#fitting for a man who named his tavern The New Inn

[cuubism]

I have been absolutely loving Bookstore Cryptid Dream! Offline life got rough for a bit there, but this little universe never failed to make my heart happy. Thank you - and I hope you're planning on more!

i've indeed had one in my drafts so i finished it up for you :)

--

Hob has been waiting with equal parts anticipation and trepidation to find out exactly what ideas Dream will pull from his romance novels. He still hasn't figured out why he picked romance novels as his manuals. Maybe he needs his sex positions to have narratives. Maybe he's into roleplay. God.

But Hob doesn't get to find out.

He's been busy for a few days--new term at the local uni starting up means the cafe's suddenly gotten busier--and while Dream's popped in and out a few times, they haven't had the chance to spend much time together. It's probably good, Hob tries to convince himself. Puts the brakes on things, just a little.

But when he finally gets a break, hands the reins over to his staff for an evening, he heads to The Library. Even if Dream is busy with his own tasks, Hob's content to just sit in his space. Listen to his stories. It's not something the busy cafe environment usually allows, but The Library is like an alternate world, cool, quiet, and timeless.

Hob strides up the steps and opens The Library door.

And there's nothing inside.

It takes several moments for his tired brain to comprehend what he's looking at, and several more for him to decide that no, he's not dreaming. He steps through the doorway into a dim, empty room, old wood-paneled walls and dust gathering in the corners, and no infinite winding paths of shelves like in Dream's bookshop. Just a shell.

Hob presses his palm to the wall. It's cool, and smooth, and very much real. Not some mad hallucination of his, this empty room.

Blinking hard, Hob steps back outside, closes the door again, as if that might change things. Opens it again. Same room. Does it again. Same room. He calls out into the empty bowels of the once-Library: "Dream!"

No answer, of course.

Hob had known that The Library had a sort of magic to it. But just vanishing into thin air...

And Dream wouldn't...

...would he?

Hob spins in place on the stoop, looking out on the darkened street which suddenly feels so much more eerie. He steps down to the road in a daze, looking around as if The Library might suddenly appear in another doorway. Resists the urge to yell Dream's name into the darkness.

And then, well, fuck it. "Dream!" he calls. All that echoes back to him is his own voice.

Hob sits down on the stoop, defeated. If he hadn't seen Dream just yesterday, kissed him on his way out of the cafe not twenty-four hours ago, he really might have started to think he'd hallucinated all of this. Invented someone he'd wanted to know.

But he didn't invent Dream, he swears he didn't--so then where is he?

Hob doesn't sleep much that night. He doesn't do much of anything else, either--it's not like Dream left a note to track him down, or any evidence of his existence. It's not like Hob can put up missing person posters: have you seen this bookshop? Or force it to reappear.

He's having a very sleep-deprived, very over-caffeinated morning shift in the cafe, contemplating how long one's not-quite-human not-quite-boyfriend needs to be not-quite-missing before it's reasonable to start finding out which parts of London harbor demons and sorcerers--when a man he's never seen before stops at the counter, hands folded before him, and says, "Excuse me, but do you know if there's a bookshop around here?"

Hob has never seen anyone else ever go into The Library or even acknowledge its existence, and Hob's anxiety is so high that he almost leaps over the counter to grab this man by the collar and demand, what do you know about Dream?! Fortunately he belays that impulse. This stranger really does look almost laughably harmless and definitely not like a demon or sorcerer, not that Hob's seen one--and getting arrested for assault is not going to help anything.

"I tried the door," continues the stranger, as Hob just keeps staring at him, conflicted, "only, well. It seems to have vanished."

Well, at least Hob's not hallucinating. Not that a disappearing bookstore is helpful to his sanity.

After what was surely a conspicuously long silence, though his visitor just waits patiently, Hob says, "Have... you been there before?" He feels weirdly defensive of The Library, even if it's currently AWOL. He doesn't know if he wants random people to be able to find Dream.

Or maybe that's just jealousy.

"Oh, no, this is my first time coming this way," says the man, apologetically. "I'm just looking for a certain book."

Damn odd timing for it.

Hob comes out from behind the counter and waves him over to a table. He should probably get some tea. Proper hospitality and all. But he's too worked up and way too sleep-deprived.

His guest sits down primly at the table as Hob slouches against the back of his own seat. "Sorry," Hob finally says, "if I'm--" he waves a vague hand. "Dream's had trouble before, that's all." He holds out his hand to his guest. "Hob."

The man shakes his hand. "Hm. A pleasure. I am Aziraphale. To any associate of--" he tastes the name, "Dream's, that is."

It's interesting that The Library's reputation carries further than knowledge of Dream himself, despite how deeply Dream seems to be tied to the shop.

"Is it meant to be there, then?" asks Aziraphale hopefully. "I wouldn't blame him for moving around to protect the collection; I certainly wouldn't want all and sundry picking through the shelves!" He shudders. "Though I was hoping to find that book."

Hob doesn't bother asking what book. Whatever it is, Dream will certainly have it. What's more important is--

"'Moving around?' Do you know how?" And then, realizing if he wants a chance at info he's going to need to offer some of his own, adds, "You just missed him, it's only today that The Library's been... gone."

"Oh, dear," says Aziraphale, now looking troubled.

"Not sure what pointed you towards this place, but if you've heard anything..." Hob continues, "Dream is my--" what is Dream, anyway? They haven't established it, "...friend."

Looking contemplative, Aziraphale says, "Well it is odd timing, now that you mention it, because--"

That's when the door to The Library flies open.

A lanky man comes hurtling down the steps, limbs akimbo, yelling something over his shoulder that Hob can't hear from within the cafe. "Oh dear," says Aziraphale again, with a mix of concern and consternation. "Crowley!"

Dream storms out of the doorway next, expression thunderous, his hair sticking up in all directions like he'd been struck by lightning. That has Hob lurching to his feet, which Aziraphale does as well, and they both rush outside, just in time to hear--

"Look, it's just one silly book, okay?" The unfamiliar man--Crowley, presumably--says, stopping in the middle of the road and turning towards Dream. "Don't overreact."

Dream is, in fact, clutching a singular heavy book, and looks like he's just about to hurl it, except that Dream would never do something so undignified as that, Hob thinks.

Dream hurls the book at Crowley.

Or not.

Crowley catches it against his chest, stumbling back with the weight. "I do not accept," spits Dream, each word the strike of a nail, "surreptitious rummaging in my library."

"Oh come on," says Crowley, tossing the book to Aziraphale, who's just caught up to him and who catches it with a surprised little umph! sound. Crowley makes a shooing sort of go on, run gesture to Aziraphale, which he doesn't heed. "It's not like I was going to burn the place down. You're just prejudiced against demons."

"I am prejudiced against thieves," hisses Dream. Hob finally reaches his side before he can throw another book or something, lays a hand on Dream's arm. Though all he's really thinking is, demons?!

"Crowley," Aziraphale admonishes. "Please tell me you did not." He finally looks at the cover of the book, and gasps. "Crowley."

Crowley shrugs. "You wanted it, he had it."

Hob frowns, confused. "You don't need to steal from The Library. It's not a museum. Just go in and buy it." Not that Hob's ever actually paid for any of Dream's books.

Both Crowley and Aziraphale turn to him. "One could not simply give away such an artifact," says Aziraphale, caressing the book's leatherbound cover.

"Least not for a steep price," says Crowley, which evidently justifies his trying to swipe it. "I won't be beholden to the likes of you." He points at Dream.

Dream looks affronted. "Now who is prejudiced?"

"Let's back up," Hob says, unsure how he became the voice of reason here. He still has a hand wrapped around Dream's arm, it's grounding after the way Dream had just vanished on him. "What happened? Dream-- I tried to come over and you were just gone." The empty room past The Library doorway is going to continue to be nightmare fuel.

Dream makes an apologetic little sound. "I apologize. I closed all access to The Library for its protection. As it turned out, my assessment of the threat was overstated." He glares at Crowley and adds, darkly, "I thought you were from the school board. Breaking in in the dead of night like so."

Hob momentarily gets stuck on the fact that Dream considers the local school board a greater threat than an actual demon from hell.

"Which," Dream continues, "was utterly unnecessary. You could have simply come to The Library as a visitor and sought out what you were looking for. It would have been granted."

"Oh, so I was just supposed to know you actually sell your books?"

"The books will find their rightful recipients," Dream says stiffly.

"Crowley, you have been very rude," says Aziraphale, though he hasn't given up the book, "I think you should apologize."

"Eh," says Crowley, waving this off. Hob supposes it wouldn't really be given to demons to apologize for things. "You apologize if you really want to."

Aziraphale turns to Dream with a sigh. "I am sorry for my companion's behavior. And... grateful for the book."

Dream nods solemnly at him. It seems his ire does not extend to Aziraphale.

Crowley leans back on his heels, closer to Aziraphale. "Mayyybee we should go now."

Aziraphale nods. "Quite." He tips his head at Dream, and then at Hob. "Thank you for your hospitality, Hob."

Then he turns and hurries away, Crowley slinking along beside him. As they leave, Hob hears Aziraphale admonish, "Do you know how few booksellers there are with truly rare volumes? We cannot afford to make such enemies."

"Yeah, you're welcome, angel."

"...Thank you."

Hob shakes his head in bemusement and turns back to Dream. He takes both of Dream's arms in his hands now, holding onto him, looking him over. Unable to fully vanish the lingering panic of The Library just being gone. "Are you alright? I was... worried. When you disappeared."

"I am annoyed," Dream huffs, like it's a greater point of suffering than any actual injury. Then he leans in close to Hob, pressing a hand to his chest. "I apologize. I did not intend to cause you distress. I had to shut the doors rather quickly, but I hoped to resolve the issue before you had cause to visit The Library."

"It's alright, love. I'm just glad you're okay." He kisses Dream, tentative for how new this all still is. Tastes lightning on his lips. Dream hums with pleasure.

When they pull apart, Hob wraps an arm around Dream's back, starts leading him back towards the cafe, or perhaps just to Hob's flat above. Tea solves everything. "So. The school board, eh?"

Dream sighs with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "They are enthusiastic about banning books."

Hob pulls him against his side, kisses his temple. "Dream against the world."

Dream grumbles, but leans his head on Hob's shoulder, and despite the many strange things of today Hob is going to have to internalize, he feels all soft inside at the gesture.

"Don't worry," he says, "next time your many enemies come calling, just yell and I'll create a diversion."

"And be waiting with tea after I've dealt with them?"

"Got it in one."

As they reach the door to the cafe, Dream turns his head to kiss Hob's shoulder. "You are good to me, Hob Gadling."

And Hob will keep being so. Even when the next strange thing happens.

[thedinanshiral]

Favian, The Survivor

Faction: Grey Wardens

Lineage: Elf

Age: early 40s

Gender: male

Class/Spec: Warrior/ Champion

Kewywords: Purpose and Devotion

He used to be a slave from Tevinter and never had a proper name that he could remember, some elves called him Alasan when he was little but he hated that name so he changed it once he managed to escape many years ago, and has been taking on different names in his travels ever since. One day he met a young man wanting to be a hero and they travelled together for some time.This new “friend” couldn’t understand why the elf didn’t have a name, and would tease him by giving him a new one daily to see which one suited him better. “Favian” stuck for several days and so from then on the elf was Favian. Their relationship evolved into something more until their travel took them near the Tevinter border and Favian was denied entry at the Inn they intended to stay at. When trying to enter his partner's room through the window later that night Favian saw the young man enjoying a stranger's company and speaking of him as a nothing more than a servant. This shattered everything in him, as he was already a very broken man who had spent most of his life running away from his past as a slave, and the next day, after confronting his partner only to be mocked and ridiculed for thinking he cared at all about him, in a fit of rage and pain he choked the young man to his death . All he had left was a name. He wandered aimlessly and miserably for some time until a Grey Warden at a tavern perceived his misery and talked his ear off about the order and purpose, inspiring Favian to join himself and devote his life to such a noble cause.

[the-doll-dragon]

BES Learning Center

BES Learning Center

Located in Einar of Oh’Fair isle, this school is the heart of the city. The city was built around the school to ensure the community was at least 75% self-sustaining. This school-based community houses small versions of every carrier offered in the Spokelse Isles. It has a smithy, a potter kiln, a weaving shop, construction office with lumber yard, blown glass, farming, general story, health building, restaurants, taverns, inns, pubs, livestock care, guard training, brewery, and basket weaving. There is even a papyrus farm for making paper and a book making studio.

The students get the luxury of trying whatever they want to see if it’s a job for them. They even have a small government building to learn about law making and enforcement. Everything one could need to run a country. They can study accounting and diplomatic presence. The Goal of BES is to prepare the new generation to run the future world.

Einar was founded by the Silverton Puca Clan. After the great war between Horus and Seth this Puca clan watched as part of their territory broke off and floated away like many other parts of the Isle. They began rebuilding slow at first till one day while fishing they came across a small piece of a boat having been destroyed in the previous nights storm. Inside this small floating piece was a man names William East and his wife Bes. They had with them five other people who worked with the family. Williams partner Alexander Beckett was among the five.  Beckett, East, and the Chief of Silverton banded together to rebuild. East and Beckett expected to leave after the building was done. However, they had found their home and stayed. Beckett was passionate about education and ensuring future generations had the tools to survive.

               Beckett consulted his partners and they agreed to erect BES Learning Center. This Learning Center has two campuses. The Early Learning center welcomes being two hundred and seventy-one years of age to two hundred and eighty-four years of age. This means any student within that age rate can attend a thirteen-year program. These programs are designed to teach new beings about the world they live in and its laws. This includes understanding the currency of Spokelse Isles, its history, its governing body, explaining clans and species. The BES Learning Center is open to students from two hundred eighty-five old to three hundred years old.

               The classes here are thought to prepare beings for life as adults as well as teach them how to harness their magick which all beings manifest between years two eighty-five and two ninety-six of their lives. However, there is more to BES then meets the eye. A secret the learning center keeps hidden. Dean Alexander Beckett Has a different vision of the future. He does detailed research on each student who applies to attend and keeps the information on file. He is the founder of a secret society Known as B.E.S this stands for the Black Essex Society.  Hidden under the guise of BES Learning Center, this society’s goal is to change the government and the ancient laws. They also wish to effect trade among the isles.

               This is not how long the classes are this is a five-year program. The magick classes are a separate part of the Leaning Center and therefore hold a different admissions process. This means student with out magick can still attend and be placed in a different class. The age range is wider due to the desire to teach the generations before the war. This allows Beckett to teach more beings and find those that will fit into his secret society. He teaches them a few different courses and trains them to influence the standing government. They are also taught abought trade routes, how goods are moved, and regulated.

BES Learning Center main campus had three residential castles. Castle Greenview, Castle Foxedin, and Castle Linc. The dinning hall, auditorium, campus gym, and theater are in the fourth castle, Castle Bibe. The classes and staff offices sit in the fifth castle. This castle is named Castle Vendinguard (fin-din-guard). Just to the west down a path you will find the city of Einar. This City has a general store, a health complex, a smithy, an arts center, some restaurants, and inns. Peppered around the school off various paths is neighborhoods and learning complexes. These Learning complexes are not always buildings just where students go to learn various things from farming to craftsmanship to fighting.

               The Gates of the academy are closed from Jiro to Sia; these are like weekdays when classes are held. Nanaka, Tavian, and Kensa are the weekends. From 7am Nanka to 12 am Kensa the gate is opened to allow for students to travel and explore Oh’Fair. Yes, there are 8 days in a week 24 hours in a day. The moon cycle is extremely slow, only possessing one full moon a year. Each year is 13 months long.

The School Year starts in Naimh on the first Jiro after the Fall Solstice held from the 35th – 38th.. Each School Year goes from then to 58th of Haruki. This Means Students go to school for roughly 11 months a year. This doesn’t take into an account of any breaks from school. The school has winter break three weeks long starting the week before the celebration of Isis and ending the week after. Spring break is weeklong. Usually the first week after the Spring Solstice from Neve 35th to Neve 38th . 

**Please do not use my concepts without permission these are my creations from various research and imagination.**

**Einar Map created using Inkarnet**

[i-did-not-mean-to]

'twas a lark (or a nightingale?) - Chapter 1

So, here goes...

@mismaeve @self-conscious-author, here comes the Modern!AU Lindir fic featuring all the favourite idiots of the bunch LOL

Words: 1,6 k

Characters: Lindir, OC, Thranduil, Legolas, Elrond

Warnings: strong language at times

“Lúthadis,” Thranduil sighed, “that girl would be better in a tavern.”

He liked his son’s best friend, he truly did; she was the kindest soul one could imagine, but that very sunny nature was what made her – in his opinion – so entirely unsuited for the establishment he was running.

“Are you saying that Elrond deserves something good you’re not able to cope with?”

Legolas was leaning against the doorframe, his fluid, elegant limbs draped carelessly against the polished wood.

The idea took hold in his father’s mind, thriving and unfolding at the speed of light; Legolas was not wrong, he could kill two birds with one stone.

“Lú,” he called, “come over here, please!”

She was an amazing waitress – punctual, diligent, and charming – but her ebullient nature made her stick out like a sore thumb in the high-end, hushed, gold-and-velvet spa-hotel Thranduil was running; discretion was key and Lúthadis was anything but subtle.

Even as she made her way over, her dark auburn hair – curly and wild unlike anybody else’s – bobbed like a fire over her pale face with those startingly green eyes that ever sparkled with mischief.

“Yes, boss?” she chirped cheerfully, the dimples in her cheeks deepening as she gave the old stick-in-the-mud a fond smile.

“How would you like working for Elrond for a bit? I need to know what makes him so damn successful when he’s running basically a tavern with rooms upstairs…”

“Corporate espionage,” Lúthadis grinned, “that sounds like fun.”

“Well no,” Thranduil huffed, “maybe a little. Just look around some and ask some questions.”

The truth was that he was bored out of his mind, and he hoped that his – hitherto benign – rivalry with the cute little inn down in the valley would spice things up during the lull of the season; it might – incidentally – also do the girl some good to see a different kind of establishment where she might fit in more easily.

“Alright,” pleasant as ever, Lú agreed easily to her boss’s proposition; on her way up from the village, she had – herself – noticed the beautifully drawn sign in the front window that advertised a vacancy amongst their staff, and she was more than eager to find out what kind of house Elrond ran.

“Who is she?” Lindir looked at the door of his superior’s office nervously as if the new recruit would come bursting through it at any moment, armed to her teeth.

“I’m sure Thranduil sends her,” Elrond smiled, knowing his apparent rival better than the man himself suspected, “she’s one of the kids having grown up in the treehouse.”

What the people around here called affectionately ‘the treehouse’ was a stately, beautiful manor house that Thranduil had transformed into a refuge and oasis within a dense forest of dark trees; known to be contrary and haughty, that very same man had a legendary soft spot for animals, plants, and a random gaggle of kids that could demand anything of him.

“She’s one of his?” Lindir asked breathlessly; he was much less inclined to extend good faith to that colourless, arrogant creature that was Thranduil de facto.

“She has excellent references,” Elrond declared in a decisive tone, “and you’ll show her around.” The fact that the astonishingly small and curvy young maiden was every bit as surprisingly and uncharacteristically beautiful as people said was only an added bonus for the older man; he liked Lindir and he was convinced that it would do him some good to interact with a woman who did not yet know how utterly sweet but helpless he was.

“What’s her name?” Lindir asked, turning around at the door, already sweating as he thought of the stranger about to barge into his peaceful life.

“Lúthadis,” Elrond informed him, “and she truly is enchanting; you’ll see.”

That, Lindir thought, was exactly what he was dreading.

Lúthadis liked men; she liked flirting with them, from time to time, she even liked going out with one and letting him seduce her, so, she was used to them and by no means fearful or insecure around them.

The stern look her new supervisor gave her though sent shivers down her spine that were not entirely nervous in nature; he was beautiful in an ethereal, unreal way.

“Boy oh boy,” she sighed, “can I make you a coffee or something? You look a bit pale.”

“I always look like that,” Lindir replied coolly; he was dumbstruck by the vibrant energy emanating from that tiny woman in front of him. She was unlike anything he would have imagined when thinking of a ward of Thranduil’s.

Where that man was notoriously colourless – all silver and gold – Lúthadis was like an explosion of shades; her hair made him think of the dark, burnished copper of the old tanks in the cellar and her eyes seemed tiny, sparkling windows into the lush forest surrounding her home.

“Hmmm,” she hummed and cocked her head expectantly, “what can I do then? Tell me how to make myself useful.” While she spoke, she was already tidying up the menus strewn across the counter of the restaurant area and absent-mindedly dancing around the staff laying the tables for the evening service.

“I’ll show you around,” Lindir replied formally, losing himself in the meticulous explanations of the different areas and tasks; Lú listened to him go on and on with a faint smile, she had grown up in a hotel and was intimately familiar with all the small details that kept such an enterprise running.

“And here’s my office,” he finished, pointing at a narrow wooden door at the righthand side of an equally as narrow corridor, “Elrond’s is just at the end there.”

“You call him by his first name?” she asked; she had been worried about that as she had accepted Thranduil as a father of sorts and had never used his formal title in her life.

“Everyone does,” Lindir smiled; it was the first genuine smile he had displayed, and Lú couldn’t deny that it felt like witnessing the blooming of a delicate flower under the full moon, “we are not very formal here. That might be a change of pace.”

“Not really,” she replied casually, grinning to herself as she remembered all the shenanigans she had gotten into with Legolas when they had been younger; people were wrong about Thranduil – and God knew that he wanted it that way and encouraged all the absurd gossip about his famed cold-heartedness – for he was, in truth, a very kind person who was prone to worrying too much and – as a consequence – forgetting how to express his overfull heart without sounding too intense.

She loved Thranduil with the same indulgent affection many a daughter held for her ageing father; since her earliest childhood, neither he nor Legolas had made the slightest difference between any of them even though they were the owners of a high-end hotel and she was but a wretch literally left on their doorstep.

“Lindir,” a young woman with long hair the colour of wet sand came strolling down the corridor, “is that the new girl? Why are you hogging her?”

“I am not,” he expostulated vehemently as if she had accused him of some terrible crime.

“I’ll show her around the dining room,” she grinned, “you go and set up the roster.”

“Hi, my name is Ann’ – Anneth really – and Lindir is as reliable as a clock; no doubt, he was already sweating because of his precious timetable being upset,” she then introduced herself.

Lú returned the polite favour and followed the other woman into the dining room where a few members of staff were still laying tables and preparing.

“Your boss, he’s well fit,” Lú sighed before she could suppress the thought from slipping out.

“Which one, dear?” Ann’ laughed, “Doesn’t matter; they’re both single. Come to think of it, Lindir will die single if he doesn’t stop being such a damn stickler for propriety.”

She winked at Lú and was about to hand her a stack of plates to set out when a loud crash was heard, followed by a sharp cry of pain.

One of the girls had dropped something and cut open her whole hand; as she was standing in the middle of the dining room, Lú ripped off her sweatshirt and wrapped it around the injured hand before the blood could undo all her colleagues’ hard work while another girl dashed to call an ambulance and get Lindir.

“It will be okay,” Lú soothed her, listening intently for the siren of the ambulance, and hearing a sharp gasp instead.

“Oh, interesting,” Ann’ chuckled under her breath before calling cheerfully: “Lindir, she’s not going to be able to work tonight. Stop staring at the new girl’s tits and do something.”

“What? No…I…”

When Lú turned around, she could see her new supervisor’s face darken rapidly as the flash flood of blood rose with alarming rapidity in his cheeks; he seemed a very decent chap indeed…and he looked desperate.

His elegant hand rubbed helplessly over that fair brow – puckered in confusion – as he pondered his options.

“If you give me your shirt, I can do it,” Lú offered.

“My…what?” Lindir merely stared back at her, unable to comprehend that a woman – very directly – had asked him to take off his clothes.

“I can either dash up, unpack my whole suitcase, find an appropriate shirt, or you can give me yours,” Lú grinned and motioned to the corridor in which she now knew his office lay.

“Come with me,” he groaned and turned on his heels sharply.

As all of you know, I am deadly insecure about this project (once more), so getting any kind of feedback would be very nice and helpful for me...

Thank you...

-> Chapter 2

-> If you like my writing, please do not hesitate to drop me a line, a DM, a reblog, or any other sign 💖

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober 2021 - October 3 - "Who did this to you?"

Fandoms: Linked Universe

Ao3

Warnings: major injury, attempted murder, blood, near-death experiences

---

Trouble comes with a smiling face; not that Wild knows that yet. All he sees is an eager young woman with kind eyes and a humble dress, offering to show him where he can get some wine to cook with tonight.

He and the rest of the heroes have been on the road for quite a while now, without a single town in sight. Nothing but various barns to cross their path. This is the first actual town they’ve seen in miles, even though it’s not a very big one. Yet, there is a small inn for weary travelers, and a marketplace near the front entrance of the town where farmers can sell their goods and towns-folk and gossip. The whole group of them are rather low on funds, but the market seemed like the perfect excuse to relax. Spend some money that they just barely have. Pretend to be normal people for just a few hours.

Just until sunset.

It was Wild, Twilight, Warriors, and Hyrule out in the market while the others were making deals with the innkeepers to get cheaper rooms and more beds. Wild wasn’t really sure what the others were wanting to find out in the market today, but Wild was on the hunt for quality ingredients for quality food that he couldn’t make while on the road. He planned on making a meal tonight fit enough for Zelda herself, and he needed wine to do it. Not to drink, of course not, but to soak into fine slices of meat to add extra flavoring. Nothing strong enough to get a man tipsy—and if he ends up with extra wine, he’ll put it in a flask and gift it to the Old Man. Hylia knows he deserves it.

But he couldn’t find anything even remotely related to wine in these small markets. Some stalls sell alcoholic jars of milk, but Wild honestly has never even heard of milk that could be alcoholic, let alone ever cooked with it. By the time the sun was starting to caress the horizon, frustration was bubbling in his belly because of this and all he could think about were those berries he saw on a tree a few days ago that looked perfect for making some of his own wine out of.

Twilight and Warriors were looking at a jewel-smith's stall, admiring the finely crafted trinkets and murmuring to themselves about the ones that would match her eyes, or impress that gentleman at the tavern, and Wild soon lost interest in both the stall and his love-sick companions. He had stood several feet off, leaning against a brick wall, eyeing the closest stalls to him and hoping for even a small sight of anything close to wine set up for sale.

And then he saw her. Trouble, despite him not knowing it. He didn’t even suspect it. Perhaps he’s gotten too used to the threats of other worlds, that he forgot the threats of his own.

She walked up to him, a swish to her brown dress that seemed to almost have a pink tint. Her hair was brown, done up in messy braids and a bun above her head. Wild assumed she was the daughter of a farmer who was selling crops from their farm, so he didn’t assess her too critically. Before he knew it, she was stopped a few feet from him, swaying her dress side to side between her thin fingers.

“Is there something you’re looking for, travelers?” she asked, her voice sweet like sugared honey. Beside him, Hyrule blushed a bit at the ears.

Wild wasn’t much in a good mood at the moment, but he decided that asking for help might be his only option at this point. “I’m looking for wine, or any kind of beverage like it made out of berries?”

The girl hummed, pressing her finger to her chin in thought. “The most popular beverage ‘round here is milk…” she said, and Wild’s shoulders slumped. But then she continued. “Though, I know a liquor shop further in town where they sell all kinds of drinks. I’ll show you the way, but it closes really soon.”

Hope surged in Wild’s chest. Perhaps he would be able to make a fancy meal tonight after all! Feeling in lighter spirits than he had all night, he told Hyrule to inform Twilight and Warriors that he would be going to the liquor shop. Wild barely noticed the slight hesitation on Hyrule’s face before he turned and did as he was asked. Wild should have noticed it. He should have thought more about how eager and smooth talking the girl was, should have been more in tune with his companion’s concerns, but he followed her out of the market anyway.

And now he’s here, laying on the ground in a pool of his own blood thanks to a hole in his stomach. The “liquor store” was nothing more than an abandoned shop several blocks away from the market, but he only found that out when he walked inside and saw the hastily put together lanterns to give the illusion of life, each one placed among dust and cobwebs. Before he could even turn back and question what was going on, the girl was sliding her arm around his side and heartlessly impaling him with a familiarly curved, sickle-like blade.

Her laugh was also familiar as his knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor, wheezing. Though not familiar in a way that he knew her name; he knew her kind.

“Wh-” he gasps, using one hand to clutch at the floor blanketed in bloody dust, and the other to press onto the wound in his stomach like he’s trying to keep everything in. “What-”

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here, hero,” the girl… Yiga chuckles, stepping over his crumpled body to squat by his head. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure either. I fell into a portal… and found myself in a whole new world. And I saw you, and your friends. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to take you down. This is for Master Kohga-” Wild’s too weak to fight her off as she reaches for his body, searching his pockets and taking the only healing potions that he had. “-and for Calamity Ganon. I don’t care what happens to me now, as long as you die painfully and slowly, right here.”

Then, she stands up, takes his potions, and leaves, shutting the door behind her as she laughs into the night.

Stupid. Wild is so stupid. How did he not guess something like this would happen? Did he truly let his guard down so badly that he forgot to always be on the lookout for Yiga soldiers? Has he become so comfortable traveling between worlds that didn’t have rogue Sheikah that it didn’t matter for him to worry about them as much?

He’s going to bleed out and die here, all because he wanted some wine to cook with in a town that only sold fucking milk and he couldn’t bother to make sure the person he was following was actually someone with good intentions. He can already feel his vision swirling, and his entire body feels pathetically weak and cold. The pain is unbearable, bringing tears to his eyes.

He coughs up blood, and does his best to prepare himself for a failure’s death, as he’s too weak to even call for help; let alone try and save himself.

Stupid…

His vision swirls white, and then fades black, and he knows nothing more.

-o-o-o-o-

“Something’s wrong,” Twilight says, several minutes after Hyrule told him and Warriors that Wild had gone off with some farmer girl to find a liquor store.

“Something is wrong,” Twilight repeats when they ask a local villager for directions to the nearest liquor store, and they reply the only alcohol this town sells is the milk in the market.

Hyrule is quick to point out the direction he remembers seeing Wild and the girl go off in, and then they thankfully split up to cover more ground. The second there’s no one to see, Twilight changes into his wolf form, sniffing the air desperately for his kid. Wild’s scent is one that he will always remember, it’s stored and locked within his brain, right next to Mipha, Zelda, and all the kids at Ordon.

He finds Wild’s trail after a nerve wracking few moments, and then he’s dashing through dimly lit streets like his life depends on it.

The feeling of something being horribly wrong only gets stronger when he finds Wild’s scent leading inside a run down looking building with dim, flickering lanterns in the windows. Then, the reek of blood hits his nostrils at full force. He shifts back into his human form and bursts into the front door without a single care on what’s on the other side.

The stench of blood is stronger here, even for his human nose. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that his eyes drop to the floor along with what feels like a stone in his stomach. Wild is at his feet, curled up like a child, red pooling around his terribly pale body.

“No-” Twilight drops down to his knees, already pulling out his spare red potion and gathering Wild into his arms. Wild makes a strangled groan through his throat, but his eyes are squeezed closed.

He’s alive though. The thought that he’s still alive is the only thing that gives Twilight enough strength to pull out the cork of his jar and shove the opening to Wild’s lips.

Wild chokes as the liquid enters his mouth, but Twilight doesn’t let up. It’s preferable to drink red potions, but when it comes to drastic situations like this, just getting it in the injured person's body is enough to save their lives. Wild coughs through the liquid and writhes in Twilight's arms, and it’s all Twilight can do to keep the bottle there and shakily whisper every comforting word that he knows. Eventually, color returns to Wild’s cheeks, and his eyes blink open blearily as his choking turns into instinctive swallows.

When the contents of the bottle is gone, Twilight lets the glass jar fall to the floor as he now uses his newly freed hand to check Wild’s wound.

It’s still nasty, and deep, but no longer life threatening. Another potion or some stitches and Wild will be as good as new. For the first time in what feels like years, Twilight allows himself to breath out a sigh of intense relief.

“Twi…?” Wild asks, voice incredibly small.

Twilight holds him just a little tighter, willing his heart to calm down. He’s almost… he’s come so close to almost losing-

“Who did this to you?” Twilight demands with a bite to his tone that he doesn’t mean to direct at Wild.

Wild doesn’t react to it though. He just closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It… doesn’t matter…” he replies in a whisper. Twilight feels anger swell in his stomach and he almost argues back, but Wild talks more despite how much it must still hurt. “Later,” he says. “’M hurt, wanna sleep. Deal with… it later.”

Twilight takes a deep breath, counts to five, then lets it out. He doesn’t feel any less upset. However, he keeps his voice level, deciding that arguing with Wild here will just upset the boy more than help him.

“Okay,” he agrees reluctantly. “I’m going to carry you, okay? I’m out of potions, but Wars or Hyrule should be nearby with some of their own. Then we can go get a well deserved sleep.”

Wild simply nods and relaxes into Twilight’s arms, breathing a sigh and closing his eyes. Twilight bites his lip, then resolves himself to hold one of his dearest friends close to his chest as he stands up. There’s blood everywhere, staining his hands, his tunic, his boots, his pants. But he got here in time. Wild will be okay.

That’s all that matters now. Once Wild has all his color back and his stomach no longer has a hole in it… then Twilight can make sure whoever did this regrets being born.

“I got you, kid,” he says, “I got you.”

[sassycassie-s-writing]

My Favorite Smile

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC/BatFam - Jason Todd/Red Hood

Rating: PG-11/T- (this one has a couple ✨swear words✨ in it lol. I don’t usually write them out, but sometimes you just gotta say what you mean)

Original Idea: X (Obsessed with this channel right now)

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) 2,182 words... it’s a longer one again. I casually wrote this in, like, two hours. @welovegroot @jason-redhood @jason-todd-squad

^^^^^

Holding his coffee and croissant, Jason looked around the crowded café for a place to sit. Every table was occupied by at least one person, and the rules of personal space in public said the couches were full, with one person sitting on either end.

His eyes fell on a table with a single occupant.

His heart stuttered to a stop. Wait… is that her? Damn, she looks good this time. He scoffed at himself. Who am I kidding? She looks good every time. Should I talk to her? Should I tell her? She didn’t believe me last time… and I don’t know if I can stand another lifetime without her… but last life we didn’t meet till I was almost fifty. I really wasn’t expecting to find her this early.

He straightened up and strode over to her table. “Excuse me, is it alright if I sit here? The café’s pretty crowded and the other tables are full.”

She looked up and Jason’s brain stopped working as she met his eyes. She was just as incredible as she always was. Thousands upon thousands of years, and he still never got over how beautiful she was. “Sure, go ahead,” she said with a smile before going back to her phone.

—

“I’m Jason, by the way,” the man said, sitting down.

I glanced back up and gave him my name in return.

He smiled. He had a handsome smile. Just looking at him… something tugged in the back of my mind. “That’s a pretty name,” he said.

My ears warmed and I looked away. “Thanks,” I muttered. I looked back at him. “Sorry if this sounds… weird—but have we met before?” I cringed but smiled. If we had…oh it’d be so embarrassing if I’d forgotten him. And a man as handsome as him—how could I have forgotten?

But a look of delight crossed his face, before being replaced by one of neutrality. “Not in this lifetime,” he replied.

“Kind of an odd way to word it,” I remarked before I could overthink whether that sounded really rude or not.

Jason’s ears turned red. “Well… yeah I guess so. Sorry.” He looked down at his coffee cup and croissant and chose to take a sip of his drink. After swallowing, he looked back up at me. “This is probably gonna sound really creepy, but please just hear me out for a few minutes. Do you believe in soulmates?”

I reached up and scratched an itch just behind my ear. “I mean… kind of? I think maybe they exist for some people, and other people could be matched equally well with multiple potential partners,” I said.

His shoulders slouched with a sigh of what might have been relief. “Thank goodness,” he said. He met my eyes. “Because… we’re soulmates. You and I. Sometimes—very rarely—two people are so destined to be together, that they’re reborn over and over to stay together throughout thousands of years’ worth of lifetimes. Sometimes we both remember, sometimes only one of us does. I don’t think there’s ever been a lifetime where neither of us remember. Besides the first, I guess. Back when we didn’t know we’d be reborn. We never look the same twice—different bodies, different backgrounds. But we always have the same soul.”

A reasonable person would have thought he was making up a really long, bad pickup line. But I stared at him with rapt attention. Like some missing puzzle piece I’d been looking for my entire life fell into place. It just sounded… right.

“How do we find each other, if we look different every time?”

He took a deep breath. “Well… when one or both of us remember, we can… kind of sense it? Kind of see it? Like, right now, I see you, but I also see every face of yours that I’ve seen across every lifetime.” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes we don’t. Find each other, I mean. The distance between where we’re born or the timing of our rebirths keep us apart. But there’s only been… three of those, if I remember right.” He laughed. “So glad you believed me this time. It would have sucked if you got a restraining order—because those are a thing now—and I had to spend this life without you.”

I leaned forward, shoving my phone in my pocket. “Tell me more,” I said.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Um… I don’t know. The beginning? Our first life?”

He nodded. “Ancient Greece,” he said. “Like, really early in Ancient Greece’s history. The gods blessed us. Bound our souls for eternity. Your hair is actually the same color now as it was back then. Kind of a… nostalgic favorite of mine. You’re absolutely stunning every time I see you, but I have some favorites. You do too.”

I snickered. “Oh really? Like what?”

“Well… I always think you’re adorable with dimples or freckles. Green eyes are a favorite of mine too. And your current hair color is my favorite. There were also a few times where you were a little taller than me. Those were nice. You’re most comfortable to hug that way. But, without fail, every single lifetime I see your smile and I think, ‘That one. That one’s my new favorite.’” He chuckled. “As for you, you’ve told me that you like me best with brown eyes—even though you don’t like brown eyes normally. Um… you also like it when my hair is curly.” He gestured to his black hair, slightly curled, with two white curls arcing down the center of his forehead. “You told me… seven lifetimes ago? That you like me best with piercings and tattoos, but when I brought it up last lifetime you said even when I have them I still look like, and I quote, a ‘giant nerd.’”

We both laughed. Jason sighed and shook his head.

“Then again, you said that was your favorite during our pirate lifetime. And I can also say hot damn you looked good with tattoos and a big hat.”

I gasped out a laugh. “We were pirates?”

He laughed too. “Yeah. Well, you were. To start with, anyway. You and your crew were visiting my town and you, absolutely drunk, stumbled into my house. I was a carpenter that time. Thank the gods we both remembered that lifetime or I probably would have shot you. You spent half the night drunkenly blathering about how much you hated my hair when it was long the way it was and that you’d cut it off if I didn’t. The next morning, when you’d sobered up, you apologized. And I’d said it was fine. And… you asked me to come with you. I’ve spent dozens of lifetimes endlessly in love with you. So, like the lovesick fool I am and was, I said yes.

“It… was not a long lifetime. Pirates rarely made it to old age. We were both killed when a Royal Navy ship attacked us. I went down first. You told me in our next lifetime that you single-handedly killed half of that crew’s sailors in revenge even though you knew you’d see me again—because you’d been having so much fun that life and they ruined it. Eventually their captain killed you himself.” He took a bite of his croissant.

It was certainly a lot to take in. But everything he said was so vivid… I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination coming up with the images or… memories that had merely been locked away somewhere deep inside. The sea. The deck of a ship. An octopus tattoo on my left forearm, tentacles reaching to the back of my hand, a similar one on his tanned, scarred neck. Curly auburn hair, a scruffy beard. Brown leather coat and blood under his nails. Pierced ear and eyebrow. A tattoo of a mermaid with a face and wild hair that I knew must have been mine on his right thigh as we found alone time together in my cabin—a pile of leather clothes in a heap on the floor, topped by a big hat with a big feather.

I met his eyes again. “Tell me about another one.”

He smiled. “Well… there was another time I was a soldier. You remembered. I didn’t. I passed through your town on my way to report for duty, and the weather got bad. Your family owned a tavern that doubled as an inn. So, that was where I stayed. You didn’t tell me. I fell in love with you anyway. You would tell me stories and sing for me and make me food in private. When the weather improved, I went off to war and, miraculously, I survived. Even though I spent most of my time that fight thinking about you. I came back to your inn and asked you to marry me. You said yes. We were married soon after. I had to leave a lot. Fighting battles I didn’t care about. Eventually, I came home injured and dying. You held my hand and promised you’d see me soon. I thought you meant heaven or just said it to comfort me. You never told me we were endlessly-reborn soulmates.

“When I was about fifteen my next lifetime, all my memories came back. We both remembered that time, actually. When we ran into each other again we got into such a big argument about you not telling me. Literally picked up right where we left off. Two twenty-year-olds bickering like the old married couple we were. The life after I don’t remember is always a bit of a wild ride as all my memories come back. I imagine it’s similar for you. It’ll be similar for you.”

He reached across the table and took my hand. I squeezed his fingers. Our hands fit together perfectly. I wondered why I’d told him I liked him best with brown eyes when his blue eyes were absolutely gorgeous. “So… what now?” I asked.

He made a face. “Beginnings are always hard when one of us doesn’t remember. Because I have thousands of years of love for you, and you don’t even know me.” His fingers tightened around mine. “I’d like to take you out on a date, if you’ll let me.”

“Does it count as a first date?”

He smiled. It was a sad smile. “It can. It does for this life.”

“Have we… ever had children? Together?”

Jason regarded me thoughtfully. “We have,” he said. “But our bloodlines never last long. Usually we’re lucky to get great-grandchildren. We’re blessed to be together forever, but our families die off quickly. You speculated once that it’s the blessing’s attempt to make sure we’re not reborn into our own bloodline.”

“So we have no living descendants.”

“No. It’d be a little weird if we did. Like ‘Hey, kiddo, you’re our great-great-great-grandson! I know we’re younger than you but trust us!’” Jason laughed.

I could get drunk on that laugh. “I’d… I’d like to go on that date.”

He looked elated—and relieved. “Me too. I’d like to get to know you again.” He glanced around the crowded café. “What do you say we get out of here and go somewhere quiet and I can tell you more stories about our lives? You’ve always been the far superior storyteller, but I learned from the best.”

I smiled. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here. I want to hear everything.”

He helped me to my feet. I gathered my jacket, cup, and phone. “Great. I can’t wait to tell you about the time I was a magician.”

I giggled. “My place or yours?”

“Mine. I have a memento from our most recent past life that I tracked down. I’d like you to have it.”

“What is it?”

Jason didn’t answer immediately. Just held my hand as we left the café. Gotham’s overcast autumn sky was chilly. “I… I want it to be a surprise but I’m also too excited to tell you.” He bit his lower lip, staring at me. “Gah. Fine. It’s your wedding ring. I found it at an antique shop not far from where our oldest niece lived. We didn’t have any kids, last life. We didn’t meet till I was forty-nine and you were forty-three. We both decided it was too late for kids. But I had a few nieces and nephews. Our oldest niece was in charge of our estate. We died in the eighties. But I found your ring. You can use it again, eventually, if you want. Or we can get you a new one.” His face reddened. “I don’t mean to presume. But I don’t know if I can live without you this lifetime after having you for such a short time last life.”

I squeezed his hand. “Let’s try that first date first. I feel this pull toward you I can’t explain, but we’ll build up to the soulmate thing. Okay?” I smiled at him.

—

Jason couldn’t help but stare at her. Those eyes, that stunning face. This one, he thought. This smile is my favorite.

[scotianostra]

On 1 October 1788 William Brodie was hanged for theft in the Lawnmarket in front of a crowd that was the largest seen in living memory.

As promised, following on from my post  August 27th, when Brodie went on trial for downfall an armed raid on the excise office in Chessel's Court  on 5th March the same year.

Ironically the upright citizen that Deacon William Brodie once was is said to have proposed an improvement in the old Tolbooth gallows, replacing the old-school ladders, which would have been kicked away from under him,  with a forward-thinking drop mechanism.

“Brodie,” says Traditions of Edinburgh, “was the first who proved the excellence of [the] improvement … He inspected the thing with a professional air, and seemed to view the result of his ingenuity with a smile of satisfaction.”

It was taking on partners that did in the budding master thief; inevitably, someone turned Kings evidence to dodge the gallows himself. The trial itself was notable in this instance due to English law being brought in, probably not for the first time since the Union of 1707, but certainly the first in such a high profile case.

Brodie’s was a celebrity trial. He had been a juryman himself, was a town councillor, and a member of Edinburgh society. The dual nature of Brodie’s life excited many, as it became apparent that he had taken to burglary to finance a gambling habit. His accomplices gave evidence against Brodie, and the case against him was partly circumstantial and partly based on his escape attempt and the discovery of a cache of weapons and keys hidden in Brodie’s house.

Moreover, there was a political element to the trial: the ‘King’s evidence’ (evidence against an accomplice given in return for a pardon) given against Brodie was provided by a former criminal, rendering it inadmissible – the prosecution arranged for a pardon for the criminal under English, not Scottish law. Thus the trial was partially about the issue of who controlled Scottish law.

Brodie’s defence lawyer was a famous advocate, and fashionable people paid to hear him speak in court.. Nevertheless, Brodie was found guilty and hanged in 1788; immediately one of the jury, a bookseller, who had been a council colleague of Brodie’s, published this account of the trial.

It is said his criminal career began in 1768 when he copied keys to a bank door and stole £800. But it was not until more than a decade later that Brodie's crime spree got going properly.

Brodie's father died of in 1782 and the son became a wealthy man. His father left him £10,000 in cash alone, a fortune in those days, plus at least four houses and the business. But by this time his lifestyle was getting very expensive.

He had been a member of The Cape, the most exclusive club in Edinburgh, but over time his interests turned to a disreputable tavern in Fleshmarket Close, which was notorious for late-night drinking and gambling with cards and dice.

He was also keen on gambling on cock fighting. But he wasn’t a good gambler and was soon running up debts he could ill afford to pay. In addition to his gambling, he was also supporting two mistresses and five children. While he ran up debts during the night but his daytime business was thriving.

Things might have turned out differently if, Englishman, George Smith and Brodie had never met. The pair soon became extremely busy targeting businesses and private homes in the Old Town.  Towards the end of 1786 Brodie and Smith robbed a goldsmith's and a tobacconist's.

On Christmas Eve they made off with a major haul from Bruce Brothers, including watches, rings and lockets. Before long they got involved with another two criminals, John Brown and Andrew Ainslie. By the summer of 1787 they had ventured further afield to Leith where they stole tea, a valuable commodity at the time, from a grocer's shop. Shortly after this they stole the ceremonial mace from the University of Edinburgh!  The gang were riding high and decided on their most daring crime yet, the one that would bring it all crashing down and end on the Gallows at The Lawnmarket 6 months later.

For this job, possibly for the first time, the gang were armed with pistols and, also unusually for them, they broke in. They were disturbed and fled with just £16. It was a fiasco and it led to the gang falling out.

Brown was tempted by the reward of £150 being offered for information about a previous robbery and went to the sheriff's clerk to name Ainslie and Smith as the culprits.

When they were arrested Brodie feared the game was up and prepared to flee. He took the stagecoach to London and then a ship to Holland.  But the reward for Brodie's capture led to him being tracked down and discovered as he hid in a cupboard in an inn.

He was returned to Edinburgh where he stood trial with Smith, the proceedings lasted just 21 hours. 

According to the sources of the day a crowd of 40,000 including Brodie's 10 year old daughter Cecile were there to watch as William Brodie  strode out to the gallows in fine clothes and a powdered wig. A fitting end to an extraordinary life.

Or was it? Well according to legend  he had bribed the hangman to ignore a steel collar under his shirt and  he survived the execution through the use of , and lived the rest of his life as an exile in Paris, a slightly different version says that despite the arrangement he made to have his body quickly removed following the hanging, he could not be revived.

There are also several different versions of his burial place, some say Greyfriars, another  thee Parish Church at Buccleuch on Edinburgh’s southside, a third claims a rather vague “Borders”

The name of Deacon Brodie lives on. His story is remembered in the naming of Deacon Brodie's Tavern on Edinburgh's Royal Mile; a cafe opposite the bar, and a New York bar is also named after him. More famously Robert Louis Stevenson's fascination with the story of Deacon Brodie (who had supplied Stevenson's father with furniture) inspired him to write his classic novel: The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

[yostresswritinggirl]

Exiled States The Obvious Pt. 2

Part 1

I dunno what happened, in all honesty (and for clarification), this is not a theory blog/post and serves only as my masterpost of information that I saw and had not seen people talk about much. I would like to thank everyone for taking this into stride and enjoying the post too, as well as engaging in conversation about it!

Without further ado, here is part twooo:

Previous Post Clarifications!

Lots of people got really confused about the Almond Tofu thing so I had to expand to alleviate confusion: The Chinese delicacy Almond Tofu (Annin Tofu) is made up of sweet apricot kernel milk, usually translated to almond milk because apricot kernel is often translated as almond. So it is not tofu but more on a pudding dessert. When I said it is canon almond in game, it's because the game recipe states almond, but of course it could just be that way since we don't have apricots there.

I forgot to reiterate that 6 stars characters can and will exist, and the possibility of special characters without Visions included in that criteria is quite possible hnghngh — thank you to @archonistic for the insight!

Venti is actually part of the original Seven, the way things worded in game and wikis seem to have confused me. But it should be noted that Decarabian was the Anemo archon before him.

For the two nerds who seems to be obsessed with the forgery info (you know who you are), let me emphasize on this piece of text for your wonderful imagination: As it turned out, Venti had once practiced the art of forgery in order to play pranks on the Geo Archon, but would never deceive the god of wealth and transactions. Even so, his adeptness would come into play after several hundred years. A literal scenario.

I now know why there's no estranged relationship between Diluc and Venti. And why the Diluc x Jean ship makes more sense than being cute.

And when I meant that Zhongles was an ADEPTI FUNERAL man, it was meant like so: his job description focuses on "sending off adeptis" through funeral rites. I just realized how my wording confused that from the prevy post.

New Set of Facts!

I will reiterate this again and again until the world knows: Xiao plays the flute. It is his other idle animation. And it may or may not be a xiao (Chinese flute).

Grand Master Varka is one of the reasons Diluc left Ordo Favonius.

Mona works for The Steambird, a newspaper publishing in the Court of Fontaine and distributed around Teyvat, which gives her a steady stream of income.

Dvalin's corruption was due to him mawing the fuck outta Durin's throat, making him ingest the poisonous blood and rest for 100 years. His corruption paired with the Abyss Order's manipulation is what made him Stormterror.

In relation to that, Dvalin knows how to sing courtesy of Venti.

Qiqi forgets... Baizhu's face...?

Adeptal energy seems to be harmful to mortal souls and/or blood on prolonged exposure. With Zhongli, being an adepti and roaming the mortal realm freely, what do we make of this...

Paimon is usually depicted or called elf (Verr Goldet) and Venti was also called of a similar namesake.

If you noticed Childe during his second stage in the Golden House fight, his clothes turn darker and even the silver lining of his gloves turn red, greatly supports one thing: Magical girl-esque clothes transformation is possible and gender equal.

Venti would also fit that if not for the fact that it's his actual God form. Now that's what we call human rights.

Diluc's name is an anagram to Lucid, as Ragnvindr is an anagram to Arvdrgnni. It's not a word, don't overthink this.

They really just made Albedo be the true carrier of the Main Protagonist vibes: brooding and silent, mysterious, carries unknown power that can cause mass destruction, multi-talented, pure genuis, no parents, stalked by an unknown prowess that swears to stop them in the future, pretty boy aesthetic and LOVED BY EVERYONE (with a few outliers). Bye Aether and Lumine.

Kaeya's visible eye resembles that of the Unknown God's.

Speaking of Kaeya, here's a random list of characters with highlights/different tones on their hair: Kaeya, Xiao, Venti, Zhongli.

And here's a list of people brave enough to eat or drink anything willingly: Jean, Childe, Xiangling, Qiqi, Mona, Noelle, Traveler.

Xiao is silently judging Zhongli's boring mortal life and it's so fucking funny.

Voiceline scenario: Xiao mentoring Ganyu? T-this is a ship I didn't know I'd get behind on...

I always thought it was weirdly specific how there's a God of Dust of all things. Until Albedo came along.

X-Xiao,,, eats snow,,????

Childe in the Japanese version of his character Miscellany speaks the words "Dearest sister..." in Russian.

General

My dumbass must have forgotten this but all workers in Wangshu Inn are secretly agents of the Qixing. And that martial arts is a hiring requirement, wtf.

""Angel's Share" actually used to be wine brewers' slang before it was the name of a tavern. The idea was that the air bubbles you see during fermentation carry away the angel's share when they float off into the wind." - From Landa, a Fatui agent; real life accounts just proved this true.

Red Heads in Mond = 'Children' of the Pyro Archon including Venessa and her tribe.

The Lantern Rite Festival is Liyue's very own New Year's Celebration, which will be released in February because China celebrates Lunar New Year in that month. Mondstadt also has a new year tradition called Windbloom Festival! It is however specifically noted that it is not as extravagant as Liyue's Lantern Rite.

Liyue was established exactly 3700 years ago.

There are no... dire drawbacks or destructive international crisis upon the death of a God? Salt didn't disappear, and I'm pretty sure there's still dust in Zhongli's wallet...

Wildcard!

This was the leaked world map but seeing as the game is still under development, this is not indicative of the final product. Not everyone wants to be spoiled so I'll be adding it under the cut instead:

[drwcn]

#9 【Carbon in the Steel】

cql au: everyone is an orphan except wwx; dark!twin jades

The Brothers Lan 

There was once a little house, on the outskirts of a farming village beyond the tiered rice fields south of Meishan, far, far away from Cloud Recesses. Both Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji remembered that house. It was the house Father had built for Mother, and it was there that they were born. 

It sat at the base of a hill where many tall bamboo trees grew, and in the garden, there had been gentians, indigo and violet, that bloomed beautifully every summer. 

Lan Xichen would dream sometimes of that house and of the wonderful days in those early years. 

Father, look! 

Excellent form, A-Huan. Very good. Much improved. Now, remember to keep your balance on your front… 

These days he could no longer recall Father’s face. His voice though, Lan Xichen still remembered as clear as a bell. On the other hand, his brother Wangji did not remember much of Father at all; instead, it was Mother’s smile that he could never forget. 

Mother, can A-Zhan and I stay with you and Father tonight? 

P’ease, Mo’her. 

Lan Xichen remembered hugging his baby brother like a doll and strategically weakening his parents’ resolve using his baby pout and big puppy eyes. A-Zhan was always a trooper, so cooperative, so excellent at looking like a perfect toddler.  Stoic though. So stoic for a baby. What a weird kid. 

We had a bad dream. 

Bad dweam.  

Those were obviously lies. They never had bad dreams then; those would come much later, when their reality became worse than any nightmare they could ever imagine.

Jiujiu never needed to tell them that Mother and Father were dead, or what death was. They’d seen plenty of creatures die: the village’s cattle they butchered for the new year, the spinster's kittens that didn’t survive the winter, and the pheasants they caught and roasted for A-Zhan’s birthday. 

Father had been a lifelong vegetarian, so eating meat didn’t agree with his stomach, but he never enforced such rules on his sons. In fact Father didn’t enforce any rules on his sons, except to show kindness where they could and to be true to their hearts.  

Father probably didn’t anticipate just how difficult it was to be kind when the world had been so wholly unkind. Nor did he anticipate that he would die in such a violent and sudden manner without even so much as a goodbye.

I don’t remember what were the last words Father said to me. Wangji would confess to Xichen one day. I don’t even remember what Father looked like. 

They were by the marsh catching lobsters with jiujiu when it happened. Mother suddenly appeared and spoke words that were foreign and frightening - Gusu Lan, cultivators, siege, pursuit, escape. Go. Now. She didn’t hug them or kiss them. Lan Xichen remembered Wangji reaching up towards her to be picked up and the confusion and heartbreak in his eyes when she pushed him back into jiujiu’s waiting arms.   

A-niang...

At a certain point, jiujiu must’ve done something to them, because neither Wangji nor himself remember any part of their journey out of that village. When they woke up, they were somewhere high up and deep in the mountains. His little brother had looked at him and he had stared back and they both knew then that their parents were dead. Curled in their jiujiu’s arms, they cried themselves into another fitful sleep, and all the while, jiujiu didn’t wake up once, too exhausted by the endless days of travel. 

To them, jiujiu - like all adults - was old, but it was not until they grew up that they realized that Zhao Zhuliu at the time of their parents’ demise had been no more than twenty years old, barely more than a boy himself.  

~

Life with jiujiu was quiet, but after some time, they were able to find a sliver of happiness. 

Zhao Zhuliu was a quiet man, always had been, and that didn’t change just because he now had two young children on his hands. But he loved them, his sister’s only blood left on this earth; by god, he loved them beyond reason. 

Jiujiu was not a talker, but he was never distant, and though he was strict in his training of their cultivation and their swordsmanship, he was never harsh. So yes, life was quiet, but at least for a while there was a roof over their heads and food in their belly, and they never had to wonder where they would be tomorrow…

When jiujiu failed to return from his night-hunt, Lan Xichen knew that something had gone terribly wrong. 

Lan Xichen was the older one; he was thirteen. Practically an adult, he told himself. If jiujiu never came back, then he was just going to have to take care of Wangji. 

Whatever it takes. 

His brother was not a needy child, but when he turned eleven, he seemed to have found his appetite and ate everything Xichen could get his hands on. Fishing was the easiest and hunting a big game lasted them a while if he could preserve it just right, but even if he collected berries in the mountains and wild herbs in the forest, he still needed grains, still needed new clothes for the winter, and still needed oil to light a lamp at night so Wangji could continue to practice his calligraphy. 

He did try; you must know. Lan Xichen did try to do things the right way, but there was only so much money he could earn by book-keeping at a shop, or running errands for merchants, or even waiting tables at an inn. He was a child, and desperate, and nobody would pay him a dime if they could get away with a nickel. 

It didn’t take long for Xichen to learn that the fastest way of earning money was often the most unsavoury and that he wasn’t above reaching for those means. There were no lengths Lan Xichen wouldn’t go to keep his brother safe and happy, no asset within his arsenal of skills and attributes that he wouldn’t hone and weaponize to make himself stronger. He got good at stealing, got great at cheating, and grew accustomed  to killing. Every so often...if there were other offers available, well...Wangji would never need to know. 

Morals do not matter if Wangji went hungry. I can’t let Wangji go hungry.

And, once a year, Lan Xichen would buy a box of osmanthus pastry, like the kind Mother used to make for them - flakey and fragrant, rich but not overwhelming - and he and Wangji would sit together under the stars and finish the box all in one go. 

“Happy birthday, didi.” 

Chewing slowly on the osmanthus pastry, Wangji would smile, and it would all be worth it. 

“Thank you, xiongzhang.” 

~

Then, three years after jiujiu was taken, a startling news broke out over the lands. 

After years of internal strife, the dirty politics of Lanling Jin finally fractured the once glorious reigning sect. Jin Guangshan’s many children and their scheming “little mothers” formed factions and allied themselves with subsidiary sects all vying for control over Lanling’s seat of power. (小娘 xiao’niang = little mother, what one calls one’s mother if one’s mother is not the legal wife. The “real” mother of any children would always be the legal wife, while their birth mothers are ‘little mothers’.)

The details of Jin Guangshan’s demise was not entirely clear, but eventually it was his third son Jin Zitao who became the new Sect Master Jin. Being only eleven years old, it was clear to anyone who had eyes that he was a puppet, completely controlled by the whims of his regent mother, Jin Guangshan’s once favourite concubine, and the ancient respected Qin family who had promised their daughter Qin Su to be his bride once they both come of age. 

People had praised Qin Su’s stepmother, Sect Master Qin’s second wife, for securing such an advantageous marriage for a daughter not even of her own blood, stating that with the Dowager Madame Jin’s clever mind and Sect Master Qin’s seniority and experience, surely the murky pond of Lanling would become peaceful once again. 

The bigger question now was with three of the five major sects being led by minors - Qishan’s 14 year-old Wen Yuefan, Yunmeng’s 13 year-old Jiang Wanyin, and Lanling’s 11 year-old Jin Zitao - who then would become the next Chief Cultivator. Qinghe Nie seemed the most obvious choice at first glance, for they were the fiercest warriors, but given Sect Master Nie Heqiu’s most recent close encounter with yet another qi deviation, it seemed perhaps the real day-to-day leadership role was fulfilled by his first son Nie Mingjue. At seventeen years of age, he was certainly older than his contemporaries, but still a far cry from what was required to be His Excellency.  (温越凡 Wen Yuefan = Wen Qing’s courtesy name) 

Naturally, all eyes were drawn then towards Cloud Recesses, whose previous chance at obtaining the seat of Chief Cultivator had been dashed when its sect master at that time, Qingheng-jun, mysteriously vanished more than a decade ago. Now it seemed that Gusu Lan’s fortune was about to change yet again, when what once should have gone to Lan Cenrong now fell to his younger brother Lan Qiren. 

News of his rise to power had spread far and wide, until every man, woman, and child knew his name. Until Lan Xichen heard from a gossiping bar-keep at a tavern. Until Lan Wangji heard from the children playing on the street. 

One morning Lan Xichen returned to their temporary home to see Wangji sitting in front of the breakfast he’d prepared (when did he learn to cook???) and a purse on the table filled with silver coins and small gold nuggets.

“Wangji...where did you -” 

“I don’t want you to go out at night again, xiongzhang,” said Lan Wangji bluntly. 

Taken aback by Wangji’s tone and his implications, Xichen quickly gathered his wits and tried to maintain control of the conversation. “That doesn’t answer my question; where did you get the money?” 

“I also went out last night, after you assumed I fell asleep and left.”  

Xichen’s blood went cold. “You...went out? Out? In the middle of the night?! To do what?!” 

Lan Wangji’s stoicism did not waver. “What one usually does to get paid at night. What you’ve been doing for years.” 

In three long strides, Lan Xichen strode up to his little brother - his baby brother - and yanked him up by the collar. Grabbing his arms with both hands, he forced Wangji to look him in the eye as he exclaimed in a mad panic, “You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t!!” 

God, Wangji, what have you done, what have you done - how could I let this happen - I should’ve done better - 

Wangji did not blink, but after a long terrible silence, he said, “No. I didn’t. I just followed you. I saw.” 

“You saw…” 

There had been a man who eyed him with interest. Lan Xichen wasn’t looking for business - hadn’t been looking for months - but winter was coming and Wangji was growing so much he would need several new sets of robes. Xichen hadn’t been working as many hours as he’d been previously. He needed to train, to cultivate - they both did - so that one day they could do what needed to be done. The core melting technique was not to be trifled with lightly, jiujiu had warned them. They needed time to practice, to perfect it, time that couldn’t be used to earn income. 

While yes he could steal and yes he could kill, Lan Xichen realized early on that those two options often caught the attention of local authorities or worse the local cultivation sect, especially if his activities were too frequent or too conspicuous. Sometimes it was just easier… 

“The money, then?” 

“Don’t you recognize the purse?” 

Xichen turned around. He did. He did recognize that silk embroidered draw-string purse. It belonged to the man from last night. He had taken money out of it this morning to pay Xichen for his time.  

And when they parted ways, Xichen had gone to a public bath house to get rid of any incriminating evidence on his body before going home to his brother. That was his routine... had been his routine for years… 

“I shoved his body down a well. That should buy us enough time to get out of this town. You weren’t planning for us to stay that long anyway right?” 

“Wangji…Wangji -” Lan Xichen turned away. He couldn’t face his brother, who now knew what he knew. 

“Xiongzhang, don’t do this for me anymore.” Lan Wangji’s hand found his own, squeezing it tightly. 

“It’s - it’s really not a big deal.” Lan Xichen tried to laugh it off. “I don’t do it that often. Really - I am your older brother, it is my duty to -” 

“No. No more. From now on, if you go out, I go out. I’m old enough -” 

“You’re thirteen, a child!” 

“So were you.” 

Lan Xichen closed his eyes. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I know I’m done waiting.” 

Lan Wangji was talking, of course, about their vengeance. It was what they spoke of on most nights when they couldn’t sleep. For mother and father and jiujiu, they swore they would not rest until they razed Cloud Recesses to the ground and burned the core out of every last one of their disciples before slitting their throats.  

Wangji came around to face him again and stared him down with his brows furrowed tightly above bright determined eyes. “It’s not fair. The Chief Cultivator was supposed to be Father! The heir of Gusu Lan is supposed to be you! Instead - instead...”

Tears welled up in his little brother’s eyes. “They hurt you, ge, I saw. I saw.” 

Choking with shame, anger and a pain he couldn’t describe, Lan Xichen pulled Lan Wangji into a crushing hug. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Wangji. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. I’m...” Words failed. As Lan Wangji cried into his chest, Lan Xichen looked up to their leaky roof and their bare, striped walls, and wondered what the ethereal Cloud Recesses would look like. All that should have been theirs, should’ve been his, belonged to someone else. 

Lan Qiren is Chief Cultivator now. He’s still holding jiujiu captive. He needs to die. The people who killed Father and Mother; they all need to die. 

“You’re right, Wangji, you’re right. No more.”

“So you won’t leave at night anymore?” 

“I won’t. The world has taken everything from us, I think it’s time we take what we are owed. Once we are strong, we will save jiujiu and avenge A-die and A-niang.” 

“And if people try to stop us?” 

“Then we will destroy them and anyone else that gets in our way.” 

[d-andilion]

too little, too late

febuwhump day 10: “i’m sorry, i didn’t know”

(geraskier,  hanahaki disease, major character death, posthumous love confessions, hurt/no comfort, 1.5k, ao3 link in notes)

The news reaches Geralt by chance. 

He’s passing through Hagge to resupply before a long trek south. He hadn’t even intended to stay the night, but storm clouds gathered around midday and he got a room with hopes that the worst of it would pass overnight. It’s almost funny. If not for a spontaneous turn of the weather, it may have been months before he found out.

The rain has started by the time Geralt claims a corner table at the back of the inn’s accompanying tavern. It’s crowded by his standards, but there are still a few empty tables. He’s halfway through his second drink when a bard saunters to the front of the room, drawing every eye with his loud garb and ridiculous feathered cap. 

Geralt downs the rest of his ale in a hurry and rises from his seat. The odds of hearing a song about the White Wolf are slim in the grand scheme, but slim is more than zero, and more than enough to drive him from the room. He drops a few coins on the table and makes for the stairs.

The bard clears his throat. “Greetings travelers and good people of Hagge! I am Terant, and my performance this evening shall be an homage to the late bard and poet, Jaskier–a true master of his craft. May his work forever preserve his memory.”

“Get on with it!” someone jeers.

Geralt freezes. His feet, his breath, the beat of his heart, all of it still. Late… his memory… It couldn’t be. There had to be a mistake, some other poet with the same stupid name, it had to be. But then the bard begins to play and there can be no mistaking it. Geralt knows this song, had known it when it was little more than a string of notes hummed to pass the time. 

Someone jostles his shoulder, jolting him back to reality. He catches a few curious pairs of eyes staring and suddenly the room is far too crowded–hot and airless. Geralt abandons his path to the stairs and turns to the exit at a near-jog.

He bursts through the door, startling a pair of incoming patrons, and escapes into the rain. The street is empty so there’s no one to see him lean heavily against the side of the inn and try helplessly to catch his breath.

His own voice echos in his head, cruel and biting, if life could give me one blessing.

He knows he’ll never get to take it back.

~

It’s raining the day Geralt arrives at the estate. It hadn’t ever really stopped between Hagge and here. It’s fitting, he thinks. Jaskier would have said ‘poetic’.

He’s left in an opulent hallway to wait for the Lord and Lady to receive him and he feels like a fish out water among the finery in his only moderately clean garments. He tries to imagine a young Jaskier, little Lord Julian, walking this very hall with a stiff collar and books on his head to mind his posture. No wonder he left this place. Such a life, for all its luxuries, would have been a prison to him, like caging a bird. 

Just before Geralt decides that it’s been too long, that clearly Jaskier’s family intends on sending him away, the same servant who led him inside emerges from the chamber he’d entered and ushers Geralt inside.

The room is even more bedecked than the hall and at a masterfully painted table sit three nobles in fine, colorful clothes–a man and two women. The man looks the spit of Jaskier a few decades aged except for his brown eyes and the younger of the two women is much the same with softer features. She must be his sister. Geralt didn’t know he’d had a sister.

Before anyone can breathe a word, the woman who must be Jaskier’s mother speaks with a voice that commands, “What are you doing here?”

She glares at him with Jaskier’s eyes.

“Mother, please–” his sister tries, but she gets no further.

“How dare you show your face here. You did this! You killed my son!” 

“That’s enough, my dear,” says Lord Pankratz firmly. “He came all this way, we will allow the man to pay his respects.”

Jaskier’s mother doesn’t refute her husband’s decision aloud, but the way she rises from the table, chair screeching against the floor is enough. She leaves the room without a word, pausing only to spit at Geralt’s feet.

His sister is the one to break the long silence that follows. “Apologies for my mother,” she says and the sympathy in her eyes is genuine.

Geralt clears the lump from his throat before he replies. “None necessary. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“You are welcome here for the night,” says Lord Pankratz, “but I think it best that you move on in the morning. My wife’s feelings are shared by many, due to the nature of our son’s death.”

“Sir?” For all Geralt’s attempts to find out, no one had been able to tell him what happened.

Lord Pankratz opens his mouth to answer, but the words don’t come. Geralt prepares himself for all manner of tragedies. It must have been truly gruesome if he can’t even speak of it. The pair of nobles share a knowing look before the sister speaks.

“My brother was afflicted by the curse of flowers. Hanahaki, I believe academics call it.” 

Geralt’s heart drops to his stomach and his stomach to the floor. The curse of flowers was a dreadful way to die, slow and painful. He wonders how he could have missed it for all the years it must have ailed Jaskier before it got this far. And why didn’t he tell him, he could have found him a healer, could have bought him more time, he could have–

His mother. She watched her son choke on bloody petals, watched him drown in unrequited love and she blamed Geralt. ‘You killed my son’, she’d said. He feels the blood drain from his face and a sudden chill envelope him. No. Please, please, no.

“You’ll want to leave your things before you pay your respects,” says Lord Pankratz, ringing a little bell. “Bernard will see you to a chamber.”

All the way to his room, Geralt can only think about how Jaskier must have inherited all the kindness in his heart from his father. A man so generous, he can offer hospitality to his only son’s murderer. 

~

The clouds are still dark and heavy when Geralt leaves for the graveyard, but the rain has stopped. Bernard is kind enough to lead him to the wood behind the estate and show him the path to the family resting place. The path is laid with stone and well-kept, winding through the wood without a single weed encroaching upon it. 

At its end, he finds a small graveyard surrounded by trees and decorated with a dozen or so headstones. But he’s not alone here. By the grave nearest to the path, the one whose dirt is still raised in a mound, stands a woman in a fine dress already staring at him. Jaskier’s mother.

“My lady,” he says with a bow. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“I was just leaving.” She wraps her shawl tighter around herself, but she doesn’t go. “Do you know why I blame you for my son’s death?” she asks instead.

Geralt clenches his jaw and avoids her gaze. He can’t offer her the answer she deserves because saying it would make it true and it can’t be true. Some small, foolish part of him hopes beyond hope that he’s gravely misunderstood and that someone is going to burst in and explain the whole mess away.

She offers him no such respite. “We begged him to send for you,” she says and Geralt holds his breath against the tightening in his chest. “Surely some chance was better than none, we thought. My husband sent riders after you, but you’re a hard man to find. He wouldn’t tell us how to find you. He was so certain it would only sour what time he had left.”

She’s silent for a few moments. Then, “Could you have saved him?”

Geralt looks up at her properly, but any words he may have mustered are lost when he sees her eyes. His eyes. The same shape and indescribably blue, but so much colder than his could ever have been.

“Grief has made me cruel,” she says when Geralt doesn’t reply. “It would bring me some comfort to know that you will suffer the way he suffered. Suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

She turns away and Geralt waits until she disappeared down the path before he lets himself exhale. His breath begins to catch in his chest and he kneels beside the stone. There are flowers carved into it. Buttercups.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I–” His words are worth nothing now, but he stutters through them anyway. Jaskier deserves to know, wherever he is. “I could– I could’ve loved you back.”

Whatever control Geralt had wielded over the past weeks dissolves into nothing. He feels his face twist and his vision blurs. For the first time after Hagge, the first time in a long time, he cries.

~~ more from febuwhump

[chazz-anova]

A Little Bit Of Magic - Chapter 1

Fandom: Far Cry 5

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: Lady Veronica Rook, a wizard turned rogue bounty hunter and part time thief, is approached by one of the King's men on a stormy night to acquire her services. Little does she know, she's setting off on a quest that will change her forever. (Fantasy!AU)

A/N: LITERALLY I saw one picture and that spawned this entire AU lmao, this has been a fun start and I'm excited for the rest of this little mini-series! I hope you all like as well <3

Dancing candlelight casted amorphous shadows on a bare stone wall. In the center of the room, a firepit blazed; warming the bones of weary travelers who sought refuge from a tempest storm brewing outside the walls of the inn.

Barmaids bustled from table to table, bringing stout ale to rowdy patrons. One such patron sat at the short oak bar, nursing a tankard of beer. In front of the customer stood a barkeep who looked rather piqued. “Veronica, every night you sit here and take up space that could be filled by paying customers. Pray tell, what must I do to squeeze some coin from you?” The woman asked, her sunny blonde hair bobbing as she swept a damp rag over the counter.

Across the bar, Veronica looked up from her stein with a smirk as she replied, “You’d just as likely squeeze coin from me as easily as you’d milk a dragon, Mary May. Is there not a special allowance for a friend who’s saved your life twice over?”

“If I’d known your aid would end up costing me damn near a barrel of ale in the long run, I would have gladly thrown myself into the jaws of death!” Mary professed dramatically, a small smile giving her away.

V rose her tankard high, proclaiming “And what you pay in ale, you make back doubly in entertainment!”

With a sigh- the barmaid stashed the rag she’d been holding under the counter. “Well allow me to take my leave, before your entertainment proves to be too much!” Mary May rolled her eyes as she departed to the back storeroom; Veronica always knew how to work her last nerve.

Now left to her own devices, the woman spun in her seat to analyze the other patrons. She hoped with any luck, she could swindle some coin from someone deep in their cups to secure a room for the night. Unfortunately- saving a friend’s life only afforded you free drinks, not free rooms. Having grown up in the streets of the Kingdom of Hope, Veronica trusted her pickpocketing skills; especially in a tavern such as this.

The Splayed Eagle Inn was run by V’s friend, Mary May, and had been her home for the past few months. All types found themselves in this bar, whether they be well-to-do, working class, or a simple ne’er-do-well. Of course- Veronica liked to think she didn’t fit into any of those categories.

Sitting around the main floor of the inn were a few possible targets, and our girl set to sizing up the first; an older man seated in the corner. He wore the garb of the royal guard. His complexion was that of worn leather, and his eyes scanned the room suspiciously. ‘Not a great mark..’ Veronica thought, shifting her gaze to her next person.

The person in question was not a person at all, but rather a dwarf. The short man guzzled beer from his stein greedily, egged on by two more of his kind. Finishing the drink he slammed down his cup and roared in revelry. ‘Though dwarves love gold and these ones would certainly have some coin, perhaps they are a hair too unmanageable for a robbery.’ Considering this, the woman moved down the list.

Just as Veronica was about to size up her next mark, she felt a hand on her shoulder. The blonde turned, expecting to see Mary May had returned to give her more grief. V was surprised to see an unfamiliar face and she immediately went on the defense, shrugging the stranger’s hand off her shoulder. “Can I help you?” Her words dripped with distrust.

The stranger met her eyes with a look of contempt, and V considered grabbing her dagger in case things became dicey. The woman who’d grabbed her shoulder stepped back now, regarding Veronica coldly with dark eyes. She wore a black fur cape with the hood up, obscuring her features, though her greasy black hair hung in matted locks on her shoulders. She lifted her hood to reveal a ghastly scar across her face. “Yes, mage, I do believe you can help me.” The stranger chuckled.

Hearing her true title, Veronica started visibly, but quickly recovered. ‘How does she know? Certainly this wench is no mage, I sense no magic in her! Is she an assassin from the Guild? Gods, Mary May will kill me if I’ve brought such darkness to her doorstep!’ V’s inner monologue was harried, in contrast to her cool voice as she rebuffed, “Mage? Surely you jest! I am but a humble adventurer.”

Spitting at her feet, the woman scoffed. “Save your lies! I already know of you, Lady Veronica, and of your discharge from the Royal Mages Guild. I come seeking your help in regards to your… new vocation.”

“And what would that be?” V continued to be difficult, her tone hostile. She didn’t like how much this woman knew of her.

“Bounty hunting, of course. Or was it not you that the Royal Guard granted a bounty to just a week ago for bringing in one of the Banshee Queen’s sprites?” At this, Veronica’s mouth drew into a thin line. She knew she’d been got. The ravenette shrugged, “I dare not judge, how else is a rogue witch to make any coin these days?” Though she put on a facade of good cheer, something dangerous lurked in her gaze.

A humorless laugh escaped Ronnie and she lifted her chin defiantly, “Even if you speak the truth, why should I help you, hag?”

Smiling cruelly, she retorted “It is not I who requests your service, but your King and country.”

“Well, his Kingly-ness will simply have to bring is ass down here if he truly wants me help!” V laughed, chalking up the woman’s words to a childish prank.

Suddenly- the stranger closed the short distance between them and the mage felt the tip of a blade threatening to pierce her gut. “I would recommend a modicum of respect for King Dutch. As his bodyguard, I may feel inclined to defend his honor.”

Under her breath, Veronica murmured ancient arcane words and a ball of flames appeared in her spread palm near the woman’s head. “And I may feel inclined to worsen your scar if you do not back away.” She growled the threat, feeling a rush of relief when the King’s bodyguard moved away. She would rather not release a fan of fire in her friend’s bar.

Sheathing her dagger, the woman took a breath. “Let us start over. I am Jess Black, bodyguard and right hand to King Dutch Roosevelt.” She gave a stately bow along with her title.

“Well Lady Black, what would you have of me?” V asked, voice laden with suspicion. Though she preferred to seek her own bounties, a requisition from the King was sure to bring decent coin.

As they began to discuss business, Jess took a seat next to Veronica and spoke vaguely. “Our ruler would have you retrieve a package for him, for a hefty reward.” When the mage said nothing, she continued, “I cannot divulge the details- but you will find what you need in the hamlet of Fall’s End with a cleric named Jerome.”

“Am I expected to go forward with such little information?” She shook her head in disbelief, finally finishing her drink.

“You are expected to do as our ruler bids! I have told you all I know.”

Veronica’s brow furrowed as she probed, “Surely his majesty has sent some sort of incentive, if it is truly he who sent you!”

Jess sighed heavily, producing a leather pouch from the folds of her cape. She set it on the bar with a clink, and V grabbed it immediately. “Gods, there must be nearly forty gold here!” She exclaimed, counting it out quickly.

“Our benefactor has put this forward as a downpayment of sorts, with the promise of more once he’s gotten his package. On the condition that you leave immediately.” Jess asserted with a nod.

The blonde eyed the gold hungrily- knowing she was on hard times. “Well if my kingdom needs me, who am I to resist the call? Though surely ‘immediately’ could mean ‘first thing in the morn’, with his Highness’s mercy?”

Putting a hand on the pouch of gold, the ravenette shook her head. “I must insist on your departure this night, King Roosevelt wishes for no delay in your meeting with Jerome.”

For a moment Veronica’s gaze shifted from Jess back to the pouch of gold, but she relented with a sigh. “It will take me a moment to prepare myself, and I shall make haste.”

Jess gave a rare smile, acquiescing “Your speed is most appreciated.” She turned to the back wall of the bar then, wondering aloud, “Where is the damn barkeep?”

With their conversation over and coin now heavy in her pocket, V slipped behind the bar to the back office where she’d stashed her travel pack.

Mary May’s office was small but tidy, featuring a large desk and business ledger. Sitting there was Mary herself, counting out coin into the safe next to the desk. Next to the safe was Veronica’s beige backpack, which May let her stash in the office during business hours. Hearing her footsteps, the blonde turned away from her safe to face V. “Ah, come to retrieve your loot without buying a room to store it in first? You must have gotten yourself a job.”

A smile crossed Veronica’s features, showing pearly white teeth. “You know me well friend, I must be off immediately unfortunately, so it would appear you’ll save some ale tonight yet!” She crossed the threshold into the room, leaning over the other to grab her sack.

“My, it must be an illustrious one to cause you to abandon a perfectly good night of drinking!” She chuckled.

This made the blonde stop a moment as she considered telling her friend the details. Thinking better of it, she instead said, “Nothing so fancy! I should be back in a week at the latest, try not to miss me too much!” Giving Mary May a chuckle., Before Veronica was fully out the door, she leaned back to say quickly “And be sure to give your worst service to the raven-haired patron sitting at the bar!”

V slung her sack across her back, weaving through Mary May’s drunken customers towards the front door. Once she cleared the room, she turned back one last time and saw Jess staring at her as she departed. The look on her face gave her chills.

The heavy door to the Splayed Eagle Inn opened with a prolonged creak, and gave way to a gust of wind that caused the mage to pull her cloak closer around her. She stepped foot into the deluge outside and hustled into the treeline, taking her first steps towards facing an evil she couldn’t begin to imagine.

[first-of-her-nxme]

I’ve been reading your Jaqen is Aegon posts (and I’ve been enjoying them a lot!), and I stumbled upon one where you mentioned Aegon sound like Aragorn. I don’t know how deep you’ve delved into LOTR/Middle Earth in general, but as a longtime Tolkien nerd I feel I should point you to the story of Aegnor and Andreth just in case. Aegnor was an elven prince living in exile, whose name means Fell Fire or Sharp Flame, and who was felled in a battle called the Battle of Sudden Flame. Andreth was a mortal woman, a wise-woman, whose name means Long-suffering. Fanarts of her always reminded me of Lyanna. Might be reaching, but you might find something. This last part is definitely reaching, but Andreth’s father was named Boromir (not the one in LOTR, Boromir from LOTR might’ve been named after him), so. Make of that what you will. Thank you for the breakdowns of the theories :)

Great insight! Thank you! It fits Aegon and Arya too to a degree.

There is foreshadowing of Aegon dying in the sea so I can imagine Arya fulfilling the role of Andreth, outliving her one true love. 

There is also foreshadowing of them getting married and having kids together but if Aegon dies prematurely, like Rhaegar, he won’t see his children. In this scenario their summer would only be a dream of dying Aegon, the imagined afterlife under the sea. Perhaps their story will be turned into a legend and they will sing songs about their love in Westeros and Essos. 

Side note: a song about them has already been written by Rhaegar but I will write another post to explain it. 

When you read the prologue to A Feast for Crows carefully, you will notice that Aegon meets the acolytes of the Citadel in the same fashion Aragorn met the hobbits. Aragorn had been waiting in the shadows of the tavern, watching Frodo and his fellowship. Aegon has been watching Pate and the acolytes though we are not aware of it until the end of the chapter. 

The prologue is written in Pate’s POV. Alleras is celebrating with Pate and their friends. Pate is anxious to meet the Alchemist who has promised him a golden dragon but the man is not coming, Pate thinks the Alchemist made a joke of him. By the end of the chapter, when Pate is heading to the Citadel, the Alchemist/Aegon emerges from the shadows. He’s dressed like Aragorn, in a worn traveler’s cloak with his face half-hidden under the hood.

And he tells Pate that he was there, in the inn, all this time, watching Pate and his fellowship, just like Aragorn was watching the hobbits. Aragorn joined Frodo and the fellowship - Aegon kills Pate and takes his place in the fellowship.

George Martin has also written the riddle of Sphinx which is the riddle of Aegon - the equivalent of the Riddle of Strider. And of course, both of them have many names and hide their identity. Both are long lost heirs. Their girlfriends’s names sound alike, Arwen and Arya. LOTR is about the return of the king and so is ASOIAF. Only LOTR is meant to be uplifting and ASOIAF...it doesn’t seem so.

So, that’s why I compared Aegon to Aragorn.

The prologue ends with the imagery of a dead city. Pate is walking through a ghost-like Oldtown, lit by the rays of the dawning sun. Finally, Pate gets his dragon and wants to share the good news with Rosey. Then, he dies. This is a preview of what will happen in King’s Landing: Aegon will get the throne but he will be the king of the dead city, burnt by dragonfire.

What happens next is foreshadowed in the prologue to A Clash of Kings. Shireen and Patchface are foils for Arya and Aegon - a sad little girl and her fool. Her sad fool - the man who has given up everything for the girl. In this chapter Patchface talks/sings about what happens under the sea as if he was singing about Aegon’s future - death in the sea. The prince who never gets to live a happy life with his beloved. Like you said - quite like Aegnor.

Though we are also informed that Patchface is a sort of undead which is a very interesting option :) In the prologue, GRRM also mentions four roles Renly loved to play: a dragon, a wizard, the rain god, a king. Each of those are only roles for Renly but they are Aegon’s true identity: a dragon prince, a faceless wizard, a king by birth. The rain god implies Aegon’s affiliation with the Drowned God. 

Both, Jon and Aegon, are supposed to be sort of semi-gods.

Jon has characteristics of Lammas the Corn King also called the lightbringer. The Corn King sacrifices himself and dies for the land and, along with the land, is reborn in spring.

The Drowned God or the Rain God was inspired by Freyr, the god of rain and sunshine, of fertility, prosperity and peace. 

If Jon is going to be reborn, perhaps Aegon will survive the drowning. What is dead may never die but rises again harder and stronger.

So far we got three prologues about the North and the Others ( AGOT, ASOS, ADWD ) and two prologues about the Iron Throne ( ACOK, AFFC ). The two latter showed Aegon’s journey in the reversed order: the conquest ( AFFC ) and the aftermath ( ACOK ). The prologue to TWOW should be about the Iron Throne too because the last one was about the North.It will probably offer the clues of what happens after the journey across the sunset sea. 

I apologize for the long reply, I hope I didn’t bore you to death:) And thank you so much for food for thought. I’m so curious if “Boromir’s” prophecy for Arya will come true.

Cheers!

[fea-warriorheart]

Another Life

His heart pounds as he edges around the side of the barn, peeking out into the field beyond. There's no sign of his hunter, yet he's not stupid enough to think he's safe.

He's given odd looks as he sneaks across the gap between the buildings, from people and animals alike. One of the horses gives him an indignant huff as he brushes past, and he's probably lucky there's a fence between them.

He's in a bad spot. His hunter knows it better than him. He has to get to familiar ground before-

"Found you!"

Jaskier shrieks as strong arms wrap around his waist, lifting his feet off the ground. He can hear the smug grin as the boy behind him adds, "Too exposed, lark."

The hands dart down his sides, tickling him while also letting his feet touch the ground once more. Jaskier shrieks again, but there's no fear this time; laughter and mirth sound in every sound as he squirms in the stableboy's hold.

"Geralt! Stop it! I yield!"

A soft laugh comes from behind him, and the arms around him loosen, releasing him. Jaskier turns, face flushed and split with a grin as he takes in the redhead before him. Geralt's a good head taller than him, despite only being two years older. While Jaskier spends his days studying and being proper, Geralt spends his split between helping at the estate stables and learning medicinal practices under the watchful eye of his mother. He's lean from winter, as most of the village is, but there's already muscle starting to build back up on his frame with the scraps of food he's given by a sympathetic cook.

Laughter sparkles in Geralt's fern-colored eyes, a feature many might call dull compared to some of the other shades sported by humanoid races, but Jaskier was of the firm belief it fit him perfectly. Geralt was a child of nature, just like his mother, and it was fitting for such a prominent feature to reflect that.

"Julian! Get back here!"

The brunette grimaced at the sharp tone. Geralt's expression instantly smoothed into the neutral stance most of the servants took when a member of the house approached, let alone one of Jaskier's parents.

His father stalked over, scowling at him. "You're late for your lessons. I shouldn't have to come out here and drag you around. It's disgraceful."

Julian bowed his head slightly. "Yes, father. My apologies."

An iron grip latched on to his upper arm. His father sneered at Geralt as he started dragging him back towards the manor. "Get back to work, brat."

Julian didn't risk glancing back. Geralt would only get in further trouble; he knew his father already disliked the boy for being friendly with him, but kept him around because of his old friendship with Visenna. The woman had been there for Jaskier's birth, as well as his two sister's. Plus, Geralt had a way with the animals that no one could quite explain - or replicate - and it was too much trouble in his father's eyes to find and train a new boy for the job.

Geralt is one of the few good things Julian has in his life. He won't risk him by being stupid.

-

A fierce storm is raging against the windows of the kitchen. Many of the servants are fast asleep, but Jaskier paces the room, worry lines etched into his brow. Geralt is making them both a pot of tea; a messenger had arrived in the early evening, stating that Jaskier's father had been ambushed by bandits and that his location was currently unknown. Despite being reassured by his mother, sleep had not come easy to the young viscount.

Geralt rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts, and offered him a steaming cup. "Sit down," he murmured. "You'll do nothing for no one wearing holes into the floorboards."

He sits with a flop, tracing a finger along the edge of the cup as he waits for it to cool a bit. Geralt sits beside him, something they're only allowed to do in moments like this; moments of solitude in a life full of company. "You know I worry."

"Yes. It's why I knew you would seek me out."

Jaskier glances at him. Geralt's coat is drying by the fire; he'd accompanied the messenger to the manor through the storm, soaking both of them through, and his mother had insisted the poor boy stay the night. He'd taken a place by the kitchen fire to stay out of the way, and had been waiting when Jaskier slipped inside.

With Geralt, Jaskier is able to be... well, Jaskier. He's able to laugh and tell stupid jokes and not care about being proper, but only with Geralt. With all others, he must be Julian Alfred Pankratz.

It's no wonder why he feels drawn to the boy.

He sighs softly, leaning against Geralt. "What if they hurt him?"

"He's a hardy man, you know. This isn't the first time he's had to fight."

"That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."

"I know, lark." Geralt gives him a one-armed hug-squeeze around his shoulders. "He'll be alright. Probably just lost his way in the storm, is all."

Jaskier shrugs miserably, sipping at his tea. They sit in silence for a while; Geralt eventually stands to clean their cups and dry them off. He's placing them back in the cupboard when the door slams open, startling both boys and causing the fire to give a threatening flicker.

Two figures stumble inside; one is unmistakably his father, while the other has broad shoulders and wears a thick cloak, obscuring all but the chestnut beard with gray flecks peppering it. The stranger slams the door shut, bolting it against the wind, and Jaskier's father stands there for a moment, breathing heavily as he takes in the two boys.

The stranger turns, then, and Julian's heart clenches when he sees the Witcher's medallion hanging around his neck. He pulls down the hood of his cloak, golden eyes reflecting the light of the fire. His gaze is on Julian, studying him curiously.

He turns back to Julian's father. "I assume you didn't expect either of them to be here. Which would fulfill your payment."

The man tenses, then shakes his head. "No, I expected my son to be here. He always waits up when I'm late. The stable boy, though- bah. You can take him."

Julian feels his world slow to a halt. When he looks at Geralt, he feels like he's moving through pine resin. The redhead's eyes are wide with shock and fear, and his mouth opens and closes a few times, though no sound leaves him.

"Fine. I doubt I have enough rations to bring both of them with me, anyways." The Witcher turns back to them, crossing his arms. "Your name, boy."

"No!" Julian's voice starts working again, and he stands between them. "You can't take him!"

"Julian," his father hisses, storming over to him and yanking him away. "He claimed the Law of Surprise for saving my life. It must be fulfilled."

"No! He can't take Geralt! Please, father, you can't let him!" Tears burn his eyes. Geralt still isn't moving, still hasn't looked away from the Witcher.

Golden and green gazes snap to them as Julian is backhanded. The Witcher is there in an instant, gripping his father's wrist enough to make the man cry out.

"I don't take kindly to those who would abuse a child for caring for a friend," the Witcher says softly. "Touch him again and lose your hand. Your oath has been fulfilled. Leave us, now."

"Wait." A small voice sounds from the corner where Geralt stands. He's trembling, eyes darting between the Witcher and Julian. "Can I- Can I at least say goodbye?"

Something in the Witcher's face softens, and he steps back, nodding. "Do you have any family?"

"My mother, she lives in the village..."

"You can say farewell to her as well and grab some spare clothes. Make it quick."

The Witcher leans against the fireplace, and Geralt rushes over, wiping at Jaskier's tears with soothing motions. "It's alright, lark. Don't cry... It'll be okay..."

"Geralt... Please, you can't leave me..." Jaskier gripped his shirt, twisting the fabric in his grip. A gentle hand brushes through his hair.

"You know I can't just ignore this, lark... I have to go, but we'll see each other again eventually, yeah...?"

Jaskier sniffles. Geralt lifts his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. He smiles gently, and for the life of him, Jaskier can't help but feel the truth in his words. He nods, even as his bottom lip wobbles. "Yeah."

The Witcher steps in again, a hand on Geralt's shoulder. He hands the boy his coat, and with one last look back, Jaskier's best friend vanishes into the stormy night.

-

He learns in Oxenfurt how few boys survive the Witcher mutations. He does not want to believe it, but part of him mourns his friend. Geralt was strong, but verging on too old for the Trials; his body would be more likely to reject them than to adapt to them. And besides, Geralt was a farmer, a healer, not a monster hunter.

So Jaskier does his best to move on. But there are nights, often dark with storms, where he curls in on himself and wishes things had happened differently.

He graduates Oxenfurt a master of the arts and top of his class, and then he just... wanders. He plays as a bard in taverns and inns, earning enough coin to stay the night and occasionally buy some new clothes. He takes lovers, but never partners; he loves too much and yet too little, flitting from person to person as his very being rejects each and every one.

He's nineteen, playing in some backwater village. The road there had been harrowing; he had been lucky to join a group of merchants at the last town. A nest of monsters - he wasn't sure what, he hadn't paid attention - had been terrorizing most travelers in small groups for weeks. They'd even been so desperate as to put up a notice for a Witcher.

Despite all of the stories, Jaskier hasn't seen another since that night. He's beginning to wonder if they're just a figment of everyone's collective imagination; perhaps the monsters just kill themselves off or migrate elsewhere when the pickings are slim.

He's just finished a song, collecting some meager coin as the door opens. Jaskier is retreating to his table when a hand rests on his shoulder; his mind runs through anyone he might have pissed off. He hasn't been in town long enough to anger any husbands, fathers or brothers, and no one would have followed him through such a dangerous area. So truly, for the life of him, he doesn't know why-

"Lark."

His world goes still in a way that has happened only once before.

He turns slowly. He's no longer a head shorter; his eyes are about level with his nose. His skin is paler than Jaskier remembers, contrasted with dark armor. A wolf's head gleams above it, snarling at his foes, and two swords are visible on his back.

Snow white hair brushes his shoulders, tied back clumsily. Jaskier can't find the strength to breathe as he finally looks him in the eye.

Gone is the green of ferns and grass in the spring; molten gold takes their place, slitted pupils darting in minuscule movements as he searches Jaskier's face. For all the differences, he's still the same boy - still the stable boy Jaskier knew.

He's still...

Jaskier is breathless as he whispers, "Geralt."

A small smile spreads across the boy's - man's, he's twenty, twenty-one now - face. He takes Jaskier's hand in his, squeezing it gently. "I told you I'd see you again."

//An indulgent thing that I came up with out of the blue. Lost steam at the end which is why it sort of trails off, but hey, if anyone's interested in a part two.... (bold presumption, I know.)

[lemondropsssss]

ok so i accidentally posted the wrong version of this first chapter ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ who knows how i managed that, here’s the actual version with like, finished thoughts and shit. this story is on ao3 here

.

The mountain happens.

Words are said in a moment of anger and fear. Terrible words. The Witcher couldn't have hurt him more if he'd used his sword. Jaskier has made Geralt angry before, but this? This was different. This time he means it.

So he walks away.

Doesn’t get the stories from the others. He stops at their campsite and packs up his gear as quickly as he can. He knows there’s a few of his items in Geralt’s pack but he ignores them. Rooting through the man’s belongings with abandon is not something he should be doing anymore.

His ears are ringing and all he can hear is the steady thud of his heartbeat and the beat of his lute on his back as he walks.

His lute. Jaskier stops short and quickly pulls the instrument from its case. Still as beautiful as the day Filavandrel had given it to him, barring one small dent when he’d used the poor girl as club. He’d taken out four of the bandit’s teeth with that blow. Geralt had smiled at him.

Now thinking of that moment brings bile to his mouth, and he retches horribly into the tall grass. The rushing in his ears gets louder and louder. His grip tightens and he can hear the unhappy twang of pressed strings.

He needs to get it away from him as humanly possible so Jaskier grips his lute and flings it far over the mountain side. He doesn't hear it hit the ground, but knows there will be nothing left of it but scrap.

Good.

He keeps walking.

Jaskier is alone, half drunk on lack of sleep and actual drink from his hipflask when it happens. When the last twenty-two years of his life fragments around him.

It's the fucking metalsmith's that triggers it; one second he's ambling down the road in the vague direction of an inn, tavern, or otherwise amenable hayloft. And the next second he's brought to his knees by the smells of worked leather, hot steel, sword oil, and some burnt tang in the air he can't even name. It's distinctly Geralt and it breaks him.

Memories fall around him like shards of glass; cutting his skin until a biting stinging hurt is all he can feel. And when the pieces shatter they dig into him; flaming shards of the last decades burrow deep into him, the hurt taking root in his bones and the soles of his feet. And every piece sounds like...

Shut up, bard

Fuck off, Jaskier

Go away, boy

Why do you never listen?

He wanted you gone

You shouldn’t be here

He doesn’t like you

This is where we part, bard

He wanted to be rid of you

It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling

He’s telling you everything you need to know why don’t you take the hint you stupid useless excuse of a man

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands

For once in your life do as your told

It takes Jaskier three months to get from the dragon mountains to Oxenfurt. Apparently, destroying his main way of generating income isn’t the best idea he’s ever had. It also doesn't help that most of the coin he does find he in turn spends primarily on wine and not say, getting to his destination in a timely fashion.

Cresting the hill, Oxenfurt is just as beautiful as he remembered it. He slogs through the city, thinking wistfully of one of Geralt's more useful talents; scaring other travelers well away meant less time pushing and shoving through people to get anywhere.

When he finally reaches the great carved gates to the University he’s stopped by two guards before he can even think to step closer.

“This entrance is for students, faculty, and the academics. Giving Door is around the back.” The guard gestured over his shoulder towards the back side of the citadel where Jaskier knew there was a free kitchen and a place to get staple supplies run by the University.

“Oh, but I am faculty, good sir,” He says with an easy smile. No need to antagonize the nice men with pointy sticks. “Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your service.” He mimes tipping his cap. The guards are not impressed.

It takes some wheedling, but soon the dean is summoned and Jaskier is recognized and clapped firmly on the shoulder and after just a little too long of the bowing and scraping and speaking of payment and contracts and gods cursed lesson-plans before Jaskier is allowed to retire to his rooms.

The rooms are as he left them, though he suspects that while he was being held captive by the dean someone came in to sweep, dust, and open the windows.

Here he is. Home. Or as much as passes for it anymore. He’d thought that Geralt was his home but- no. No. If he was going to do this and be here, he has to put that fanciful life aside. He has to accept that he doesn’t belong in the worlds of magic inhabited by witchers and sorceresses and powerful princesses. He was a bard. Less than that, he was a bard without an instrument.

Well then.

Time for a change.

The next morning he takes a long bath. His traveler's beard is scruffier than he likes, so he trims and shapes it carefully until he’s satisfied. It's important to look the part. He'd managed to squirrel away a hefty sum over the years, so he goes down to the city on a mission.

He buys new shirts, trousers, doublets, boots, coats, gloves. All in muted earth or jewel tones; burgundies, rusts, indigos, navies, and soft tawny browns. No black. He gets his hair cut shorter, something more fitting a professor at a prodigious university and not some fumbling idiot following a man who clearly doesn’t care for him.

When Jaskier gets home he carefully packs everything from his life with Geralt into a chest. His clothes, cloak, packs, songbook, and some small treasures children had given them as thanks. He grabs the last one, a crudely carved wooden cat. Geralt had been given this by an eight-year-old girl in some backwater village plagued by a nasty band of nekkers. She’d been so proud of her work, even Geralt couldn’t be a grouch to her. He puts that figurine back on the mantle, shuts the chest, and pushes it under the bed.

Slowly, he dresses in his new wardrobe. Shaking fingers struggle with new buttons, but he manages the shirt and half of the doublet. Trousers next, then boots. And finally, after an age of adjusting seams and doing then redoing buttons, he meets his eye in the floor length mirror.

The man before him is in his early forties. He's handsome, with a wide smile and bright blue eyes. Lightly built, but corded with muscles built over years on the road. A few streaks of grey swirl in his hair. He’s fit, almost six foot tall. Dark blue peeks from under his high necked burgundy doublet. Dressed like this, he looks like a professor and not some damned fool.

“Well then,” His voice is rough, even to his own ears. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” Saying it aloud made his breath catch, his stomach roll, but he stood firm. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” That felt marginally better. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” Hardly any wobble to his voice at all that time. “Jaskier the Bard died on a mountain top, far from home and very alone.” Deep breath.

“My name is Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

[ecccentrick]

Jaskier Should Really Listen to Geralt

Pt. 1 if anyone wants more?

Tw: referenced child death, something that can be construed as becoming noncon, but nothing graphic.

The sun was just sinking when they came across a hamlet. It was so small that it didn’t have a proper name, but big enough to have a notice board that announced grievances and inquiries from all the surrounding civilization. 

Geralt went directly towards the said notice board, leading Roach by her reins as the street was too small to safely ride through without trampling one of the villagers. At this point, Jaskier hadn’t a care whether villagers got squashed, his feet ached so. He glared half-hardheartedly at the back of Geralt’s big head, counting the horrid tangles in his hair to pass the time. 

"Geralt! This hamlet hasn’t even a true tavern! How am I supposed to make coin if there isn’t even a place to drink?”

Without turning around, Geralt said, “So you admit it?”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose, something he only truly did in Geralt’s presence, since he didn’t want to develop fine lines, nor draw attention to the very few that were already there. 

“Admit what?”

“That drink has to loosen pockets for you to get any coin.”

“Ah-wha- G-GERALT!” Jaskier sputtered. So distracted was he, that his boots found a puddle, splashing mud all up his new trousers. 

He already hated this cursed town.

--

Turned out that the hamlet housed more people than previously thought; or at least it had, before the attacks. 

“We just don’t know what to do,” cried one villager, her blonde hair coming free from her bun. She looked to be in middle years, despite having been the parent of a small child. But, then again, tragedy aged folks, Jaskier had found. 

“Tell me all you can,” Geralt said, for what had to be the third time. The woman was in hysterics, not that anyone could blame her. She had just lost a child. 

“Well, we’s find them -- the bodies, sir witcher, that is -- in the roads or the fields. They’s seem unharmed, but for a bite or two, barely any blood around. Like whatever’s come taken their life for sport. We’s almost feel better if they’s been taken for food, so as not much of a waste,” said the alderman, an arm around the grieving woman. It did nothing to console her, her body wracked with sobs. “Wish wha’ever this beast is, it’d spare the youngin’s and take us old folk.”

Jaskier felt a little awkward that he was still there, but they had accosted Geralt before he even had the chance to completely read the notices on the board. So, taking his chance, he sidled up a little closer, trying to hear all the details. 

“What did the bodies look like? Have you buried them all?”

The woman wept even harder, but managed to say, “No, our girl was just found this mornin’. You can go -- go have a look. If...If you think it wise, sir witcher.” 

Geralt nodded before looking to Jaskier. Well, that was his queue to leave. He didn’t want to see a child’s dead body, anyhow. The poor thing.

--

Jaskier made himself at home at the only inn in the hamlet. Calling it an inn was generous, as it had two rooms and a cot that could be used in the kitchen. At least it had a few stools and a table in the main room, and served watered down ale.

It felt too somber for him to play anything, so he sat down at the only table and ate dinner, sipping at the surprisingly good ale. He’d have to make sure Geralt had some before they left, which could take some time, apparently. The beast was eluding the witcher, of course, but for the first time that Jaskier can remember, Geralt didn’t know what it was, exactly. He had his suspicions, Jaskier could tell, but he wouldn’t speak of them. 

The witcher looked grumpier than usual when he left, with a warning for Jaskier to, under no circumstances, to leave the inn during the night. The beast only attacked at night, and Jaskier was to have zero dalliances that night. Jaskier snorted. If only the witcher knew that there hadn’t been many dalliances of late. And may he never know the reason why.

It was getting late when Jaskier decided he needed to get some sleep, the full moon illuminating the inn so brightly that there was hardly any need for torches and lanterns, when a man sat across from him, two mugs of ale in his hands. 

“Care for a drink?” the fellow asked. 

Jaskier examined the man. He was around the bard’s age (which shall never be fully confirmed) with bright red hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He had a smirk on his face that didn’t quite sit well with Jaskier, but he was attractive enough for him to take the free drink. 

“You come with the witcher?” the man asked, taking a sip from his cup.

“I did. I am his bard, the great Jaskier, top graduate of Oxenfurt Academy. Perhaps you’ve heard a few of my songs? A ballad or two?”

The man nodded. “Heard your song about coins and witchers. Mighty catchy. Say, is your witcher truly as noble as you claim?”

Jaskier’s leg began to bounce in excitement. Finally! Someone who wanted to hear his opinions, and about his favorite topic at that!

They talked for a long while, Jaskier catching and hitting all of his queues. The man soon reached across and sat his hand on the bard’s knee, slowly sliding up to his thigh. A zing of another type of excitement went through him, and any rules set upon him flew out the window. Besides, he wouldn't be leaving the inn, so no rules would be broken.

“Want to go upstairs?”

The stranger nodded. “Thought you’d never ask.”

--

Now. Jaskier is aware that, when it comes to men, he has a type. He can (mostly) admit it. They have to be big, and burly, and able to throw him over their shoulder, or perhaps toss him here and there, just a bit. 

The red head didn’t quite fit this standard. He was more on the lithe side, and his hair was cut close to his head. But he smelt clean, was a little taller than Jaskier, and still on the broader side. Beggars can’t be choosers, and all that.

Jaskier quickly rid himself of his doublet and chemise, neatly folding them on the provided chest. The other man followed his example, and was soon down to his smalls. 

Sitting on the bed, Jaskier laid onto his back. “Hm, now how does the handsome man want me?”

The red head smirked, like he enjoyed looking down on the bard. A trickle of trepidation slithered up Jaskier’s spine.

“You sure I won’t be intruding on another man’s property?”

“I’m no one’s property,” Jaskier said, “Least of all Geralt’s. Are we going to get on with it, then, hm?”

The man complied, trailing his large hands down Jaskier’s chest, avoiding his nipples, before resting firmly on his stomach. He stood at the edge of the bed, over Jaskier, and went still. Inhumanly still. He stared straight into the bard’s eyes, eyes preternaturally hungry. 

Jaskier fidgeted, making as though to get up. The red head’s hand now felt like steel as he pushed him down, pinning him in place. 

Now, Jaskier was not one to kink shame, or shame others in general, but the look in the man’s eyes was not of lust, nor even depraved want. He was looking at Jaskier like he was a five course meal. 

“Why is it that you smell so youthful?” the man finally said, breaking the silence. 

Jaskier laughed awkwardly, trying not to be flattered in spite of the situation. “I’m forever young at heart, I suppose?”

The man hummed, leaning forward, nosing at Jaskier’s neck. He felt himself getting slightly aroused despite the fact that the way the man lingered was not erotic in the slightest, more akin to trying to find the best place to take the first blissful, sweet bite. 

It was then that Jaskier realized that Geralt would not find the monster anywhere under the full moon. It was right there, in the room with him. And it’s next victim was going to be Jaskier. 

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The Ideal Function of an Adaptation: How Treasure Planet Did it Right.

An adaptation is a valuable storytelling platform, since it exists to tell the same story with similar characters, while giving authors and directors plenty of room to place a new creative perspective to its source material. This ideal is wholly separate from the concept of a sequel, given that the world and characters are able to be played with more while remaining consistent within its own canon. Adaptations and remakes both should be treated like AUs, criticized only by their own flaws and and inconsitincies, only compared to the original or its predecessors when its execution of similar concepts is demonstrably inferior. i.e. The Lion King, Mulan, BBC’s Chronicles of Narnia, Beauty and the Beast, Gnomeo and Juliet, etc..

With all that established, I’d like to propose a few questions. At what point is an adaptation so removed from the original source material that it might as well be its own standalone story, wholly separating it and letting it stand on its own two legs? Why are some adaptations considered love letters to their source material while others are mocked relentlessly for their imbecillic and shallow attempts at repairing what wasn’t even broken?

To provide an existing story as an example of what I see as the perfect adaptation, allow me to discuss the underappreciated passion project of Ron Clements and John Musker:

Yes, I am 100% serious.

And I will be admitting upfront that this comes from a possibly biased perspective, since I truly believe that Treasure Planet is objectively one of the best adaptations that has ever been produced. I am wholly open for this take to be criticized from an analytical perspective, and I invite discussion openly. But before we go there, let me state my case.

First off, the plot. Treasure Island is a tried and true tale of intrigue, espionage and adventure: A young boy named Jim Hawkins is raised in a fatherless home by a mother who works tirelessly running her own tavern, and he encounters an aged sailor who passes on a treasure map of immensevalue before his untimely death. This puts Jim through a series of trials as pirates ransack and destroy his home in search of the map, leaving him desparate to find the means to rebuild the inn and provide for his mother. Jim joins on an expidition financed by a wealthy friend in the hopes of finding a trove buried by the notoriously murderous priate Captain Flint, only to be put under the supervision of the ship’s cook due to his general lack of nautical value. The hired mercenary crew eventually reveal themselves to be the same band of cutthroats that raided the inn, with the cook- Long John Silver -as their ruthless captain. This forces Jim and those close to him to band together and find ways to outsmart and survive their cunning enemies, with the additional conflict of Silver taking a shining to the boy and not wanting any harm to come to him. This element of the story remains primarily unchanged from the book to the animated film, it’s where the changes come into play that the remake really shines.

Now the changes to the setting that Clements and Musker put in effect are fairly obvious: instead of taking place on Earth in the 18th century, and structured as wholly believable to have happened in our own history, Treasure Planet takes place in a separate universe entirely. A world where what we know as space is referred to as the Etherium, united and traveled through with a series of interconnected currents of breathable air inhabited by planetary bodies and lifeforms unique to the vast abyss. A universe home to countless distinct sapient lifeforms, all beautiful and grotesque in their own ways, forming a distinct culture around space travel that is similar to the 18th centure culture around seafaring in a manner than makes perfect sense.

This setting is brilliant, not only through how objectively well crafted to its intended purpose it is, but additionally because through my personal perspective this is an unmatched example of how drastically a setting can be changed and altered while facilitating the exact same story. It is inspiring and encouraging to realize how much care and creativity can be poured into your own worlds, helping to separate your vision for the story as unique without forcing in cultural ideals that will be dated in as little as a decade. If nothing else, it feels equally as alive and believable as the original book through intentionally placing itself in a distinct setting, and displaying just how much logical thought was applied to their creative drive to hammer it into a very valuable retelling.

Secondly, and perhaps slightly less obviously, is the changes to the characters. Instead of being a child haphazardly wisked into an adventure, Jim is changed into a restless and rebellious delinquint struggling to find his place in a fatherless home after his father takes off. It isn’t childlike wonder that whisks him away, it’s a mix of nostalgic hope from the stories he was told as a kid and a need to fix his broken life. In his own words, ‘a chance to make things right.’

Long John Silver initially was represented as a mentor for Jim, akin to a teacher-student relationship. At a stretch it could be comparable to a sibling-like bond, though that requires a lot of stretching and isn’t properly supported by the book. The animated feature’s Mr. Silver, however, serves as a replacement father figure for Jim; taking a shining to the boy as he recognizes the restless spirit inside Jim, and experiences several moments of letting his guard down around the young man to offer genuine encouragement and guidance. These small changes enhance the dynamic relationship between Silver and Jim, adding more depth and weight to what was originally already a weighty story of betrayal.

The characters of Dr. Livesy and Squire Trelawney are discarded for the most part, but functionally replaced by the old family friend Dr. Delbert Doppler; an eccentric but intelligent, brave and caring astrophysicyst. This same principle is applied with Mr. Arrow and Captain Smollet, who themselves are reimagined and replaced respectively as Mr. Arrow and Captain Amelia; a sturdy and loyal companion and a cocky, confident, courageous and calculating commander.

The entire cast is a beautiful example of keeping the narrative similar in tone and execution while seamlessly exchanging old characters with new ones, or reinventing classic characters in ways that still hold true to their cores. It’s so competently made from every angle. Amelia wasn’t put in command for the sole purpose of arbitrarily having a strong female character, unlike worryingly large number of more recent female protagonists. She legitimately demonstrates the type of character and skillset that would land her that position, acting less like a puppet and more like a living person. Dr. Doppler isn’t exclusively eccentric and naive, but also resourceful and rational when push comes to shove. B.E.N., while on surface level is only there to provide laughs for the kids, is a key worldbuilding aspect that takes both the audience and the characters by complete surprise in a manner that fits within the constructed world and narrative.

To summarize: This adaptation has the exact same plot placed in a reimagined setting, with adjusted classic characters and well-implimented original characters, all conveyed with intelligent writing and consistent worldbuilding. It sets up its rules, characters, and goals, following through with all of them while providing natural emotional and practical conflict through clear cause and effect. It’s logical, concise, emotionally resonant, and structurally sound; all while being a project of love and labor from two of Disney’s most influencial and talented creative minds.

Now it should be stated that the setting and characters don’t need to be changed so dramatically in order for an adaptation to be good, but if you’re passionate enough about a story to adapt it I’d assert that you are required to not only try and polish the tangible flaws of the original- writing, dialogue, worldbuilding or otherwise -but place your own creative spin on it too.

And above all else, any story needs to be structurally sound, internally consistent, and objectively well-crafted.