#even the mages can be afriad or just want them to go away since the branch that deals with them is niche and requires a level of empathy

[sidhedust]

The only good thing about that old novel-turned-manga-turned-VN cover that's horribly off model and poor in anatomy is that I nailed the design for the three fairies/little people depicted. I can't wait to update them in a new piece. I don't think it would hurt to make a design sheet of them and post em later this week, True Names and all.

They're probably my favorite side characters in the prologue-I find the supernatural supporting cast very fun to write in all arcs I have planned.

They have little to no stakes in what happens to the mortals, their magic is more wild and limitless, and even when they do care, their approach to problems can lead to more chaos. And having a main character that can summon them and talk to them leads to more fun scenarios. Even the prologue has its moments of supernatural whimsy born from their meddling, both asked for and not on Luana's end.

[ginger-and-mint]

A Terrible End to a Terrible Evening

a.k.a. Ginger & Mint: Chapter 6 Bonus Scene

So where did Elliott run off to, anyway?

kink shit content: emeto; post-stuffing; basically a guy pukes after eating and drinking too much non-kink shit content: ominous shadowy figures; vague political intrigue; one grumpy boi WARNINGS: vomiting; drunkenness / implied alcoholism

Full fic is here: [x]

Elliott was so fucking glad to be out of that horrible place.

The streets of Oppendorff were dark and drizzly. Elliott hated being out in damp weather, but it was better than listening to those imbecilic first-years carry on like they knew a damn thing, and much better than watching his classmates awkwardly pretend they didn’t hate him. Plus, the cool air was helping him feel slightly less desperately nauseated.

He’d really overeaten. The meals at that stupid pub were enormous. Eating two of them had been overkill, even with a capacity like his. He’d gotten stomach pains halfway through the second portion, but when you were Elliott Vale, you couldn’t just leave food. So now his belly was swollen and groaning. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but he’d been drunk since three o’clock that afternoon, and he could feel the last few beers churning inside him, poison that his body wanted out.

He longed to get home and crawl into bed.

The walk back to the school wasn’t far, but it was all uphill, and he was so very full and drunk and sick. His belly sloshed with every step, sending horrible little burps into his throat. He slid his hands into the pockets of his coat so that he could hold its throbbing sides underneath.

Halfway up the hill, his stomach cramped sharply. He barely managed to suppress a retch, and staggered over to lean on the railing at the side of the path. Fuck, it was just too much…

He took a few slow, deep breaths, listening to the sickly gurgling of his stomach and trying not to think about how much better he’d feel if he just let himself puke. This area of town wasn’t busy, but there were houses just behind him, and Elliott was very much against throwing up where there was even slightest chance that people could see him.

But he wasn’t sure he had a choice. He felt absolutely wretched.

It was dark. Nobody would recognize him anyway.

He hunched over the railing and let the foulness in the pit of his stomach fill him up….

Over the quiet patter of the rain came sudden footsteps. Then a clear, crisp voice spoke: “Elliott? Is that you?”

Elliott swallowed hard, forcing back burning saliva. Slowly, he turned around.

“Oh, hello, sir,” he said.

Agent Smythe was standing a good ten feet away, in the puddle of light beneath a lamppost. His RAMA badge gleamed subtly.

“Heading home, are you?” he asked. “Is the gathering over already?”

The sour taste in Elliott’s mouth grew sharper. He would never have shown up to that stupid gathering at all had he not spoken with his mother that afternoon. The agent will be making an appearance. You must let him see you participating. It’s absolutely imperative. She had not told him that he had to stay for the whole thing, so he hadn’t.

“The others will be out for awhile yet, I’m sure.” He enuciated each word carefully, drawing on his long years of experience of pretending to be sober when he really, really wasn’t. “But I excused myself. Must get a good night of sleep for a fresh start tomorrow.”

“Ah yes, your proving exam nears! Such a dedicated student. But I would expect no less from Camilla’s son.”

Before Elliott could reply, a wave of nausea hit him. He bit hard on the inside of his lip and struggled to breathe normally. Cold sweat broke out all over his body. His heartbeat raced.

Agent Smythe came closer, moving forward into the shadows. “My, how much you’ve grown! The last time I saw you, you were perhaps… fourteen?”

Elliott did not remember ever having met this man before. Then again, it was hard to get a good look at his face with his vision blurring so terribly. He could not believe he was having to speak to this man now. He was too indisposed for this, stomach roiling with too much food and brain clouded with too much alcohol.

He’d known that he had to look presentable tonight! Why the fuck had he let himself get this bad?

“Your mother has told me so much about you,” said Agent Smythe. “In particular, I’ve heard a good deal about a little trial you conducted at the end of last year.”

The clamminess in Elliott’s hands worsened tenfold. “The spell was from an authorized notebook,” he said quickly. “I broke no laws in casting it.”

“Oh, I was not accusing you of that.” Agent Smythe’s teeth flashed white in the gloom. “In fact, the story impressed me greatly. Nobody has managed that spell in many decades.”

“Neither did I. My mother” —Elliott paused to stifle a bile-tinged burp— “…surely she mentioned that? I was not successful.”

“Still, you shouldn’t sell yourself short. For a young mage, with no specialized training, to attempt such a feat and survive to cast again—well, that is something truly special.”

“You flatter me, sir.” Elliott dipped his chin, hoping it looked modest rather than like he was trying desperately not to retch. Fuck, he felt so sick….

“I did hear that you suffered for it,” the RAMA agent continued. “But you’re recovered now? Back in top form?”

Elliott nodded. He was afriad to open his mouth.

“That is good to hear. Perhaps we can speak further some other time, in a more appropriate location.”

With a great effort of will, Elliott unclenched his teeth long enough to squeak, “Of course.”

“Wonderful. I shall be in touch. In the meantime, keep up the hard work. The kingdom needs more young mages like you, Elliott.” Agent Smythe’s smile made a brief reapperance. “Good evening.”

The agent turned and walked back down towards town. His footsteps echoed along the empty street long after he’d vanished around a corner

Elliott remained frozen in place. He could not move. He was so nauseous that his eyes were watering and his fingertips were numb. But he couldn’t get sick here, out in the open. Not after that encounter.

He waited, agonized, until the waves of sickness had reached a trough. Then he wrapped an arm around his stomach and broke into an awkward, painful run. There was an alley just across the street, and a little strip of forest behind the houses where he could do what he needed to do without risk of being seen.

He didn’t make it. Partway down the alley, he tripped on a broken cobble. He hit the ground hard on his knees and started heaving.

Elliott was quite desensitized to throwing up. The prospect didn’t fill him with dread, the way it used to when he was young. But he’d never quite gotten over how revolting it was to experience things you’d previously eaten in a horrible but totally recognizable form. He could taste the seasoning from the meat sauce, now corrupted and acidic. Even worse, he could feel the chunks of potato as they came back up.

When it was over, he sat back on his heels, panting with relief. His stomach wasn’t stuffed anymore, but it wasn’t empty either. He wasn’t yet sure if it wanted to be.

Roughly ten seconds later, he had his answer.

Fuck, he hated potatoes.

By the time his insides settled, he was damp and shivering and spitting nothing but foul saliva. It had been a long time since he’d puked so damn much. His stomach ached badly. Whether it was the organ, the muscles, or both, he wasn’t sure. All in all, it had been a terrible end to a terrible evening.

He would’ve felt sorry for himself, but truth be told, it was mostly his own fault.

Elliott wiped the sweat and tears from his face and stood up with a heavy groan. He was going to go home, stand under a scalding shower until the cold sweat with which he was currently drenched was nothing but a distant memory, and then perhaps have a little nightcap before bed. If there was one thing he had learned during his time as a student, it was that the best way to stave off a morning hangover was to wake up still drunk.