show loyalty and be dutiful - if you give your service to another, it is theirs to command, and if you set someone's life above yours, you cannot keep honor if you live and they die. To demonstrate self-control - excesses and wants are openings to great shame. Moral character lies in the desire being sublimated toward the better self and higher standing among men.

As the politics and culture of Japan evolved through the years, so too did attitudes towards, and understanding of, this code of conduct, but most dramatic and romantic depictions of the samurai ethos root back to something a lot like this. A paladin dedicated to this ethos is likely to be Lawful Neutral, bending towards Good, as D&D thinks of these things; it emphasizes the virtues of loyalty, duty, and the obligations of both lord and vassal to one another. It is particularly appropriate for characters who see high ideals of virtue as being an unattainable goal to strive for anyway, or for character-driven campaigns looking for high drama that comes from tensions between personal desires and societal expectations (you can see it used for this to wonderful effect in the Legend of Five Rings RPG, most recently published by Fantasy Flight Games).

There are of course many other potential sources for a paladin’s ethos; check out D&D 5e’s homebrew materials and the DM’s guild for just a few. If I didn’t include something here, I promise you that it’s because I’m either ignorant or not confident of my ability to speak on it even in this limited context, not because I was trying to deliberately leave anything out. As I said above, any errors here are mine, and I welcome corrections. I’m also eager to hear about other ethea and how they might be adapted for paladins, so if you’ve got some thoughts there, please, slap ‘em on! I’m quite literally begging to read your paladin takes!

That said, remember that these are real beliefs, that real people follow. If you’re looking to explore an ethos from a culture that is not your own, you should do so with respect and especially with consideration for others that might be affected. It’s one thing to realize 12 sessions into a campaign at your own house that you’ve been accidentally blaspheming someone’s religion; it’s quite another thing to realize that if you’ve been playing in a public place such as a library or a gaming store. Ask folks from the culture or faith in question about it if you can at all do so, and just...if you wouldn’t want someone to be depicting you in a particular way? Don’t depict them that way.

The Trolley Problem And Other Forms Of Psychological Torture - Paladins, Falling, & Alignment

All editions of paladins except 4e have some kind of rule for Falling; losing one’s paladin status and powers, generally because of violations of your code of conduct or a failure to maintain your alignment. 5e sorta-kinda has those rules in a “well if the DM says so” way, which is, in some ways, a worse situation to be in since it leaves the matter unclear. In particular, many editions of paladins require that you have and maintain a Lawful Good alignment, and completely strip you of all powers if you ever change alignment for any reason. If the above sections of this article didn’t make it clear already, I tend to break towards 4e’s school of thought and support unshackling paladins from both alignment and Falling mechanics for general play; they certainly haven’t been powerful enough in the meta to mechanically justify additional restrictions.

This isn’t to say that you can’t use Falling or the threat of Falling for interesting stories and excellent character moments, just that I personally feel that it’s not as necessary as some schools of thought seem to think it is. If you want to incorporate this idea into your campaign, make sure you bring that up when you’re same-paging with your group; it’s definitely one of those topics everyone wants to have a clear understanding about. From there, it’s on the DM to not be a dick about things. Using paladins to explore ethical dilemmas can be very rewarding, but putting one in an ‘impossible’ scenario is rarely any fun. For some great examples of using ethical dilemmas as a form of character growth and to explore the concept of morality, check out The Good Place if you haven’t already. Remember: it’s a game. The goal is to have fun, yeah?

Genocide Is Not An Ethical Dilemma - Common Paladin Pitfalls

This is the part of the article where I get very angry about things.

As I alluded to before, there have been some common pitfalls when it comes to paladins both in the history of their formal writing and in the way the fanbase has chosen to play and relate to them. This section is going to discuss those and what you can do about them, so without further ado:

Fascism  - Paladins have some unfortunate bones in with fascist ideology, particularly the Third Reich’s obsession with ‘will’, as well as the fascist preoccupation with the Crusades, the Crusades themselves, and with being members of social classes which are often oppressive in nature. You really do not have to go far to find some jackoff posting DEUS VULT memes about their paladin, and that’s a problem, first because fascists are bad, and second because that definitely misses the fucking point by a country mile. All editions of D&D and its legacy systems have struggled with this, but a shout-out goes to D&D 5e for publishing the Oath of Conquest, because we definitely needed to respond to this problem by creating an option that gives you heavier, more ornate jackboots to put on people’s necks.

So, what do you do about this? Well, for one thing if you find a fascist at your gaming table you throw them the fuck out into the street, and beyond that mainly you just...try not to play a fuckin’ fascist character. This isn’t really a problem you can solve at the table level, since it’s buried into the writing; all you can do is be aware of it, and not play into it. It shouldn’t be terribly difficult to not make a paladin who’s into kicking poor people and undermining the rights of sapient beings, yeah? Paladins tend to fall into these sorts of problems when they’re depicted as supporting strongmen, or as being the Special And Exalted People to whom the rules do not apply - basically the same situations that give superheroes as a genre their ongoing fascism problem. Keep a weather eye out.

Genocide - The two-for-one combo! Paladins have had a genocide problem as far back as AD&D 2e, where several had racial or religious genocide in their backstories. Sometimes those paladins Fell as a result, sure, but a disturbing amount of them didn’t. We also have such gems as, “A local paladin has started a crusade against half-breeds” (a plot hook published in Draconomicon for 3.5), that greentext story about the paladin and dwarf ‘bros’ who spend their free time murdering orc children, and everything that’s ever been written about how drow are characterized and treated by others. Now, in fairness to paladins, Dungeons & Dragons itself has problems with the themes of race and with its depiction of the morality of genocide, and paladins could be merely caught up in that. On a basic level, solving this issue is easy; don’t endorse genocide, don’t make edgy racist concepts to see if you can ‘still be good’. Even if that wasn’t already tired and worn, someone else already took that concept and went pro with it.

For more information about fantasy’s troubles with race and racial coding, I highly suggest this article & its sequel, as well as Lindsay Ellis’s Bright video.

Youth Pastor Syndrome - This one’s not as dire a problem as the other two; there’s a tendency to play paladins in a way that sucks the fun out of the rest of the group, either because you’re being a judgemental asshole in-character (and possibly out of it), or because they’re constantly having to tiptoe around you to get things done or do what they want in the campaign. In theory, same-paging should help solve this problem before it starts, and it honestly mainly stems from the various ‘association’ clauses in paladin codes through their history. An uptight paladin isn’t necessarily a bad concept, but make sure it’s the right concept for your group before you just go there. Your desire to run a particular character is not an excuse to shit on everyone else’s fun.

Sir Dumbass the Just - So this topic isn’t so much a ‘pitfall’ as something that doesn’t get talked about a lot. There has not been a single incarnation of paladin that is rewarded for investing in Intelligence; instead, they tend to crave Strength or  Dexterity, Constitution, and Wisdom and/or Charisma (depending on edition and build). Once your main three are solved, Wisdom is the next-most important ability score for an adventuring paladin, because it directly relates to detecting threats, seeing through illusions, and resisting mind control, which leaves Intelligence in the dust next to whichever one of Strength or Dexterity you didn’t pick. This means, more often than not, that paladins are going to struggle in scholarly pursuits, be bad at Knowledge-type skills, and otherwise be uneducated in many ways, which most assuredly influences both their internal culture and the sorts of people who become successful paladins. Give the matter some consideration when you’re making your own.

Lady Natasha Pointe-Claire of the Dust March - Paladins as NPCS

Related to what was discussed just above, not all paladins are necessarily adventurers. Though the image of the paladin as a knight-errant, wandering the world in order to defeat foul plots and punch demons in the asshole, is both valid and probably very relevant to paladin player characters, there are other roles that a paladin might fulfill in your campaign setting. Such paladins are still members of a warrior class, and will thus have things in common with player character paladins, but their different roles will encourage investment in other kinds of abilities and skills which might not lead to a successful adventuring paladin, but will lead to a pretty good life in the other job. The following examples are by no means exhaustive, but they should provide a good place for a DM to start if they wanna incorporate paladin NPCs into their games in roles other than fellow (or rival) adventurers. Mentor - Probably the most straightforward; this paladin was a successful adventuring paladin who ended up retiring due to age, injuries, or just to enjoy time with their loved ones/family/children rather than getting mauled to death by undead birds. Take a normal paladin build, ratchet them up into Middle Age or Old Age, call it a day. Such paladins are likely to be a lot calmer and more pragmatic than the younger set, with a combination of painful experience and perspective guiding the advice they give on how to fight evil and how to dodge the fireballs that evil be throwing.

Knight-Hospitaller - Hospitallers are healers, caretakers, and guardians of the sick, injured, and infirm. Such a paladin might help maintain a home for those who have been traumatized (abuse victims, soldiers, people laboring beneath magical curses), be employed at or run a hospital, or maintain a temple dedicated to a god of healing and medicine. Hospitallers tend to choose options that enhance their Lay on Hands ability, memorize more healing spells than attack or defense ones, and value Wisdom and Intelligence more highly than their peers, often at the expense of their Strength or Dexterity (or even their Constitution; paladins, being immune to disease, can afford to be surprisingly frail of body in this role).

Fortress Knight - These paladins have a lot in common with adventuring paladins, but are for one reason or another posted in one spot from which they do not leave. They might be the guardians of a frontier village, soldiers watching over a sinister portal, the personal bodyguards to a powerful noble, or any other role in which they take on a defensive, reactionary stance rather than actively seeking out new and exciting forms of evil. Fortress knights need a higher Wisdom and to invest in Perception-type skills, and will tend to focus on utility-type spells with a strong subtheme of attack; they need to be able to rouse the alarm, dispel magic on their allies, and keep an enemy pinned down.

Example Paladin - Corran D’Arcy

I promise you, your long journey through my article is almost over. I wanna talk about a specific paladin to kinda tie things together, as an example of some of these principles and ideas in motion and because Corran d’Arcy is just weirdly legit when he has absolutely no fucking reason to be. Corran appears in the novelization for Pool of Radiance: Ruins of Myth Drannor, written by Carrie Bebris. The book is based on the videogame of the same name, which in turn was made to celebrate the release of D&D 3.0. “Should I play this game?” you ask, to which I reply: absolutely fucking not, the game was a rough ride when it came out and it has not aged remotely well. 3.0 was rapidly updated to 3.5 because of deep and wide mechanical flaws that made the play experience almost physically painful, and converting it to a CRPG did not help that experience at all.

The book though? Excellent. Legitimately one of the best D&D novels. Spoilers for it follow, but I’d still suggest reading it if you get the chance.

The novel is told from the perspective of Kestrel, a petty thief trying to raise enough money to quit her life of crime and, ideally, die in bed of old age rather than of blood loss in some gutter. A series of poor and alcohol-related decisions leads her to volunteer to guard an evil pool of soul-stealing water, which is where she meets Corran d’Arcy, a paladin of Tyr and the third son of a noble family. The two get on like water and oil; to Kestrel, Corran is a pompous, classist piece of shit who judges her without knowing her, and to Corran, Kestrel is the exact kind of criminal and evildoer he so often fights in his day job. When another team opens a portal to beg for help while they’re being slaughtered, Corran quite literally throws Kestrel through it when she’s trying not to go, nearly killing them both.

This puts their professional relationship off to a bit of a distant start, as you might imagine.

Corran’s prejudice, as well as Kestrel’s more-justified-but-still-unhelpful resentment, hinder the party as they attempt to survive in Myth Drannor and defeat the Cult of the Dragon’s schemes there. Corran’s life of privilege has left him unfamiliar with Kestrel’s skills, and he consistently misuses those skills or forgets to ask for her opinion and expertise - to the detriment of the group. This painful oversight aside, however, Corran proves surprisingly practical; he works with the party’s wizard to create effective combat tactics, utilizes invisibility for surprise attacks against powerful foes, and coordinates well in the heat of battle; after all, the Cult of the Dragon is not taking requests for formal duels, and the fate of the world is at stake. Corran is polite even to his enemies, and openly negotiates with the minions and allies of the Cult in order to avoid combat - notably including drow houses that have made their homes in Myth Drannor. Through the course of the novel, he and Kestrel go from being openly antagonistic towards one another to developing a newfound respect, starting when Kestrel calls Corran out for endangering the party by refusing to retreat. Corran, in turn, forces Kestrel to confront the fact that she has been unhappy living her life with no purpose other than to die another day, a revelation that shakes her to her core.

Things come to a head when one of Corran’s decisions gets a man killed. Kestrel calls him out on it, accusing him - correctly - of hurting those he’s trying to protect by misusing her skills and ignoring the advice of his companions. Seeing his genuine anguish over these events softens Kestrel’s rage towards the paladin, enough that they essentially start their relationship over from the top with genuine change from both of them. A scene late in the book where Kestrel helps Corran find the confidence to attempt divine magic (a gift given only to ‘truly worthy’ paladins) cements what has finally become a trusting friendship.

Corran d’Arcy is an excellent example of a classic paladin archetype with life and humanity breathed into it. He has prejudices and insecurities; he feels pressured to live up to a long legacy of knighthood that intimidates him. At the same time, the virtues he lives up to reward him over and over again, from his bold valor (which sees to the defeat of many evildoers) to his courtesy and honor in social situations (which wins him unlikely allies in a ruined city overrun by wickedness). Though he starts out as a dick, Corran is not malicious, and it’s his genuine desire to do good by others that motivates the change in his behavior; when he learns that he is hurting his friends, he knows that he must change.

That’s the end of the article proper! I hope you found it informative and, more than anything, helpful in creating paladins for your game and campaign setting. I absolutely welcome questions, comments, critique, additions, and the like; my Ask box is open, and the Reblog button is right there.

That said, if you’re interested, Mister Vox’s Wild Ride is not yet over. I got bit by the homebrew bug halfway through this damnable thing, so here’s a paladin oath based on a family from my first completed interactive story, Dungeon Life Quest. Constructive critique of this material is also very welcome!

Oath of the la Croix (D&D 5e Sacred Oath)

(River la Croix, journeyman necromancer and demonologist, ex-mercenary. Character is from Dungeon Life Quest, art provided by Domochevsky.)

The la Croix family have been necromancers for longer than they’ve been the la Croix; they laid down much of the foundations of modern necromancy, and have, through the ages, been tyrants, villains, refugees and, these days, heroes. To be a la Croix is not a matter of blood, but of commitment to the family’s ideals; one must be willing to help those in need, to serve the community, be a level head in times of trouble, to show respect for death and the dead, and to make hard choices with a calm heart.

Though most la Croix are necromancers, alchemists, healers, or summoners of various kinds, every now and again a paladin-like warrior emerges from the ranks of the family, often by adoption. Whether or not such cousins are ‘real’ paladins is a subject of languid internal debate in the family - no la Croix has ever fallen to the point where she lost her powers, but a few have managed to go mad enough with that power to end up hunted down by the rest of the family. The question doesn’t really need answering, but it’s fun to argue about after three cups of wine.

Tenets of the la Croix The high standards expected of la Croix paladins are also expected of anyone who chooses to bear the family name. You can give up the name at any time, but most la Croix children - by adoption or by blood - try to wear it with pride.

Life is for the Living, Death is for the Dead. No one chooses to be born, and very few people choose to die. Respect these truths. Take life when you must, but not cruelly, and never for personal gain. Remember that you, too, are alive, and deserve the chance to enjoy that life as all people do.

Your Name is ‘Somebody’. If there is a call for help, you are the one to answer; when you hear ‘somebody do something’, ‘somebody help me’, you are Somebody, child of Anyone. If you can’t help directly, do everything you can anyway. None of us deserve to be alone.

Serve, Not Rule. A la Croix’s place in her community is service to that community. We are not nobles, tyrants, or generals; we dwell among the common people to protect and shelter them, and to remind ourselves of all the ways in which we are alike. Our power makes us different, not better.

They, Too, Are Victims of Life. You do not know the struggles others go through, just as they do not know yours. All are condemned to live and to die, and deserve your compassion even when you are moved to strike them down for the greater good. Bury your enemies and give them their last rites as if they were your own family.

Oath Spells You gain oath spells at the paladin levels listed.

3rd - bane, false life 5th - darkness, gentle repose 9th - bestow curse, fear 13th - phantasmal killer, shadow of Moil* 17th - danse macabre*, planar binding

*appears in Xanathar’s Guide to Everything

Channel Divinity When you take this oath at 3rd level, you gain the following Channel Divinity options.

Ancestral Protection - You can use your Channel Divinity to call upon your la Croix ancestors for protection. As an action, you suffer damage equal to your paladin level; this damage cannot be prevented or reduced in any way. Then, you and all allies within 30 feet of you gain a bonus to armor class equal to your Charisma modifier for 1 minute.

Balefire Blast - You can use your Channel Divinity to scourge an enemy with death-in-flame. Make a spell attack against a creature within 30 feet. If you hit, that creature suffers necrotic damage equal to your paladin level, plus fire damage equal to your paladin level. If it dies within 1 minute of being hit, it counts as dying of old age in addition to its actual cause of death (usually meaning that it is much more difficult to bring back from the dead).

Necromancer’s Aura Beginning at 7th level, you radiate constant necromantic wards that protect you and your allies. You and allies within 10 feet of you have resistance to necrotic damage and radiant damage, and you make saving throws against effects which would kill you outright with advantage.

At 18th level, the range of this aura increases to 30 feet.

Friend of Death Starting at 15th level, you regain 1 spell slot of 3rd level or lower whenever a creature within 30 feet of you is reduced to 0 or less hit points. You can regain a number of spell slots this way equal to your Charisma modifier; once you reach this limit, you must finish a long rest to use this ability again.

Aphrael’s Chosen At 20th level, you gain the ability to enter a state of heightened necromantic power, in which you can channel far more sorcery than usual. As an action, you suffer damage equal to your paladin level, then begin channeling raw death magic for 1 minute. While in this state, you gain the following benefits:

- You are immune to all effects which would kill you outright - Whenever you cast a paladin spell, you can make a weapon attack as part of casting that spell. You are not required to make this attack. - Creatures make their saving throws against your spells with disadvantage.

Once you use this feature, you can’t use it again until you finish a long rest.

[merelliahallewell]

Drustvar and the Light (my desperate case for Kul Tiran Light worship)

A while ago I wrote a post for /r/warcraftlore (that got expanded into a forum post) that examined religion in Kul Tiras in each zone. Some new things have come out since I wrote it and so I wanted to update it and post it here. It mostly focused on the Tidesages and the new lore we’d been given with them (BfA had just come out), but also poked at Tidesage influence in Tiragarde. 

Drustvar, though, was interesting to look at. There’s no Tidesage influence to speak of anywhere in the zone- not a single NPC or building they use for their religion. this could be attributed to how most of the zone seems to be fallen to the Heartsbane Coven (and the Tidesages could be among those killed). Even in Fallhaven - which had yet to see any deaths to the witches and is close to the sea - there is no Tidesage. This one’s a doozy, continue under the jump.

On top of the curious lack of their presence in Drustvar, there’s also burial practices to consider- usually strongly tied to religion. In the Tidesage religion, burial seems to be less important than the collection of souls- to lay their dead to rest in Stormsong Valley, the Tidesages perform a ritual to let the souls flow through the Shrine of the Storm. There are no graveyards throughout the entire zone there, only tidesage markers for players to spawn at. Tiragarde Sound has some graveyards, but they are small and many of them do not even have stone grave markers, only wooden ones.

Drustvar, once again, is the odd one out. Not only does it have numerous graveyards, but it has Kul Tiras’ largest cemetery, Barrowknoll. In Barrowknoll, there is a small quest chain dealing with the Coven raising the strongest spirits of the dead (the Defenders of Drustvar) and putting them into wicker constructs. It seems that here, the souls and bodies rest together- meaning they are not released into the sea by Tidesages at all.

Overall, Barrowknoll is quite reminiscent of the places that Light-worshipping cultures lay their dead to rest, as shown behind Stormwind Cathedral, in Gilneas, at Sorrow Hill and Light’s Hope, and even the redone Arathi Highlands. It features the entrances to crypts (though they are blocked off by gates), and gravestones that are overall of high quality, unlike the simple wooden markers we see in Tiragarde. Most importantly, it resembles Forgotten Hill in Tol Barad- an island once under the control of mages from Kul Tiras.

One last curious burial bit is out in Corlain’s graveyard, on the other side of Drustvar. While most of the gravestones there are the standard models used in Whitegrove, one particular one stood out because paladin players walk past it in their class hall. It features a hammer and a libram- a statue that is meant to mark a paladin of the Silver Hand. Considering that Blizzard created brand new models for gravestones to use in both the Arathi Highlands and Kul Tiras, it strikes me as strange that they’d unintentionally place a single paladin’s marker in a graveyard in Drustvar. We may have had a paladin hail from Drustvar at some point and be buried in their homeland.

There’s more beyond simple burial practices, though. I mentioned the Defenders of Drustvar before, who were powerful spirits being raised by the Coven who had presumably been past heroes. Among them is a woman named Mercy Fairwater. She is one of the few NPCs in Kul Tiras to mention the Light expressly, saying “Light’s Peace be upon you, class.” She also bears the Greatstaff of Righteousness, a staff that features the symbol of the Church of Holy Light as a headpiece. This symbol is on various weapons associated with the Church, and Archbishop Benedictus even wielded these weapons in his fight underneath Wyrmrest.

Another NPC of significance is Inquisitor Erik, a mob added in 8.1. He is a member of the Order of Embers and spawns sometimes for Horde during their world quests. He is dressed in the garb of an Order of Embers inquisitor, yet his attack spells are Crusader Strike and Holy Smite. These are both Light-based attacks… could this really be just a coincidence?

Cleric Loriette is another 8.1 NPC, added from the outpost upgrades you can purchase from the 7th Legion vendor. She is added to Arom’s Stand, and can cast a buff on you called Blessing of the Order of Embers. Clerics are not an uncommon thing in Azeroth- there are the Clerics of Northshire as the most prominent ones, as well as Argent Clerics, Dark Clerics, Alliance Clerics… the list goes on and on. Nno matter what, these clerics are always religious in some manner, usually related to the Church of Light or the Cult of Forgotten Shadow. If Loriette is casting a blessing spell as well, something usually done in Azeroth by priests or paladins, it would seem that perhaps Light worship is implied. The spell effects seem to be orange and almost fiery, perhaps reminiscent of holy fire.

There are other NPCs too that seem to suggest some small level Kul Tiran Light worship, or at least ability to use it. While not based out of Drustvar, the Tol Dagor dungeon features Ashvane-aligned priests who perform the spells Inner Flames and Righteous Flames. The former has a healing effect, the latter is a damage spell. Inner Fire was a once a priest spell.

One last major point comes from Warcraft III: Reforged. While people expected some parts of Warcraft III to be “reforged” per Blizzard’s original word on it, there was also a lot of expectations that minor elements would also be changed to fit with recent lore- such as the Kul Tiran Chaplain unit from Daelin’s forces.

These light-wielding priests would have been perfect fodder to change into a Tidesage to fit with recent lore, yet the released models suggested a continued focus on the Light. The solar iconography of the staff’s head and the golden trimming of the gear makes it pretty clear that they are still using the Light. Since these models are unique and only meant for certain portions of WCIII’s story, there is no reason they could not have replaced them with Tidesages to fit with more recent lore. In my opinion, this is a pretty clear sign of at least some light worship being present. 

Overall, it strikes me as strange that a region that’s primarily mountainous would look to the sea for guidance like the rest of Kul Tiras. Tidesages often bring the rains for crops in Stormsong Valley, but Drustvar has a number of streams and rivers to provide freshwater to its farming regions, and a large amount of snowmelt to feed them. Drustvar’s fishing villages are in disarray for the most part, and so the other part of Tidesage functions (blessing fishing and monster hunting trips, saying where the fish are biting, etc) are simply not present, but that may be more due to Coven attack than them not being there. With water needs taken care of and little ability to fish in the sea save for on the coastal villages, many part of Drustvar just do not have need for those portions of a Tidesage’s duty.

Unfortunately, there are a total lack of religious buildings in Drustvar to confirm or deny the possibility of Light worship. Whitegrove Chapel features no priests to speak of and is overrun by monsters when we arrive. Even going back in time reveals a wedding officiated by Lord Waycrest, rather than a Tidesage or priest of the Light. ”It is my honor to wed these two in the presence of the land, the sky, and the sea” doesn’t particularly sound like the words of a Light worshipper. Since this seems to be a nonreligious ritual conducted on his authority as the lord of Drustvar, it’s hard to know either way. 

Given what’s been displayed between burial practices and NPCs, I’d like to think this post makes the case for some level of minor Light worship in Drustvar- it’s certainly nothing like Stormwind or Lordaeron, but I think that there’s some evidence it exists in the region. 

5/15/21 UPDATE:

Hey so there’s more lore. Also, I updated some grammatical errors in the post because I abuse commas.  All tiny, little snippets, but that’s sort of what Warcraft roleplay relies upon, right?  

This comes from the “Total Cairnage” quests in Drustvar or whatever that chapter is called where you help the thornspeakers and rangers. This lady says this. Not much to say here, it is pretty explicitly Light-related. 

This next piece is an interesting one I came across recently when looking up Arom Waycrest’s story. He would have been either a Gilnean immigrant or descended from them: the stories aren’t clear about how long the war with the Drust took, but it does seem to have been a long-running thing. Either way, the worship of the Light, per Chronicle 1 and 2, had begun long before the settling of Kul Tiras. However, what is important to mention is that the Church of the Holy Light did not exist for some time after the Troll Wars, several centuries.

The date of Kul Tiras’ founding isn’t entirely clear, but it relies on Gilneas existing and being established as a kingdom. Because of this, it’s entirely possible that the Gilnean settlers might have brought the early, pre-Church worship of the Light with them across the sea (but it is important to remember Kul Tiras was discovered by the Stormsongs, who were led there by the Tidemother). Arom, from this quote from a story about him, may have revered the Light. The Light being brought over to Kul Tiras without the Church element might explain why there’s no real organized reverence of it there.

But also, this is a story being told to kids from 2600 or so years ago, so who knows? Maybe it’s not true, and the narrator is unreliable. Also, “light” is not capitalized as a proper noun, but nobody really says “by the light” in this universe without the explicit reference being to the magic.

The last thing is not canon, but is an interesting follow-up to the Reforged Kul Tiran chaplains. This is a Kul Tiran Chaplain art piece from Hearthstone by Vladimir Kafanov. While Hearthstone isn’t canon, I found it interesting that this piece was done in March 2020, when BfA was almost over and Reforged had, uh... decided not to “reforge” elements of the lore because they abandoned the game. He wears Tidesage vestments and bears the mantle with the scrolls, which are very important in that religion. But he’s using the Light. Creative decision, blending of lore, or silly noncanon hearthstone thing? Who knows, honestly? 

I hope that this post and the new updates might have made enough of a case for a minor Light presence on Kul Tiras. The Tidemother is still the dominant religion, but I personally see enough evidence here to include it in my own roleplay and headcanons. 

[paperficwriter]

To the Radio Demon on His Birthday

And now for something completely different! This was a request from @tallslimbabydoll​, whose fantastic art inspired quite a few scenes for this fic.  I sort of fell down the rabbit hole of this series. I'm pretty into it, and I had an absolute blast writing this. It's a really fun setting, and the characters are colorful.

I sort of read this as a future AU in the show, with a pinup Charlie who does burlesque and a certain demon overlord who is very into her.

Cut is for length AND for content!

“And now...the weather.”

A pause, and then, a short barking laugh.

“Oh, can you imagine a segue like that? Here, in fair Pentagram City, where the temperature only ever changes from mildly suffocating to infernal to cataclysmic? And that last one is just the very late season…recent indeed, my fair listener.”

Alastor gazed forward out the window of his radio station at the literal hellscape below. From this high up, he made out all manner of sinner souls making their way through the streets -- stalking, hawking, talking, some even just walking -- as they arose from their hideaways, the most recent purge only a few days before.

The studio wasn’t actually much, but it looked the part, which was the most important thing in Alastor’s eyes: all black and red and wired. Always wired. None of this wireless nonsense that Vox and Velvet seemed so keen on. No, no, that wouldn’t do. He sat at his wooden table that shined black as onyx, in his ebony leather chair with the crimson oak accents, and even as he held his own microphone, the one that was as a part of him as the crescent moon smile on his face, he leaned forward into another one that glowed with an infernal red energy. There were only a few other things on the desk other than the long snakes of wires coming from the mic and the switchboard: a red phone that only rang when he wanted it to, a pad of paper that never ran out, a blood ink pen, and two photos.

One of his mother, and the other...

Screech. Below, a car swerved and went through a small crowd of miniature demons, the maniac behind the wheel laughing through the opened window...but not for long. Alastor smiled as the ‘victims’ grew into huge forms, massive and rippling with muscle, and peeled the top of the car open like a sardine can, pulling the driver out and tearing him apart like an old doll.

He wouldn’t be dead for long, but his body was swept into one of the piles with the Exterminated demons nevertheless.

“Ah, yes, the days following a visit from halo bombers, the masked assassins, our winged adversaries...the red dawn is all the more bright in our eyes, is it not? I’m sure that I do not need to tell you where I will be spending my evening by week’s end, do I?”

Frankly, he’d rather not, truth be told. He’d much rather keep these events to himself, stow them away like trinkets and baubles, just for himself. But, well, and risk what, then? The chase, the challenge, it all keeps things so entertaining.

And he would never risk getting bored when it comes to her.

“Returning to her weekly toe tapping and tasteful twirling, our very own Princess Charlie Magne will grace Mimzy’s club. I know that I’ll certainly be in attendance, though, as always, only the friendliest reminders that…” 

Alastor’s voice took on a staticky, growling consistency. Anyone listening - everyone listening - would get that feeling down their backs, the one that accompanies nails on chalkboard and knives sharpening against one another. They would see the gathering of sigils and the crispy edges of something like erasure at the corners of their eyes. And they would know Alastor was smiling still, smiling wide, smiling at their discomfort and their expense.

“The polite rules of the show dictate one looks with their eyes and not with their hands.”

And just like that, the miniature nightmare would be adjourned, and in his bright vibrant accent, Alastor gave his send-off. “Thank you for joining us, all you damned here and there! From Pentagram City, the Radio Demon wishes you a fond goodnight, and remember…”

He leaned forward into the microphone he held and the one on his desktop both. Alastor stared into the eyes in the other photograph, the one of Charlie herself in all her demonic splendor. The huge body of her hair decorated just so with black lilies and strings of diamonds, wearing a corset with stockings and dangerously high heels, the kind that added miles to her already endless legs.

Her nose crinkled just so, and in pretty handwriting to her right: To Al, my biggest fan! With love, Charlie. P.S. Don’t forget!...

He read the last line aloud.

“Keep smiling.”

---

When Alastor was out for a night on the town, he always wanted to walk wherever he was going. Certainly, he could be there as simple as picturing the place in his mind, then riding the shadows and whisking himself effortlessly through an eldritch underground. The very same power that he harnessed to broadcast his voice, his acts, through the Nine Circles of Hell, even that would be sufficient to do something as simple as move him from one place in Pentagram City to the other.

But no. The simple locomotion of walking, putting one foot in front of the other, aware of the people and creatures and things around him, it was like New Orleans again. Not in scenery - nothing beat the French Quarter on a night in July, when you wore the heat like a second suit - but in action and energy. 

So many bodies. The very pulse of life in Hell worked itself like a torn artery gushing rather than a heart beating. Even dead, it was alive, in a realm where there should be nothing there were jobs and money and drugs and somehow even the emotions that should have extinguished with humanity’s mortal coil. After all, the people themselves didn’t look like “people,” really; their demonic countenances were of their own making, redesigned and reflecting the way they saw themselves. And yes, perhaps, some looked more humane than others. Alastor himself kept some semblance of himself from when he was Alastor Alive instead of Alastor, Radio Demon.

Though given the almost cartoonish apparitions around him, screaming for shots and blow jobs and booze...some were more creative than others with how they chose to show themselves off.

And then he came to the front of Mimzy’s, where saloon-style doors had been painted a too-bright pink (“How can you say they’re too bright, Al?! They’re the shade of your eyes!” “One of many shades, old friend, and I don’t have to look on them myself, now do I?”) and Vaggie stood as bouncer, brandishing that Exterminator’s spear like it was equal parts protection and comfort. 

She was leaning on it, and he took his microphone and gave it a tap, nearly sending her sprawling. Vaggie snarled as she righted herself, about to brandish the blade in his direction before she recognized who he was. “The first rule of good customer care, my dear!” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Service with a smile!”

“Qué te den por culo,” she growled venomously, pulling at a piece of her hair in aggravation, her one eye narrowed and the ‘x’ on the other side of her face pulsing in rage.

“Oh no, thank you!” He didn’t give her a backwards glance as he headed in, waving his hand to magically part the crowd that had, as always, so rudely positioned themselves in the way of the club proper. “I’m quite taken!”

Or he would be, Satan willing. If Charlie would just say yes.

Mimzy had made a few renovations to the place over the last fifty years or so, to match the culture of the world above...or at least to try. What resulted was frankly a bit of a mishmash, but the chaos of it, the unpredictability, how it was always just a little different each time he came in...that’s what kept Alastor returning.

There were these thick poles with shapes cut into them to make them look like the Copacabana in the fifties...and over time there were pieces missing from them, or phone numbers scratched into their porcelain facade. Then there was the black and white checkerboard floor, splashed with dark stains that had long since burned themselves into the varnish, the disco ball above with the jagged edges that reflected menacing glints like knife blades when it caught you at the wrong moment.

And there was the stage...that glorious stage, its red velvet curtains disappearing into shadows high above everyone’s heads, the band beside it as well as all kinds of sound equipment that was much too modern for a man of Alastor’s taste.

And sometimes, if he would stare long enough at stage left, he would see just the flick of a feathered boa, or, if he was lucky, a half of Charlie’s gorgeous face, smiling and blushing as she couldn’t help but sneak a peek at everyone who had come to see her show, her burlesque, gift to Hell that no one but Alastor really deserved.

Certainly not the hoarde on the floor. Definitely not the whores he had to share his special accomodations with.

At the VIP table, there were far too many of the Overlords in attendance: Vox, of course, Valentino, Velvet and there was the owl one too, tonight...that one was royalty from some other area of this world, but Alastor wasn’t entirely sure from where. Stolas, that was his name. He had tried to forget because the way he spoke so softly to Charlie made him want to choke him and turn those long legs of him into a knot until--

“Well, look who decided to drop by.”

Alastor snapped out of his homicidal daze, his smile fresher, eyes bright and full and attentive. “Vox, you are as astute as you are asinine. How are you, old sport?”

The face on the screen rolled its eyes as the Radio Demon took his seat on the outside of their crescent moon booth. A haze of smoke that smelled like both tobacco and something far more herbal already hung like gray clouds above their heads. Everyone already had empty glasses in front of them, in all forms for wine, liquor...even a coconut? Complete with a little umbrella. How tropical.

Alastor snapped his fingers, and from near the door, he could hear a scuttling of tiny feet, and an impish voice. “Excuse me! Pardon me! Move, move, move, mo-- oh, hello, sailor! I’ll be back in a minute, get out of my way!”

When Niffty appeared at his side, blinking up at him with her one huge eye, her arms were full of three mixed drinks, a silver and bakelite cigarette holder and a tin box of Lucky Strikes. “Great job, Niff! You always know exactly what I like.”

“Anything for you, Mr. A!”

Velvet sneered as she took yet another picture of the stage to add to her online photo album, an act that Alastor never really understood. How was she supposed to be in the moment when she was so occupied with giving people proof she was there? “We all know you could literally do all that yourself, Alastor. Why do you always have to bring your help everywhere you go?”

“Why, mixing drinks like this is one of Niffty’s many talents,” he said as he watched her disappear back into the crowd. He pulled out one of the Lucky Strikes and affixed it to the accessory, lighting it with a flick of his thumb. It burned sweetly as he took a drag and followed it with a sip of the drink. He would use his magic to make sure the ice didn’t melt. He wasn’t a monster, after all, drinking watered-down old fashioneds. “And she likes to come to the club to oggle the real men, although she certainly won’t find any in this vicinity.” His eyes shifted quickly between the three Overlords. 

Perhaps he would have given them a hard time for a little longer - it was a fun pastime after all - but just then a tinkle of piano keys carried itself across the assembled, signifying the start of the show. For the most part, everyone in the area facing the stage quieted down, but there were a few lesser demons who decided they could continue childishly shrieking laughter unrelated to the class act that was coming.

And if portals opened beneath them to send them ten miles away from the show, Alastor is sure he wouldn’t know anything about that…

The music changed then, the piano accompanied by a lightly static-touched brass introduction. The giant curtain drew itself back to reveal a backdrop reminiscent of the classic circus of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. It made Alastor recall his mother taking him by one Sunday afternoon, near Congo Square, against his father’s wishes, though she cared about as much for the bastard’s opinions as he did. Prints of red and white tents faded with a sepia overtone to show their age, and signs welcomed people to view the freak shows and animal acts. 

One placard had also been made in the same aesthetic, telling one and all to come to the Happy Hotel. Alastor’s smile somehow widened a bit. The sweet lass was going to continue to hold onto that name as long as she could, wasn’t she? 

In the middle, a circular platform had been placed with a candy-striped pole in the center, and just as the jazzy swing came in full force, there she was. Princess Charlotte Magne, Charlie, his Charlie, the Devil willing, tapped her way across the stage wearing something that was a play on a ringmaster’s suit, though certainly not one that any mustachioed man would wear. Her legs were bare but for fishnet stockings and shiny heels outfitted with metal taps, and the black overcoat was cut long in such a way that when she got to the pole and rode it around, the tails swirled around her like a cape.

At first, Alastor was concerned, because above the slightly frilly panties she wore that had been styled to look like black pinstripe pants, above the very form fitting blouse and bowtie, her signature flowing hair was missing. The only thing that sat atop her beautiful head - long lashes, red cheeks, shining black lips - was a fairly standard top hat. 

But then, as an electric current carried through the music, she reached up with one gloved hand and took it off, the cascades of thick tresses, the full body of gorgeous blonde hair, opened up and floated into perfect place on her shoulders and down her back.

The onlookers roared and only then did Alastor realize that he had burned down an entire cigarette without even enjoying a puff from it. He got another going as she tossed the hat into the crowd, and Alastor forced himself not to leap into the small mob and take it for himself. He had an image to uphold, after all.

Next, she spun, turning herself around to show how the coat, when removed, fell in a rippling cascade to the floor, kicked away in time with the music’s percussion crashing. And for a moment, she just danced, on the pole, off the pole, her smile dazzling and her eyes sparkling. Charlie loved this, and that was something that truly pulled Alastor in. Certainly it was entertainment, but it wasn’t plastic and glass. It was a real passion, one that showed through every spin on the stage.

Then, it was time for one of Alastor’s favorite parts: the peeling of the gloves. He crosses and uncrosses his legs as he notices her using a new technique. Bending down to stroke her hands over her stockings, she barely lifted one heel before putting the tip of her index finger under it. When she rose, it slid off to reveal her bare arm, her painted nails. 

The other, she pulled off behind her back as she cheekily grinned over her shoulder.

Demons and demonesses both were alternating between swooning and catcalling at the stage, all other conversation and company ignored for the gorgeous Charlie, and the volume only grew as she hopped up on the pole, nimble as a cat, holding it between her thighs as her hands became occupied unbuttoning her shirt.

The music was swelling. It was coming into the bridge and beyond, even the jazz of it picking up a more urgent pace. She had timed it so well, timed it to where she could get right there, to where she tears off the shirt and bow tie both, and when Alastor thought he would finally see her breasts, albeit covered in the tassels or diamonds or whatever she chose to wear on them, there was a black and white corset. She couldn’t leave it like that, could she? He gulped down a whole other drink as she climbed up the pole and began to spin downward, fast and then faster, a whirling dervish of mesmerizing sexuality, her momentum (and probably some well-placed fasteners ready to be released) taking the corset off and sending it over the stage.

As the last notes of the piano carried out the song, so too did gravity carry her to the floor, into the splits, each breast covered with a striped cone, not unlike the pole itself. The thong panty was the only thing keeping what lay between her legs up to the imagination...and even then, not particularly well.

The curtain fell as the assembled rose and cheered, clapping and drooling on the ground. Alastor too...well, the applauding anyway. The girl deserved it for that, yes, yes, she did! Very entertaining indeed!

Always something new! She was brilliant!

He finished his last old fashioned and lit another Lucky Strike, and after only a few minutes, the shrieks of delight returned, because Charlie appeared from the left of the stage, Razzle and Dazzle at each side. She was wearing the top hat again, this time on top of her beautiful hair, and the black and white corset was on. Even over the hum of the masses clamoring for her attention, her heels made their distinct tapping as she walked among them.

Ah, but she was everything he wasn't, wasn't she? Where the crowd parted for him, eyes averted, none keen to get the attention of the Radio Demon, every face was focused on hers, leaning in, wanting for her attention.

"Charlie, over here! Let me buy you a drink, baby!"

"Princess! Lemme give you a show, huh?!"

"Oh baby, what happened?! I liked what you were wearing at the end!"

Even in spite of the less savory comments, the wolf howls and whistles, the catcalls… Her sweet smile never faded. She took their tokens of affection - flowers, roses, boxes of chocolates, hotel cards, napkins with phone numbers - and each one she passed to either Razzle or Dazzle, the little goat demons quickly becoming now like miniature pack mules.

A few she did offer her hand to, and those ones… Those were the ones that made Alastor's lip rise a bit, the cut sigils in his hands begin to burn like his blood would spill and they would go up in flames on the spot, the horrible little wretched--

"Hello there!"

The honeyed sound of her voice was what pulled him away from the brink of homicidal fracturing. It was like a warm wash over his whole body, because there she was, right in front of them.

"I'm so glad you see all of you! The first show after the yearly cleanse is really important to me, for morale. And I think it's good for everyone to see the important figures of Hell here, you know?" She gave a little bow. “So it means a lot that you came. To me.”

"We are delighted, of course, my dear." Stolas stood on his long elegant legs before her, towering even as he bowed. “Your mother is so proud of you, I’m sure.”

Charlie laughed a little. Lilith was always on tour, and Alastor hadn’t seen her in years at this point, which wasn’t as long a time in Hell as on Earth, but...Charlie was still so young, one would think she would try to be there for a few of these wonderful numbers of hers. 

“Cholly,” Valentino drawled in the way only he could, a thick blunt in one of his many hands. “Come on, sweetheart. This dog and pony show is cute, but you could be living the dream if you came to my studio...I’ll make sure you get only the best, baby girl.”

“That’s so sweet, Valentino. But as always, I have to gracefully decline. I--”

“Indeed, Val,” Vox interrupted, leaning forward over the table top, his massive screen reflecting on the surface. “She’s literally the Princess of Hell, what are you going to offer? Blow? Stiff shag carpeting?” He turned on the charm quite literally, his face seeming to change channels to one full of charm and bravado. “Now, Charlotte, what I could offer you is something worth its weight in gold. A business deal. We could air your talent all across the Nine Circles and give a whole new meaning to the boob tube.”

Charlie took her hand back from where Vox had been cradling it like a valuable object. “Thank you for the offer, Vox, but you know my rule: no making deals. Not with any demon. I’m sure you understand.”

Vox sulked while Valentino laughed in his direction, the acrid smoke from his weed-laced stogie blowing across Vox’s massive face.

As Charlie finally approached him, Alastor waved his hand across the tabletop, summoning two long flutes and the most expensive champagne currently in existence in the world above. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the cork popped off, and the bottle floated through the air and filled up each glass. It was their little ritual, after the show. She was always there to enjoy a glass or two with him, depending on how busy she was. 

And doing it like this also left his hands available to pull Charlie into his lap, and of course she giggled, letting him. “Hi, Al,” she said, with a familiarity that none of the other Overlords received.

“Darling Charlie,” he said, offering her a glass. She took it. 

“So what are you going to offer me? Riches? All of Pentagram City?”

“Ha ha! Oh no,” he said, “no deals from me. You set that tone the day we met, my dear. Remember? No handshakes, no...how did you put it? Voodoo strings attached?”

She drank from the glass, nearly choking on it. “How could I forget?” 

"But I suppose I could try… Just for fun."

She raised an eyebrow, the glass at her lips. Try me, her expression challenged.

Alastor's hand moved just a fraction at her waist, squeezing without pulling her too tight. "Perhaps I'll give you the most valuable thing I own. Something that I would never offer to anyone else, even those dearest to me."

"And what would that be?"

With her sitting on his lap, he spoke directly to her and only to her. He would not have a single one of those loathsome busy-bodies hear him, lest he erase them all just for being present. "Me, my dear. This nobody radio spokesman, his monocle and his microphone, all yours, now and forever.”

“But what would you get, Alastor?”

“How could you ask me such a thing, dearest? You, of course, and that on top of an end to my eternal torment of having to watch you from afar every week. I’m sure there would be some other perks too…”

Charlie laughed, but not in a way that seemed to be mocking him. Never like that. Never in a way that made him feel any ill will toward her. Indeed, all he could really feel was an even deeper fondness, a delight in continuing the chase, even though it probably would have made his heart explode if she had indeed said ‘yes.’ “Oh, Al,” she said, giving his shoulder a small smack. “I’m so glad you always come to my shows. You’re so funny, it always makes me smile.”

She leaned in and gave him the softest peck on the cheek before finishing her drink and rising. 

“See you later, Al.”

Alastor just barely held it in before she walked away, until he and his microphone, and frankly the seat that he was in, burst into flames.

---

June 6. Only a handful of weeks later, and it was Alastor’s birthday. One would think that it wouldn’t mean much to one such as the Radio Demon, but...Alastor loved his birthday. He had fond memories of being treated well on his birthday, and his mother would take him on outings his father wasn’t allowed to go on, and she made him a huge cake.

That’s when he got his first radio. What had she done to get it? He didn’t know. 

After that, it was all history.

Now, he made his way back to Mimzy’s, where the whole place had been opened up for him, for everyone. Electroswing played over several record players in all corners of the club, and although there were probably a few stereos set up, they were out of sight.

“Alastor!” The curvaceous Mimzy pushed several demons bodily away so she could take his hands in hers, giggling while her feather swayed along with her flapper dress. “Happy birthday, love.”

“Mimzy, my gal, you really do know how to throw this old dog a bone, don’t you? Did you invite all my friends?”

“Pssh!” She bumped him in the side. “Honey, you know if it was just your friends this place would be deader than a nail in a coffin!”

They laughed together, just as they always did. And always would, Alastor imagined. No one else had the same kind of twisted sense of humor as he did, after all, or that same certain chemistry, except for maybe--

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the birthday boy himself!”

"Rosie!” Alastor strode up to the black-eyed demon, kissing the air on either side of her cheeks while she did the same. “A pleasure to see you as always, beautiful. So glad to have you show tonight.”

“Why, or chance missing out on my dearest friend’s special day?” She reached up to straighten his suit coat and tie. “Not for all the world! Here, my dear. For you.” Presenting a wrapped box with a bow, she placed it into his free hand.

“What could this be? It’s small, so I do hope you didn’t take anything off Vox he’ll miss too much…”

“Oh, you. So nasty, Alastor.” She still laughed behind her hand. 

Alastor slipped his microphone cane under his arm so he could tear past the wrapping paper, open the box and-- “A new monocle! Oh, Rosie, you know me so well.” It was identical to the old one, but it was one of their many birthday traditions. Normally he would have thrown out the old one, but instead he put it in his pocket.

“So that you will never miss sight of the important things, in front of you as plain as the nose on your face.”

There were other gifts too - a free blowjob certificate from Angel Dust, a casino chip from Husker that said ‘UP’ on one side and ‘YOURS’ on the other, a promise for a fanfiction commission from Niffty (he didn’t exactly understand that one) - but then, an hour into the night, he saw her, and even just her presence was enough to make every birthday but this one mean nothing.

Charlie wore a champagne dress in the fashion of the twenties, not as short as the flapper skirts but with a long slip up the side. Her heels looked like they were made of glass, and there were sparkling jewels in a band across the top of her hair, pushed back in all its splendor from her face. Her long gloves were gold, as was the glitter atop her beautiful eyes, which caught his with a smile.

Someone was talking to him. He immediately walked away in mid-sentence.

No one could be as important.

“Good evening, Miss Charlie,” he greeted, the static in his words evening out to the soft velvet tone of his natural speaking voice. “Gosh, you sure do look pretty tonight.”

“Happy birthday, Al,” she said, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear. “It seemed like the type of occasion I would like to be presentable for.”

She offered him her hand. He took it. And when he pressed his lips to it, she didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think I’d see you,” he said, though he didn’t seem serious, which made her smile.

“Oh no?”

“I thought you would be hiding in a cake until midnight.”

There it was, her laugh again, bright and vibrant and slightly musical, like windchimes in a hurricane. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not especially.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her to a quiet corner where there was a high-top table he could lean on, a window overlooking the city behind: the clocktower, the red landscape, and above, a hint of Heaven, the silverish orb cut by clouds. Though he didn’t like gazing at it for too long; when one looked at Heaven, it would end up feeling like Heaven was looking back. “Because then everyone else would get to watch you too, and it truly is hard on a man, already having to share every week…”

“Well,” she said, reaching out to tug the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m not always doing it for all of them, you know. Sometimes I just have one or two people in mind, who could be out in the crowd…”

“If only you tell me who the other person is, I could casually introduce them to massive bodily harm. By complete coincidence, of course. An unfortunate accident! Ha ha!”

“Alastor!” There was a smile she hid, even though she did playfully slap his shoulder. “Promise me you’ll never hurt someone over me. I’m not going to stand to lose sleep over the thought that you would do something untoward and damn yourself even more, in light of what I’ve been trying to do with the hotel.”

Alastor tipped his head at a rather sharp angle, his smile never even faltering. “Well, dearest, I’ll consider it, but...I guess that all depends on one thing…”

“And what’s that?”

His red eyes grew heavier, and he gazed at her from top to bottom. When he spoke, the words came out a dark tease. “What did you get me for my birthday, Princess?”

Charlie’s mouth opened and then closed, and Alastor really did intend to laugh and tell her that he was only teasing, that her presence, that the time that he could spend with her was gift enough. But then, she was grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the stage. “I have just the thing,” she said, her eyes and face lit up with excitement. “Come with me, Al, I know just the thing.”

Beneath the surface, Alastor’s heart beat fast, a snare drum facing a repetitive beating while a whole line of dancers Lindy-Hopping across it. But he wasn’t about to show how thrilled he was. 

“That is, if I’m not stealing you away,” she said, pausing.

“My dear girl, by all means, it would be my pleasure to be stolen by you.”

She giggled, and they were off. Through the silent dark behind the curtain, down a small hall to the currently locked-up VIP lounges. 

“Are you going to give me a dance?” he guessed.

“Not just any dance,” she said as she closed and locked the door behind him. Turning on the light, the room glowed with a soft yellowish burn, not blinding but creating a shimmer across a black couch and a table so clean that the ceiling above - glittering with pieces of glass that had been embedded into the surface like stones under a river - reflected off of it.

And then she moved a black velvet cloth, and underneath...the biggest martini glass that Alastor had ever seen.

“It’s a dance no one has ever seen,” she murmured, crawling across the table into his lap. She reached behind him - oh, the smell of her, honey dust and a little gingery, across her skin, lips so close - and pulled out a bottle of champagne, a glass and his favorite Lucky Strikes. “I was going to debut it next week...and I was thinking you would get a preview.”

The corners of Alastor’s mouth went softer, and he lit up one of the cigarettes, blowing the plume of smoke into a heart over her head. “That, darling, would be an honor.”

With a little trill of delight, Charlie hopped off the couch, much to Alastor’s disappointment. She went over to a stand that held a music device of some kind, a stereo, and she picked at the settings. 

“I certainly hope I haven’t taken someone’s spot,” he commented, glancing at how conspicuously clean the space was.

“I use this area as rehearsal space. Sometimes Vaggie will come hang out with me and give me some notes, but...Angel Dust doesn’t get to know. I don’t trust him not to use it.”

“Very wise.” He popped the cork off the champagne bottle, and it tickled his nose as he smelled it. Pink, and strawberries, and bubbles. Very Charlie. He poured a glass and drank it, setting the bottle on the table. “Ready when you are, vixen.”

She blushed over her shoulder as she straightened, and just like that, the room filled with the sound of trombones, horns and great orchestral instruments, like there wasn’t one but several big bands playing in the corners of the room. 

Charlie spun around, her gown following her as she pointed a finger at the glass. It filled with champagne, like it was pouring from a giant bottle in the ceiling. 

And then the dance began. Alastor stared up at her adoringly as she kicked her long legs in time to the music, twisting with her hips and raising her hands like she was dancing with an invisible partner. She brought up her hands like she was putting them on someone’s shoulders, and when she stepped back, her gloves magically slid off. 

When she looked up at the glass, she did a little twirl before she removed her jewels: the necklace at her neck, the bracelet she wore...even that seemed lurid in a way, even though she was probably just being practical so they wouldn’t be lost in the liquid. Then, the band of dazzling jewels came out of her hair and it flowed all the bigger, full of volume, an entirely separate beast on her head.

Now that no one was here, to see him, to see her, Alastor allowed himself a whistle. She winked. Such a coy, vampy thing…

Although they weren’t the tap shoes like she had at the circus show, she did a little stepping across the stage with such casual skill that he didn’t realize she had stepped out of the glassy heels until she was flipping herself upside down on the pole-like stem of the martini glass. Then, she expertly bent, grabbing the edge and swinging herself up.

Alastor had figured that would be it, that she would be in the basin of champagne, soaked to the bone. But no; as her toes touched the other side of the glass, she lifted herself above it, not even the hem of her beautiful gown skimming the surface.

The gown that was quickly kicked off as she did a handstand on the edge of the glass’s lip.

“Oh my,” Alastor sighed to himself, trying to be as covert as possible as he reached down the rearrange himself. How could this be happening? He was usually so aware of himself, able to control his animal nature , as it were, but...there was something about being here, like this, alone with her…

Alone with her, in a shimmering corset, those legs - sweet Lucifer, those legs - adorned with garters and stockings that went from her thighs to her toes as they spun around like a ballerina doll in a music box around the glass.

Then, she bowed, her back to him, and leaned down low to trail her fingers up from ankles to the clasps, unsnapping them and allowing the stockings to loosen. Her hands went to the corset binding at her back and made quick work of pulling the strings out of their knot, though it was clearly some magic in how they disbanded after that…

When she glanced over her shoulder at him, the curve of her back and waist coming into view, he could still only see just what she wanted him to see; none of her breasts, not even her ass.

Not until she did a little pirouette and took her frilly white panties off, tossing them in his general direction.

He launched himself from his seat, then. The champagne in his glass had been drunk but the bottle fell with a crash as he grabbed them, burying his face in them, eyes rolling in his head. They went into his jacket pocket.

Finally, once the stockings had been peeled off her legs while she held them at a straight angle above her head, the music reaching its crashing conclusion, Charlie finally met the water with a delighted laugh, her bare body covered in the bubbles as she kicked her feet, hair spilling over the edge.

When the room became silent again, she gazed at him and breathily asked, “How was that?” She didn’t make a move to get out. Only batted her long lashes at him.

Now, Alastor was a man of principle. His moral compass, though broken and put back together with glue, kept him on a straight path. Not a proper one, or one that most people would find right or kind, let alone good...but he would certainly never take advantage of someone in the situation that Charlie had created for herself.

That said...he also knew an invitation when he saw one.

So off went his jacket, at least, because that was the only thing he had the energy or concentration to deal with. One nimble hop later and the champagne splashed in the martini glass as he got inside, immediately soaked through and between Charlie’s legs.

No pasties this time. Not even a thong. Only her creamy skin, pert pink little nipples, a happy little shriek and a smile. Sweet. Devoid of any ignorance as to what she wanted. Which was obviously him.

Their first kiss was like an entire lifetime without kissing that had led to this moment. She was grabbing his hair and pulling him in, even though it made her slip a little below the surface. He brought her back up, pressed into his front, and licked the champagne from her lips.

“Al…” Before he could interrupt her, she sucked his bottom lip and gasped, “I’ve wanted you to do that forever. What took you so long?”

“Obviously my predilections of coming off as a gentleman, dear girl.” He picked a strand of wet hair from her face, pushing it back. Already, his long body dragged between her legs, and she grabbed his shirt. “A bias I am finding myself stripping away as we speak…”

“Instead of your pants?” Her cheeks glowed pink, and he could tell that even though she was trying to be bold, part of her wondered if this was really happening. Just as well as he was, frankly. A tiny part that he was smothering, but...a part nevertheless.

“Those will come too, in time,” he whispered, mouth finding her neck, so soft, sinful in how easy it was to nip and bite at, although she was eagerly reaching down to hold his small waist tight against her body. The wet clothes should have been more bothersome, and yet he just simply could not be bothered to deal with them as he rutted against her thigh.

“Al...Alastor…”

Beneath the water, he could see the sweet little tuft of blond over her mound, and his long fingers parted her folds easily, pressing two in and using his thumb on her clit. The bud was hard, and it made him wonder what it would be like to do this in a place where they both were not submerged, to feel how wet she could get. After all…

“I could smell your arousal on those undergarments you gave me,” Alastor cooed, dropping his head down to her breast and dragging his teeth. “I think you knew I would, Princess…”

“Don’t say things like that.” She was whining, opening her legs wide until her dainty feet made a skidding noise against the angled sides of the glass. “I can’t handle it…”

“Do all your dances get you wet? Or is that just for me?” She didn’t answer, hiding her face in his shoulder, shaking hands so close to orgasm clawing at his back. He would cherish those scratch marks… “Be mine and I promise there would be more…”

As if on the cue of saying that, he pulled his fingers out, which wrung a frustrated half-groan from her, but the loss was quickly replaced by his cock that had been pulled out of his pants, pushed down only far enough to free it. Grabbing her with one hand and the edge of the glass with the other, he thrust in hard, and she immediately started to fall apart, already hovering on the cliff face of her pleasure, now plummeting down into it…

Until he pulled her back, slowing the roll of his hips, making shudder. “What...nooo...Al…”

“Don’t make me beg.” Maybe it was the exertion of taking her like this, but it came out like a crooning under his breath, like his own song. “Don’t make me wait anymore. You know I can treat you so well, Charlie...I can be so good to you…”

“Good…” She kissed him again, tongue in his mouth, feeling over his sharp teeth. “So good…”

When he urged her legs around him, he fit so perfectly, tight and close, filling her with him as he moved in with rhythmic, repetitive thrusts, his eagerness apparent as he panted around her lips, sucking her jaw as the edges of reality blurred, like the end of a radio station before the knob is turned to static. 

“Please, Charlie...please...be mine, or erase me from this afterlife. I would rather be the Overlord of nothing, if you won’t have me…”

“D-don’t...mmm, yes, yes, right there... don’t say that…” When he pulled back from him slightly, meeting his gaze, her eyes were conflicted with desire and emotion. “You mean...more to me than anything. I am so glad that you exist…just...let me…!” 

The girl was insatiable, it seemed. Although he was being rather cruel, wasn’t he...withholding her delight. Alastor flipped her over, a new, full moan of delight coming from her lips as he went at her from another angle. He was following her close now in pursuit of his peak, climbing, a hand reaching under her to grope at her chest. “Then...mmm, let us share this existence...please, Charlie...say you’ll be mine, I will show you true ecstasy…I--”

“Yes!! You...mmmmm, you win, Alastor...please, please let me come…!”

Twisting her head to face him, she kissed him as he found the apex of her heat again and rubbed, both of them coming, and he filled her up with him and for a moment, his hearing going to a flatline, a steady tone of nothing, and in his shadow he could see his own demonic smile, his antlers sprout, his body growing to tower above the world. Everything filled with that endless pleasure, that loss of control, and he blacked out from it.

“--tor. --Astor? --Alastor!”

The sound of her voice called him back, and when he awoke, he was collapsed beside her in the martini glass. Now, the sensation of carbonated fluid soaking through his clothes was a little more prevalent, but he smiled. “You took my breath away, my dear!”

She laughed, leaning up to kiss his cheek. This one lingered, different from the ones she always gave him at the club. “Did you hear me?”

“My ears are still ringing, in fact.”

“Not that,” she said, giving him a little splash. “My answer...I gave you an answer, Alastor. After...well, all that.”

Stroking her wet hair back, Alastor rubbed at the top of her ear between his fingers. “Tell me again…”

---

It is a few weeks later. They are at Mimzy’s together in their own private booth, and the Overlords are glowering from their normal station. Charlie is in a corset with a silky negligee over it, and although she isn’t performing, there’s nothing saying that she’s not going to give Alastor a private show.

After Alastor’s birthday, she had intended on performing the martini glass act, but then she reconsidered.

“I want to tweak it,” she says from Alastor’s lap as they sip yet more champagne. He would have thought she’d be tired of it, but she still wants it. She says she’ll only drink it with him now, but they’ll see. “After how your birthday went, I kind of want it to be special. Just for us.”

“You’re going to make me blush.” Then, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small box. “Speaking of things that are special, I might have gotten something for you, love.”

Charlie opens the box to find the monocle he replaced during his birthday with the one from Rosie. It has been threaded onto a silver chain, and she holds it to her chest. “I love it. Put it on me?”

He does, sneaking a kiss onto the nape of her neck. It sits perfectly between her breasts.

“Perhaps in time I’ll get you something else that’s round...and smaller. And you’ll wear it somewhere else.”

Charlie’s lips curl into a smile, and she picks up her glass, eyebrows raising. He knows exactly what she wants.

“To my dear Princess Charlotte Magne,” he says, voice full and triumphant. “My beautiful lady, my demoness, love of my unlife. My one and only.”

She lets her glass touch his with a soft tink and she tips her head to whisper, “Yours,” before slipping into one of many kisses.

[ladynuwanda]

Whatever Souls Are Made Of (Michael LangdonXMallory AU) - Chapter 3

A/N: I know it’s been 84 years, guys... y’know, life happens. I hope someone is still interested in this story... I’m still as excited to tell it as I was all those months ago!! =)

Warnings: Angsty. And, I don’t know, maybe revisiting the previous chapters would be a good idea...

Word Count: 3,4K

Lady Fiona had returned to the Heights in time to celebrate Beltane that year, and it was very unusual for the Supreme to grace the Coven with her presence for one of the Sabbats. Most Covens would count their Supreme as a sort of mother figure to all the other witches, a nurturing and guiding presence. But that was not the case with Lady Fiona. She brought an overwhelming sense of uneasiness with herself. The entire Coven seemed nervous, and even a little jumpy, whenever the Supreme was in the Manor.

But Lady Fiona’s presence wasn’t the only source of uneasiness in that Summer, far from it. Zoe and Madison had always had a complicated relationship, equal parts “sisterly love” and “sibling rivalry”. But one thing was undeniable: the girls were very close. Even though there were times when what seemed to keep them together was mutual hatred, Zoe felt Madison’s absence more than anyone else, when the latter disappeared by late Spring. Most of the other witches were convinced Madison had run away on a whim, probably eloped with her most recent lover, whoever that might be. But Zoe could smell a rat from the start, and she wasn’t going to rest until she found Madison’s whereabouts.

By the time Summer was fully upon the land, the only two people in the Manor who were not sharing the sense of uneasiness, caused both by Lady Fiona’s presence and Madison’s disappearance, were Mallory and Michael. But that’s not the only thing they were oblivious of. The Beltane rites were not just an initiation ritual for the witches, it also gave the Goddess’s Consort full ruling power over the land, as the Sacred King. Which meant Michael’s powers only grew since the Sabbat. Not that any of the two young lovers would care, or even notice. They were simply too distracted by their own feelings, and their newly found physical intimacy, to care about anything but each other. But one person did realise the shift in the power balance that was happening in the Coven, and that person was Lady Meade.

She could tell Michael was becoming more powerful with each passing day, on every training session. Not only his abilities were growing, but the boy seemed more capable of controlling them. He was getting more comfortable in his own skin, owning everything he could be and everything he could do. He was starting to not feel so unworthy of Mallory anymore. He could finally begin to consider himself her equal. And the more intense Lady Mead’s lessons became, more eager he was to learn.

It became clear that something about that Summer was simply not right, when Lady Fiona died unexpectedly and apparently of natural causes. The Supreme had been gravely ill for some time when it happened, but for some reason she had kept it a secret from the entire Coven, including her own daughter. Cordelia was forced to put her own grief aside to take care of the Coven she was now responsible for, since Lady Fiona had died without announcing her successor. Nobody knew who the next Supreme was supposed to be.

Nobody but Michael. He was just surprised that no one else seemed to have noticed something that, to him, felt so obvious. Or the even more obvious connection between the sudden death of the Supreme, and the fact that for the first time in centuries the Coven had been left without proper leadership. But while Cordelia, Myrtle and Misty were busy trying to get the Coven prepared for the trials of the Seven Wonders, that would point them in the direction of the Next Supreme, Zoe Benson seemed lost in her own world, trying to find whatever she could about Madison’s disappearance. It became clear for Michael that what Zoe had been investigating was simply another thread closely entwined on the web of mystery that covered the Manor that Summer.

With Mallory as the intermediary agent, Michael used his own powers to help Zoe find Madison. For everyone’s horror the young witch’s body had been in Spalding’s room all this time, hidden among a most unsettling collection of porcelain dolls. Madison Montgomery’s corpse was grotesquely dressed in a doll’s frock. Her hollowed cheeks, already in stage of decay, were painted in rouge, in a horrendous imitation of life-like blush. Both Michael and Kyle were merciless in carrying their former mentor downstairs to be interrogated by the Coven’s impromptu leading counsil.

It took more than Miss Cordelia’s gentle persuasion to make Spalding confess for all his sins. They had to use the combined magic of Zoe and Mallory, as well as of Michael himself, to loosen the man’s tongue. But in the end, the quivering ruin of a man admitted that he had known about Lady Fiona’s illness, and her dread to be overrun by a younger witch. It has been said, since the dawn of times, that when a new Supreme starts to flower, the old Supreme begins to fade. Fiona saw too much of herself in Madison, she was convinced the girl was to be the Next Supreme. Lady Fiona’s plan was to restore her own strength by getting rid of the threat of replacement, and she had Spalding’s aid to get it done. He had accepted as much for his undying love for the Supreme, as for the promise that Madison’s discarded body would be his to do as he willed.

The Coven stood in petrified horror as Spalding shared his dark tale, but no one was more horrified than Michael. Spalding and Fiona had destroyed Madison’s life for assuming she would be the next Supreme, what would they have done to his sweet Mallory if they knew what he knew? He didn’t assume anything, he knew she was the Next Supreme. Michael felt the cold embrace of the purest fear at the thought of seeing Mallory in Madison’s place, that sent shivers down his spine and all the way to his fingertips. Before he had time to process what he was feeling, his entire body was shaking, but with blind rage. And his enemy was standing right there in that room, held down by Kyle Spencer’s iron-grip, and showing absolutely no remorse.

With one wave of Michael’s hand, Spalding was free from Kyle’s grasp, and thrown across the room, colliding violently against the wall. The strain of using his powers was obvious to anyone who would look at Michael in that moment. But to Mallory the most surprising thing about it was that it seemed a lot less like an effort than it had the last time she had seen it, during the incident with Lady Mead’s dogs. Michael held Spalding against the wall from distance, slowly raising his hand and lifting the man’s feet from the ground.

In her terror, Mallory couldn’t stop asking herself what the contents of Lady Mead’s so-called lessons had been. While with a delicate movement of his index finger, Michael sent Spalding’s body up the wall, hitting the man’s head agains the ceiling with a sickening smashing sound, Mallory was still trying to understand when it was that her sweet lover had become so cold and cruel... and so frighteningly efficient at it.

Michael’s mind, however, was focused on something else. Because, even though Spalding hadn’t said a word after he finished his dark tale concerning the fate of Madison Montgomery, he was speaking loud and clear in thoughts that Michael could hear. Spalding read Michael’s explosion of anger correctly, he knew the boy would stop at nothing to keep his precious Mallory safe. Spalding’s eyes fell on Mallory’s terrified face for a second and Michael felt a shiver down his own spine at the knowing expression in the older man’s features. “So this is the Next Supreme...”, Spalding was thinking turning his attention back to Michael, “... your bonnie lass, of all people!”, the man laughed showing teeth smeared with the blood that had been dripping from his nose, and Michael couldn’t take it anymore. With a flick of his fingers Spalding’s neck snapped broken and his limp, lifeless body fell to the floor.

The Silence the followed was deafening.

“What the Hell are you all staring at?”, it was Lady Mead’s voice what broke it, “somebody has to clean this mess before the ghost of this wretched man appears... you know what to do, son”, she added with a nod to Michael. Still shaking with the aftermath of murder, feeling red hot tears stinging his eyes, Michael took a deep breath to steady himself and snapped his fingers. Spalding’s body was immediately consumed by a strange heatless fire and disappeared. “It’s done.”, Michael said in a low, firm, voice to everyone and no one in particular.

It was Cordelia who had the presence of mind to speak among the chaos. And it was Lady Mead she spoke to, asking the older woman what she was doing in the Manor, and why at that precise moment. Lady Mead calmly replied that Cordelia knew very well why she was there. She had come for the boy. Cordelia spoke to the lady in sharp tones that were most unusual for someone so mild mannered as she was. Cordelia said she would sooner take her own life and put an end to the entire Coven by her own hands, if she was not able to protect Michael from the evil influence of the She-Devil in front of her. “You will vacate the Grange immediately. You will leave the grounds tonight, and in the morning I don’t want to find any trace that you were ever there.”

Michael wanted to confront Cordelia for the way she was treating his mentor, the only person who has ever seen true potential in him, and worked hard to teach him everything she could. But one look into Mallory’s eyes and his protests died in his throat. His Bonnie Lass, as Spalding had referred to her, was livid with terror looking at Michael with her eyes wide in fear and pleading, her tears begged him to tell her that things were not as they seemed, that he was not this devilish creature she had in front of her. Capable of killing with such cold-hearted power and ease, showing no remorse.

For Mallory, more than anything else, to take the look of fear from those beloved eyes, he would not stand up for Lady Mead while she was being cast away from the Grounds. He wanted to put Mallory’s heart at ease when he agreed to wait alone in one of the students’ dormitories, while the impromptu counsil would get together to decide what was to be done next. With the Coven. With the next Supreme. With Kyle as “the new Spalding”. With the crimes that had been committed by those who were no longer alive to answer for them. And with Michael. How does one solve a problem like Michael?

Cordelia made it clear that for reasons that should remain secret, Michael needed to be eliminated. The people involved in the hideous murder of Madison Montgomery were already dead, and Zoe wanted to discuss the possibility of bringing her friend back with the help of Misty Day. But Michael was too powerful and too unpredictable to stay in the Coven. And whatever his grandmother had told Fiona, and Fiona told Cordelia, simply meant it was not safe to let the boy go out in the world, either. Specially not under the care of someone like Lady Mead.

It broke Misty’s heart to think about Mallory and how she would feel when she learned about the Coven’s decision. Misty was the closest witness to the blossoming of their love, and she felt particularly miserable thinking about the star-crossed lovers. Because Misty knew that the true nature of her relationship with Miss Cordelia would be frowned upon in the Coven, since the very notion of the existence of such feelings had been all but prohibited by Lady Fiona. She knew what it was like to love someone everyone around you thinks you shouldn’t. But she couldn’t imagine how Mallory would feel when facing the imminent destruction of her beloved one, and by the hands of her so-called sisters.

Misty excused herself from Zoe, promising the younger witch that they would discuss the plans to bring Madison back on the next day, after the Michael Problem had been solved. She went straight to where she knew Mallory could be found: the old room they shared when Mallory first arrived at the manor, the one where they received Michael’s nightly visits, more often than not. All things combined, made her realise that the most appropriated person to communicate the Council’s decision to Mallory was Misty herself.

Mallory was on the window-sit, looking at the Manor’s grounds and seemed lost in thought. When she looked at Misty there was no hope in those beautiful, wide eyes. But no desperation either. Mallory knew what the sentence was before Misty’d said anything. But she knew there was something more to Cordelia’s decision, something no one would tell Mallory, of course. Misty dealt with the situation the only way she knew how, opening her own arms wide, and offering Mallory some kind of consolation. Mallory’s composed face broke, and she threw herself into Misty’s arms, crying copiously.

“I failed him, Misty... I should have told him what I really thought of Lady Mead and her relationship with him... now he’s lost. He’s lost and it’s all my fault!!”

“You can’t possibly mean that... what he did was atrocious, and he must answer for that.”

“But he did answer! Whatever atrocity he might have done was in answer to their atrocious acts...”

“Those matters should be taken to the Coven, my dear, not dealt with in one’s own hands...”

“So whatever the Coven says, it’s the final word...”

“Don’t you trust you Coven, Mal? Your family? Your sisters?”

“I love the Coven! I love the grounds around the manor, and the air over this building and everything it touches, every life it changes, and every word that is said here...”

“So there you have it! What about your feelings towards Michael?”

“My love for the Coven is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Michael resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Misty, I am Michael! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable. He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

But Misty knew separation was precisely what fate had in store for Mallory and Michael. Maybe not the abrupt separation of death, but he would have to leave if he wanted to survive. But what could possibly make him leave the Manor, when even the threat of imminent death wasn’t enough to persuade Michael to leave his beloved girl behind. The answer, Misty though, seemed to be the crying girl in front of her. Mallory would have to tell him to leave, but that wouldn’t be enough, he’d want to stay with her for as long as he could. Unless he was convinced she didn’t love him. Mallory would have to lie to Michael. To save him.

Misty shared her plan with Mallory, the young witch understood immediately that it was her only chance to keep Michael alive. She listened with wide-eyed interest, but Misty thought she could almost hear the hollow sound of the girl’s heart breaking. And soon it would be Michael’s. Those two hearts that now were beating as one would be shattered to pieces on the same night. Getting inside the room where Michael was spending the night was the easy part. It wouldn’t take much more than a simple Concilium spell to convince Kyle Spencer to let her in. The part that made Mallory’s blood freeze in her veins came after she had crossed the treshold.

The man she found inside the room was simply her Michael as she’d always known him, not the murderous monster she had expected. He ran to her with a sigh of relief and held her in a loving embrace. That only made everything even more difficult. Mallory wished she could stop time, so that they could hold each other and stay safe together forever. She buried her nose on the curve of his neck and inhaled deeply, the sweet and earthy scent of the man she loved, and it almost ruined her resolve completely. She couldn’t imagine her life without him, but if she didn’t do what she had to, she’d be forced to live in a world where he was not even alive. That thought gave her perspective of the importance of what she was doing there, and the strength to go on.

“Im sorry, I’m so sorry I lost control!”, he whispered urgently in her ear, “I was just so terrified when I thought their next victim could be you”, he added between quick kisses, “I just wanted to protect you, I meant no harm to the Coven, I’m not dangerous... You ought to make them see that!!”, he looked deep into her eyes at that point, holding both her hands in his. Mallory believed him, his words spoke directly to her heart, but she knew it wouldn’t suffice for Miss Cordelia and the Coven. It took every inch of Mallory’s will to keep her own voice steady when she added in an ice-cold tone “It’s too late, Michael”.

She couldn’t stop now, she had to say everything she had agreed to with Misty. She kept telling herself it was the only way to save him, “You don’t belong here, you never have...”, she wanted to fall on her knees and beg him to forget those words, but she kept going, “... all the time you’ve spent training with Lady Mead was proof of that. You should leave with her, tonight. This was never your home”. Michael still tried to reason with her, through the veil of sadness that had fallen between them “The Coven might not have been my home, but you were. You are the only home I know, the only home I’ll ever need! Mallory, I...”.

But she cut him off “you cannot be taking promises made by children seriously...”

“Mallory, we are not children anymore...”, this conversation was making less sense to Michael by the minute.

“I needed your powers”, she had to turn away so he couldn’t see the pain on her face, “I needed you for the sacred rites...”

“We have been together outside the rites!!”, his heartbreak was growing into desperation now, “we have loved each other as man and woman, not just as the Goddess and her Consort...”

“Loved? That is a strong word!”, his own pain kept Michael from seeing how much it cost Mallory to say those words, “I said what I had to say to get you where I needed you... and you believed whatever you wanted to believe.”, part of her wished Michael could see through her lies and make her stop talking, but she knew there was no other way. “But now it’s dangerous for me to be associated with you...”, she gave a short and bitter chuckle, “it was already degrading before, but you had to go and make it worse...”, Mallory could hear Michael’s sobs and all she wanted to do was hold him in her arms and beg for his forgiveness, kiss him and tell him everything was going to be alright again, but she couldn’t, “... which is why you must leave tonight, with Lady Mead.”, she left the room before she’d lose her resolve, and throw herself at his feet and begged him to stay. And Michael would never be able to see, blinded by his own misery, how much her heartbreak and despair mirrored his.

Misty found Mallory later that night, she went back to the bedroom they had shared. Mallory was by the window, silente tears streaming down her face from those beautiful eyes, while she saw the love of her life disappearing into the night. She accepted the comfort of the arms Misty offered her, collapsing against the older witch’s body crying the pain out. “How can I live without my life, Misty? How can I love without my soul?”

Taglist: @blakewaterxx @ccodyfern @consultingsnowqueen @coollangdon @crossdressingpirate @hecohansen31 @kalam22 @kirchnvrs @lathraios @laying-with-the-devil @michael-langdon-appreciation @mvllorylvngdon @mytrash-mylife @no-need-for-rules @queen-of-quotes @rosegoldrichie @sophiegracejreylo @suspirateux @tayfinities @touch-in-the-night @wvntersldr @xavierplympton

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Family Fights - Chapter three

Summary:  Even the strongest bond, the most loving family, can be broken by nightmares, and the librarian is soon to learn this. As she learns sinister things about a person who she had thought was lost forever, she realizes she will need the help of another witch to get her family back.

Notes: I really need to write this fic real quick before season two comes around and smashes all my headcanons lol

(chpt1) (chpt2) (chpt3)

Both Hilda and Johanna gasped as Maven pushed one of bookshelves aside with great effort to reveal a passage to another room. The library was still closed, so there were no other patrons around to behold the sight of the librarian stepping into the grim hidden chamber.

There was a click as she pressed a light switch and the room was cast in light. It was still darker than the rest of the library, but now at least they could properly see where they were going. After tree steps down the stairs, Maven looked back and gestured for the two of them to follow her inside.

“I’m not allowed to show this room to patrons, so I’d appreciate your discretion.” The librarian asked as she hopped down the last steps and headed for the writing desk that sat at the base of the staircase, a dark wooden piece of furniture with a lamp sitting on top of it and a red armchair by its side. There were scrolls of parchment laying on it, remnants of the research she’d done few days before, that hadn’t been put away because she had planned to come back to it when she had the time. But now she had something more important to focus on.

She had time to put the desk to sorts as Hilda and her mother descended the stair very slowly, taking in every bit of the room with slacked jaws. Hilda looked outright delighted, while Maven could tell Johanna was a bit apprehensive of the whole situation.

“What is this place?” Johanna asked, taking in the walls covered from top to bottom with books and ancient tapestries with symbols and creatures she didn’t recognize.

“Why is it a secret?” Hilda added with her voice filled with awe.

“This is where we keep all books on witchcraft and magic.” Maven looked around. She’d never get tired of admiring this place. “Witches have been in Trollberg ever since it was founded, you know? The first librarian was one of us. He arranged this room for our kind to be able to store our knowledge in a safe place. Since then, the magical families in town have been passing the information about this place down the generations. It was also very common that witches would become the librarians, in order to protect this place.”

There was a beat of silence before Hilda asked, this time much closer to Maven who was running her eyes through the books in one of the shelves. She looked like she knew exactly what she was looking for. “Is this why you chose this job?”

She chuckled, though she still looked serious. “No, it was just because I’m a bookworm. Though this place is very important to me as well.”

“There are other magical families in Trollberg?” Johanna asked with her arms crossed. She didn’t think the librarian would have lied to her when she said there were no other witches in town, but she had to be sure.

Maven shrugged, looking sad as she ran her finger down the spine of a book with dark blue leather binding. “There used to be. Few, but enough that there were also other places where we used to gather. But they’re gone. Some families died out. Others reached a point where the youngest generation didn’t have a gift for magic, or decided it was too much trouble and not fit for the modern world. A few even moved out of town.”

She took the book she had been caressing out of the shelf, its name written in golden letters at the cover. “My family was the last one. But now there’s only me.”

She took her eyes from the book to her guests, cringing when she saw the look of pity on their faces. “Sorry about that. Why don’t you come here, Hilda?”

Hilda looked at her mother, who nodded her permission, and sat down on the armchair as Maven had indicated. The librarian moved around to lean against the backrest, and placed the book on Hilda’s lap. “Page one hundred and thirty nine.”

The girl opened the book on the place she had been told to. It had been written by hand, she realized. The page was the beginning of a chapter, and on the top of it ‘Becoming a Marra’ had been written in bold letters.

“This is the most complete book on the Marra we have”, the librarian said above her. Hilda skimmed through the chapter, finding herself confused as another chapter began and she still hadn’t found the ritual that the librarian had mentioned when she asked for her help.

“There’s a lot of stuff here… but nothing about turning them back.” She pointed out, raising her eyes to the librarian.

Maven brought one hand down to the book, finding the page she had been looking for with no trouble after spending so much time studying the tome as she had. There was a small envelope glued to it, and she opened it and carefully took out the old, wrinkly piece of parchment inside. “There is no specific spell for this purpose. But one of the researchers who added information to this book after the original author died believed that an already existing ritual would work.”

Hilda squinted at the note. It had very few details, but it at least informed where said ritual could be found. “The Manipulation of Mind, Soul and Body?” She asked. “Do you have this book here?”

The librarian nodded and walked to the opposite wall, looking for the book to show Hilda. This time, she took a little while longer; this wasn’t a book she needed as often as the other one. When she did find it though, she came back to Hilda’s side and found Johanna kneeling in front of her child to read the book as well.

Maven opened the book in her hands and searched the glossary for the chapter she needed, turning the pages carefully due to their age; she wasn’t certain about this particular copy, but the book itself was older than their town.

“Here.” She gave the book to the girl, who closed the blue one and returned it to the librarian. Maven kept the book on the Marra in her hands. As soon as the two of them left, she’d put it on one of the drawers on the circulation desk to remember to take it home with her that night.

“Awesome!” Hilda whispered excitedly as she read about the ritual, while Johanna frowned at the yellow ink stained paper.

“Would Hilda be able to do this? Is it even possible?” She asked with a concern that Maven couldn’t begrudge her.

“The point of this spell is to gather and manipulate energy until the witches can, through their intent, craft a new soul. The possible dangers in the process come mainly from how much energy is needed, and how much control it takes to make all that energy submit to you. This first problem is easy to take care of. If we pick a proper day and use the right components, it shouldn’t bother us.”

“Components?” Hilda interrupted her, making the librarian turn her gaze to the little girl who was her only hope.

“Yes. In this case, it would mostly be crystals and a proper wand, though candles will also help.”

She looked back at Johanna, who was beginning to look genuinely interested in what she had to say. “As for the other matter, that’s what the training is for. She’d learn how to control energy as well as the theory parts of witchcraft.”

Johanna locked her eyes with the ground, a wary look still on her face, and Maven reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. Their gazes met.

“I know we still don’t know each other well, but I need you to trust that I would only allow Hilda to help me once I was sure she was ready. I would never risk your family to try to save mine.”

“I want to help her, mum!” Hilda said, making Johanna tear her eyes away from Maven, and the librarian let her hand drop to her side.

“You have to be sure.” Maven told her as she turned to her once more. “Once your magic is unlocked, it can’t be hidden away again”

Hilda seemed to think for a few moments before she asked. “Why would I want to hide it?”

Maven sighed in a tired manner and moved to look for yet another book. “I’m afraid that is the first lesson.”

Not a minute later, Maven dropped a book with black covering and silver letters on her lap, and sighed again. “To put it shortly, most humans hate witches because they have magic. Most magical creatures hate witches because they’re humans. You’ll forever be in a limbo you can’t escape”

“The History of Witchcraft.” Hilda whispered as she read the book’s title.

“I have to open the library soon, but feel free to ask anything now and take it home, should you wish it.”

She opened it and immediately coughed because of the dust inside the tome. “This looks like it hasn’t been opened in years!”

There’s only so much reading that a person can do by herself, Maven though.

“Can you tell me something?” She asked, sensing that she would have a hard time reading such a long, heavy book. “When did witches come to Trollberg?”

“We were always here”, Maven said as she sat down on the stair. “We helped build the town. Everyone thinks that it was a bunch of men with beards and their violence that helped keep the trolls out. But it has always be us who had knowledge about nature and how to deal with it. We already lived in this place when there came group of people who wanted to build a haven safe of danger, safe of magic.”

Safe of anything interesting, Hilda mused.

“The witches helped them, but when the walls were up, it soon became clear that they were included in this group of creatures too dangerous to be around the good people of Trollberg. Luckily, the people in power were way to grateful for their help to be able to send them away.” She shrugged. ���They were probably also afraid of being cursed, but that’s not the point. Witches were allowed to stay as long as we were discreet and practiced our craft in secret.”

“Have you ever seen the book with the drawing or picture of every librarian the town’s had?” They shook their heads in a negative gesture. “You’d have noticed that many of them had unusual hair colors, though normal enough not to awake suspicion. A red a little too fiery, a blond a little too bright, dark strands that shone silver with light…”

“Does your sister have hair like us?” Hilda asked suddenly, making Maven startle with the unexpected question.

“Yes… she used to have the most beautiful lavender hair. She’d keep only one strand with its true colour and die the rest black like me.” She answered even as she fought back waves of sadness and anger and bitterness.

Knowing her daughter as she did, Johanna knew that she’d probably begin asking more about Maven’s sister now that she’d gotten started, and Johanna sensed that the librarian really didn’t have the energy for that at the moment. So she made a show of looking her watch and gasping.

“Oh, I think we should go now! The library will really have to open soon.”

Maven smiled at her, thankful for the interruption. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Which days do you have available for our lessons?”

Hilda looked up in a pensive manner. “Saturday, obviously. And Wednesdays. They are okay too.”

The librarian nodded and got up, gesturing for them to climb up the stairs before her. “In this case, I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

_#_#_#_

Not for the first time in two years, Maven felt too sick in her own room to sleep there.

She didn’t need to bring anything with her. She still kept her parent’s room tidy, the bed made for any occasions like this. Today was just one of these days when she couldn’t stand to look at Myra’s empty bed, at the clothes still in her side of the wardrobe, at the picture of their family she’d torn on her last day with them.

It was too painful to remember it all over again.

But as she walked to her parent’s old room that night, already clad in her purple and grey pajamas with her dear catowl perched on her shoulder, she couldn’t help but remember.

Myra has been so upset that night. Both Maven and Amaris were already home and getting dinner started when she stormed into the house, crying and shaking from the rain outside, her clothes dirty with mud. She let herself fall in front of the fireplace, which they had lit because of the cold night, and both her sister and her mother ran to her and began asking her questions.

When she controlled her sobs and looked up, there was no sadness in her gaze. There was only anger. Maven had few to no memories of the teenage drama she’d been trough in her own teenage years, much less of Myra’s, so even though she could describe every second of what had happened that night at their house, she had to admit she probably couldn’t do the same with her sister’s story. She could remember that the same group of mean people that had been bothering Myra for a while had been the cause of her anger and also the state of her clothes. She could remember that her sister’s humiliation had been heightened by the fact that she’d been with a new girl who she was trying to befriend when the incident happened. But looking back, she could see that that had not been the day Myra had snapped; that had happened long before. That had only been the day she had made a decision. A terrible decision.

Maven sat down on the edge of her parents’ bed, letting Freya leave her shoulder in favor of her lap. She caressed the soft fur-like plumes in its head and ears, moving down to gently run her fingers through the dark feathers or her wings. Freya’s tail tried to curl around her legs in a gesture of affection, and the librarian smiled despite her inner turmoil.

She remembered how she had tried to hug her sister, only to have the girl tense up like she was being approached by a snake. When Maven drew back, Myra met her eyes.

“Do something.” She said, and then turned to their mother. “Why don’t you ever do anything? Why do you just let this happen to me?”

Amaris and Maven shared a look. They had had that conversation before, many times. They knew what she was talking about, but they pretended not to.

“We have already talked to the headmaster, Myra. Many times.”

“And with the teachers too.” Maven added. “But I’m sure they’ll do something now, sweetie. We have proof of physical assault.”

As Maven gestured to her sister’s clothes, the girl’s eyes darkened and her voice became a whisper. “You know what I’m talking about, and I know you can use your magic to help me.”

“As we have said before, we can.” Their mother explained with all the patience she had, bless her soul. “We can put a glamour on you so that you’ll go unnoticed by them. Or try a charm to make them sweeter people.”

“We could make you an amulet with enchantments for protection.” Maven suggested, gently grasping Myra’s coat and trying to take it off of her so she wouldn’t be wearing wet clothes, but failing when Myra didn’t move a muscle.

“This is not what I want!” She insisted, shrugging her sister away from her. “I know you can hex them! Then they’d leave me alone. You just don’t want to!”

This made Amaris sigh, and rest her hands in her knees. “My dear, you know why we can’t do that. Do what ye will, harm ye none, remember?”

“But they are harming me!”

“And it will come back to them, eventually!” Her sister assured her. “And it’s not like we’re not doing anything, Myra! We’ve already talked to the school and their parents. We’ll talk to the headmaster once more, and if it still doesn’t work…”

Maven spread her hands in front of herself, not really knowing what to say.

“Then we can have you change schools, if that’s what you want.” Their mother suggested, but it seemed to be the wrong answer, as Myra screeched in frustration and got up.

“I don’t want to change schools!” She shouted. “I want them to feel like I feel! I want to make them scared! I want them to know what it is like to feel cornered!”

“And we don’t blame you for that.” Maven got up and crossed her arms, upset with her sister’s outburst. “But we will not use our craft for revenge purposes!”

“We will do whatever we can to help you, but witches are guardians of the earth, my dear.” Amaris said in a peaceful tone of voice. “We are not punishers.”

Myra stomped her foot on the floor. “I hate this!”

Her shout made both mother and sister take a step back. “I hate this useless power that we can’t use to help us! I hate all the rules and guidelines, and I hate that you two value your precious craft more than you value me!”

They gasped. Amaris was quick to put a reassuring hand on Myra’s shoulder, but it was shrugged off as soon as it reached her. “Darling, that’s not…”

“Shut up!” She screamed, and stomped off to their room. “I hate all of you.”

She locked the door behind her, but Maven followed her and knocked hard on it. “How dare you speak to our mother this way? Apologize to her now, Myra!”

There was no reply from inside, so the librarian huffed in annoyance and turned to her mother, who was clearly beginning to cry.

“Have we truly neglected her, Maven?” She whispered into her older daughter’s neck, her frail frame shaking slightly in the librarian’s arms.

“I- I don’t think so, mother.” Maven answered though she didn’t sound sure at all. Ever since their father died, Myra’s rages against their culture had been a somewhat common occurrence that they had to deal with. But it was never this bad. She never said such cruel things about them, which made Maven wonder if maybe they truly were putting their craft above their family.

With those disturbing thoughts, they went back to their cooking. Maven set out the table really slowly, trying to postpone the inevitable, but eventually there was nothing else left to do but call her sister to come eat dinner.

She knocked on the room’s door, gently this time.

“Sweetie, come eat. You can grab your plate and come back to your room, if you want.”

There was no answer.

“Myra, please. Open the door.”

She tried opening it but it was still locked. “It’s just dinner. You don’t even need to look at our faces if you don’t want to.”

Maven tried opening it a few more times, and then began getting nervous. “Myra? Myra, please!”

Hearing her daughter’s distress, Amaris went to the room the two of them shared as well.

“It’s locked.” Maven said when she arrived. “And it won’t open. She’s not replying either.”

Amaris leaned the side of her head against the door, straining to hear anything at all, but no sound came from the inside. “Myra, were coming in.”

With a simple enchantment, Amaris unlocked the door and Maven ran inside, her heart nearly beating out of her body when she found no one in the room. Their mother ran to check the adjoining bathroom, but one look at Myra’s bedside table and Maven knew it was hopeless.

Her sister kept a photo of the tree of them on a frame. The picture was now ripped to shreds, and surrounding it, there was a circle of vivid green smoke.

Maven’s knees gave out under her, bringing her to the ground. She closed her mouth with her hand to stop a desperate sob from coming forth, but she couldn’t stop the tears forming in her eyes. When she came into the bedroom again, their mother noticed it too. She rummaged through the room, looking for any sign that her daughter was still there, hiding at some corner, while chanting “no, no, no.”

Eventually she too had to admit defeat. She knew just as well as her daughter that this left over magic was a tell tale sign of the Marra. She dropped to the ground near Maven and they cried for hours, until they found strength to get up and look for any information about the Marra they could get their hands on.

On multiple occasions, they had tried to summon the Marra for one of them to lead them back to Myra; but it never worked. The Marra very rarely scared adults, as it was much harder to truly frighten them. They had tried every trick and every spell they could think of to retrieve their Myra, but it had always been fruitless.

And of course it had been fruitless, Maven now thought bitterly as she tucked herself into what used to be her mother’s side of the bed. They had thought that the poor girl must have been captured when the Marra sensed she was weak, and an easy target. It had been known to happen. It wouldn’t be the first time the Nightmare Spirits would have captured an innocent person to experiment and train their scaring on, letting them go when they had no use for said person anymore.

Being under the Marta’s thumb usually had life long consequences; those victims were known to never come back to who they were before after such traumatizing experiences. Maven had had more than one nightmare about her little sister, the one she had sworn to protect, wandering around the woods, her eyes bloodshot and her body weak, rambling about monsters and devils and jumping at the slightest of sounds.

But they had been wrong. Their love for Myra had made them blind to the fact that the girl had apparently knowingly, willingly joined them. So of course it hadn’t worked.

And what was agonizing Maven the most was, it probably wouldn’t work now either. She could train a thousand witches, could make them the most powerful spell casters the world had ever seen, and it still would be pointless if she couldn’t convince her sister to accept the help she was offering.

She lied on her side and looked at the night sky outside; she was used to letting the curtains open when she went to sleep, so as to wake up with the sun. She wondered where her sister was, at that moment. If she was scaring someone, if she was around that freaky campfire. Unfortunately, the only place Maven knew Myra was not was at the room in the end of the corridor.

“Oh, Myra.” She whispered tiredly as Freya settled herself by her feet. “What have you done?”

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Bitter Grounds (baon)

Summary: Sans wasn't asking for much, just a cup of coffee with Edge. And maybe the answers to all the problems in his life, if Edge could give him that, that'd be great, thanks.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Kustard, Established Relationship, Angst

Notes: 

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Of all the things Sans planned out for his day, sitting in a kitchen watching Edge make coffee wasn’t one of ‘em. That meant going through the whole matinee show, not like the Edgelord was going to settle for some Folgers crystals, was it. Oh, no, he had to grind the beans before pouring them into basket, filter some water and pour it in to brew. Set out cream and sugar like he didn’t already know they both took their coffee black, just in case Sans grew a sweet tooth on his way over.

Edge had a thing about appearances, and far be it for Sans to be pissy about it. It was his party, Edge could make coffee how he wanted.

But the wait left Sans sitting at the table, trying not to fidget too blatantly. Wasn’t like he hadn’t asked for this, anyway, because he had, and directly at that. Bald-faced told Edge he wanted to talk, and he was only a little surprised that Edge readily agreed. Not that he had a problem with Edge, nah, not anymore. Took him a little while to get to there, that he could admit, but not as bad as Stretch’d been at the beginning. Judging Edge off one glance at his LV and there were times Sans idly wondered how things might’ve been different if that hadn’t been the case.

Not that he ever wanted a chance for a do-over, thanks. The very thought made him shudder, fuck, he didn’t even want to speculate and tempt the fates. Buckle that idea down, drop it in the mental void, and move on.

Sans’s only real issue with Edge was the whole ‘looking through a darkened mirror’ angle, seeing his bro the way he could’ve been in a not-too-different time and place; who knew what butterfly effect sent Underfell teetering the way it did, which step down what path left so much dust in its wake. Red was easier in a lot of ways, mostly because Sans could see himself a little too easily there. Assholes were easy to deal with when you were one.

But a version of Paps with LV, that’d been a struggle.

It was easier these days. There were still little bits of resemblance, sure, but a few months Aboveground and all of ‘em grew in different directions. Nature and nurture, Sans guessed, they were all plenty different underneath the thin veneer of similarity.

The smell of the coffee intruded, and Sans took the interruption gratefully, accepting the plain mug Edge handed him. His own mug said, ‘I love you a latte’, and Sans didn’t need two guesses to know who gave him that one.

A plate of cookies joined the mug, proper biscotti, la-te-da. Sans took one, using it as a crispy spoon to stir the dark liquid. “so, your bro—"

“No,” Edge calmly interrupted him. He took a sip of his coffee, holding the mug in both gloved hands. “Absolutely not. I don’t suffer from my brother’s twisted Cupid sensibilities. If you want him, you’re on your own.”

Oh. Well, that was fucking helpful wasn’t it. Sans dunked his cookie into his cup again a little too hard and it broke off, sinking into the murky depths. Trying to fish it out only turned it to mushy crumbs that weren’t worth eating or drinking, or whatever combination of the two might work.

Seemed like a metaphor for something and Sans didn’t want to guess at what. Sans sighed and shoved the mug aside. “okay, then. thanks anyway, edgelord, i’ll see you around.”

Before he could dredge up enough magic to shortcut the hell out of there, Edge said his name with quiet intensity, and how fucked up must it be for the others, to call someone else by their brother’s name? “Sans, I would give a great deal to see my brother happy. More than I can properly explain. But I can’t give you any advice about him. There’s nothing I could tell you that you don’t already know, one way or another. Out of all of us, you and Red are the most similar.”

Sans was always smiling, couldn’t exactly help it; he was born with it, Maybelline. But the bitterness the curled the edges of it was entirely a bonus. “yeah, and i know exactly what kind of fuck up i am.”

But Edge sent him off kilter again, pinballing in another direction by saying, “Actually, I was thinking that if there was anyone I would choose for my brother, it would be you.”

Sans didn’t realize he was gaping until Edge reached out and firmly tapped his chin, closing his mouth with a click.

The Papyrus-types had it a little easier with the facial expressions, and Edge’s mouth twisted into a wry smirk, “Being a fuck up is probably a prerequisite before trying a relationship of any sort with my brother.”

Yeah, that could get packaged up for preaching on Sundays. Sans looked into the cookie/coffee soup in his mug, but there wasn’t much point. None of the answers he was looking for were gonna be in there, either.

i don’t know what i’m doing. i’m gonna fuck this up, gonna make everything worse. i want him so fucking much that sometimes i wake up in the middle of the night and i can’t breathe because i think i’m alone and i can only start again when i reach out and find him. my soul aches without him, and i can’t tell him any of this shit because he’ll run, i know he’ll run, end up in a truck stop in kansas, drinking shitty coffee and hiding from the world, because once upon a time i’d do the same fucking thing

It was kinda a relief that none of those tangled thoughts managed to unwind enough to work their way out of his stupid mouth. He’d turned off all the listening devices in the kitchen and had a handy jammer tucked in his pocket, but Sans knew better than to ever assume that Red wasn’t listening at all times. Probably another sign of how fucked up Sans was, because he was almost fond of the idea, Red as this ever-presence, making sure they were all safe and sound, and not hiding any troublesome shit from him. Like they all didn’t have twisted ways of showing they cared?

Good thing Red hadn’t found a way yet to read minds, but Sans wouldn’t doubt it was somewhere on his list.

Edge was watching him with crimson eye lights that were so like his brother’s, sipping his coffee and waiting for Sans to gather up enough of his wits to not sound like a complete fool. Half a fool was probably the best he could do.

“thanks,” Sans managed, finally. Came out a little throaty and wrong, and let the Edgelord make what he would of that. For now, Sans only reached out to pat Edge’s gloved hand right in time for the footsteps he heard in the living room to make their way into the kitchen, the door swinging open as Stretch stepped in.

He scowled almost immediately, glaring down at where their hands were curled together before asking with mock anger, “what the fuck are you two doing in here?”

“having some hot coffee,” Sans said with as much smarm as he could, stroking the back of Edge’s hand with his fingertips while he crammed in the innuendo until it was practically spilling out on the spotlessly clean floor. Well worth it to see Stretch puff up like a poison frog, honestly fucking hilarious because they all damn well knew that Edge’s star was tied to Stretch’s pretty little wagon. Sans could’ve done a strip tease and a lapdance and Edge would’ve stayed cool enough to spit out a pat of butter.

Meanwhile, Stretch’s eye lights were bleeding into orange to showcase some real temper and it wasn’t Edge he was looking at. Wasn’t that flattering, gee willy whiz, if he’d know he was being cast as a sexpot this afternoon, Sans would have worn his fancy shorts.

It was Edge who short-circuited the incoming temper tantrum, hooking his foot behind Stretch’s knees and sending him tumbling into his lap. He held him firmly when Stretch would’ve squirmed away, both arms around him until he settled in sullenly, still glaring at Sans.

“Down, boy,” Edge said dryly. He seemed pretty damn amused by the whole thing; maybe it was the Underfell part of him that liked it when his honey got possessive, liked Stretch playing greedy-guts over him. Sans could only hope. “We were only talking about my brother.”

That deflated him, Stretch sagging back into Edge’s firm hold. “oh.”

“oh?” Sans mimicked, shaking his head sadly. “that it? no ‘i am terribly sorry, sans, for ever questioning your intentions. you are truly a skeleton of honor and would never betray the bonds of family.’”

“fuck off and keep your hands off my husband,” Stretch said, sweetly, and Sans snickered.

“yeah, yeah, he’s all yours,” Sans hopped out of his seat, giving his coccyx a good scratch, partly because it itched and partly so Edge would huff at his manners. But he really did need to leave, right now, because he was good with Stretch and Edge together, of fucking course he was; those two belonged together, peanut butter and chocolate, shoes and socks, the thigh bone connected to the hip bone, aluminum foil and leftovers. Whatever fucking metaphor felt like joining in to play.

He was good with it, perfectly fine with Stretch’s cute, insincere jealousy, but his own was burning, sitting uneasily inside him because they got to have this. They got to play at petulance, and he could guess what was gonna happen the moment he shortcutted out, what words they’d whisper to each other in their bed before falling asleep in each other’s arms.

Meanwhile, he’ll go back to Red’s and they can both pretend he was never here today. He’ll take whatever scraps Red can offer him, clinging stubbornly to every lick of affection whether it’s fucking or food, puns or snark, and anything in between, telling himself it’s better than nothing while he argues silently with a damn cat over which one of them has possession of Red’s lap tonight.

It wasn’t enough, never was, but it was what he got, and he loved Red enough to take it. So yeah, that was all, wasn’t it, but he still needed to leave. Right now.

Sans offering a lazy little wave and took a shortcut, letting his smile that never faded show him out. It was okay, it really was, and maybe he didn’t have any new answers, but he hadn’t lost anything, either. Sometimes that was the best you could do.

His shortcut only took him as far as the sidewalk, but he didn’t try for another. The streets were empty, not a car or a kid in sight. Nightfall came earlier these days and it was already getting cold again, the wind blowing icy fingers through the thin protection of his hoodie. Sans only tucked his hands into his pockets and started on the long walk over to Red’s house. He could use the time to get his head on straight, because trying to do anything with Red without having your ducks in a row was a good way to get your ass handed to you, and Sans wasn’t in the mood for it.

For now, at least, everything was hanging out in the status quo. Sans’d fuck it all up eventually, that was a given, but it wasn’t gonna be tonight.

-finis-

[dragons-bones]

5 Questions for Writers

Tagged by: @frostmantle (thank you!)

Tagging: @ishgard, @starsandauras, @twelveswood, @autumnslance, aaaaaaand YOU (because I cannot keep track of who’s done this or not XD)

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

----

Cut for length!

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

I am, of course, obviously quite fond of snarky, quick-witted characters, and my OCs banter a lot. Dialogue is one of my favorite things to write, so chatty characters in general I find easier to approach. It’s fun slinging sass back and forth! (This tends to be why I focus a lot of Synnove and Rereha most often--they’re the snark queens of the Squad and the most likely to turn the sarcasm filter off and just go off on someone. Which further reminds me I need to have Thancred and Rereha trading jabs, too, at some point...)

I’ve also really been enjoying writing Aymeric specifically, even if it is intimidating to do so at times. I obviously headcanon him as ridiculously smitten with Synnove (the feeling, of course, is mutual), and finding the right balance of “deeply in love with a Warrior of Light” without it coming off as overly saccharine or out of character is a great mental exercise. Also of course I enjoy indulging my personal fantasy of having a handsome man be a badass, deeply in love with his lady, and perfectly delighted to kick ass beside his lady!

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

Food porn. My mother’s Italian, I grew up being taught to enjoy food, I love sharing my enjoyment of food. Plus it’s usually accompanying some happier moments, or domestic ones, and is basically a cue to the readers that the story is meant to be light and fun.

I have no idea what the proper trope name would be (and going to TV Tropes to asking to start a rabbit hole dive I shouldn’t begin), but as we all know, I love Shenanigans. I typically write them in reaction to how serious the setting is; I deeply enjoy stretching how far I insert some humor and levity without it becoming crack. I think it provides some fresh air; I enjoy angst and hurt/comfort and dark themes, but frequently it’s not something I prefer to write for myself.

I also enjoy found family, battle couples, magic-as-science... Anything that gives me an excuse to write character interactions and/or worldbuild. The great fun of fanfiction, particularly in a setting like FFXIV, is that we’ve got a bare bones foundation, with some areas more developed than others, but otherwise there is a ton of room to grow my own ideas. I personally like to work within lore, but it is hugely enjoyable for me to figure out how to get certain concepts to work with the lore rather than against it. (See: my approach to arcanima.)

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

This obviously changes all the time, but there’s a couple I really love:

From Pearls of Wisdom:

It was one of the most basic principles of magic, not just arcanima: astral elements and umbral elements. It was such an accepted, unquestioned foundation that she had never even considered that the three elements most commonly used by arcanists for their carbuncles were not all the same primary polarity. Every element could manifest as either polarity, but Roksana Blackspark was correct, now that Synnove properly thought about it: wind, earth, and fire were much, much more likely to be found in a stable state. Even the Guild’s enormous aether batteries, all the way down in subbasement twelve, had been initially tricky to install until they found the right combination of overgrown elemental clusters, with most of the problems coming from the water, ice, and levin clusters.

Of course trying to infuse any sort of gem with those three elements specifically was going to fail, they were fucking overaspected to astral or umbral. The equations didn’t fucking work as they should because they were built to account for elements that naturally occurred in stable states, and so the infusions fizzled and the gemstones cracked and no carbuncles could manifest.

But.

But if she did account for instability, or, in fact, deliberately found crystals with which to infuse gems that were of opposite polarities so that the final infusion was stable…

A new thought made itself known, and Synnove stuffed the rest of her cake in her mouth, set the plate and fork aside, bookmarked her spot in the journal, and opened up the note taking program, yanking the stylus from the side of the case. As she chewed, she began scribbling in frantic shorthand. Perhaps in addition to ensuring stable aetheric polarity, she could also try infusion over time as well? Even when artificially infusing emeralds, topazes, and rubies, the stones still cracked every one time out of eight. Certainly, working with water, levin, and ice aether would benefit from a slower infusion speed, as it would allow her to keep a better eye on maintaining polar equilibrium, and if that issue was what was affecting the failures for wind, earth, and fire, then that would be two problems solved.

…Perhaps three, Synnove sucking in a deep breath and her heart pounding as she wrote. A proper balance of aetheric polarization combined with a slow enough infusion potentially meant that she could, theoretically, infuse any precious stone she desired, not just ones with a specific hardness and durability. Of course, the equations would need to be further adjusted to take into account the specific chemical properties of the specific gems and how they would need to interact with different elemental aether, but that, while difficult and tedious, was still doable.

Writing characters smarter than oneself is really difficult and intimidating, but I think I did a really good job showing Synnove’s thought process, and based on some of the feedback I’ve gotten, I succeeded! So I’m really, really proud of this passage.

From Suffer, Promise, Witness (FFXIV Write 2019 #19):

The ground shook, suddenly, and Synnove whipped her head around to the direction from which it originated, staring in shock. In the distance, an enormous red…key, for lack of a better term, pulsing with blue aetherlight, had struck the ground. The dust cloud kicked up rose immediately into the air and began obscuring it, and even from here she could see that the force of the strike had knocked down allies and foes alike around it.

Then a roar of sound—a deep, resonant thunder of triumphant, all-consuming rage—engulfed Carteneau, drawing every eye skyward, to see Dalamud’s outer shell, glowing with more of that sickly blue aetherlight, cracking open.

And Dalamud exploded.

The shockwave hit her first, throwing her and every other living being on the Plains still alive and standing to the ground with a force that punched the air from her lungs. The sound came next, shaking her bones and cracking the stone around her in an awful crescendo of combusting, howling aether. Her ears rang—or maybe it was just the screams of terror from every damned soul on the Carteneau killing fields all blending together.

The sky was aflame, and then the first of the pieces of Dalamud impacted the ground. Molten earth flew into the air, and then again from another impact, and another, and another, until the heavens and the earth were indistinguishable from how they both burned. Synnove desperately tried to sit up, feet scrambling to find purchase on the broken ground, as Galette and Tyr converged on her, eyes wide with fear as they tugged and pushed on her to get her upright.

Honestly I love this whole piece, but trying to describe what’s basically a trailer from another perspective (while also trying to portray the passage of time in an accurate manner) was difficult. I’d been dying to write the Synnove at Carteneau piece for a long time, and I just let myself write without worry. I think it came out pretty well! (Everyone screaming at me after the fact certainly boosted my confidence. :D)

From Assessments (FFXIV Write 2017 #25)

He did not attempt to step softly, as it was always a poor idea to sneak up on any warrior, never mind a Warrior of Light, but apparently Synnove was deeply enough engrossed in her text to not register his approach. Tyr, however, looked over as soon as he noticed the loud clacking of boot heels on stone floor coming closer to his mistress. He perked his ears up and came to meet Aymeric, shoving his face into the elezen’s hands.

“Maow!” the topaz carbuncle said, deep and echoing like a brass bell, only a little bone-rattling.

Aymeric laughed softly and obliging scratched behind his ears. Tyr thrummed happily, enjoying the attention for a few moments, before he disengaged and went back to Synnove. He braced himself on the rungs of the ladder and reached up with his paw to tap her foot, chirruping quietly.

“Hmm? Whazzit, honey?” Synnove said, voice distant and distracted. She did not look up as she turned the page.

Tyr sat back on his haunches and said, “Maow!”

Aymeric hadn’t the faintest idea of what Tyr had said, but Synnove most certainly did, as her head jerked up in surprise. (He winced sympathetically; when she had straightened, her spine had made an awful crack.) She frantically looked around until her gaze settled on Aymeric. She blinked rapidly, quite obviously not yet comprehending what she was seeing, until a smile finally bloomed across her features, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, fancy meeting you here,” she said, her cheerfulness tempered by the slight slur of exhaustion in her voice.

There were dark circles under her eyes, her hair was obviously unkempt up close, and her fingers were ever-so-slightly shaking from the particular combination of too much caffeine and not enough sleep, but Synnove Greywolfe was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Aymeric grinned up at her, not bothering to disguise how besotted he was with no witnesses about to see, and said, “What brings one of the celebrated Warriors of Light to Ishgard a bell before midnight?” He took a few steps closer to the ladder and held out his arms.

Synnove winced as she closed and shelved the book she had been reading. “Thal’s balls, that late?” She slid to the edge of the ladder’s seat, pushed off with her right hand and foot, and unceremoniously dropped into his grasp.

He tightened his hold on her as he caught her, drawing her close, and he dropped a kiss on each of her eyelids, relishing the giggles the action elicited from her. Another kiss on her nose, one to the beauty mark at the side of her chin, and then he finally kissed her properly. Synnove, in turn, languidly draped her arms around his shoulders and ran her fingers through the hairs on the nape of his neck, practically purring as she did. He hummed appreciatively against her lips, and they both ended up laughing into the kiss.

(Next to them, Tyr sighed, and rolled his eyes.)

Aymeric reluctantly drew away and set her on her feet, keeping Synnove steady as she wobbled and her spine cracked yet again. His beloved immediately leaned back into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and slouching so her cheek could rest over his heart. He smiled and returned the hug, resting his chin on her head. He closed his eyes and swayed with her gently, enjoying the familiar and much-missed comfort of her presence.

An older bit, but I love these two goobers, and I love writing them being physically affectionate and just basking in each other. Fucking cuties.

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

FUCK I HAVE TO CHOOSE. Okay, let’s start with Pearls of Wisdom again:

Rereha threw open the doors to Aymeric’s office, shite-eating grin firmly plastered on her face as she skipped inside, and sang out, “Congratulations! It’s twins!”

Two things happened.

First, as soon as the doors opened, but before Rereha even opened her mouth, Lucia, she of finely honed Frumentarium instincts and years of friendship with a lalafell infamous across the realm for her Theatrics and Shenanigans, reached out and yanked the multitude of reports on the desk in front of Aymeric out of the way.

Second, Aymeric, who had been taking a sip of tea at the exact moment Rereha entered the office, choked and spat out said tea across his desk—and where all of the paperwork had once been not even a second before—in the most glorious spit take Rereha had ever engendered. A tiny part of her was saddened at the waste of perfectly good tea, but, wow, that had been spectacular. She gave herself a mental pat on the back and came to a stop in the middle of the office, grin widening to manic levels.

Lucia pounded Aymeric on the back between his shoulder blades as he coughed and sputtered, stopping only when the Lord Commander wheezed out, wide-eyed, voice high-pitched and halfway to a full-blown panic, “WHAT?!”

THREE YEARS THIS LIVED IN MY HEAD. THREE FUCKING YEARS I HAVE WANTED TO WRITE THIS STORY AND BEGIN IT WITH THAT LINE. THREE YEARS AND IT’S FINALLY OUT IN THE WORLD AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

From Needling (FFXIV Write 2019 #17):

Merlwyb drained her cup dry and poured herself a fresh serving (no whiskey this time, however). Grudgingly, she filled a second, and slid it over to Synnove, along with the bowl of maple sugar cubes and jar of cream. The arcanist doctored her tea as she preferred it—three lumps, generous dash of cream—and took a luxurious sip, humming in satisfaction.

“Why are you here?” the Admiral finally said, tea cup in hand and elbows braced on her desk. She wedged her feet a little firmer beneath Tyr.

“Mmmm, we had to bodily force Thubyrgeim to take a vacation,” said Synnove. She took another slow sip of tea. “Accounting realized she hadn’t taken a proper one in nigh on three years. So, we kicked her out of the Gate, with the caveat that she wasn’t to come back until next moon, and then we divvied up her usual responsibilities among the lot of us. I volunteered for the pleasure and delight of taking over our dear Guildmistress’s sennightly meetings with you.” Here the woman batted her eyelashes.

Merlwyb eyed her. “You have an ulterior motive,” she said, enunciating clearly for emphasis. “You always have an ulterior motive.”

“I enjoy the faces you make when you are confronted with the stark reality that every single one of your arcanists is capable of rewriting the laws of creation but are, simultaneously, godsdamned lunatics who should be taken out back and shot.”

“I should start with you.”

“Start with aetherochemistry; they just invented a new plague.” Synnove took the top folder from the pile and slid it across the desk to the Admiral.

“Of course they bloody did,” Merlwyb growled, opening the folder and skimming the abstract on the first page. Dear gods, did they really decide to mix malaria and consumption? Always so busy wondering if they could they never bothered to consider if they should. She plucked her reading glasses from their usual spot, sliding them on as she turned the page to the formal report, written in the aetherochemistry department chair’s tiny, cramped hand. Absently, she said, “And no, we are not testing it on the faculty of the University of Radz-at-Han.”

Synnove pouted. For the first time that afternoon, Merlwyb cracked a grin.

Merlwyb doesn’t get enough love, in my opinion, and of course I imagine she’s a salty bitch underneath the cool, commanding exterior. Couple that with Synnove probably letting loose the Full Sass (she would never behave such with Raubahn, Nanamo, or Kan-E, but she’s been an assessor for fifteen years, she knows exactly how far she can poke the Admiral and is well aware it’s tolerated only because she’s been an arcanist for so long) and the “out back and shot” line is my single favorite sentence from the whole of FFXIV Write 2019, and this is my favorite character exchange that’s I’ve done in a long time.

From Of Taunting and Tales (FFXIV Write 2019 #25)

Knock knock a-knock—knockknock! “Guess who~.”

A loud groan answered her. “Go away, you debauched scandalmonger!”

Rereha poked her head into one of the private rooms of the Rhalgr’s Reach infirmary, wicked grin firmly in place. “Now, now, Mr. Scaeva, is that any way to speak to the lady come to relieve your unending boredom?” she drawled.

The former tribunus laticlavius of the XIVth Imperial Legion raised his arm, hand up and middle finger extended, without lifting his head from his pillow.

Rereha cackled and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. A disgusted sigh came from Nero’s direction, and he flopped his arm back down on the mattress with a characteristically overdramatic wave of his hand. She grabbed a chair sitting by the wall and dragged it behind her as she waltzed towards Nero’s bed, the wood shrieking angrily against the stone of the floor, and whistled a cheery little ditty deliberately out of tune. She could see his jaw clenched in annoyance as she set the chair up near the head of the bed and cackled again as she hopped up into it. She placed the book she had been carrying on her lap and folded her hands primly on top of it, beaming.

“How are we feeling today?” she chirped.

“Like I’ve been run over by a flock of rabid chocobos.” Nero stubbornly refused to open his eyes, instead folding his hands on his stomach in unknowing mirror of her. “And then sat upon by a buffalo.”

“That’s an improvement! Last time you said you felt like you’d been chewed and spat out by an enraged king behemoth!”

“Rereha,” he sighed, still not opening his eyes. “Why are you here? Garlond and Greywolfe are infinitely more stimulating conversationalists, for all their damned sanctimonious self-important morals and ethics.” He spat out the last word like it was a particularly loathsome curse.

“I’m hurt, Nero,” said Rereha, placing her hand on her heart. She pitched her voice to express layers of emotion: disappointment, regret, sadness. “Genuinely hurt. A friend of mine has been grievously wounded in the course of his attempts to safeguard not just Eorzea, but Hydaelyn as a whole from an interdimensional entity of vast and unfathomable power. I come in my spare time to bring some light and laughter to his dreary hospital room as he heals, and he insults me and wishes for the company of others.”

A long silence descended over them both. Finally, Nero arched one golden eyebrow and cracked an eye open to stare at her incredulously.

Rereha pursed her lips together and said pensively, “Laid it on a bit too thick, didn’t I?”

He raised his hand and held his forefinger and thumb a quarter of an ilm apart.

“Damn,” Rereha said, crossing her arms. “Ah, well.”

Rereha basically exists to let me write Sass and Irreverent Humor. Nero is full of Salt and Sass. Together they could flay someone with words alone. I also really enjoyed writing Nero being a sassmaster without using words. Wordless dialogue is fun!! :D

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

One day I’m gonna get over my hesitation about writing (and sharing) smut and fucking write the first time Synnove and Aymeric had sex. I know exactly when and where and how.

...Also Synnove getting ravished in one of the Neo-Ishgardian dresses. That’s, like, second on the list. Ooohh, and the Vacation Fic; maybe I should write that one as scenes and worry about connecting them after the fact. I think because that one will require chapters and I’m more of a one-shot person is a reason I have yet to start it.

[baldwin-montclair]

A Heartfelt Offer - Baldwin Prompt

@ateliefloresdaprimavera My request is a part 2 of your Baldwin and Beatrice imagine I requested that it got me thinking: she doesn't have much experience with vampires and their customs,our forever Mr.Darcy KNOWS that she's his mate, so he tries to be subtle(at first) with his courtship,to no avail,until she confides(in at this point she thinks he's only her "good friend" much to Hamish and Matthew dismay)that she never had much experience on the love department.her human marriage was arranged,and her husband was a dirtbag ,in any way possible. she only knew love when her baby was born.sooooo his heart praticaly burst and he's even more overprotective and does his best to seeep her up her feet and treat her as she deserves.just lots of love (because they deserve it) what do you think?

PART 1

———

Beatrice’s heart had clenched when she first held little Rebecca.

After helping nurse Baldwin De Clermont back to health, she had been folded into the ever expanding group of allies, including getting to meet the newest members of that clan, Rebecca and Philip.

The scent of innocence that imbued a newborn infant was a luxury she had been deprived of much too quickly as a human.

“They’re both so precious.” Bea sighed as she stared in wonder at the little pink bundle in her arms, and the other settled against his mother’s shoulder.

“They are, and ear piercingly loud when they’re hungry!” Diana smiled.

“I’m sure of it,” she agreed, “as I’m sure they love the attention.”

“Who doesn’t?” Hamish joined them in the tea-room of Sept-Tours, giving both Diana, then Bea, a kiss on the cheek as greeting.

“Has the polite negotiations descended into a fight already?” Diana rolled her eyes.

“Surprisingly no. When it comes to these two, titles and inheritance, Baldwin doesn’t raise a complaint. If anything, Matthew’s had to apply the brakes on the estates your brother’s trying to bestow on them.”

“He loves them,” Bea agreed, “they mean everything to him.”

“Not everything I think.” Hamish replied but she was so busy with Rebecca that she missed the tight-lipped warning glare Diana shot at him.

“She’s asleep.” Bea whispered before kissing the child lightly on her forehead and placing her into the Moses basket just in time for Baldwin to stride into the room, followed by an exasperated Matthew.

“They don’t need that estate Baldwin, they’re children!” Matthew argued.

“They are De Clermonts and they will have a Jointure appropriate to their rank!”

“This again.” Hamish shook his head with a sigh.

“No, I believe the matter is settled.” Baldwin stared pointedly at Matthew before his gaze fell upon Bea.

“Will you walk with me, in the garden?” He asks.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed, having not spoken to him much since she arrived given the business he’d had to conclude with Matthew.

“We’ll see you both at dinner.” Diana called after them both and she gave the witch an accepting nod before taking Baldwin’s offered arm.

“How have you been keeping?” He asked.

“Me? If I recall, it was you who was worse for wear last I saw you! I would ask how you are.”

“I am well, I had a very kind and attentive nurse.”

“It was my vocation, before I was turned.”

“I am surprised. By your manner of speech I would have been certain you were aristocracy.”

“I was, my parents were not happy, neither was my husband but I joined the Queen Alexandria’s Imperial Military Nursing Service.”

“Did you serve at the front?”

“I did.”

“That was very brave.”

“I cannot claim it was a higher duty than escaping the life that had been chosen for me. My husband, he was not a kind man and he drank. I rather believe my odds of survival were greater at the front than in his stately manor.”

Baldwin didn’t speak but instead put his hand over hers on his arm in a gesture of comfort.

She hadn’t discussed her prior life in some time but there was something about Baldwin that she felt she could tell him anything.

“Who was your sire?”

“General Harold Francis Turnbull. He wasn’t a good man either but I cannot be too angry with him.”

“He did not give you a choice, did he?”

“He gave me a choice. Either my child lives or they die. He was resolved to have me and I could either resist and have him turn me right then, which would lead to the death of my baby or I accept and he would allow me to give her life before he took mine.”

“That’s not a choice Bea.”

“I am still grateful he did not kill my little Lizzie by changing me whilst she was growing in my belly, as I am grateful to my late husband for giving her to me.”

“You can forgive them for what they did to you?”

“Forgiveness was the only power I had in that situation and I only suffered his cruelty for five years before he was killed. I was free but...” she trailed off.

“But what?”

“I’ve spent all of these years raising my daughter, then my grand-daughter. Now they’re gone, no more children of my line and I do not know what I am to do. My sire did not teach me what what it is to be this. He taught me only how to hunt and how to...” she stopped, both speaking and walking.

“How to please him.” Baldwin said for her.

She nodded, and turned from him, unable to face him for the residual soul-crushing shame she’d felt at her sire’s hands. Even decades later and in her darkest moments, she remembered how he’d made her feel.

Used.

Sick to her stomach.

Debased.

Spoiled.

“Beatrice, please look at me.” Baldwin requested.

It was clear how conscious he was of not stepping past her comfort level and it made her trust him enough to accede to his request.

“May I take your hand?” He asked, offering his own and after a brief hesitation, she placed her hand in his.

“Would you permit me to be your guide, teach you everything you should have learned from someone who cares for you, as I do?”

“Baldwin, I cannot ask you to-“

“You didn’t ask,” he reminded her “but you have had so much of your agency torn from you already so I do not wish to contribute to that. This is your choice and no matter what you decide I will always be here for you!”

She had been shown such little kindness by men in her life that she was unsure if the feelings that had been slowly growing for Baldwin in the weeks since they’d met were simply a result of this trust and comfort or if this was how she was supposed to have felt for her husband, or even her sire.

“Alright, if you will have me as a student.”

He gave her a polite nod, raising her hand to his lips to place a chaste kiss on the back of her hand, reminding her of a fairytale prince.

“First lesson is at dinner tonight,” he told her in a conspiratorial tone, “where you will learn to drink proper wine and not the swill Matthew serves!”

She laughed at his low opinion of his brother’s taste.

“That sound, is the most magical thing I have ever heard,” he complimented, “and I look forward to giving you more occasion to grace me with it’s melody.”

She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his statement but he was not expecting an answer as he led her back to the fortress, her hand still quite content in his own.

[alternislatronemhq]

Congrats, ELLIE, you have been accepted to AL for the role of SEVERUS SNAPE (FC: aneurin barnard). HOLY CRAPOLY, ELLIE! This app was absolutely fantastic! I couldn’t pull myself away from reading it and was just seriously BLOWN AWAY. This is everything I ever could have dreamed for in a portrayal for a character as central to the plot as Severus is! You truly have a gift and I’m so excited you’re here! Please send in your blog (no sideblogs for first characters, please) in the next 24 hours and be sure to take a look at our new player checklist. Welcome home (once again), we’re so excited to have you join the family!

OOC

name — ellie. age — 20+ pronouns — she/her. timezone — GMT. activity level — i’m not a very fast writer tbh, but i don’t have any other hobbies or rl obligations to keep me from rp atm so i should be able to maintain more than 3 paras a week.

IC Overview

name — severus tobias snape. faceclaim — aneurin barnard, louis garrel, richard harmon. age — 26. gender — cis male.

sexuality — demisexual, biromantic. He lacks the terminology for it, and simply regards sex as yet another social endeavor for which he is ill-equipped.

patronus — doe. yes, it still works. no, he doesn’t understand why or how. he is most certainly not pure of heart. the memory he calls on to summon the patronus is his first dinner with the evans family, where mrs. evans piled his plate high with steak and mashed potatoes and peas, and lily snuck her broccoli onto his plate discreetly while trying not to make a face, and petunia was spending the night at a friend’s house across the street and too far away to ruin the lighthearted atmosphere. they joked and laughed and cleaned the dishes afterwards. it was the first proper family dinner he’s had in his life.

boggart — voldemort. Not, specifically, for the man himself although he is a rather striking figure on his own – but rather for what the man represents to snape. Voldemort represents how far snape’s ambition and thirst for power and knowledge will take him if left unchecked. He represents a hungry and gaping and greedy part of snape that will take and take and take, and grow hungrier and greedier still, uncaring. Losing control in such a manner – allowing himself to be led astray by a mad man and his mad men, doing their bidding and spreading pain and grief and loss, thinking himself so righteous and vindicated – the worst parts of himself, unvarnished, laid bare for him to see. Snape has long since discarded any illusions of himself he may have entertained before the war. He knows the parts that make him up. He knows what he does and why he does it. He knows how far he will go without an anchor — and he fears being unmoored and unrestrained most of all. Fears what he will allow himself to do, without a pragmatic set of rules and ethics to keep him in line.

IC In Depth

personality traits —

+Loyal: snape’s loyalty is difficult to earn, but impossible to lose. He has a thorough, comprehensive, all-or-nothing approach towards loyalty. You either have it or you don’t. All of him or none of him. He will give you his soul – his strength, his work, his honour, his dignity, his life, his word – or he will give you nothing. Thus far, the only people who have earned his loyalty are lily evans and albus dumbledore.

+Sharp: snape is clever and perceptive, his intelligence owed in large due to the many hours spent in his mother’s company as a child, listening to her stories and her theories and her careful instruction. She was not a pleasant woman, nor a kind mother, but she taught him the power of knowledge at a young age, and the sharp glint of intelligence in his eyes matched hers.

+Hardworking: say what you will about snape’s character flaws – of which he has plenty, and of which there is quite a lot to say – but his work ethic has always been and will always be impeccable, beyond reproach. He never does things by half. He is a hard worker who spares no efforts once he sets his mind to a task.

-Antagonistic: he holds firm to an unpleasant disposition and hostile countenance. It is his nature to be wary and suspicious and to hold others in low esteem until proven wrong. Snape takes most attempts at social interaction with a grain of salt, expecting mockery and insolence and responding swiftly in kind.

-Bitter: snape’s biggest motivator is spite. He’s a man of well-groomed grudges, what can he say? growing up in poverty with a bitter mother and an unpleasant father, both of whom were uncreative in how they let out their frustrations and rather liberal in tossing about blame for everything that had gone wrong in their lives, had left him with quite an armful of ill-advised coping methods and a less than stellar personality overall.

-Selfish: it’s not that he’s incapable of love and affection. He is demonstrably and regrettably capable of both. He has, as well, displayed a certain capacity for selfless action when it came to his precious few loved ones. Sometimes. But, well. Well. It’s not his default. He spent many years with his head firmly stuck up his ass, seeing and caring about nothing but his own interests and his own ambitions and dreams finally being realized — and nearly lost the only thing in his rather pathetic life that held any meaning whatsoever. And he is still selfish by nature. Even in the years since he’d come to dumbledore to yet again pledge his allegiance to yet another all powerful and all conniving old wizard – the irony of which was not lost on him, not for a moment, rest assured – selflessness is still an installed feature that he must think consciously of before implementing. And, most of the time, it is not something he chooses to do.

-Deceptive: if snape was the sort to keep count of such things – and, as a spy, he most assuredly is – he would truthfully disclose that, in every relationship he’s built in his life since he was old enough for hogwarts, there is a layer of deception that must be adhered to at all times. An intermingling web of lies and half truths and omissions that must be observed with careful attention, lest the whole thing unravel and spill out his doom. He’s a spy. At least now it’s become part and parcel of who he is. At least, he now has a quasi-noble purpose to attach to the rather sticky threads of which he is – secretly – fond. He can admit, if only to himself, that he doesn’t know how to build a relationship without some form of deception to maintain throughout.

character biography —

PROLOGUE.

he stands on his tiptoes over the wooden chair, stirring with the ladle in both hands. clockwise, clockwise, counter-clockwise…. let the ladle rest against the side of the cauldron for thirty seconds. the liquid is two shades off. he adds a pinch of powder, and the color adjusts.

mam’s sharp eyes follow his every move. she nods, stiffly. tension uncoils from his shoulders. “when you get to hogwarts,” she says, brusque, “you’ll be at the top of your class.”

it’s not explicit praise, told more like a command, really, but it’s close enough. emboldened, he asks, “will i ‘ave friends at ‘ogwarts?” he looks up. watches. “lots and lots o’ friends?”

mam blinks. the silence stretches. she pats his head, drops her hand down to his shoulder. “of course, sev. lots and lots. now help me pack everything away before your dad comes home.”

ACT I.

can a place be both hell and home?

well, if it can be — if it’s possible to love and hate a place with equal intensity, if it’s possible to feel like a jigsaw puzzle slotting into place at last and still look over your shoulder and jump at every sound — if it is, then to severus, hogwarts was that place. the home that was unsafe, the home with danger at every corner, the home with no way out. no way out but through.

it’s not s’pposed to be like this, he’d thought, eleven and still a touch naive. this can’t be right. but what did he know about homes and safety, anyway? was Spinner’s End not the same, except smaller and with less magic? did he not look over his shoulder and watch his every step just the same?

being a halfblood matters, more than he thought it would. and being a slytherin matters, but not in the way he’d thought. a poor, dirty, halfblood slytherin with a nasty attitude and an uncouth accent stood out like a rotten stink. hogwarts was magical and whimsical, but it was just a place, just like any other, and the students were just students, and the bullies were just bullies. and sev was still sev, wand or no wand. hogwarts did not fix him and make him better. it did not give him friends on a silver platter.

what it gave him, instead, was knowledge. yes, he spent years the target of relentless bullying, made more enemies than friends and few acquaintances who were in between, but the library was his home. He devoured knowledge with a single-minded intensity, filled with such joy at learning new concepts and spells that it made everything else he had to put up with worth the effort. He badgered his teachers relentlessly with increasingly complex questions, and often times concerning lines of inquiry, and experimented with new spells and potions early on — first with lily, then without — filling notebooks with ideas and information and half formed thoughts. At the age of thirteen, he’d begun working on his own grimoire, writing down his own potions recipes and his modifications to existing potions. All the great potions masters have their own grimoires, why shouldn’t he start his own now?

He isn’t sure when his views began to shift. Somewhere along the way, the facade he’d put on for his housemates began to seep through the cracks and into the boy underneath. it became so much easier to hate muggles and then muggleborns, to blame them for everything that went wrong in his life, to use this hatred as an outlet for all his frustrations he already had with his own life.

By the time the dark lord called, severus was well and truly indoctrinated. It didn’t take much to convince himself that this was the right thing to do.

ACT II.

He takes the mark.

Things… escalate.

They ask him to do terrible things, and he does them fastidiously. He does not feel satisfaction or pleasure when killing and torturing, though he hardly lets that stop him from doing exactly as he’s instructed, to the letter, and sometimes beyond. Vying for the attention and approval of the man who held his soul in the palm of his hand, indifferent to it’s fate, careless in his handling unless the little halfblood proved himself useful. And he did. He proved himself clever, gifted, loyal, ruthless. He worked hard to earn his place, knowing the alternative.

It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s in a genocidal cult. At some point, even the most indoctrinated could see what this was. The dark lord wanted servants to do his bidding, not allies to share in the glory and the power. The dark lord was strikingly clever, imposing and powerful, and stark raving mad.

But severus was marked. He couldn’t put himself at risk, couldn’t think of stepping out of line with his master’s mark upon his arm. The only way out was through.

severus was thorough. he followed instructions to completion, with a single minded focus. he did his work with a professional detachment, a nonbeliever in the guise of a devotee.

And then, he came upon a prophecy.

ACT III.

The dark lord’s fall is a gift that severus doesn’t know what to do with. He’d spent so long treading a worn thread like a tightrope over the brink of hell itself, that the thought of letting his guard down for even a moment sends his every sense screaming DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!

He feels like a man who’s been running full pelt, nonstop, like he was running his whole life and suddenly the ground is pulled from beneath him and he’s free-falling into nothingness. Lily is safe. Unhappy, but alive, and for that he is more grateful than he could’ve ever imagined.

But he is alive, too. And for all his plots and schemes, it didn’t occur to him that he’d make it to the other end of this war in one piece. Not since he turned spy.

The question mark hangs over his head all the way through the chaos following the dark lord’s fall. Severus, sitting through trial after trial, feels as though his ears are stuffed full of cotton and his senses are veiled through with fog. Only in the aftermath of his own trial, when dumbledore rests a hand upon his shoulder and grants him a proud smile does severus begin to hope.

Dumbledore saves him. He gives him a home, a job, a purpose. He guides him through the darkest hour of his life.

Even through the fog, Severus can see it: the headmaster’s true intentions. He knows he must be of some use to the headmaster still, that dumbledore is simply working to gain his true loyalty. That all severus had really done on that stormy night was trade one master for another.

But dumbledore, for all his machinations, is still a good man. There are worse masters to grovel to, as he very well knows. And lily is safe, just as promised. It’s only right that severus pay back his due.

ACT IV.

Once he finds his footing, severus gets busy. He integrates himself with the remaining loyal death eaters as seamlessly as possible, works to maintain at least civil relationships with high ranking order members — with a few notable exceptions — and begins to, brick by brick, build his life from the ground up.

The following years are filled with quiet self reflection. Severus grows more critical of himself, of his actions, of his beliefs. He pulls apart his motives and his reasons for joining the dark lord, inspects his role in the war unsympathetically, the impact he’s had on the lives of others. He does not like what he sees. but he does not look away.

He’s created violent and dark spells for the dark lord during his service. Spells with no counter, or a secret one. Spells the death eaters all knew and used. If he had died in the war as he’d come to expect to, these spells would’ve been his only legacy. His only contribution to the wizarding world. unparalleled violence.

This is who he is. This is what he’s done. He cannot undo it, he cannot be forgiven. but he can strive to be… better. And he does.

beyond the waiting and watching and listening, severus shifts the bulk of his focus upon his work. He creates and tests potions with the needs of the wizarding community in mind, puts his brilliance to good use. He follows a strict code of ethics, to the letter, holds himself to task when it is not properly adhered to. He takes responsibility for the things he releases into the world. He builds himself a respectable reputation in his fields of study, his articles and discoveries published in peer-reviewed journals and papers, his work talked about in academic circles with something like respect.

As the whispers spread and the death eaters prepare for their next move, severus shifts to a ready stance. He has more to fight for — more to live for, now — than he had five years ago. He is ready.

plot ideas —

oh, god, i’m SO excited to explore what snape post-war would’ve been like if he didn’t lose lily. what happened in the books is that lily’s death and his role in it sent him down a spiral of self loathing, guilt, and suicide ideation – and he wallowed in his grief and his guilt for the rest of his life. the trajectory of his life after lily’s death shifted to protecting her son and serving dumbledore. he stopped thinking of his own ends and started viewing himself as a means to an end, that end being the physical safety of lily’s boy (disregarding, of course, the mental wellbeing of potter’s spawn) and while there was growth in his own views over the years i can’t help but think it was greatly stunted by his own grief.

what i want to explore with snape is growth. realistic, nonlinear, steady growth over the years after the war, where he becomes more critical of both himself, his motives, his thinking, and the impact of his actions on other people and the world. he grew up a precocious child with no proper adult guidance, and all his life lessons he’s learned through first hand experience. and like any other 17-year-old, he thought he knew everything. He was reckless and arrogant, and he made terrible choices confidently, with no regard to the greater consequences. post-war snape is painfully aware of his own shortcomings, is trying to be better, not for the sake of being a good person but for the sake of proper self discipline and self control. he never wants to lose control of himself and allow his ambitions and his greed to take him to such lengths again. he wants to have a more positive impact on the world around him, even if he himself is still an objectively bad person, even if he himself is still selfish and deceptive and eaten up by greed.

so how can a bad person be good? by doing good things, even if he’s doing it for the wrong reasons. and snape is doing it for the wrong reasons, he’s well aware of that. He doesn’t have the intuitive grasp of right and wrong that lily always had. He can’t simply do what feels right, as that never turned out to be the right thing at all. Instead, he does what he calculates as having the most positive impact on the biggest number of people, regardless of whether or not it feels right to him. He acts in the interests of the greater good.

It’s a very utilitarian approach. Not dissimilar to dumbledore, who took snape in after the war and was more or less his mentor figure the years following. but unlike dumbledore, snape does not disregard or dismiss the individual lives of people he comes across, is very mindful of his own personal impact in the individual lives of the people around him. in canon, snape is horrified at dumbledore’s plan for harry. dumbledore asks him how many men and women he’s watched die, and snape’s response to that is ‘lately, only those whom i could not save.’ this interaction perfectly encapsulates the differences in morality between the two men. snape is capable of making sacrifices for the greater good and strives to work towards ending the war, making moral compromises towards that end. but his faith in the greater good is limited. When it comes down to it, snape is loyal to people, not causes. And often, since he’s made the conscious decision to become a better person, risks his life for the sake of others.

Another thing i want to explore with snape is his interpersonal relationships. Because, god. Come onnnnnnnnn. His two best friends are lily evans and lucius malfoy. For fucks sake. Lily who cut ties with him when they were 16 and whose husband he is partially responsible for sending to an indefinite coma, yikes, and lucius, for whom he feels the most straightforward affection and who he’s actually quite prepared to stab in the back when the time comes. And it will come, soon enough.

He has….. Complicated relationships. And complicated views on intimacy. He has a tendency to separate his feelings from his duty, which sometimes leads to him doing terrible things to people he cares about. Lying, stealing, manipulating, etc etc etc. it does not mean, to him, that he cares about these people any less. Regrettably, he cares too much, and can’t stop caring once he starts. It does not mean the people he cares about are safe with him. And i want to explore that, especially in his relationships with lily and lucius, as well as his fellow death eaters.

Speaking of the death eaters. Snape was already a high ranking death eater before the dark lord fell, and he’d worked very hard the last five years to integrate himself irrevocably within the ranks of the remaining death eaters. He’d observed their dynamics and worked to make himself seem as loyal and irreplaceable as can be. No doubt he formed many a bond with many a member, not all of them built on lies. And he would take special interest in the hesitant, wavering loyalties, poking and prodding to see how he can use them to further his own position within the death eaters ranks. There’s a lot of potential for inner-politics and sabotage within the DE.

extra —

Mockblog @ sevsnpe.tumblr.com

headcanons:

Snape had a thick manchester accent growing up that was very quickly packed away and replaced with ‘respectable speech’ a few weeks into his stay in the snake pit. When he’s angry or emotional he speaks very slowly and deliberately, his voice dropping in octaves and growing very soft and precise. it becomes very difficult for him to keep control of his speech. He slips on occasion when he and lily are alone.

Eileen sold wonderful ailment-soothing ‘tea’ for her neighbours. severus helped her brew these concoctions regularly as a kid, when he was still too short to reach the tabletop without standing on a chair.

Snape looks up to dumbledore and seeks his approval. It infuriates him to no end, that so much of his own decision-making hinges on the older man’s opinion of him, that he cares what albus thinks of him at all. But after the dark lord’s fall, snape was lost and fumbling, trying to make sense of the world, of himself, of his next steps. He desperately wanted to be a better man, but had neither the tools nor the guidance to do so. if albus hadn’t taken him under his wing, he doesn’t know where he’d be now.

he’s a heavy smoker. he picked up smoking post-war and is not in any hurry to quit. he can stop whenever he wants to anyway.

he maintains a private library in his rooms at hogwarts. he’s as possessive of it and as territorial as a dog. he’s accumulated a very impressive collection of rare books and journals over the years, and a long list of contacts in the private book collectors and book sellers circles to go with. a disproportionate number of his books are highly illegal and officially labelled ‘dark’.

the bulk of his focus, after the war, is split between two things. integrating himself further into the remaining circle of death eaters, and his own personal research into the mind arts, potions, and dark magic, which he conducts in his capacity as potions master and professor at hogwarts. he’s made several discoveries in potions study and published multiple articles in academic journals over the last five years, building himself a respectable reputation and body of works within his field. beyond the fact that such academic pursuits are his passion, his work gives him tangible proof that he is capable of positive contributions to the world around him. that he is capable of doing good, even if he himself is a bad person. his work and his growing reputation gives him something to look forward to after the war. it’s something unrelated to the death eaters and to lily, it’s something completely his own. he is very defensive and protective of his research.

Once or twice a month, snape visits muggle london and spends a few hours in a public library. It’s calming, reading books to simply pass the time. He won’t admit this to anyone, but the connection he has to the muggle world is something he’s learned to accept and even take comfort in from time to time.

[metatiki]

Chapters: 6/8 Rating: Mature Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford Summary:

Angsty Cullrian story about what happens if everything goes wrong after it’s fixed?

Note: This work is experimental storytelling for me. I initially wrote if for the Cullrian Discord I participate in (The Herald’s Rest, check it out!) but decided to go ahead and publish it. Expect to see a new chapter every few days.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Phase 6: Desire

Cullen moved unnoticed through the Winter Palace, aided by the use of some darkened hair and Bull's eyepatch along with a 'borrowed' Fereldan guard's uniform. Certainly he carried himself like a soldier, and no one thought to question his presence amongst so many others. Though he took care to avoid Inquisition members, both past and present, he also noticed that they all seemed to remain together in one corner of the Palace, not really interacting with the other forces present. His goal was information: who was here, what their goal was, and how he could use it to his advantage.

He saw people he knew, of course: Divine Victoria, cool gaze surveying the assemblage in clear calculation; Lady Seeker Cassandra, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword as she stared towards the Inquisition party with a frown; Viscount Varric, hiding his anxiety at the gathering by needling Bran with his sharp wit. He knew that all three would notice and wonder at the absence of Bull and, of course, himself, and so he took pains to avoid their gaze as much as possible, even taking to abrupt changes of direction and, a few times, moving behind convenient bushes and pillars to avoid scrutiny.

It was following one of those spontaneous examinations of the darkness between some bushes that he heard a voice which made him freeze in place, transfixed.

Yes, Mother, I am well aware of the fact, but I insist he remain with me.

The intonation, the timbre, even the edge of irritation: it formed a specific image in Cullen's mind, causing an involuntary flush to touch his cheeks. The flush quickly turned to a pallor, however, as he wondered why Dorian was at the Exalted Council. Surely the Inquisitor wouldn't have sent for him, would she?

No. No, of course not. Unless she did it strictly to mock Dorian with Cullen's absence from the Council, but that would be a petty maneuver even for her.

Probably, anyway.

Surely you won't be taking him around the Winter Palace? a woman's voice replied to Dorian, pulling Cullen back into the present. Do you not have business to which you must attend?

With a frown, Cullen edged towards the voices, striving for a glimpse, wondering what he would see. His heart rose to his throat as he saw Dorian lean down and pick up a sturdy looking young lad, holding him close as he looked towards someone hidden from sight by a bush. Something about the boy struck Cullen straight to his heart, and he knew without needing to be told that the lad was Dorian's son.

Even as he tried to process the full implications of that, Cullen stared as Dorian replied to the woman. I am not my father. I do not believe my son to be an inconvenience. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be about my business.

And with that, Dorian turned and walked away from her--towards the bushes where Cullen had sought shelter.

Instinctively Cullen shrank back until Dorian had passed, but the same instincts spurred him into motion to follow. Why he did so instead of simply letting the man disappear into the grounds, he wasn't sure, but he could no more ignore Dorian's presence than he could stop breathing.

He did his best to avoid notice as he followed Dorian into the gardens of the Winter palace, and thought himself quite unnoticed--up until the moment when he turned a corner and took two steps into an oddly empty dead-end in. Even as he realized that he'd lost sight of Dorian and before his long-neglected Templar skills could warn him, he found himself surrounded by the glow of a magical glyph which held his limbs still, and felt something poke him in the back as an achingly familiar voice breathed into his ear, Well, well. What have we here? Did Mother send you?

Cullen struggled to answer, but found himself prevented from answering by the spell. He wasn't sure he could have spoken, frankly, considering the strange sensation that worked down his spine in memory of the last time that man had whispered so intimately into his ear. His mouth grew dry as he struggled to speak, but the prodding in his back dug deeper.

You can go tell her it's too late. He's safe, Dorian murmured. Safe in the hands of those who will never give him back to her. Run along, now, but don't try anything precipitous. You don't want to learn how far I will go to protect my son.

As Cullen felt the magic slip away, he sagged in place. Reaching up slowly, he tugged the eyepatch from his head and let it dangle in his hand as he took a shuddering breath, then breathed the word he'd been craving to say for what seemed like an eternity.

Amatus.

He heard a swift intake of breath behind him, just before the staff returned to press into his back. It wasn't painful, but he felt the disbelief pouring from Dorian even as he said, No. The Inquisitor made a point to tell me *he wasn't here. You seek to deceive me, distract me.*

Cullen closed his eyes, hearing the anger in the voice, but even deeper than that hearing an old, muted agony which mirrored his own. She doesn't know I'm here. Did you really think the Commander of the Inquisition would wander around in a Fereldan uniform with an eyepatch on?

There was a long pause as Dorian's breath rang harshly in the closeness of the arboreal corridor. Cullen felt Dorian lean close, felt a feather light touch on his hair, heard a soft sound as Dorian inhaled deeply. Abruptly there was a muffled thud as something long and hard dropped to the ground in the same instant that arms wrapped around him and squeezed the breath from him.

Amatus, Dorian whispered in his ear. It is you.

How Cullen managed to turn around while in such a tight grip he could not later remember. All he cared about was the moment his lips found Dorian's, the moment when the world toppled and lurched its way back into an upright and proper position once more. For a moment, nothing else mattered save for the musky scent lingering in the man's hair, or the trembling of Dorian's hands as they cupped Cullen's face. The kiss grew from tentative to tender, then toppled into tempestuous in a matter of moments. Air quickly grew scarce, but that didn't matter. This was Dorian, after all.

Even perfection could not last forever, however, and Cullen reluctantly released Dorian when their lungs simply could not be denied further attention. Their gazes remained locked, however, and Cullen let himself take in all the subtle ways in which Dorian had changed: longer hair which he itched to explore, deeper lines around his eyes and on his forehead which spoke of care, and a hollowness under his eyes which spoke of a lingering pain still unabated. His hands rose to cradle that precious face, his thumbs running over Dorian's cheeks as he felt himself subject to the same scrutiny.

Finally Dorian spoke. I thought you were...taken.

I was taken, Cullen said softly. Just not in the manner which you assumed. After a harsh swallow, Cullen explained in short, soft words exactly how he'd been taken, against his will, by the Inquisitor. Somehow, during that entire time, not one soul interrupted them. This was definitely a good thing, since somewhere along the way, the explanation changed from a numb recitation to comfort, and from comfort to carnality. By that point, Cullen suspected it was a comfort for both of them, a memory of the last time they had both been truly happy.

Vaguely he was aware of the branches and brambles digging into his back through the leather armor as Dorian's mouth explored his hardening length at...well, at length, and his fingers fisted in the man's much more grippable hair as a soft moan escaped his lips. From that point, there was no turning back, and soon their lips were again locked in passion as Cullen's hands held Dorian's legs tight around his waist, his own hips rolling in a barely remembered rhythm which made the mage moan into his mouth. He soon discovered that there was no way to draw out the encounter, not after how long they'd been apart, and soon enough they both embraced bliss in the same moment, their cries muted only by each other's lips.

It took a long, solid minute for Cullen to relinquish his hold on Dorian after that, and then another frenzied minute or two of kissing after that before they remembered that they should clean up as best as they could and find their pants again.

Only when they had recovered did Cullen take Dorian's hand and squeeze it tightly between his. I missed you.

And I you, Dorian replied immediately. If only--

Whatever he might have said, however, would remain unknown as the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted them. Cullen turned in surprise as Bull eased his way from the foliage around them, wondering how a man that large could remain unnoticed for so long. Suddenly his eyes widened. How long were you--

Long enough to get even longer, Bull said with a wide grin.

Eyes dropping to a much lower level to verify Bull's claim, Cullen felt the flush in his cheeks burn, quick and heated, even as Dorian asked in an anxious tone, Is he safe?

Bull nodded, his expression turning serious. Safe and snug as a nug in a rug. Don't worry, Varric won't let your mother within ten leagues of him. Before Cullen could do more than raise his eyebrows at the connection, Bull gestured to the bush from which he'd emerged. We've got other problems, though. Big problems, and I don't mean my state right now. He looked directly at Cullen. Besides, you really need to see what's going on.

Cullen blinked in surprise, but by this point he knew he could trust Bull implicitly--even if he really wanted to ask the man why he hadn't told Cullen about Dorian being at the Winter Palace. Lead on.

Without another word, Bull turned around and led them on a circuitous route through bushes, empty byways in the garden, and even a hidden passage through the walls until they stood on top of a wall around a small courtyard tucked to one side of the Winter Palace. Bull pressed his finger to his lips and pointed to their left, where two guards stood in apparent boredom in their duty to prevent anyone from entering the enclosed space. Even as Cullen took in their positions, Bull's arm snapped forward, and something landed between the guards, followed shortly by a harsh buzzing noise and startled cries of terror.

Bees! Run!

With a grin, Bull jumped down, then turned and motioned them to follow. Not much time, he said in an urgent voice.

As Cullen's feet hit the ground, however, his eyes were drawn to what lay within the courtyard: a large mirror that-was-not, its surface swirling with an energy he didn't recognize. There was no time for questions, however, as Bull grabbed both men's hands and hauled them through the mirror...

...and into an impossible realm.