#gale keeps saying the most cringe things

[ionomycin]

My Baldur's Gate 3 tieflings, transmutation wizard Lumi and life cleric Primrose. I have been entirely obsessed with the game...

[bloodiedrogue]

DELIVERANCE, DELIVER ME (13)

SUMMARY: You and the party finally discover what Ketheric (and company) are up to.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 3,770

WARNINGS: Spoilers for Act 2, so much angst (I'm sorry), canon typical violence, (sort of) major character death.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'd like to apologize for posting this chapter and then taking two weeks off. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

-

It’s an uphill battle for a while. As the minutes turn to hours and the hours quickly become what ends up being a day and a half of solid movement, you finally find yourself deep within the belly of the Illithid colony.

Gripping tightly onto the blade that resides in your hand, you can feel the membrane floor beneath your tired feet squelch as you creep further in, threatening to trip you with the way it gives each time you step to follow Wyll. 

Directly in front of you, you watch as he instructs both Lae’zel and Gale to keep a close watch from behind while the rest of you continue exploring. “We have to be getting close by now,” he grumbles. Then, he motions you and Karlach to move ahead, making you sigh.

You’re a bit scared to admit it but you’re almost too exhausted to continue. After countless battles won against various foes, you’re at the point of barely being able to see straight. Against the dimness of your surroundings, your eyes feel heavier with each passing step, threatening to close as you walk through the tissued door ahead, hearing Karlach hum.

“It’s all clear,” she says, lowering her axe. As she does, you drop your knife and raise a hand to rub your eye, emitting a low yawn just as some devourers rush across your half-obscured vision, shifting your attention to watch a grouping of them scuffle around your feet. 

“You know what? They’re honestly kind of cute, don’t you think?”

You blink at Karlach who’s ogling at one of the stragglers, lowering her body slightly downwards to give the brain a good pet before it squeaks in response and dashes away. 

“You think a brain with legs is cute?” 

Now at your side, Shadowheart scowls at the same creature, shaking her head while the rest of the group merely looks around, surveying the area further.

Unsurprisingly, it looks like every other section you’ve found yourselves in. Covered head to two in bodily innards, thick strands of membrane hang from the walls, dangling wetly above your heads, making you cringe as the group continues to speak. 

“I mean, yeah, look at their little feet! You can’t tell me that’s not the most adorable thing you’ve seen all day!”

“I very well can.”

Next to Shadowheart, Gale smiles at Karlach. “They’re rather interesting specimens… in their own way. A bit easy on the eyes but I supposed I can understand the appeal.” 

Shadowheart rolls her eyes then, causing Lae’zel to snort before telling everyone to focus. “We mustn’t allow any distractions,” she says. "We must focus on Ketheric Thorm and his inevitable death.” 

“Possible inevitable death,” Astarion corrects with a smirk.

At that point, Wyll gives him a questionable look, prompting the rest of the group to follow his gaze, watching Astarion respond with a shrug. 

“What? He might be useful.” 

This time you snort, shaking your head as the group of you come up to another fleshy door, watching it tear open at your arrival to reveal another similar-looking room.

Upon entering, it becomes clear then that there's a long road ahead of you. Another lengthy journey of walking and fighting and whatever else it is you manage to do through the exhaustive stupors you’ve been experiencing. Almost immediately, just the thought alone makes you want to flop onto the ground, regardless of how disgusting it is. To curl up in a ball and have a good cry, realizing just how stressed you are. 

Having been in constant fight or flight, you can feel the mask of bravery you often wear begin to slip. The closer you get to where you know you’ll meet your hardest fight thus far, the less poised you become. You can tell Astarion notices this by the time you’ve found Mizora. As she and Wyll exchange a few choice words with one another, you can feel him watching you fade. Staring far too intently at the way you shove your gloved knuckles into the base of your eyes, emitting a quiet groan in response. 

It’s obvious then that he’s worried. His face shifts anxiously each time you so much as close your eyes after that, watching with caution as you drift alongside everyone else, your mind not all there. 

By the time you make it to the platform that’ll inevitably lead you to Ketheric, you feel his hand on your arm, loosely gripping the leather of your armour until you turn to face him, blinking through the haze. 

“You’re exhausted,” he points out. And even though it’s obvious you still shake your head in response, offering a tired smile as you continue to blink. 

“I’m fine.”

He looks at you angrily before turning to the others who are already busily coming up with a plan, chaotically bouncing off one another until Astarion clears his throat and motions toward you. 

“She can’t fight,” he says simply. “Not unless we rest.”

You open your mouth in annoyance only to close it over a yawn that pushes through, prompting Astarion’s face to transition into a smug expression as he huffs. 

“We don’t have time to rest,” Lae’zel says, causing both Wyll and Shadowheart to awkwardly glance at one another, realizing she’s right. 

It’s only a matter of time before things get worse. Considering how long you’ve spent wandering the halls of the colony, you know Ketheric’s already well onto the road of recovering from your last encounter. 

Thanks to his endless amounts of resources, he’s probably already up and ready to maim every single one of you without so much as batting an eye, and because of this, you merely shake your head and brush Astarion away, telling him you’re fine. That you just need a little water —maybe a health potion or two and you’ll be good as new. 

You can tell by the hurt expression that takes over his face that he doesn’t believe you. That your poorly produced lie has fallen on deaf ears, further spurring the confusion in his eyes as he watches you pull a flask out of your pack and begin to drink. Swallowing hard, you avoid his gaze then, moving to focus it on the area below.

Illuminating in a pale green light, the area calls to you —commanding you to descend as your tadpole violently wiggles behind your eye. 

Groaning through it, you raise a hand to your temple and tightly shut your eyes, hearing Astarion swear under his breath before the feeling quickly surpasses, leaving you fearful as you glance around the party, realizing they felt it too. 

“We must continue now before it’s too late,” Lae’zel says then. Through clenched teeth she clicks her tongue and moves towards the apparatus, turning to face the rest of the group once she’s directly in front of it. “Do you need healing?”

You almost shake your head, but before you can Astarion’s already grabbing your wrist and setting a potion into your open hand, glaring with narrowed eyes. “Take it,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the neck of the bottle. “And don’t argue —the last thing I want is to have you dying in my arms.” 

He mutters it low enough so that only you can hear, making you roll your eyes through a hidden grin, obeying his command. 

“Fine. But only because I love you.”

Unlike him, your words are loud enough for the rest of the team to hear, prompting Astarion to clear his throat and turn away when Karlach loudly gasps in response, causing a quick moment of uproar before Shadowheart shuts it down.

Glancing playfully at Astarion as you continue to sip the potion, you can tell he’s thankful for the subject change. Considering all the feelings between you are still a bit fresh, it’s obvious he’s nervous —cautious in the revealing of your private partnership. 

It doesn’t bother you in the slightest. In fact, you completely understand his reservations, knowing the severity of everything happening. With Ketheric and the Absolute and all the other issues that seem to cross your path each time you so much as blink, it’s probably best you keep your feelings a bit closer to your chest. To keep him safe in the confines of your yearning chest. 

Because of this, instead of teasing him like you’re tempted to do, you merely mouth out a silent sorry, love before brushing past to join Lae’zel on the platform, watching him hide a grin of his own as he and the others follow behind.

Once you’re all on and accounted for, Lae’zel then triggers the apparatus to begin its descent, causing your frame to roughly shift and stumble back, catching Astarion’s arm in the process.

“Falling all over again, are we?”

You give him a narrow-eyed look and peel your hand away, forcing back a smile of your own just as Wyll begins to formulate a plan. One that involves a lot of careful preparation, prompting everyone to listen as he discusses who should get up close versus attack from afar. 

“Gale and Astarion, keep your distance,” he begins, motioning to both of them. “Flank from the sides or above —whatever you like. Just keep yourselves hidden until I say otherwise.” 

Both of them nod in agreement as Wyll continues to speak, telling Lae’zel and Karlach to rush into the thick of things while the rest of you sit somewhere in the middle so that you can jump back and forth if need be. 

Overall, it’s a simple formation. One that you’ve used countless times over the last few weeks, making it easy to follow. And because of this, there’s an immediate wave of optimism that surrounds your senses once you step off the platform and move into Ketheric’s domain, sneaking through the membrane that shields you from his gaze.

Once there, all of you crowd towards the ground to watch him pace across an entirely different platform. Slightly above, you can hear him sigh and groan, his footsteps echoing until they’re suddenly stagnant and an unfamiliar voice begins to speak. 

“You said it was under control.” 

The voice is calm —low and calculated. Narrowing your eyes, you slide around the structure that hides you, taking a few hurried steps towards another so that you can see the voice’s face, noticing there are others. 

Two men and a woman join Ketheric in discussion. Beneath the woman, one of the others sits crouched and helpless, eyes desperately shutting as she sits on his back, playing with the knife in her hands. Beside her, the other man talks to Ketheric as if he’s above him, speaking of their failed plan —of you and the rest of your party and how Ketheric’s new plan was to lead you down here. 

Upon hearing this, you glance at Wyll who’s clenching his jaw and moving forward, prompting Karlach to pull him right back with a shake of her head. At that point, you remember then that the man practically folded into the ground is unfortunately his father, Ulder. A man he hasn’t seen for quite some time thanks to Mizora and his inevitable banishment. Realizing this, you frown but look back over, watching Ketheric’s fist fly into the air just as the woman’s blade stops at his neck, prompting everyone to stand down despite the tension. 

After that, you can hear a fit of laughter push through the woman’s voice. As she repeats the word again almost manically, pulling her knife away from Ketheric’s throat, she then talks of Baldur’s Grave. How Ketheric must lead some sort of murder march to it.  

It’s a strange sentence. The kind that has you narrowing your eyes, trying your best to focus on the conversation further in order to understand her words as they continue their back and forth, speaking of a weapon before informing Ketheric of their dwindling patience. 

“Orin and I can wait for you no longer,” the dark-haired man says. “The plan proceeds —we’re going to the city, and we expect you to follow— army and weapon in tow.”

None of you are entirely sure what he means. At least, not until he’s moving towards the edge of the platform, raising his hand to reveal a gleaming stone as he calls the edict of Bane. At which point, you share a worried look with Astarion. Both of your throats swallowing hard as the woman then calls for the lash of Bhaal, triggering an eruption beneath you. 

Gripping onto the structure that resides in front of you, you feel the ground begin to shake. At first, it’s rough, tossing you around a bit but quickly it settles once the presence of a tentacle rips through the water, crashing just a few feet away. 

As it happens, your breath catches in your throat. Failing to exit, it sits tight against your vocal cords like an enemy's hand, threatening to suffocate you as a large brain begins to ascend amongst the waves, pulsating disgustingly. 

Cringing at the sight, you take note of Ketheric as he joins the duo, calling forth the testament of Myrkul, triggering a different voice inside your head. 

It’s the same voice you’ve been hearing throughout your journey. The voice that initially saved you through the wreckage. The one that’s been entering your dreams unannounced and feeding your information. As your tadpole twitches enthusiastically, you can hear it loud and clear, informing you that the creature that continues to rise through the air is in fact an elder brain. A creature so powerful and cruel that, upon discovery, you visibly shudder at the thought of what it’s capable of. 

Well, this obviously wasn’t what I expected.

Without hesitation, Astarion’s voice clears away the rest of your thoughts, pulling you back to look at him jerk his head towards the enemy, noticing the woman grip Ulder’s head, granting the elder brain’s tentacle enough access to shove a tadpole in his eye.

As it happens, you cringe at the sight, remembering your own experience as the two men continue to discuss the details of their shared plot. About how Ketheric’s meant to attack the city so that the other man, the supposed hero, can save it.

It’s a simple plot. One that you know will be convincing enough considering the state everyone’s in. Based solely on your experiences throughout your travels, it’s obvious that everyone can feel it coming. The shift they’ve been weaving behind closed doors. 

Wherever you’ve found yourselves the tensions have felt higher than they need to be. Difficult to navigate thanks to the wariness of the Absolute and its ever-growing presence. Normally, people refuse to trust you on instinct but lately, they’ve been borderline hostile, attacking you without much reason —forcing you to fight when all you want is peace.

It’s why, by the end of the discussion after everyone but Ketheric seemingly disappears into thin air, the breath you were previously holding stumbles out like a gasp. Forcing you further down towards the ground, you run a hand down your face as it happens, realizing then just how big this has become. How, despite knowing that the Absolute was already dangerous, the last thing you expected was a shared plot between the harbingers of death and chaos itself.

Suddenly breathing hard, you discard the act of hiding to rush over to Wyll, placing a hand on his shoulder for support, watching him scowl at Ketheric who finally clues into your presence.

“There you are.”

Like all the other times you’ve spoken to him, you notice the eerie amount of calm that radiates through his voice. As if he already knows how this will end. Annoyingly, it manages to send a shiver down your spine as he begins to clue you in on everything you’ve missed. About his God and their deal —about Gortash and Orin and their shared plot to grow and take over the Absolute all in exchange for his daughter’s life. 

In the moment, it’s a lot to take in. The idea that these Gods have essentially been working together. But quickly you snap out of the shock, forcing yourself to listen to his threats —to hear him talk of how he’ll kill you and then raise you as his undead servants.

As soon as he finishes there’s a moment of silence before Lae’zel attempts to take the first swing. With her longsword, she leaps and strikes the edge of Ketheric’s abdomen, angrily scraping away the armour with a hearty scream that triggers the rest of you to move. Seemingly all at once, you all then scatter into position, watching Gale and Astarion begin to strike the undead soldiers that rise from the earth on opposite ends while you and Shadowheart move towards the middle, using magic to do the same. 

“It’s no use, True Soul,” Ketheric taunts then, dodging Karlach’s swinging axe with a snort before he swings his sword right back, catching her in the arm. 

As she cries out in pain, Wyll slices through an undead’s skull before turning his attention to the injured tiefling, immediately rushing to her aid.

After that, all of you fall into the same rhythm. When one of you is struck there’s an instant urgency that takes place, causing whoever’s closest to help the other before you relocate and reset. 

Because of this, it takes a while to weaken Ketheric’s defences. To strike him down hard enough so that his power begins to dwindle. So much so that by the time you’ve regained your focus after helping Wyll up a second time, you finally notice the reason you were sent to the mausoleum in the first place.

Struggling against conjured shackles, Aylin, the woman you met deep within Shar’s domain —the one who attempted to help the first time you fought Ketheric— now stands, calling your attention, screaming for you to release her so that she can help. 

Without even thinking you nod your head and rush to her aid, narrowly avoiding an arrow that whizzes by your face along the way. Panting through the exhaustion, you move as quickly as possible, forcing your body to climb up a ladder of flesh, ignoring the ooze that slips through your fingers. 

Once upright, you continue moving towards her, watching her struggle against the bonds through gritted teeth, begging you to help. 

Drawing your sword you begin to hack at the magic upon her request, groaning with each strike until you can see it cracking under the pressure. Breaking down bit by bit until—

You see the blade before you feel it. The way it angles down from your left shoulder into the air in front of you. Narrowing your eyes, it takes a moment, but not long after you notice the blood, you finally feel the shooting pain of your injury. How it spreads like wildfire throughout your torso, threatening to stop your lungs.

Shakily, you crane your neck to see the undead soldier loom carelessly above you. Somehow its hand is still locked tightly on the handle of the blade as you begin your descent to the ground, gasping for air just as Aylin breaks free and immediately kills it, saying something you don’t quite hear as it happens. 

Despite not being able to make out her exact words you can tell they’re angry. Loud and irritated as she motions toward your body, making you groan. Making you realize that despite wanting more than anything to live, your eyes are slowly closing.

After that all you do is feel and hear, struggling to process. 

Because without your eyesight, it’s as if everything else has been sorely amplified. Within your chest, the only thing you can feel is the blooming of your blood coating you in a heavy ache. The way it warms your skin beneath the already-heated leather of your clothes. As you lay there covered in it, you feel it bubble up your throat, obstructing every lick of air that fights towards the surface, causing you to gag. To fearfully reach for your throat as your ears begin to ring, reminding you it’s time. 

You can’t fight it anymore. 

As much as you want to, the injury is too severe to remedy with the lack of resources you and your party have. Despite wanting to live, even when you feel those familiar hands pull you into a tight embrace, clutching your face with those cooling hands, you know that you're done. That your time here has finished and there’s nothing more you can do about it except hope that it meant something.

Feeling your body shake against the one that holds you, you hear a garbled sound of despair. A sob so visceral it only serves to further rip right through your chest, causing a whimper to sound through the stream of blood that coats your lips. 

I thought I fucking told you not to die!

The moment you hear Astarion’s voice inside your head you’re already sobbing. Between each gasp, the pain of his presence immediately pulls you from your last few moments of peace. Forcing you to realize that you’ve let him down. That like all the others in his life, you’ve abandoned him. 

Why can’t you listen?

You can hear the anger in his voice as he begs you to stay. To fight for survival —to fight for him. To stay so that he doesn’t have to be alone again as he reaches for your hand, taking it tightly in his own. 

You try your best to hold it back. Faintly, your fingers twitch but ultimately fail to hold any weight; much like your mind that refuses to let you speak back to him. To tell him that he’s going to be fine. That the others will help him. That you won’t just be fine but that you’ll be okay too. 

Now crying with you, you hear him yell through the ringing again. A piercing sound of syllables that echo in your skull as you attempt to open your eyes. 

Like the soldier from before, he’s looming above you, only covered in tears and blood, pressing his lips together to hold back the quivering mess he’s become when Shadowheart finally makes it to his side, saying something about you. About letting you go but Astarion refuses to oblige, tightening the hold he has on your frame until Shadowheart’s fully yelling his face and tugging at his clothes, forcing him to let go just as your eyes begin to shut again, feeling her hands turn you to your side to rip the knife from your flesh. 

-

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi@rainonarden@oceanbluesixeyes@bodtyworship@maydayitsjay@greasyslimebucket@yeeteth-the-raven@fantasyfairysworld@allexthakatt@flowersaretheshit@morglyne@thespectacularspaceace@cephiss0@use-your-telescope@furblrwurblr@kloverfield@angelofthorr@writervaul-t@starved-kitten@minixluvr@crowley--aziraphale@sapphicwren@alionera-blog@jennithejester@dezedrol@thisisew@saladalpaca@applepiewithbacon@httpbiohazard@aurasyn@nerdoodles@kingpinthedevil@itzkawaiix@domainoflostsouls@silverskylan@uminootome@helpidkwhatimdoingwrong@deadlyinfernos@blackbirdswhispers@sarahskywalker-amadala@writingmysanity@f3v3rs@jayjones03@quietlyebbie@optimisticprime3@eyes-for-daze@sunnytalia3@megoshh@maddiedott@cappsikle@mostbeautifulnightmare@lynnlovesloki@simpytheshrimpy69@astarion-archive@smaranshakthi@autistic-deer@shadowfeart@freckled-petals@candied-lavender@hp-art-studio@ghouligan@satelliteapotheosis@waywardwitch-hel@pandimoostuff@mythoughtsofinsanity@ilovelovelylove@oneandonlyizabelle

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

[l0t4n]

WHAT IF THEY WERE. WALTER WHITE

a/n I have many wips and I am struggling to finish any of them so you get this for now. Also keep in mind I never actually finished the show and I didn't like it anyways I just think the idea is funny. Posting as a buffer for everyone who did not follow for nsfw bc I'm posting it 2nite regardless watch out

Contains TW drugs, references to violence. What it says. Would they do the shit Walter White did in Breaking Bad? The brothers + dateables. Gn mc mentioned once

LUCIFER

-Yeah.

-He would do absolutely all of it step by step, word for word

-Maybe he would not be as mean as Walter is, but he would absolutely give that “I AM. The danger, Skylar” speech

-Just to MC instead

-And Mammon is Jesse

MAMMON

-I think in his head he would like to think he would/could

-Definitely fucking can't though

-Doesn't understand the chemistry even if someone guided him, would definitely fuck up really bad

-Would be in it for the money, would brag about how he'd make an excellent drug kingpin, is lying

-The moment he needs to shoot someone he's running away

LEVIATHAN

-Not a chance bro

-The closest he would get would be filling in the role of Gale

-Even then, that's a stretch

-It's too scary :(( what if all the drug mules think he's cringe

-Yeah sure he did all those illegal things but the police probably wouldn't care so much if he was cooler

-Absolutely not suited for the meth-making lifestyle

SATAN

-Wouldn't do it if it was his life on the line. Would only do it to get back at someone else

-Ruining Lucifer’s reputation by selling illicit substances out of the HoL

-Probably the most suitable for drug manufacturing. Not anything else though

-Would be the most likely to be despised by everyone else in the distribution chain

-It's a high-stress environment and he takes out his anger on all of them

ASMODEUS

-Personal protective equipment is ugly and the meth business is a thankless one. There is no possibility for him to gain fame and attention doing that unless he also wants to go to prison

-Probably finds it kind of gross and messy too

-There are a number of illegal activities that are far better suited for a demon like him and he knows it

BEELZEBUB

-Eats the meth

-The end

BELPHEGOR

-Perhaps unsurprisingly, would likely have both the intelligence and personality to make it work

-But the meth-making process takes forever, and there are so many points where you can accidentally die, so I think he knows better

-Would accidentally fall asleep and melt his skin off his body

-Also has virtually no reason to do it in the first place; isn't hurting for cash like Mammon and doesn't really care about his reputation like Lucifer

DIAVOLO

-Would have trouble grasping the severity of drug manufacturing and dealing

-Might only get into the scheme if coaxed by the promise of friendship

-I do not put it above him to realize that it is also illegal, however

-Albeit he has had his moments of considering himself above the law, which, if anyone is, it's him, so maybe not

-Will bail the moment someone yells at him or pulls a gun on him, whatever happens first

BARBATOS

-Gus

-His moral alignment and motivations are too vague. Either his moral compass is too strong or he would be the best drug kingpin the devildom has ever seen. Maybe both at the same time

-Would get suitably angry if anyone else got involved though

-Money laundering pro. If nothing else is true I know this is canon

SIMEON

-Oh good heavens

-Deary me

-Maybe with his skills in baking he would do well, but you'd need to lie to him about what you're making

-Shocked and appalled when he finds out

-Most everyone else is nice to him though

SOLOMON

-Probably makes illicit substances for his funny evil wizard experiments

-Since it's a form of cooking though the batches always end up terrible

-Meth that makes all your bones turn to jelly and kills you in five days

-Since he is far removed from human matters of mortality and injury, he probably thinks it's funny

-Evil ass

[dude-wheres-my-ankheg]

WIP Wednesday

(I was so slow to respond it is actually Wednesday again)

Thanks for the tag @ferindencadash!! (posting on the bg3 blog since its a BG3 WIP).

No pressure to join but tagging @insanefan, @sweetmage, @gothic-ivory, @tavyliasin, @hydropyro and anyone else who wants to play!!!

-----------

They all piled into the little blacksmith’s shop front, and immediately Lae’zel was at the counter, making requests that sounded like demands, as was her unfortunate way. Elorin was distracted looking at the wares as the woman behind the counter dove into her sales spiel. Lae’zel was just telling the poor woman to still her overactive tongue when Elorin finally turned his attention their way, ready to apologise on Lae’zel’s behalf (and likely meet the woman’s ire for it as usual), but his breath caught as he laid eyes on the shop keep.

She was a huge woman, plated in golden, glistening armour. That was not what had Elorin stricken though. The woman was a dragonborn. Utterly magnificent, a glorious reptilian snout with horns and spines decorating her skull. The most intriguing thing about her though was her scales – her incredible brass scales. His hand stopped halfway to his forehead, moving before he had even realised it.

The shopkeeper was halfway into her apology when her eyes fell on Elorin, and her shining amber eyes widened, jaw falling to expose her rows of pointed teeth.

“Your face!” she said, voice bright and full of wonder.

Elorin’s companions all cringed and sucked in breaths, ready for him to anger, but instead his face burst into a smile. Thank the gods she was the one to comment. He nodded, taking a step closer and all but elbowing Lae’zel out of his way.

“Look, just look!” the shop keep continued. “Are you a dragonborn? You don’t look like a dragonborn. And you’re so tiny! Oh, I’m sorry, I just mean-”

“It’s okay,” Elorin said, eyes wide with wonder as he peered up at her, a foolish open mouthed smile on his face. “Ava'yorn.”

Her already delighted face seemed to brighten further. “You speak the tongue?” she asked, her words in draconic.

“Not well,” Elorin said. “I was learning when...” He faltered a moment. “I lost my tutor.”

“You seem to speak it really well to me!” the woman said, and Elorin realised that he had been speaking it that whole time, and so was she. He floundered a moment, confused, but she carried on. “It’s great to meet you, I’m Exxvikyap!”

“Elorin,” he replied.

“You don’t look like any dragonborn I’ve ever met.”

“I’m a drow,” he said, before laughing a little bashfully. “Mostly.”

“A drow-gan!” Exxvikyap suggested and they both laughed. “A brass drow-gan too! The best kind, so I hear.”

He grinned. Her charm was infectious.

Lae’zel loudly cleared her throat next to them and Elorin caught himself.

“Oh, right,” he said, switching back to speaking common. It took more effort than he remembered. “Apologies. We were just talking.” He turned his attention back to Exxvikyap. “So you’re a blacksmith?”

She giggled, turning her snout to the side bashfully. “I wish. I mean, I hope to be. I work for Gyldro Angleiron. The Gyldro Angleiron. Just a shop assistant for now but one day an apprentice, I hope!”

Exxvikyap and Elorin began to excitedly converse about Exxvikyap’s aspirations, her words excited and swift, Elorin frequently interjecting with questions. The rest of the troupe watched with a growing sense of puzzlement.

“What is... happening?” Shadowheart’s lip was curled in utter confusion.

“I believe what we are witnessing,” Gale began as the pair babbled on before them, “is the convergence of two folk with ties to dragons, brass dragons to be specific, known very well to be, shall we say, rather keen to converse and somewhat verbose in their manner-”

Wyll stifled a chuckle. “Are we still talking about the dragons?”

Gale stopped mid word, a wry smile creeping onto his face as he gave Wyll a sidelong look. “There are people who travelled to hear my words, you know.”

“And those who travel to be rid of them,” Lae’zel said, though there was something like a smile touching the corners of her eyes. “And yet you follow.”

[psychspark]

It's just so indulgent now? 👀

okay okay okay okay so. I have a character that I'm currently doing a run of bg3 as, her name is Ashtyn. She's romancing Lae'zel. It's going great. She's an ancient historical figure in my personal dnd setting and her backstory quick style is that she was the first aasimar and Tiamat is SORT OF her mother and she introduced dragons to the material plane. her backstory is modified to fit better into bg3 but she's still like. Tiamat's daughter, basically, which to ME makes for some really juicy like. there's SPICE in certain interactions. Technically she is responsible for Wyll 1. losing an eye 2. being a warlock. Mizora shows up and is like 'hey girl hey'. Qudenos sees her in act one and is like "kin? you're kin?" Ashtyn's deal is that she just recently refused to be Tiamat's chosen anymore so it's a lot of her looking at the other companions like '?????? STOP PUTTING SO MUCH STOCK IN THE GODS THEY SUCK'. She's very awkward and cagey and lowkey evil and. I've been thinking about posting little vignettes about her and talking myself out of it because what if people think it's cringe

Anyway below the cut is an excerpt from that doc:

“Karlach. Keep an eye on him, would you? Oh – and Wyll? Don’t forget. Our pact still stands. And you,” Mizora turns to Ashtyn, eyes blazing curiously. “Your mother dearest asked me to pass on a message-” Mizora is cut off by the blood hunter’s wild lunge at her – she disappears in a puff of smoke and reappears a few feet away – Ashtyn didn’t even graze her. “Tut tut, I’d ask where you get that temper but I know already. Anyway, she wanted you to know she can help you with the tadpole if you would only ask.” Ashtyn’s chest heaves from the force of her breathing, smoke billowing uncontrolled from her nostrils. Seconds ago all eyes had been on Wyll but now she is the focus of the campsite. It takes her a second to realise that it’s not because of the smoke, but because of her wings. Her wings must have appeared when she lunged. Any sort of elemental disaster could erupt if she opens her mouth now, so Ashtyn keeps her lips sealed together and gives Mizora the most hateful look she can muster. Mizora laughs, and Ashtyn burns. “Oh pup, you’ve found the most exciting company. Ta-ta!” The devil vanishes. Wyll roars in despair, Karlach clearly yearns to hold him, and the rest stare at Ashtyn in varying states of awe and fear. Gale has already figured it out. “By the gods, you- your mother is-” “Do not speak her name.” Ashtyn snarls, lightning crackling past her lips as she does. She can’t control her body – her wings are still out. She’s been told her eyes are a wonder when she’s like this – flashing blue-green-white-red-black in an endless, random cycle. The fires of Avernus are reflected in them too, she knows. In the corner of her eye she sees Karlach looking at her – really looking, and sees fear and hate and betrayal there. Wyll, too, looks at her like she’s a monster. And Shadowheart. And Gale. All of them know what she is now. Not Lae’zel, though. Her eyes shine with unhidden respect. Perhaps that’s the worst of all – Ashtyn knows well the deal her mother made with Lae’zel’s people and Lae’zel’s own aspirations as well. Ashtyn wants her darling’s strong arms around her, whispering away Tiamat’s influence and threading a new purpose into her heart. Too overwhelmed to contemplate a sensible thing to say, Ashtyn spreads her wings and rockets into the sky, unable to endure the scrutiny she’s suddenly being held under.

[thetrashbois]

PINNED UPDATED FINALLY

Hey! I'm Spooky! I'm 25 years old, and use she/they pronouns.

I've had this blog for a very long time but it's been very on and off being used, And yet I keep coming back 👉👉

This blog is my vibing place for my self shipping! This can go anywhere from just reblogging my blorbos, to me actually making stuff! Mainly art and writing!

This blog is 18+ only. No minors. I like to keep all my content for this on one blog so that includes more sinful content. Though it will be tagged accordingly if you don't wanna see it! (Tags at bottom!)

I tend to switch around a lot to different fandoms and interests. It's rare I'll stop liking a fandom or character though. I have many Blorbos and the number only grows uwu

I have a lot of mental health stuff going and self shipping is a big coping mechanism for me. ✌️

I'm a system! I don't really plan to talk about it much on this blog, but on the off chance it comes up I'll say it ™️

I have two amazing partners, @calamari-minecraft-corner and @angelover44 . ❤️

My main is @spooookyqueen, I follow from there!

I'm not gonna do a full DNI this time cause I don't have the braincells, and people don't always respect them anyway, but I will set a few ground rules.

Obviously any basic DNI stuff would apply.

I wanna keep discourse of any kind off here for the most part, it stresses me out and if im gonna talk about that sort of thing it would be on my main and not my self shipping blog.

For the most part everyone is welcome here, just don't be an ass or just straight up make me or anyone uncomfortable.

I do on occasion post darker topics here, especially given I like a lot of evil or fake characters. I don't not support anything of the sort irl. This obviously does not include the obvious no-nos.

Anything with dark content will be tagged accordingly. If anyone needs me to add more tags I will gladly do so. And if I forget, please don't hesitate to let me know. (Just don't be rude about it)

I can't promise any form of logic for when I post and what I post. My ADHD makes me a bit all over sometimes so there's no schedule or anything. Sometimes I might not post for a long time, it's really just up to what I see, feel up to.

Asks are always open! Just don't be rude or disrespectful is all I ask. I am just vibing here after all.

I'm not above blocking if y'all can't behave though.

I have many silly aus and such. Sometimes crossovers. What one with a small brain might call "cringe"

Jokes on your cringe culture is dead though and I killed it 💜

FR tho, Were all just having fun here 👉👉

Also sorry for any spelling/grammar issues on here or on any other post of mine, I struggle a lot sometimes with my ADHD since my brain tends to be faster than my hands. And if I don't type quick enough I tend to lose my thoughts

Main Tags I use below, Will add F/O Tags as I go ✌️

General Tags

#Cala my beloved Posts involving @calamari-minecraft-corner

#Katlyn my beloved Posts involved @angelover44

#Suggestive Not quite going into sexual territory but the implication is there

#Sinful Mature content, namely the sexual sort

#My Memes

#My Edits

#My Art

#My Writing

Blorbo Tags

#Wesker or #Albert Wesker Albert Wesker from the Resident Evil franchise & Dead By Daylight

#Eddie or #Eddie Gluskin Eddie Gluskin from Outlast: Whistleblower

#Darkiplier Darkiplier from Markiplier's Ego Videos (Or as I call them the Markiplier Cinematic Universe)

#Damien or #Mayor Damien Damien from Markiplier's Ego Videos (Or as I call them the Markiplier Cinematic Universe)

#Celine or #Seer Celine Celine from Markiplier's Ego Videos (Or as I call them the Markiplier Cinematic Universe)

#Astarion or #Astarion Ancunín Astarion from Baldur's Gate 3

#Gale or #Gale Dekarios Gale Dekarios from Baldur's Gate 3

#Raphael Raphael from Baldur's Gate 3

#Miguel or #Miguel O'Hara Miguel from the Spider-Verse Movies

#Spot, #The Spot, or #Johnathon Ohnn Johnathon Ohnn/The Spot from the Spider-Verse Movies

#Vox Vox From Hazbin Hotel

#Lucifer or #Lucifer Morningstar Lucifer from Hazbin Hotel

Will add more as I go, anyway, thanks for reading ✌️

[eff-plays]

Ok so I have been trying to pinpoint why Hira goes for Astarion in the beginning and I think it's a combination of smaller reasons, instead of one big reason.

First one being that they're inherently curious, a bit of a nosy bastard, and as I mentioned before, a hot vampire elf who brags about his sexual prowess is either gonna be great or terrible, which is great in a different way. Bards are gonna bard, and bragging about sleeping with a pretty vampire elf is a fun tale at the very least. (Also, in their experience, high elves are among the worst races in bed, so this will be extra funny if the trend continues.)

Second, they're midly attracted to him, probably because of the belligerent sexual tension, which they assume is mostly one-sided. Out of all the people who proposition them at the party, he's the most appealing. Lae'zel seems fun but very intense and might break their spine, Gale is too nice to ruin, and Shadowheart just isn't their type.

Third, I think they don't realize how fucked up he is at this point, because he hasn't actually told anyone, obviously. They're just like "oh just another bad boy with a big mouth and a bigger ego, I've handled those before, nbd" so they don't expect to step into premium bullshit. It'll just be a one night thing and then they can move on.

Fourth has something to do with their backstory, in which they were betrayed by someone they thought was the love of their life, pretty much out of nowhere. So going for a guy who's an outright stated untrustworthy freak is like, cool, I know what I'm getting into, don't have to trust him with anything, especially not my heart.

As for why they go for him long-term? I don't think it's a conscious decision, actually. I think the romance interactions with him post-sex but pre-Araj can be read as somewhat platonic, or at least not overtly romantic. As I stated before, they don't have sex that second time in my headcanon, so Hira continues to sort of gently flirt with him but keeps things cool and doesn't do anything overtly romantic or sexual. But somewhere after the mirror scene and before the hug, Hiraeth realizes that Astarion is just a scared animal, hissing and scratching in self-defense, and sort of treats him like that?

They don't believe in perfect victims, and think he's fully within his right to be a huge bitch about everything, and that he's actually surprisingly functional for what he's been through. They can't even imagine 200 years of torture, so this guy being as, frankly, normal as he is, is a good sign that there's plenty to salvage in there. In his shoes, they'd probably be on a killing spree. So they think, ok, I'll just give him room to figure himself out, give him a nice cozy nook to feel safe in, and keep him fed (with my blood). Not fix him, but give him space to fix himself. If he does, that's great! They don't even consider that they might be together at any point.

He does give them plenty of glimpses that he's not just a little garbage man through and through, even if they enjoy him being a little bit garbage sometimes, so they find that they have a lot of gentle thoughts of him, particularly when after he's been vulnerable with them or struggled to find the words to accept their kindness, despite clealry wanting to. He tries to hide that he has any genuine emotions, but because they can tell he's lying, they know there's something to hide, and they want to see what it is.

So they keep treating him like an equal and a valued member of the team, hearing out his stupid ideas and considering his cringe opinions. Not because they agree, but because he deserves to be heard, even if he doesn't deserve obedience.

So when they give him that nice hug and he immediately takes their hand and says he likes whatever this is, they're genuinely taken aback like, what? Already? I mean sure, yes, let's try it out, but are you sure? I'm not really offering you anything extraordinary except my continued care and support, which I will give anyway.

(Good ending) Astarion acknowledges Tav's patience with and care for him in the final romance cutscene in the game, and I think that works as a motivatior for him, as well. I don't think Astarion always likes or agrees with Hiraeth's penchant for kindness or their silly little oath, but in the end, he understands, at least logically, that if they weren't this kind to others, they would also not be this kind to him. So them being a soft-hearted little idiot is a prerequisite for them being his soft-hearted little idiot, which means fine, he'll tolerate it, even if he'll grumble about it, even if their kindness is a waste sometimes. Like maybe he sometimes gets really jealous when they turn their bright sun of a smile on anyone but him, but he'll be fine as long as it's only for him at the end of the day. Ya know?

Haha anyway. I'm insane 💅💅💅

[pixelizedprince]

I spent wayyyyy to much time to make this lore master post of everyone in Geo's family tree & who/how they fit into Geo's family ((including adopted family such as Cal/Lia/Rolan who get taken in as extended siblings and Arabella who comes and goes but is absolutely mentored/fostered by Geo and Gale))

Cringe zone infographic + info dump below the cut; I don't care how wotc lore works I have my own for a few things / its my dnd I get to be weird without their judgment 😔🤙

- Avaridan and Talessa died when Geo was just two or three (flash mudslide while out scouting for rarer flora for a client, accidents happen :( ) Viola and Geo were raised by their Grandmother Avasa.

- Avaridan and Talessa met around 16, married fresh at the start of their twenties and had Viola when they were late 30s --- ((Geo's father - Avaridan - was so quiet most thought he was mute, but he just wasn't a fan of speaking and the loudness was a bit much for him most of the time. Talessa ended up talking and being charming enough for them both. She was a teen from the streets of Baldur's Gate and was looking to take care of the other urchins. Stealing from other tieflings they would at least just hate you because you were a thief and not because of your horns. Talessa's charisma overflowed and even though Avaridan saw through her lies he could tell she was hurt/was just trying to help others not be sick anymore. They were quickly rocky best friends, Talessa doing most of the talking and him showing acts of gestures of kindness and helping out just because he was in a position where he could. Avasa was furious when she found of Avaridan has been not stealing/buying a bunch of the meds and giving it to her, while Dyneth was just touched by his son's kindness and welcomed her in to work for them to help her keep a paycheck and look after her lot. It was a messy start but eventually Avasa was proud of the person Talessa had become with some structure and support))

- Geo's grandfather Dyneth is a cambion who made a deal with some leader in hell, his eternal service as a guard dog of the hells as a trade for protection of the family/the hells not allowed to touch his lineage. This was after Avaridan and Talessa died. Geo never met him, Viola only has vague memories of him (made fuzzier from him only being there right before her parents died and then not being there anymore after they left) He is alive in the hells but has not had contact with the family since shortly after Avaridan and Talessa's passing/making this deal/getting dragged to the Hells. [This is also the reason why Geo/Vi are tiefling+, forked tongues, prehensile tails, all that bonus shit wotc says we can't have bc they are fucking cowards]

- Avasa started the family shop "Prosperity's Potions and Plants: Apothecary and Rare Flora Depot" in Baldur's Gate right after she married Dyneth, it has been a family run buisness since (at least 60+ years) Viola took over as owner when Avasa died two years before the events of BG3, but Geo and Vi have helped work/run it as long as they've been alive. Geo's interest initial interest in nature was due to this.

- Geo's sister Viola is five years older than Geo and has a tendency to be overprotective/overbearing on them. Geo and Viola still live in their family shop/home in Baldur's Gate together as of BG3.

- Geo has helped raise their niece Briony the last five years, Geo calls her "Little Minnow" she calls them "GeGe" Briony is very smart for her age,, if a bit spacey and pops the "old soul in a new body" type questions from time to time. She eventually becomes a soulknife rogue, and uses her abilities to work for what she deems moral causes ,, though she does love causing mayhem for the shits and giggles of it with her cousin Philomena. Briony's biological father is a fucking elf named fucking Donavan

- BOO HISS BOO all my friends HATE Donavan he's a drunk and a shit partner and an even worse "Dad",, Viola kicked his ass to the curb before Briony was even a year old. Avasa was alive for the ViolaDonavan courtship and she /HATED/ him. [I am very excited for Halsin to take over the father figure role for Briony even though he comes and goes so much]

- Viola and Halsin hit it off quickly when he meets her while adventuring with Geo during bg3, but Halsin has his extended commitments elsewhere. Viola and Halsin never marry, but they love eachother very much and do see eachother as soul mates. ("You can have more than one soul mate, why would your soul want you to be tied down? No Geo; Halsin is a good man, a great lover, and a wonderful father. When he is here with me I am elated, and when he leaves I miss him sure, but his heart is big, with mine and whomever else wants to share our joy.") Callum is born a good ten years after bg3, he is a calculating person and sees ten steps ahead of everyone else. He is calm, cool, collected and seems a bit full of himself but he really is just that self assured/radiates confidence. He is a circle of stars druid and eventually runs P:P&P

- After the events of BG3 Lia/Cal/Rolan do become like adopted siblings to Viola and Geo and are offered the Prosperity name. They build their own support system and do become a gaggle of snarky tief siblings. Cal and Lia both occasionally help out at P:P&P from time to time when Geo eventually moves to Waterdeep, Lia often running the supply trips out to the wilds to stock up (Geo's former expertise) and Cal helping with the crafting of potions/poultrices. Rolan and Geo talk almost as often as Viola and Geo do, they end up being very close even if they had a weird rivalry (mostly of Rolan's part) when they first met/Geo just kept being a fucking hero through and through. Rolan also has Gale as a wizarding peer and they bounce ideas off eachother regularly ("my brother in law owns Sorcerous Sundries, wow!")

- Raphael knows of Geo's grandpa Dyneth (might actually know know him) but doesn't know they are related (which fair, Geo didn't know the man either) -- but Raphael fucking /HATES/ the deal Dyneth managed to secure for the Prosperity line. Geo is unable to sign his contract and it makes him FURIOUS. (Geo doesn't know why they cannot take the deal but there is a physical stop to it. Geo also doesn't know that their dumb ass just handing out the family name and swearing familial bonds to people is also extending the protection /to/ them) [I'm allowed to have silly bogus lore as a treat]

- Arabella is /never/ formally adopted my Geo and Gale but Geo remains her friend and mentor and she has an open door policy with both the Baldur's Gate family home and the new Waterdeep Prosperity headquarters 💞✌ she stops by regularly as she can, and Mimi, Rosie and Tessa do all call her big sister

- Philomena, Mimi to her parents, Mena to her friends, you can call her Philomena; knows she's hot shit and smarter than you and she will tell you to your face that you're a fucking idiot. In my shared world state with my wife, her drow cleric Karina romances Astarion, and Astarion is very put off by Gale and Geo having kids "Oh Geo, with Gale? Really?! Ughh. Gods it'll never shut up." but he instantly gets mushy the first time he holds Mena. Astarion is the one to nickname her Mena when she's just a little little kid. And she is absolutely enthralled with her "Uncle Goose" "he's so funny and acts mean and pointy to everyone else but he always brings me sweets and knives, he's a silly Goose" She learns the bitchy part of her cocky attitude from someone 🙄 --- Mena and her cousin Briony become besties and are the most obnoxious tag team that will absolutely steal your wallet and claim you took their's for kicks... She ends up becoming a college of eloquence bard

- Geo and Gale get married a year after BG3, the husbands do make their home in Gale's tower, and but eventually get a family home outside of the tower when Primrose is born.

- Philomena (she/her; Mena, Mimi; oldest) , Primrose (she/her; Rosie; middlest, born five years after Mena), and Tessa (she/they; babiest, born two years after Rosie) are all born down the line starting five years post BG3; they are the Jewels of Waterdeep as Gale so lovingly(irritatingly) refers to them.

- Primrose is so sweet and quiet, whenever she speaks people pay attention/listen because its always thoughtful/insightful. Rosie is very laid back and is no where near high strung as Mimi, taking a lot after Geo's mellow attitude. She loves going out with Geo to scout/forage in the wilderness and has that gentle spooky little girl thing with understanding and appreciating death/a passion for bones. Rosie has very strong innate magical abilities that manifest while she's still young, eventually becoming a circle of spores druid.

- Tessa (she/they) is a ball of joy and curiosity, she is the spitting image of her Grandma Morena (albeit with horns) they are a goofy awkard bean pole of a kid and believes the best in everyone. She's kinda shit at magic, they know a lot about it, but fighting really isn't for them. Still young in my extended timeline for Geo's family, she doesn't know what her plan is yet, only that they are going to try a lot of things and see what feels fun. Tessa does like bothering her uncle Rolan and offers to work at Sorcerous Sundries part time to be around the books/learn as much as she can to which he sighs and says he couldn't be happier than to have her there in the same breath. She stays with Viola from time to time to learn about the family buisness and helps at P:P&P alongside Callum on occasion (he finds her, endearing and in need of some camomile tea, Tessa finds him and is playing 20 questions about how to make poison and what does turning into a star feel like)

[showyoumyfavoriteobsession]

WELL.

I just finished my first playthrough and like. holy shit. I'm still kind of reeling bc even though I think I got a "good ending" main story-wise (destroyed the elder brain and all the tadpoles), the companions' epilogues were not as positive!

I fucked up Gale's story at some point - I was trying to romance him, but I also didn't want him to take the crown for himself, and I think I must have picked an option that backed him up at some point thinking I could convince him later. When we got to the epilogue, we just got in an argument and he stormed off to go claim godhood for himself. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ My (vague) understanding is that each companion has at least two endings? And I did quicksave during that conversation so I may go back and see what happens if I back him up - probably not the ending I was aiming for, but something different at least. I also never got his act 3 romance scene, but I'm not sure if that's because of this or because I started romancing him too late (I didn't get his act 1 scene at the party either).

*Quick edit since I just went back and loaded up that last save: there wasn't anything I could do in that conversation to change the outcome of Gale leaving. I think I must have started his stuff too late, so I couldn't get all the scenes, plus probably a few bad dialogue choices on the way. It's a shame, I really do like Gale and he has an interesting story, and that’s not the way I was hoping to end it (even if I wasn't romancing him).

I didn't actively do very much of Karlach's story (got her stabilized in act 2 and that was about it), but GOD her epilogue scene made me cry like a baby. Saying goodbye to the sun and the ocean... telling herself she did her best... 😭 I'm still feeling unwell about it.

I don't think I would have done anything different on this playthrough for Astarion (helped him kill Cazador and disrupt the ritual) but I did feel bad when he had to go scrambling away from the sunlight. I'm planning to romance him for an evil playthrough so I might just go full evil and let him complete the ritual then - we'll see.

But overall I really really loved this game! Absolutely one of the biggest, most captivating experiences I've had in a game. I understand why people are upset about the abruptness of the epilogue, but (at least for now) it really didn't bother me. I think if it were much longer, it would have felt like it was dragging, especially when you have a lot of emotional scenes one after the other - I think they erred on the correct side. The story felt so detailed and interwoven and compelling and still managed to be... manageable. Understandable and relatively easy to keep track of, despite being both sprawling and deep. The script and the acting elicited a huge amount of emotional reactions from me all the way through the game - this has taken me about a month, mostly playing a couple hours each evening, and I was still laughing at the dialogue and cringing at my bad rolls and invested in battles almost every time I booted up the game. That was a pretty cool feeling.

It's wild to me that every time I watch other people play this game, they're always finding things that I never found - there's just so. much. game. I expect any subsequent playthroughs will go a good bit faster; eventually I'll probably just watch parts that I'm curious about instead of playing through it over and over with slight changes, but I am curious to do at least one more playthrough with a very different approach to see how different the game becomes. I'm going to be thinking (and posting lol) about this for a while.

Oh! Randomly, I feel like I should mention that I played the whole game on the easiest mode and it was great. This is the first CRPG I've ever played, I have very little experience with turn-based combat or DnD, and I wanted to keep having fun! It was still plenty challenging - there were still a couple times that my whole team died, it's certainly not a story-only mode - but it ended up being perfect for my play style.

[neverhangd]

Anne can’t keep eye contact when he goes off and…compliments her? (That’s a compliment, right? When someone says nice shit about you?) She doesn’t feel worthy of it, his protestations aside. But she won’t argue with someone who has something nice to say about her for a change, even if they’re wrong. And she’s sure he’s wrong.

Hearing that Gale—somehow so…morally vanilla as to boggle the mind—had been part of a gambling ring, even a small one, is surprising. Anne doesn’t hide her surprise, nor her interest. She hadn’t gone to any official academy, schooled at home and in the law firm offices, but that hasn’t stopped her from running a racket or two in her own youth. Nothing as enterprising as a homework pool, of course: most of it was petty swindling and a little hustling, usually for pocket change she didn’t need. Usually honestly just for the thrill of it.

But there’s no time to inquire further into the homework pool because he’s doing more disarming shit. After her confession of boiled potatoes and coffee as the only staples she knows how to cook she’d been removed by the others from the cooking duty roster, meaning she was ready to be waved away when it came time for Gale to go cook. She’s hardly “good company,” even with her hackles down, but Gale is smiling and offering her a chore. She’s felt so fucking useless about camp, offering to mend things, wash them, prep them, anything to prove she can earn her keep outside of a fight—but up until now, she’d been turned away. Not because help wasn’t needed but because they remained wary of one another. Despite the standouts in trust like Gale, the rule of the party was still one of distrust and deceit.

Was a lucky game of chess all it really took to be seen as…well. If not trustworthy, then at least useful?

It’s a good damn thing Gale is only asking for a hand and not offering her one up. She would have actually accepted the gesture in the fog of her confusion, and then where would her pride and independence be? (Unscathed except in her opinion, probably.)

“…aye,” Anne says faintly, still stunned. Realizing she sounds like an idiot, she quickly clears her throat and tries again, assertive and louder for it. “Aye, sir.” She cringes when the title slips out, born from years of obedience at sea. She’ll be paying for that one later, even if only in the ways she’ll beat herself up for it. A stupid misstep like that could cost her what little reputation she has among these people.

Hoping to distract from the moment, Anne hauls herself to her feet. “Best not t’leave me alone at the pot, though. John used t’say if there’s a way t’burn water, I’d be the one t’figure it out.” He definitely hadn’t meant it as a joke, despite his laughter.

“What’s on the menu?”

It isn’t until Gale goes a bit pink in the cheeks that Anne realizes she’s won. The gambit taught by her father—the only gambit she knows in chess, truth be told—is a seemingly dirty trick. The only person Anne knew who could stop it was the same one who’d taught it to her, after all; she hadn’t realized she was playing it, unconscious as it was, until she’d accidentally accused the wizard of bottoming for her.

Well. There are worse idiot comments to make. The ghost of a smile haunts Anne’s lips when she’s called clever. She isn’t often accused of it, though she certainly thinks it’s true.

“Pa played, when Ma was still ‘round. He tried t’teach us both at the same time, but neither of us really had the head for it. I only ever learnt the one strategy; more luck than anything else in that win, I’m ‘fraid.” After all, if Gale had played more aggressively and set her on the back foot, it would’ve been all over. “Prefer card games myself. Easier to learn, I think, and definitely easier t’teach.”

[the-last-cuddlebender]

I’m Here

The airbenders had a secret, beautiful-sounding, wordless-word language, and Aang is a lonely lil bird after he becomes the last airbender. ...so the Gaang improvises. 

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A/N: A lil Gaang-love hurt/comfort/FLUFF one-shot because Aang needs a hug, and the Gaang will start taking people out at the knees to give him one. 

Rating: G (H for hugs)

Words: 3,491

ArchiveOfOurOwn

**********************************************

When Aang was a boy in the Southern Air Temple, he talked with his friends in whistle-speak all the time. 

They sang challenges over gales when they surfed around with their gliders, they stitched banter out of wind when they raced their bison, and they bled joyful congratulations and soft comforts into the air when words failed—when babies were born or when elders died.

He and his friends often used it to sneak around the temple. They channeled winds so high-pitched that the elders, sleeping or not, couldn’t hear them. Two tunes were a gusted high-five, and eight lifts and two pauses were a jest and a smack on the back. It was even their calling card on hot days when they were too lazy to move from their sunning spots or their bison’s backs to find each other to play. The passing breeze carried their conversations and their laughs, and it curled warmly around them with memories of good times. 

But, sometimes, when he was without a partner in the woods, Aang whistled a whirlwind that echoed across the canyon.

/I’m here./

And then he waited. And someone, somewhere, would always call back. Sometimes it was to chastise him for wandering too far, and sometimes it was to make fun of him for being so scared. He didn’t care, though. Their winds wound around him and comforted him all the same.

He hated silence. Mostly because he was so used to hearing his friends and Gyatso speaking or whistle-speaking all the time that, when it was quiet, it felt like he was alone in the world. Like something was missing.

Like he had been forgotten.

He wasn’t the only one, though. All airbenders didn't like to be alone, to an extent. Nomads migrated together. 

...But then the storm happened. And the Fire Nation. And now he was fighting a war he was a hundred years late for.

But even now he finds himself doing it on instinct. Sometimes it’s when they’re lounging as they set up camp, and other times it’s when he goes off on his own to collect kindling. Usually, it’s when he lounges on Appa’s head with his eyes on the sky, and the wordless words burning at the back of his mind spill out in braided winds.

His friends don’t notice the pain pinching his face whenever he catches himself doing it. And they couldn’t possibly feel his heart cringing—frozen—before convincing itself to keep beating. His family adores his whistle-speak, though he doesn’t tell them what it really is. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Whistle-speak was never about talking.

They say it sounds beautiful, like the wind itself was singing. They ask him on occasion—many, many occasions—to do it, just because it was pretty. 

It gets harder to hide how sad it makes him. But he would have preferred the sad feeling to what came when sadness became easy to bear.

He starts to feel nothing for the wind that carries his words without words. 

Just thinking about it made his eyes sting.

Aang loves his friends, his new family. He loves the smiles his whistle-speak puts on their faces—even Zuko’s face, once he joins them. He loves the relaxed atmosphere brought on like a spell as the winds wind around them, too.  

But he hates the pit each lyric digs deeper into his chest. The emptiness consumes him in pieces, and it only grows deeper with each note he sings. Because although he loves what they sow on his new family, his heart always bleeds into his winds those questions that never get answers—and that never will.

/I’m here. Where are you? I’m here. Are you there? I’m right here./

Aang doesn’t stop doing it, even though the silence yawns wider and wider every time. He does it without thinking when he’s alone, on instinct when it feels like his back is facing the void. 

/I’m here./

His shoulders curl to his ears, and he waits for minutes at a time. It’s only when he starts worrying why faces from a lifetime ago aren’t answering him that he remembers. He grips his staff tighter and shuffles away. He kicks the dead leaves even though their crunching screech raked across his ears. Even they are better than silence. He whistles softly between each step.

Sometimes he whistles things that Gyatso often did. Whistle-speak wasn’t as individual as a person’s voice, and if he bent the air just right, he could almost pretend it was his old master’s. He did it just to hear it. Just a familiar security. 

/Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you, Soft. I thought I might find you here. Are you alright?/

He keeps doing it even after it loses its ability to make him cry.

The Gaang eventually catches on, but not until after the war. Not until after Appa starts calling for other bison and looking sad, one day leaving them for several weeks and coming home with two other bison. His family had all guessed what Appa’s calls were for, so they weren’t surprised when he came home with friends. 

But Aang had always felt not as alone since Appa was alone with him. And after his buddy comes home with other bison and he hears them ‘talking’ softly to one another late at night when all else is quiet and he is alone in his bed, Aang finds himself whistling a broken tune. Even Momo finds more of his own after searching hard enough.

Now, he was truly alone. And the silence is deafening.

That’s when his new family notices something isn’t right. It gets eerily quiet, and they can’t find him one day. They split and search for him. 

It’s Sokka who finds him. 

He finds Aang sitting on a branch high up in a large, ancient tree. The young Avatar is hugging one of his knees while the other leg dangles, and he is whistling. The whistle is soft and soothing on Sokka’s ears even though the sound somehow carries for miles. 

After a few seconds of whistle-music, Aang stops, waiting expectantly. He swings his dangling leg to tic off the seconds.

Sokka waits to see what the airbender paused for. After a near minute, a bird somewhere deeper in the forest chirps and tweets, not holding a candle to the melodic sounds Aang can make, and after a few seconds, it stops, waiting.

And then Aang whistles again. And then he waits. 

And then the bird sings again. And then it waits.

The back and forth goes on for a while, and Sokka thinks Aang’s gone crazy. 

But then, when next the bird sings and Aang prepares to answer, another bird cuts him off. 

Aang flinches like the newcomer had smacked him in the face. Sokka winces along with him, and Aang hugs his leg a little tighter, hiding the lower half of his face behind his knee. His shoulders curl to his ears. His leg stops swinging. 

The two birds call to each other, singing together, without him. They harmonize like it was the most natural thing in the world, knowing the lyric and rhyme of their shared song so well that they don’t need to take pauses in their duet. They fly further and further away, taking their songs with them, now that they’ve found each other. 

Their chirps fade and die somewhere beyond the mountain, though their last notes echo like footprints left in their wake.

And then it’s quiet. It’s quiet for a while. It’s almost creepily quiet without the birds or Aang making any music. Sokka could’ve sworn he heard his heart beating. Even the wind died, and the trees were all still.

And then, like a beaten animal approaching its master, Aang whistles again, just a few notes. Hardly a song. More like a call. A plea.

His whistle carries loud and far, but just like the birds, it disappears into the mountains.

And then he waits. 

And he waits. 

And he waits.

He waits so long that Sokka starts to shift and sweat. Gravity itself was growing heavier in the quiet.

Aang waits some more.

Sokka’s lungs suddenly feel three sizes too small, and his heart falls somewhere by his stomach. That moment is when he realizes that Aang’s whistles are more than just the melodies of pretty songs. They’re the lyrics as well. 

He knows this because, when next Aang whistles, the sound is wet and choppy as his shoulders shake and he hugs both of his knees to his chest. His lyrics are so raw and broken and desperate that it makes Sokka’s chest cave-in like they were strikes from a metal pole to his sternum. Aang’s whistle was a universal sound, as unmistakable as a smile was for happiness or tears for sadness—a wolf’s howl after being separated from its pack.

/I’m here./

Sokka doesn’t know how Aang wants to mourn since he went out of his way to be alone, so he leaves him to get back to the others. 

And as he leaves, more whistles and long pauses follow behind him, like the mournful wails from the creatures in the sad stories told by tribesmen who’ve been at sea for too long. 

...The group discusses this finding, and Zuko, who studied air nomads in his quest to capture the Avatar, pieces everything together. They are all heartbroken and think back on every time Aang had whistled and how much they liked the sound and how they even sometimes asked him to do it. They all feel horrible. 

But Katara has a plan, and Sokka has the brainpower to make it work. 

So over the next few weeks, Katara and Toph follow close behind Aang whenever he wanders off. They study his songs, and Toph, having the best ears of all of them, can pinpoint almost every note that he makes. When they rejoin the others, Katara makes little ice vases and bends water atop them to emulate the whistles, and Toph is the gauge by which the pitch is corrected. They do this as well as they can for as many notes as they can (also trying to write down Aang’s songs like sheet music, but it is very difficult). 

Once they have enough data, Sokka spends several weeks, as often as he can with Zuko’s assistance whenever the Firelord has time, whittling the sizes, diameters, and depths of the correct notes into a type of ocarina. He makes one for each of them. Every ocarina is about the size of their palm and is given a little personalized flair that Sokka is quite proud of. 

They spend weeks and weeks practicing Aang’s songs. They dodge him and collaborate their schedules like they were planning to invade the Fire Nation while undercover all over again.

And then, one day, they master a few of his songs. They’re not nearly as flowing or clear or beautiful as Aang’s whistle-speak (Zuko said that’s what it was called)—and the sounds don’t carry nearly as far—but they were as good as they could get. It was, after all, impossible to capture the songs of the wind unless you were born of them.

...And not too long after comes the day to surprise him. 

Aang is up in his tree again, singing and waiting, when, from out of nowhere, there comes a response. 

He damn near breaks his face as he falls from his branch to the ground. He slips on the dead leaves and falls three more times as he scrambles to stand. 

Aang’s pulse pounds so loud in his ears that each thump feels like an earthbender somewhere is lifting and dropping a mountain. He has no idea what the whistle-speak said, so he asks, on impulse, one of the same questions he had been singing since he woke up in the South Pole. 

/Are you here?/ 

And he gets four responses.

/I miss you./ 

/I’m here./ 

/Where are you?/ 

/I’m here./ 

And Aang’s heart throws itself so hard and so fast against the cage of his chest that it felt like it might burst out of his torso. 

He chases their sounds, whistle-speaking like he was talking a million miles an hour—

He skids to a stop when he sees them. 

He stares, and they stare back. 

He is still high on adrenaline and frozen in place when he notices the small blanket they were sitting on. And the tea and small fire pit. And the few bits of burning incense—incense that he hadn’t smelled since a lifetime ago.

His confusion is nearing critical mass, but then Katara plays her ocarina. 

And Aang freezes, his breath leaving him like he had just been thrust under icy water.

There’s an awkward pause as he doesn’t respond, but then Sokka plays the same notes that Katara had.

And then Toph.

And then Zuko.

And each lyric plucks Aang’s heart in his chest.

/I’m here./ they all say.

Aang only makes it three steps towards them, his shaking legs not letting him run over and hug them before his first sob breaks him into a kneel. The next brings him to his knees, and he is surrounded by warmth and kind voices just as he learns to breathe again.

And he weeps.

He weeps so hard that even the presence of his past lives at the edge of his mind is somber and sad.

But his family holds him closer, holds him tighter, and they each tell him that he is theirs and that they will never let him go. They won’t let him drown in the silence anymore.

They eventually break apart, and Zuko places something in his hand as Aang chases away the last of his tears. It’s an ocarina. The wood is smooth and the whittling is sloppy, but the focus put into each cut is clear and shakily sanded as carefully as one could. 

It has a messy, squiggled air nomad crest carved onto its front, and on the underside, protected under a thick coating of lacquer, are the names of his family in four sets of handwriting that he recognized. And there’s a message, right beneath, in Sokka’s nearly illegible but very carefully carved font. 

/We’re here./

Aang vaults himself into his big brother’s arms. 

Sokka pats his back and tries to hide from the others how tightly he returns his hug.

There’s tea and more talk, and Toph asks Aang to teach them the ‘whistle-speak’ like she was asking him to share the code to unlock some large safe. Aang just smiles and asks them to teach him since he didn’t know how to work this thing.

He doesn’t need to learn, but he wants to. He wants to learn and have them share as much with him as he with them. He wants them to learn together in that moment.

And so, Aang teaches his family the language of the wind, the whistle-speak of his people.

The silence becomes a passing thought like a fading bad dream. 

And when next Aang is by himself and feels that inky blackness winding around him like chains and sinking into his racing heart like claws, he swallows dryly, scared like he was about to jump from a cliff without his glider, and he whistles.

His lyrics are weak and timid in the night air, but they carry far because they came from an airbender’s lungs. 

/I’m here./

There’s a long beat of silence, but then, in the distance, there comes an answer. It’s incredibly high and scratchy because whoever was making it was blowing their lungs out trying to make the sound travel as far as possible, but it was a response, nonetheless. 

Then there is another, a little further to the left. And then another. And then another, close by. 

/Oh, there you are./ 

/I’m here./ 

/Where are you?/ 

/Looking for you./

Something blossoms in his chest. It’s warm like he’s never felt before. It makes him feel all fuzzy inside. 

Aang whistles again.

/I love you./

He gets four immediate responses—one now much closer than before.

And there are no pauses in their group duet. 

/I love you./ 

/Are okay?/ 

/You okay, Soft./ 

/Find you here./

He is laughing and crying when Katara—the closest whistle—appears at his side, looking concerned. She doesn’t get more than three doting questions in before Aang is hugging her and drowning his jumbles of tearful laughs into her dress. 

The others whistle more—high, fluttering sounds concerned with the lack of Aang’s response. Katara one-handed whistles back a choppy response. 

/I’m here. Soft okay./ 

She hugs him tighter and rubs his back. Aang melts into her until even his legs give. Katara kneels with him on the ground, and she pulls him deeper into the protective circle of her arms, guiding his head to her shoulder and rocking them as she fills his ears with gentle words and soft coos. He is laughing and crying so hard that he can’t speak, and his grip becomes desperate like he thought she would be ripped away from him.

Katara holds him closer. She fists handfuls of his robes like she was silently promising to never let him go. She kisses the dip of his neck and shoulder, and, for the first time, whistles without her ocarina.

/I’m here./

Aang cries harder and for a while before he stops, not because he wanted to or because he had emptied all that he was feeling but because his body had nothing left to give. But by that time, his family had whistled demanding their location, and Katara had vaguely answered one-handedly. Everyone is there as he chokes down his final sobs. He just smiles, now, utterly exhausted. 

They sit on their knees and hug him until their legs tingle numbly. Aang is too exhausted to walk when they get up, so Zuko crouches and makes a ‘come on’ motion with his hands behind his back. 

/I’m here, Soft./

Aang’s smile is tired but blinding as he crawls onto his Sifu Hotman’s back and latches on like a koalapanda. He doesn’t have the strength to form words. When he tries, it’s a gargled hum. 

He whistles. 

/You’re here./

Zuko laughs and pats his leg.

And Aang gets four responses. 

/I love you./ they all say.

Aang closes his eyes and hangs his arms over Zuko’s chest. Katara and Toph hold his fingers in a gentle grip to remind him that they were there. Sokka walks behind him with his hands on Aang’s shoulders—patting and rubbing his back intermittently—, and when Aang teeters dangerously on unconsciousness, Sokka is half-keeping him pushed up on Zuko’s back. 

And on the way back to camp, his family practices a little whistle-speak conversation without their ocarinas. Aang didn’t know they had been practicing such a skill, and he doesn’t question the choppiness in their winds (the sounds are almost scratchy because they were blowing and not bending the air, but he could not give any less of a damn. They curled around him just the same).

Aang gently, tiredly, chimes into their conversation, forcing himself awake, even though he couldn’t even force his eyes open, so he doesn’t miss a single lyric. 

...They keep the whistle-speak their little secret for the longest time—years and years—, but when their kids all learn it with their own ocarinas, their offspring exploit it as much as they can. 

And their collective parents are driven crazy by the antics they accomplish with it. 

Except for Aang.

The once boy now man lets them get away with anything short of a felony. He even plays dumb when Katara demands that he at least try to stop Bumi the next time the toddler tries to raise hell with his sister and little Lin. 

Aang nods his head but crosses his fingers, and he couldn’t care less about that little guilt as he sits on the roof and listens to the whistle-speak of their little ones’ conspiring. Their plotting reminds him so much of him and his friends when he was a boy—the time gray and faded in his mind like a past life—that it nearly pains him from how happy it makes him. 

And then, one night, little Tenzin is awake. And he is alone. 

/I’m here./

His shaky whistle is wet and high-pitched like a choked whimper. 

/I’m here. I’m here./

And Aang is at his side in an instant. He hushes and coos him, easing away his little tears and rocking him in the protective circle of his arms. Small hands curl chubby fingers into his robes like his son thought his father would be ripped away from him. 

Aang smiles and soothes him to the tune of a whistled lullaby, gentle winds curling around them.

/I’m here./

**********************************************

I think imma make a part II because everyone ALWAYS needs more hugs

Bonus Point about whistle-speak

PREVIEW OF PART II: “Are You There?”

PART II: Are You There?

[dis--parity]

paperwork.

Summary: Alex gets around to something she’s put off for too long. Trigger warnings: None! Author notes: Happy mother’s day to all my UK moots!

       “And this... is the main reason I didn’t get around to this for so long.” The girl’s prosthetic hand rests upon the wad of papers present in front of her - brass-tipped fingers placing her pen down to shift the forms aside, sheet by sheet.

“So.” Flip. “Much.” Flip. “Paperwork.”

The sigh that escapes her sounds dangerously close to completely demoralised defeat; the world of legal matters was not only completely and utterly boring to her, but the amount of small boxes, scattered text... it was far too difficult for her to focus on alone. Just looking at the form seemed to confuse the poor girl - if not because she understood how serious the change was, then simply because of how... uncomfortably uniform these documents were.

She never would have seen herself even making an attempt at it, if it were just her - if there wasn’t still one person in her life who knew her almost as well as she knew herself. Whose voice could still bring a little clarity and focus to her addled mind.

Whose hand would find its way to her shoulder, resting upon it as if it had always belonged there, brushing away those curly golden locks so alike her own. Her free hand, then, would gather up the papers again, already with a few pen marks on them - putting just one sheet in front of her, and tucking the rest away with a smile.

“It’s like eating an elephant, dear.”, hummed Janella. “I know you get too overwhelmed when you try to do everything in one go - let’s go through it bit by bit. Now, then... this first sheet is the most important part, dear.

Your new name. What do you want it to be?”

She hesitates to give a direct response to her mother; all her life, she’s known herself as the same person. Alexandra. And so would her prosthetic hand pick up the pen again and put down exactly that. The gesture warranted a furrow of the brow from her mother; but nothing more than that.

“The same name?”, she asked, a chuckle slipping past her lips. “I’m surprised, dear, you’ve put so much thought into the person you want to be…” “I know who I am, mom. I’m Alex. Well... Alexandra, not Aleksander, now. And-... well, I- I guess there’s a couple of other things, too.” “Such as?” “My middle name, for a start.”

The nod that Janella gives her in turn is slow, one of absolute understanding. “Eitan, or Ethan… the name your father wanted for you when you were born-” “I- I don’t need to be reminded-”, Alex snaps - sucking in a deep breath, eyes cringing shut as she pushes the anger back down again. Unfazed as Janella seemed to be, she loathed how easy it was for that name to fill her with such rage. “Sorry, mom, I- I- just... yeah. That’s-... why I wanna get rid of it.”

“Well. I can’t say I blame you, darling,”, she sighed. “Your father was an awful man, there’s no denying that. Even years later, I’m still ashamed to have called that apathetic, selfish shell of a man my husband.” “Wh- what about the dude you left him for, my stepdad?”, asked Alex, with a tilt of her head. “I mean… he- he never sounded like he was that much better, right?” “... well, yes, but at least he actually tried to care, dear.” Clearly, that alone was enough for her to stay married to him for 17 years of her life; enough for her to raise a kid with him, even! Alex simply pursed her lips, a small hum serving as a subtle ‘touché’ to her mother’s retort. “But, I’ve told you those stories, haven’t I? So… what were you thinking of instead? Or, you can always get rid of it entirely, I suppose.” “No, I-... I had an idea. It’s silly, but…” She breathes in again; she’s learned well enough not to be embarrassed around her mother. Besides her therapist, she’s probably the one woman she’s shared the most with.

“My first name… I- I kinda wanted to change it to Alyssa. But-... I feel like that’s better as my middle name, y’know? And-...”

She hesitates again, pen hovering after the name ‘Alyssa’, as if paralyzed by some unknown force. Her eyes close, rendering her unable to see her mother’s glance of curiosity, but only for the moment it takes to make up her mind. Her pen slides slowly, apologetically across the paper again, the ink curling and swerving into a new word.

Gale.

It’s not a name the two of them feel any need to share words over. Her mother was one of the first other people who Alex opened up to about the impact that girl had on her, after all - and the legacy of a lost love is not something she’s about to dispute. Though, she must miss her an awful lot for her to want so badly to do such a thing - then again, who was she to say anything about that?

“You know,” Janella hums. “I think you’re having the same thoughts I did when I decided to keep your stepfather’s name. That, deep down, perhaps… there was still a good person where he was. At the very least, there was a person we missed.” “Yeah… I do miss her. Every day, y- you know that. But… I- I guess I just wanna carry her with me a little more. Like I do with Nancy.” “Won’t argue with you there, darling. Whatever your heart desires. Speaking of which… will that be your last name?”

And, at last, they come to the final hurdle - yet, for as much as she anticipates that Janella would ask, and for as good of an answer as she has, she just… can’t seem to get the words out. She stalls - breath slowly and sharply seething in through her nostrils as she gathers the will to say those words she’s mentally rehearsed over and over again. While the papers were printing, while her mom’s car was pulling up to the parking lot, all the while the Earl Grey she was enjoying was steeping… and finally, she spoke, her quaking voice barely audible enough to register.

“I want… your name. Y- your… your last name, I mean.

I wanna be a Cloutier. No-... an Iskra Cloutier.”

Janella falls silent then, for a good moment - her teacup slowly finding its way back to the fine saucer it rested on. She seemed more confused than touched by the gesture, as it was - but, there was still a glint of understanding behind her eyes.

“I see… but, darling, you could choose anything you want. You don’t need to take on my name, I should hardly think I’m a huge part of your whole transformation.

Please, don’t think as if you need to limit yourself - you can call yourself whatever you want. You know far better than me, you can be whatever you want to be.”

“I know who I want to be,” Alex said, the conviction behind her words forcing her head up to meet the hazel eyes of her mother. “For so long, I-... I’ve had this path in my life, ever since you’ve come back into it. When I woke up, and- and saw you there, and- and heard your voice, and… and when I was able to just talk to you after everything with dad was said and done, I-... for the first time in my life, I felt like I knew what I was doing. What I wanted to do!

And… it’s taken me this long, but… now I can finally be the person I really want to be. Who I’ve wanted to be from the beginning.” Words hang in the air for a moment, a tear refracting the light peering into the flaming cognac of her eyes as she makes her declaration.

“Your daughter.”

And in that moment, it feels as though Janella’s very soul had a new light beaming through it. Motherly tears are a thing she knows only in grief; leaving behind a son she loved, two children of her own, even, to circumstances she couldn’t do anything to control. Yet, as she pauses to let the words of the girl next to her repeat themselves in her mind, she can’t help a tear falling from her eye. With those two words, this had become just as significant for Janella as it ever could be for Alex.

To be a family. A family of two - but one more closely knit than any other she could have made.

And her smile lights the world up again. And her embrace reminds the girl of how precious she always will be. And the way she speaks so softly through her tears, squealing as she whispers to her, “My darling girl…” ... completes her.

She lets go after a time - though the warmth from the way they held each other fails to leave either of them. The lingering hesitation that Alex feels as the pen hovers above the paper is alleviated with a permitting nod from Janella. And so, triumphantly, her pen lowers to paper again - and then, to the surface of the desk, at least for the moment - and her new name is in full view of the two of them, in the best print she could manage.

Alexandra Alyssa Gale Iskra Cloutier.

“Well,” Alex hums, dry voice creaking just a little. “That’s one page out of the way already.”

“Ah, it was the hardest one, really.”, Janella is quick to reassure. “The rest is all declarations, me being a witness, things like that. We can do that, though, can’t we? Together.”

Together. She can’t see herself being happier than she already is - though, in the minutes that pass as they chat away through the paperwork that once was so daunting breezed past them like nothing, she felt more elated than she could imagine.

She knew only that she had a path to go down since her awakening by her mother’s side, and finally, finally she felt like they were walking that path, hand-in-hand.

She had always been free to do what she wanted - and all she wanted in the moment of triumph as they slipped the papers into an envelope to be sent off was to fling her arms around her mother. To hold her as close as the day they reunited - for now they were properly family. 

“I bet you’re proud of yourself for getting through this, surely?” “Mm-hmm…”, is all the response Alex could muster - until the few seconds where time stood still around them, the warmth of her motherly embrace enveloped her and quelled the excitement that still rocked through her, when she finally looks up, speaks properly; says that one thing she knew she says too much, yet not enough - yet this time, with heart.

“... I love you, Mom.”

[dragonswithjetpacks]

Theurgist

Chapter Five: A Quick Laugh at Death

-dragonswithjetpacks

Notes: I am so sorry it took so long. I had a busy week last week and was gone all weekend. I got really tired of trying to right this chapter so I am sorry if it seems rushed and choppy. I mainly just wanted the quirky bits. And I have so many things already pre-written I'd like to get to. Including the temple. And then tying in the bite scene later on.

Read here on Ao3

Ferelith looked down into the reflection of the water, examining the dried blood on the side of her face. A small shard of anger slithered into her thoughts when she thought about the creature from the crash. The worm was trying to fight it, but the twirling shadow had clouded it’s thoughts. Her patron was still there, protecting her the best he could. But he would not speak. Ferelith looked up to the moon and saw it was still a few days away before she could perform the ritual to speak with him. Though there was always the option to try. She sighed, setting her gloves to the side to wipe them off later and she dipped her hands into the water. As she began to wipe off her face, Gale had approached her.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like a word once we’ve settled in for the night,” he said.

“If this is about what happened earlier,” she rose to her feet, “then I assure you I’m quite alright.”

“Actually, no,” he paused as he turned. “But I’m glad to see you’re feeling a bit more like yourself.”

A swift breeze pulled her hair into her face, but she was quick to tuck it behind her ear. Gale watched her eyes closely, but saw nothing peculiar within them. They were just as they always had been. Pale yellow with nothing of importance gleaming inside. No hint of anger or excitement. Just simply mindful and content. And the lingering dark essence he had sensed before disappeared. There was just Ferelith with her pale skin and dark hair holding her arms against her chest to brace herself against the cold wind of the river.

“You know,” she said, squeezing her arms. “I’ve met many wizards in my travels. Have you… met many warlocks?”

“A few,” he nodded.

“What were they like?”

Gale paused for a moment. A warlock was unlike a wizard in the sense of how they obtained their power. A wizard was impatient, in most cases. They desired power, but that wasn’t any different than any one else. What separated a warlock was the means in which they obtained that power and what sort of desire drove them. It varied upon the person. And when he looked at Ferelith, the quiet woman who cradled the apron with her books and her singed quill, he did not see a desire for power. He saw a woman with secrets. A woman blanketed by a protective shadow. He took a deep breath.

“Nothing like yourself,” he smiled at her in adoration.

Her eyes, once cold and gazing lost across the river came round to acknowledge the compliment of her companion. He caught the reflection of gratitude within them and knew her smile to be true.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” she looked back out to the water. “It even makes me sound a bit dangerous. But I’ll take the ambiguity as a compliment.”

“I simply don’t know enough about you to say otherwise,” he attempted to correct his statement.

“I appreciate your honesty,” she let a little sigh slip through, leading Gale to believe she was finished with his company. “For the record… you’re one of the kindest wizards I’ve ever met.”

“I do try… my lady.”

“Alright enough flattery,” she waved her hand slightly as he left her line of sight, her gaze still focused on the rolling stream in front of her. “I’ll see you later.”

His footsteps faded out, only to be replaced by another. Ferelith glanced up at the sky, realizing they had a few hours of daylight left before she could retire. There was still much to be done, but she had a sudden urge to be alone. Whoever it was behind her, they were in no rush. And she wondered how long she could stay silent before they urged her to speak.

“The breeze will just get colder as the sun goes down,” she said eyeing the colors shifting as the sun set. “It will draw me closer to the fire. Soon enough.”

“Take your time,” a male’s voice startled her.

Ferelith turned, seeing Astarion with his newly gifted bow strapped to his back, a few crude arrows in his hand.

“Oh, I though you were- well, it doesn’t matter…”

“I was just leaving,” he stated, glancing back to the rest of their party gathering around the pit as Gale prepared a fire.

“And you’re, what? Taking requests?” she smirked over her shoulder.

“I’m afraid the prime rib will be unavailable tonight,” he shifted his weight to his other foot. “But, in order to make up for it, I’ve offered a few bolts to your collection.”

Ferelith lowered her arms, granting him her full attention. “To my what?”

“The village coward dropped his quiver. There were a few arrows in there a bit too short to be considered an arrow. I tossed them onto you bedroll.”

“Oh… thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. At the quality they appear to be in, they could have just been poorly made arrows that couldn’t be used by a proper bow,” he cringed. “They might just snap straight in half.”

“Right,” she nodded, admitting that her thoughts were lost on him.

Astarion could see her drifting back out into the open evening, eyes faded into a distant plane. After what he had witnessed of her earlier that day, he had expected a change to her behavior at camp. The outburst to him meant a reveal of character. Not this reclusive woman who was lost in thought. While Ferelith had been a mostly quiet person from the beginning, there were still those snarky comments between he had rather enjoyed. This was simply just disappointing. She did not even bother to send him away as he turned to leave.

***********************************************************

After an evening delegating a very passive aggressive discussion between Shadowheart and Lae’zel over what she would consider dinner, Ferelith was forced to resist the urge to turn in for the night. Her head had been pounding, likely a side affect of the illithid’s mental damage from before. Still, she had agreed to have a moment with Gale. And least with him, she knew half of what to expect. That included walking up to see him observing his own double.

“Be with you in a moment,” his voice echoed.

His attention never left the mirror image, his eyes focused upon his own face. Ferelith snorted a bit, rolling her eyes with a sigh as she glanced around for something else to keep her occupied. She allowed him a few more seconds before she grew impatient.

“Is there a reason you’re studying your own image?”

Gale turned, a smirk shot at her to acknowledge the teasing tone.

“Indulging in a spot of vanity. Handsome devil, aren’t I?” he spun around with a wave of his, causing the image to vanish. “Be that as it may.”

It slowly fizzled down to a few sparks. He folded his hands behind his back, very much in the estute sort of way she would have imagine. His brow lowered and she could feel the tone shifting to a more serious manner. Though, she felt she had enough of it that day.

“Ceremorphosis. What does it make you think of?”

“The tadpole,” she answered, knowing it was what he expected.

Still, he responded with utmost enthusiasm.

“Spot on,” he winked. “Day one: fever and memory loss. Day two: hallucinations and graying skin. Day three: hair loss and blood leaking from all orifices. Need I go on?”

“By all means,” she nodded.

“Day four: excruciating pain as the skeleton and organs reform and reposition. Day five: the host's personality has disappeared. Fingers, toes, and limbs elongate,” he became a bit aggravated as a small chuckle fell from her lips. “I take it you get the picture.”

“I’ve already committed to the lesson, Gale,” she grinned. “Might as well get my money’s worth.”

“Day six,” he lowered his brow, clearly not humored by her sarcasm, “The flesh around the mouth splits to make way for tentacles. Day seven: a mind flayer is born. This is the most annotated version, of course.”

“What you’re saying,” she shifted with crossed arms, “is that I can at least keep my sense of humor until the fifth day? I’d say we only have another night’s worth of laughs, Gale.”

“I’m glad your coping mechanism consists of deflecting the seriousness of this problem with jokes,” he replied.

“You’re no fun tonight,” she tilted her head to the side. “But no worries. We’re two days in. We should have clearly turned gray by now.”

“Spot on again,” he flicked a finger at her. “Orifices remain blissfully unbloodied. Our heads remain clear, and our blood temperature is normal. Any expert will agree: this is… abnormal.”

“Don’t question it so much,” she shrugged. “In all my existence, the only reason I owe my life to anything is because of the abnormal. I’m just lucky to be alive.”

“I’ll toast to that,” he smiled uneasily with a hint of intrigue. “The pragmatic in me, however, sees only the silence before the storm. Something to sleep on. We should get some rest.”

“Thank you for leaving me with that imagery,” she gave a slight nod. “I’m sure it will soothe me as I mediate tonight. Good night, Gale.”

“I’m only here to help,” he gave a half solute.

Ferelith grinned, waving her hand slightly to bid farewell as she retreated to her bedroll. They had acquired a few extra blankets. And she was lucky enough to procure an additional pillow. Leaning against her new luxurious cot was her pack, waiting patiently for her hands to dive into it. And standing directly across it from the fire, just as he was the night before, was Astarion. He seemed to be waiting as patiently as her pack.

“I saw you getting a lecture from our magical friend,” he said the moment she glanced in his direction.

“It was quite informative,” she took a break from straightening her blanket to address him. “Descriptive, at the very least.”

“I have to say,” he said leaning forward with narrowed eyes. “I thought you’d look worse. But no. Not a tentacle in sight.”

“Thank you?” she pulled back, turning a shoulder to him. “I’m hoping it will stay that way.”

“Naturally,” he rose a brow. “But I was thinking… what if it doesn’t?”

Ferelith had thought about what would happen if she did change. But the ever growing stubbornness inside her made her truly believe it would never happen. She was not willing to believe it. Nor was she willing to admit to anyone else that it was a possibility. He let the sentiment settle with her for a moment. Though he could see it had little impact. The blank stare with a slow blink signaled him to proceed.

“Of course,” he went on, tilting his chin to the side with a gleam in his eye, “first sign of change and I’ll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours.”

He almost seemed too excited at the thought of putting her down. Like a wild animal. She crossed her arms, as if to guard her chest from his stare. It did not matter, he could hear the sound of her pounding heart. And it had only grown louder from his statement.

“I am open to suggestions. Knives, poison, strangulation – whatever you’d prefer.”

“I’d prefer not to die,” she said dully.

“Well now you’re just being closed-minded,” he teased. “There are some lovely ways to go.”

“First I listen to Gale talk about the details of turning into a terrifying monster and now you’re telling me all the options I have in which you could kill me? Whoever said chivalry was dead must have no taste for macabre.”

“To be fair, you were the one that pushed the wizard to give those wonderful details. I am giving you these options as a gift.”

“I am ever so grateful. Do go on about the beautiful ways in which I can ensue death,” she opened her arms, flicking her wrists in a manner as if she were receiving the said gift he spoke of.

“You know, I watched urchins freeze to death on the street. It looks peaceful – just like falling asleep.”

“Very poetic… I wonder if drowning feels the same.”

“Ha!” his shoulders fell back as he lifted his head with laughter. “Oh, come on. Humor me. If you had to choose…”

“Fine,” she took a deep breath with a few seconds of thought. “I suppose a knife. Straight to the chest. That seems quick.”

“A classic,” he nodded with approval. “One good thrust to the heart and you’re gone. We need a good blade, of course. Don’t want to waste time hacking and prodding with a dinner half.”

It was the first time in a long time it had happened. The welling feeling in her chest. The tightening of her cheeks. The widening of the eyes. The burst of air from her mouths as her voice let out a loud series of rhythmic laughter. It caught her off guard. So much that she covered her mouth, leaning forward, and looking to Astarion with surprise. She rose her brows in disbelief that he had truly made her laugh.

“Well,” he said, leaning forward toward her like they were a couple of children cackling in school, “I’m getting ahead of myself. This is all a worst case scenario, obviously.”

“You’re terrible,” she giggled, lurching forward with one last tit of laughter. “What about you? Is there any way you’d like for me to end your life?”

“Oh, my dear,” he said with a condescending tone. “I’d like to see you try.”

Ferelith reared back, a bit offended that he held himself so much higher than herself. But she knew he was only testing her. Pushing her to see what sort of outcome he could obtain by doubting her strength.

“Dealer’s choice then,” she said firmly. “I’ll make sure it’s a lovely surprise.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you’ll disappoint me,” it was meant to be a positive reinforcement, but the way he said it still made it sound more like a threat. “Now, enough of this talk. Let’s get some rest. The sooner we start tomorrow, the better our chances of keeping this hypothetical.”

“I take it you’re joining us to the tiefling camp, then?”

“Of course, darling,” he replied. “I’ll go wherever you lead.”

“I’d be careful with those words,” she said darkly. “You’ll never know what path I’ll lead you toward.”

“Even better.”

She shook her head at his advancements with a foolish smirk she could not hide. “Good night, Astarion.”

“Good night, Ferelith.”

************************************************************

The next day brought a heavy fog over the camp, dampening both their supplies and their spirits. Ferelith could smell the moisture in the air and knew it would lift as the sun rose. And sure enough, the moment they began to snack on their morning rations they could see a bit of orange illuminating the sky. Their pace quickened and they got to their feet, ready to begin to their journey into a new part of the forsaken land they had been thrown into. The human, the gith, and the two elves made their way out of camp, leaving Shadowheart to sulk to herself as they had agreed to take Lae’zel to question the tieflings and seek further assistance for themselves against her wishes. Though Ferelith had promised the temple would come soon, as she had an interest in what laid within it herself.

The path was quite clear to the camp. And Ferelith wondered how they had missed it so easily before. Or perhaps, they had been far too occupied with their troubles and each other to pay attention to path carved among the rocks. She kicked at the dirt, still a bit dry despite the wet morning, and looked up to the back of her companion who was the only one who managed to sustain any of the information the tieflings had given before. He stopped for a moment, glancing behind him to smile at her, then looking to the others.

“I think we should take a moment to really prepare ourselves for this camp,” he said with an overthought of wishful thinking. “Our main goal is information. We don’t want to overwhelm them.”

“It’ll be fine, Gale,” Ferelith stated, slinging her pack over her shoulder. “We’re only asking a few questions. Getting supplies. There won’t be enough time to do any real damage.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gale whispered slightly to himself with a shrug. “I can think of a few things that could go wrong.”

She ignored him, rummaging through the items in her pack until she felt the cold texture of leather beneath her fingertips. Pulling them out, she gave them one good look before she turned Astarion.

“Here,” she handed him brown leather folded neatly to show the string tied at the top around the collar.

He took them, a bit disgruntled but willingly. Though he wasn’t sure what she expected him to do as she kept searching through the pack.

“Am I supposed to hold onto these?”

“Put them on,” she directed, otherwise paying no mind.

“Right now?” he dipped his head low as he questioned her, staring her in the eyes while waiting for her acknowledgment.

“Yes, right now,” she finally turned to look at him but only for a moment. “You’ve been wearing the same city clothes for days. You should put on some actual leather. One, because it’s more useful. And two, so you don’t look like a complete lost cause.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that last part because this is a very expensive doublet. And this blouse is of the finest threads in Baldur’s Gate.”

“I’m sure,” she grinned lovingly, looking back down into her pack.

Astarion tossed his new leather armor to the side to free his hands. He began to work on his doublet right away. It was already sliding down his arms when Ferelith looked up, catching the back of him in just his white shirt. He looked… nice. It almost made him feel more humble than he really was. Or at least, more approachable. His hands came up, his fingers loosening the collar. Still facing the rock, he pulled the shirt up and her eyes widened as he lifted it. His back flexed and his hands grasped the bottom of his shirt as he pulled it over. She swallowed… hard… as he turned around. What she had assumed was the doublet in all its puffed out glory… had been the actual thickness of the man’s chest. He was lean, but he far from frail. Seeing it off was a revelation and normally she would have felt annoyed at being so wrong about someone’s character. She inhaled a heavy dose of air, holding it for a few moments as she let her eyes wander. He shook the leather tunic out and she admired the muscle in his forearm tensing as he did. Slowly, she exhaled, observing him turn around with his arms raised trying to pull down the armor. She counted each curve of his abdomen with a small smile. Then, nodding with a bit of appreciation, she looked back down into her bag.

“Well, you certainly have no shame,” Gale nudged her.

“What?” she shrugged with a coy smile. “I’m in the wilderness. My eyes get hungry, too.”

“Careful. Some of the tastiest looking berries are the most poisonous.”

“Better than death by ceremorphosis.”

******************************************************

The back of Zevlor whisked away, his tail thrashed back and forth with irritation as he left. There was something about a tiefling that left an excitement behind for Ferelith. Like a small trail of flame. She breathed a heavy sigh, knowing that the flames would grow larger the longer she stared at them. After all, she had just witnessed them in battle. Turning to her comrades, she noticed a slight irritation within their faces.

“What are we messengers, now?” Astarion seemed particularly the worst.

Ferelith stepped close to him, too close for comfort. It made him shift backward, which is exactly what she wanted. He took several steps back just so she could hiss at him out of hearing range of anyone else. She kept her head down as she spoke.

“Listen, we keep all options open. There’s no agreeing. No disagreeing. If we’re stuck here, we best leave all doors open in case we need a way out. That means seeing what we can do about the druids.”

“Ah, I understand, now,” he said, his chest still out further than than his chin to keep her at bay. “This is the sort of thing we should have discussed before our arrival rather than my appearance.”

Ferelith blinked, her eyes gliding up toward him. “I didn’t expect you to complain in front of the whole sodding camp after watching one of them take an arrow to the chest.”

“Like it makes a difference? They’re all going to die anyway.”

Ferelith crossed her arms, her fingers tapping against her forearm. “If we’re not careful, we’ll die too.”

“Fine, fine,” he waved his hand.

“If you’re done,” Gale interrupted. “I believe there’s a merchant just down the hill.”

She gave him one last warning glance before she turned to the direction Gale was pointing. There was a small set up just on the edge of the camp beneath a stretch of a rock archway. It was a grand entrance, nothing at all comparable to a refugee camp. They followed the trail down, glancing further into it and noticing the make shift buildings and rails along the sides. They seemed misplaced to her. Even the shop they approached looked more like a scatter array of things more than any kind of marketplace.

“Refugees… adventurers. No one in years. And suddenly, we’re overwhelmed. Well me,” he greeted them begrudgingly. “Thank you for beating back those goblins. Most brave of you.”

“I do what I can,” she shrugged, not feeling quite worthy of his gratitude just yet.

“Is there anything you need? Act fast if you do. The ritual will be complete before too long.”

“I do,” she paused, observing Astarion round the display. “We’re a bit short on supplies. But we do have a bit of coin. Are they really locking down the grove? I was hoping to rely on the business here for a short time.”

“I know it’s drastic, but more monsters seem to terrorize this region every day.”

“And the tieflings?”

“We druids will be safe-”

The sound of the merchant drowned as she became distracted by Astarion looking through the array of weaponry. She watched as he ran his fingers over the blades along the table, glancing at her with a mischievous smirk. Her eyes shifted back to the vendor, trying to pay attention as best she could. But she kept wandering back to the rogue. He held up a knife, displaying it for her with a raised brow. She shook her head slightly. But he ignored her, giving the air a few jabs and shrugging, setting it back down with a frown. The next one he picked up, waving a hand down in it like it were a grand prize. She swallowed the lump forming to stop herself from bursting with laughter. It did not work and she was forced to clear her throat rather loudly.

“It sounds like these are dire times,” she blinked to regain her focus.

“You sound just like Khaga.”

“Are these the only weapons for sale?” Astarion interrupted, setting down the knife he was holding with a loud thud.

“These are the only ones I am selling,” he lowered his brow. “There’s a blacksmith further into the camp. Though I’m not sure he has much to offer.”

“Thank you,” Ferelith said loud enough to draw his attention back. “Here’s what I have for… oh, I think a few potions will do.”

“Of course.”

She passed Gale the bottles as they were handed to her who began to slip them into the back of her pack. Astarion had lost interest in the wares and moved back to Lae’zel who was impatiently waiting behind them. Her stare was into the gorge, examining the tieflings as if she were able to spot the one with the information she needed. Ferelith was certain she would have already caused chaos if they were not with her. As she turned around, she could hear Astarion grumbling into her ear.

“Things are about to get a lot more dire with those sad excuses for weapons.”

“You’re going to get us kicked out,” she said as she brushed by the two of them. “Let’s find the blacksmith. Find the lead. And get out.”

“Is the blacksmith necessary?” the gith rolled her eyes.

“Yes,” Ferelith said firmly. “I’ve only got two bolts for my crossbow. The ones Astarion found are useless.”

“I warned you,” he shrugged.

“A snapped bolt could have meant my death.”

“It wouldn’t have been my first attempt to kill you.”

“Nor the last,” she said over her shoulder as she trailed further down into the camp.

[iamnotacleverperson]

lol

VERY rough draft of a fic for a friend. Don’t read unless you want to cringe!

The tavern was dank, poorly lit, and smelled faintly of vomit, but Avis had been in worse. Besides, he wouldn’t be staying long. He spotted his contact not far away– a woman at the table in the corner, dark eyes seeking his. As he made his way over, he noticed an extra flagon of ale waiting for him. Such a gesture of kindness boded well for him, he supposed.

“Kildor?” He asked, taking his seat and pulling the drink towards him. The woman nodded, drawing from her own cup.

“That’s me. Ready to get to business?” Her eyes flitted between the door and his face, no kindness to be found anywhere. If she was doing away will frills, so would he.

“Do you have my fee?” Though a fee implied he was a professional, he was the furthest thing from it. He was more trained in calligraphy than… whatever this was. A small pouch of coin hit the table before he registered her hands moving. He couldn’t help a little smile. “Let’s get started.”

The next things to hit the table were a guard schedule and a blueprint. An honest-to-gods blueprint of the house he was to rob.

“Here’s everything you need to know. You’ll enter here,” she pointed to the servant’s entrance, “at 7:03. If you take this staircase,” she drew her fingers across the page like she’d done this before a thousand times, “you’ll make your way to this room, where the artifact is. You can take whatever else you want in addition to the rest of your payment, but the artifact is mine. As long as you’re done by 7:27 and headed down this staircase and through this room, you’ll have a clear shot out between these guards,” now she moved to the guard schedule, where the smallest gap of time was left between two shifts.

Avis sat stunned, unable to wrap his head around the situation. He had plans. He never had plans. Mostly, he was left with “Hey, do this thing. Get me that thing. Talk to this guy for me. Deliver this.” So much detail left him wondering.

“If you have such a great plan, why are you coming to me with this? Why not do it yourself?” He demanded. Kildor hesitated at that. Considered. Then she reached down and pulled her pant leg up just enough for Avis to see a nasty scar running over her knee, part way down her leg.

“Bastard broke my knee two years back, then stole my family’s fortune. That idol is all that’s left.” Avis didn’t normally care who he stole from, but this little bit of information would fuel his next few hours before the heist.

The two went over the plan until Avis was certain he had it memorized, and then they parted ways. This rich asshole would be a little less fortunate by the end of the day.

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

Just like Kildor said, the servant’s entrance was open and inviting by the time Avis arrived. The stairwell she’d indicated went past the kitchens, bustling at this time of night with talkative staff and pans scraping across stove tops. He dodged between doors until he reached the stairs, nerves starting to fray. Kildor had failed to mention how busy it would be, but it was too late now. As he ascended the steps, he said a little chant in his head: get paid, not caught.

He paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for a guard to pass, then darted across the hall into the sun room. It should be a straight shot down the hall to the gallery, but between him and there, a couple of servants were talking. One had a tray, another a bundle of sheets. They appeared deep in conversation about their employer with no signs of stopping. Okay, he could get by them if he just…

“Are you going to take those down to laundry, or shall I?” He asked, approaching. They both looked at him and gaped. He wasn’t dressed as a servant, but neither was he dressed as a noble. A choker circled his neck, a series of straps and suspenders crisscrossed his shirt, holding it closed with a valiant effort, his chest partially exposed. The workers looked him up and down, then exchanged a glance.

“We’ll get this down to laundry,” said the one with the tray said slowly. They continued to stare at him warily as they passed, but if he was to keep up the charade, he could only nod and move on, hoping they would inform no one. There was no other way past them. No rooms by which to circumvent them, no nothing. He just had to pretend and be on his way, so that’s what he did, I don’t know, I gotta refine this bit.

He made it into the gallery. All around him were works of art, sculptures, and most of all, expensive jewelry that had probably never touched skin before. And there, on one of the many pedestals, stood an out of place idol. All around were metal and stone works, but this was wood and clay. If Kildor hadn’t told him what it was made of, he never would have guessed. It was the figure of a woman, arms thrown to some invisible gale, a scarf or shawl clutched in her hands and blowing behind her, her back impossibly arched as though she was part of the fabric caught in the wind. Glazed clay like jewels caught the light and ran through the figure’s dress, hair, and shawl. This must be it.

Avis nabbed it, wrapping it carefully in a cloth and stowing it in his bag. Then he started on the jewelry, eyeing a few of the sculptures, but deciding they were too big and clunky to carry out.

When the delicately constructed clock showed 7:27, Avis began to make his way out and down the stairs Kildor indicated. It was so easy to get in, so easy to take what he wanted. This was probably the easiest money he’d ever made.

Suddenly feeling an abundance of confidence, he strode down the stairs like he was meant to be here. Through the hall. Take a left into the drawing room, and…

Stop dead. Drop the bag. Gently. Stare at the three men now aware of his presence.

Shiiiiiiiit. Well, if it worked once…

Avis picked the bag up, threw it over his shoulder, and plastered a smile on his face.

“Gentlemen! Sorry I’m late.” He sauntered into the room that was supposed to be his exit.

“And who are you?” Demanded the tallest of them.

“Walter Grobenshumer,” Avis responded, thrusting his hand out. Almost on instinct, the man began to reach to shake it.

“Are you the art consult?” Said the second tallest man.

“Absolutely!” Just keep saying yes.

“Would you mind emptying your bag please?”

“I would, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is my emotional support bag.”

“Okay, you’re definitely under arrest.”

[theawesomeally]

Before We Met (Preview)

Prologue

In a world inhabited by mythic creatures, love was commonplace several millennia ago, though difficult to master. After his training advances over the decades, his powers became obsolete and were largely discarded.

[The camera zooms in on the city and two blazing specks of light dash all over the place as one shoots lasers at the other. We then see an enemy aircraft flying throughout while it's chasing a young man, who is running from the pursuer. We see full closeups of a guy in his craft and Rocky as he runs. The scene freezes after an explosion with Rocky barely missing it.]

[voice over]

Through the years I have been known by many names. Marshmallow, The Furry Lover, The Daredevil, Frisky Two Times and then The amazing Ryan Reynolds. But to most, I am Rocky, the awesome one!

[Some other women, leaning across the wall, and Rocky getting his shades from his pocket. Put it onto his eyes. While he puts his hoodie onto his shoulders. Rocky was dressed like a gentleman, but he fought with honor or dignity and pulled at the knot into his tie. Females are not meant to grab his attention, and if it does. To be fair, he heard most of what he'd said up to this point. The parts that weren't of his interest, anyway.

Okay, maybe that wasn't much]

His sigh is heavy with exasperation,

"Can you keep your dick in your pants at the gala?"

Grab his phone from his pocket, automatically switching it out of Bluetooth mode, and bring his earphone up to his ear.

I will never forget you, Margarita. [The female stops and cringe after hearing the name. His blue prominent eyes were not well adapted to winking. They were rather of the sort that closes solemnly in slumber with majestic effect.

Rocky pretend to consider as Rocky step out of the car and button his tux jacket. "Hmm."

"Nice wheels, sir," the valet says, unconcerned that he was on the phone. Rocky pull out his wallet and flash a fifty-dollar bill. "Take care of her and this is yours."

"Yes, Mr. Rocky."

"I mean, Rosa. Uh...sorry. I think maybe I should go.???." She wrapped her arms over her chest and shook her head with a smirk curved across her face. Rocky grinned and raised an ironical finger in salute Rocky starts backing away. "You can't get away with it." the security guard muttered, holding out one hand. He was moving very slowly, thinking Rocky was the enemy or something. Blinks at her as a farewell, but glance with a smug as he sees the vampire's ring. Mind was so wrapped up in thought that he didn't notice the familiar vampire standing behind him. A vampire with bad breath psycho. "Hey, come on, dickie! You're trashing public property here!" He is thinking about how he had to sneaked up onto the roof and is currently standing a few feet behind him.

Rocky then gently slides the ring off the vampire's finger using his katana.

Light glinted off a myriad of his Katana and the vampire ring. Spray from the dust to blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater moistened his palms as he gripped the eagle. His eyes were as blue while the vampires eyes were cold as the stormy weather.

"Hey, it's Gale calling," says Rocky called over his shoulder to one nefarious vampire. "Love the shiny suit. Really brings out the sex trafficker in your eyes." Rocky had commented, half jokingly and straight up confident, how that guy would have been considered handsome - if he ever bothered to smile.

Cut to a shot of a cliff.

A grim expression again carved itself into the soldier's face as he gazed up at the jeering vampires, their bodies smeared with blood, upon the cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances from such advantageous ground, one being was mused. The sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck as a human shield or the solid surface of the earth.

Cut back to the fighting scene. Rocky is skewering a guy with his swords, and kicks the vampire in the chest, sending him back down and puts his sword away. The guy gasp and starts fighting with Rocky. This continues for awhile until Rocky get's away again. Using two fingers he salute the vampire as a goodbye.

Making a soft chuckle. He flicks the vampire ring up into the air. It comes back down and lands into one of the streets, causing his background to explode. The shards of fire fell in slow motion behind him.

He is consumed in the explosion, as his body can be seen flying off the ground, flipping off the camera as it goes. "Oh, fuck." Rocky mutter under his breath. "Oh, I'm sorry." A small apology leaving his lips with a smirk.

"That will teach you, not to mess with me," A familiar voiced ask, up righting his head as he walk over the circles and appeared in front of him,

(narrator)

So, I know what you're thinking. Why is that incredibly handsome guy being chased by a madman with a huge shiny fangs from the Civil War?

[The scene freezes after an explosion sending Rocky flying off the ground from the ground. After the dust settles, leaving Rocky lying unconscious on the ground.]

This guy's got the right idea. Well, to be honest, it feels like I've been the captain of my whole life. Is this too much? Am I going too fast? It's kind of what I do--You know what? Let's back up.

[We see the whole fight going in reverse as well as frames of future clips for a split second each time, one passes as Rocky mimics a rewind sound effect] Cut to close-up of Rocky gets up to his feet. Cut to him sitting on the side of the gable roof at night. Wondering how long it would be before he saw the city again. He had been born with a wandering heart, and he embraced adventure, unafraid to face the dangers often presented by journeys into unknown places. Leaving civilization behind for the wilds of the frozen north, legs dangling over the side as he listens to his Walkman next to him playing 'Shoop.' Rocky was vaguely singing along, making hand gestures along with the lyrics, but he was focused on his own drawing, while listening to the music and coloring a picture with crayons. We see that the picture he's drawing is him shooting the vampire in the head, he was doing it with some crayons he had with him.

It was fun to see that getting shot in the head, even if it was just a crayon drawing. He'd never soon change it to a reality. And then turned his head and stared directly at the camera, or the person reading, or just whoever balls happened to be paying a lot of attention to him.

Wha- Oh! Oh, hello. I know, right? Who's balls did I have to snap to get my very own story? I can't tell you, but it does rhyme with dick. And let me tell you; he's got a nice pair of fucking underwear, he finished in an Swedish accent.

They'd get that joke, right?

Anyway, I got places to be, a kiss in the ass to fix, and - oh! hot weird vampire to kill.

He watched eagerly as the flashes of light began to appear below him – lots of rippers were a very dramatic little shit, after all – we're panning quickly towards the edge of the roof he was sitting on. Now having an appointment to keep, Rocky was quick to get onto edge of the roof and, in one fluid motion, opens a music playlist called Tunes of Anarchy on his Walkman, and the song "Where Evil Grows" by The Poppy Family stays playing in the background as he jumped off the roof, landing in one of the coolest bar in Mystic Falls. It seemed that they had been drinking peacefully, listening to 'Angel of the Morning,' but when Rocky landed and that's when their peaceful night was over.

They look around for which they finally see as Rocky stands at a wooden doorway wearing a cowboy hat, black sunglasses, and red a white hoodie as he opens a music playlist called Tunes of Anarchy on his Walkman. Opens up and the door swings open and the music resumes with people dancing and lights flashing as he goes inside the bar.

Nothing.

Absolutely positively not a fucking thing.

First one person turned, noticing him. Then more followed, until the whole patron was hushed, waiting. Everyone was watching, the same bewildered look on all of their faces. Eyebrows raised and narrowed eyes, etc. God, for months he'd played this moment over and over inside his mind. It most definitely never turned out like this. Whatever this was.

As he walks up to the bar. The room was narrow and about 90 feet deep. Light did manage to worm its way into the establishment, though. It seeped through the windows scattered along the walls, and through the gaps in the door between its wooden panels. A bar on the left at the front, then some upholstered horseshoe benches, then a cluster of freestanding tables on what, on other nights, might have been a dance floor. Then the stage, with the band on it. The band looked as if it had been put together by accident after a misfiling incident at a talent agency. The bass player was a stout old black guy in a suit with a vest. He was plucking away at an upright bass fiddle. The drummer could have been his uncle. He was a big old guy sprawled comfortably behind a small, simple kit. The singer was also a harmonica player and was older than the bass player and younger than the drummer and bigger than either one.

The guitarist was completely different. He was young and white and small. Maybe 20, maybe 5-foot-6, maybe 130 pounds. He had a fancy blue guitar wired to a crisp new amplifier and together the instrument and the electronics made sharp sounds full of space and echoes. The amp must have been turned up to 11. The sound was incredibly loud. It was as if the air in the room was locked solid. It had no more capacity for volume. But the music was good. The three black guys were old pros, and the white kid knew all the notes, and when and how and in what order to play them. He was wearing a red T-shirt and black pants and white tennis shoes. He had a very serious expression on his face. He looked foreign. Maybe Russian.

I watched them for a minute, and then I looked away. My name is Rocky, and once I was the most wanted man, with heavy emphasis on the past tense. I have been out nearly as long as I was in. But old habits die hard. I had stepped into the bar the same way I always step anywhere, which is carefully. One-thirty in the morning. I had ridden the train to West and walked south on Sixth Avenue and made the left turn on San Francisco bar and checked the sidewalks. I wanted music, but not the kind that drives large numbers of patrons outside to smoke.

His attention was taken away from patrons. It was at that point that he saw the young beautiful woman alone at her table, Her name tag read Katy, and her shirt clung tightly around her chest. Her hands worked quickly and gracefully with the bottles as she poured them another and took the empty's away.

I watched her in the gaudy, reflected light, with the music shrieking and pounding all around me. The two guys watched her. Her bodyguard watched her. She watched the guitarist. He was concentrating hard, key changes and choruses, but from time to time he would lift his head and smile, mostly at the glory of being up on the stage, but twice directly at the girl. The first of those smiles was shy, and the second was a little wider.

What met my eyes was a beautiful girl with golden hair and a bright smile that melted my heart. She was blond and blue-eyed, American woman who have a glow, and a smoothness complexion. She lives in New York, singing, listening to a band, and I was in love with her angelic voice. That was clear. There I was, a guy further back in the room, stood in the room staring at her. I was 6ft tall, wide man with a white hoodie and a black leather jacket under a hoodie. She was part of the reason I was here with her back in a city when we were at the age of 19 or less.

It wasn't the kind of glossy place that had a policy about dating rich girls, either for or against. Some call it a gold digger, and I guessed they had looked at her and her minder and made a snap decision against trouble and in favor of tips.

The part of her gaze that wasn't wary was filled with adoration, and it was all aimed in his direction. She was rich. She was alone at a table near the stage and she had a pile of A.T.M fresh twenties in front of her and she was paying for each new bottle with one of them and she wasn't asking for change.

She was a waitress and I loved her.

The woman stood up. She butted the lip of her table with her thighs and shuffled out from behind it and headed for the counter in back. I got there first. The sound from the band howled through it. The ladies' room was halfway down. The men's room was all the way at the end. Rocky leaned on the wall and scanned the room. As Rocky watched her walk in and squeeze through the crowd and she sat down on the bar stool, 1 feet away from him.

"Hey, Raoul, look what this kid dragged in. Oh, wait! That is the guy!," but they didn't hear. Too much noise. He caught them by the elbows, one in each hand. They spun around, as if ready to fight, but then they stopped. Fortunately for him, the first two who approached her were quick to heed her dismissal. She wasn't there to mingle with huge ass in leather jackets. She was just there to grab a drink and relax and pretty sure she made that pretty clear when she shot the first couple of idiots down.

The third guy, however, wasn't ready to take no for an answer.

"How about you let me buy you a drink, sweetheart?"

Their sex appeal eyes pried upon their eyes from the television screen above the bar and looked at the newcomer. With his hair greased back and one-size-too-big biker jacket on, the guy looked like prime wife-beater material. Perfect. Just what they needed to interrupt his evening.

"Thanks, but I'm good," she said curtly, gesturing to the beer bottle in front of her.

"That's it? You're gonna chug that shitty beer and call it a night? Come on, let me get you a real drink."

She scoffed. "What? Like those idiots you got over there?" she glanced past him at the table where he and a couple of his friends had been sitting.

"It's a warm-up. Trust me, honey, we're just getting started over there. You should join us."

She wanted to roll her eyes. "Like I said, I'm good."

She made the move to turn away and focus her attention back on the football game on the television when the guy grabbed her by the arm.

"What the hell's your problem?" This guy gripped her arm tightly, this guy's face practically scrunched up in a beastly snarl. "I don't like to be ignored, y'know?"

She yanked her arm out of his grip and stood up to face him directly. She knew pretty damn well where the conversation was headed and sure as hell were not about to get in a bar fight with their ass glued to the seat.

Before she could open her mouth, a familiar voice spoke up from behind her.

By hearing it and raising their head to turn to his voice, her smile grew a tad wider, recognizing the voice immediately. They simply looked so annoyed, at least much more than usual. His lips pulled into a tight frown, while their eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowed, back hunched over slightly if you'd look hard enough. Yep, those guys are just being grumpy as usual, but seemingly much more grumpy, except with their eyes laced with the slightest bit of concern. For herself, most likely.

The said person stopped, and looked over their shoulder to the voice. She put on a mellow look close to her usual one. Confrontation- unnecessary confrontation- was not exactly his thing. He tended to avoid fights like these. He could hold his ground better than most, but he preferred to keep out of the brawls and spats that others got involved in.

A voice caught his ear, she sounded like she needed help, despite the overconfident tone the stranger used. "Look, I don't wanna interrupt, but is this guy bothering you?" he looks up at her and says greeted casually, as casual as someone could be hanging for dear life. She looked up at me, startled that he was there. "I'm sorry. Did I scare you up?" he softly asked, when she turned to get a good look at the stranger in his handsome voice. She wasn't expecting the sight she was met with. A pair of piercing blue eyes smiled over her, puffing out her cheeks childishly when she looked at him. After she looked to her right to find Rocky taking his place beside her. Her pinkish lips turned up in a small smile as she ducked her head briefly with a laugh before tucking her hair behind her ear, "No, you did not," she said. He couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice. She turned her head to look at him, catching his gaze with her own. He gave a small smile, stroking her hair softly with his index. "So, What exactly are you doing here?" she said softly, trying to maintain an even tone of voice.

"Oh you know, I was just passing through the neighborhood when I thought I caught a whiff of filthy human garbage coming from this place," he said,

"And sure enough here I am."

Desire pools dark and deadly in his groin. Gaze up at her, releasing her lip. Katy flush a deep crimson in her cheeks, and he runs his index finger down her cheek before handing her the headphones. "I'd like to kiss you, too, but you won't let me down, are you?." Rocky asked her. Besides, he's pulled the straps so tight he can barely move.

Amused smile on his lips, he's wearing his enigmatic half smile. He glances down at her, light blue-gray eyes alive, he glances up when she looks at his way and their eyes lock. And in that brief moment, she was paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at her with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into her, as they lost for a moment staring at each other.

It's there in the air between them, that electricity. It's palpable. He can almost taste it, pulsing between them, drawing them together.

"Oh my," she gasps as she basks briefly in the intensity of this visceral, primal attraction. The two men stood back, saying nothing, but looking at him with hard eyes.

Katy had, somehow, stammered out some sort of reply that must have made her look insane. Coby, hearing her, had come over to check on her and had ended up having her go make Rocky's a drink while they chatted. Ever since that first meeting, though, Katy had completely fallen for Rocky. There was something about his smile, or maybe it was his eyes? Whatever it was, it made Katy's entire body feel light as a feather.

To be continued....

[grim-faux]

2 _ 19 _ Brewing Storms

First

The past few days of calm weather and mild drizzles, managed to build up into a punishing electrical system of blazing assault. When the rain ceased entirely was the first indication that something was amiss, and the Thin Man became relentless to demand Mono pay attention, and made certain he kept better tabs on the child. In case. Rain cease was not uncommon, weather patterns did change in the Pale City, though it retained consistency depending on the airwaves and ozone flooding the atmosphere above the beacon.

 As time wore on and they worked through the unsuccessful search for substantial foods, the Thin Man remained preoccupied by the buzzing air. It was possible the boy sensed the ion charge and became more aloof than usual, at least, that is what he theorized. The boy didn’t wedge himself into hiding, but he lingered here or there in a place, exploring artifacts and rubbish alike. When Mono was like this, it was a challenge to keep him mobile on his own. That, and his reluctance to accept assistance if a pathway became too perilous or they reached a snag. Barriers meant nothing to the man in the hat, but they became something else to Mono, who had not the strongest grasp of his abilities yet.

 Setbacks cropped up around every bend of the road, buildings collapsed, or a throng of Viewers captivated in one narrow alley by one lone television. Then there was Mono lagging, locked amid a persistent stupor. Not one of the stores they could break into yielded anything to draw the child out of it. This whole prospect was unmotivating, and the Thin Man suffered secondhand misery from the boy’s dour mood. Until at last, he determined shelter was unavoidable, much to Mono’s silent disinclination. The boy was still sour about earlier, and that stubborn streak threatened what little health he retained.

 Ever since the train, the Thin Man has not favored electrical storms. They were his least favorite of all the Pale Cities resumé of inclement weather, given the interference and stress it placed upon the transmission, the circulating airwaves, among regular vibrations humming through the atmospheric currents. Through the shoddy window of the small house – it was a pathetic, ramshackle, ugly little place – he could spectate as another blaze of light washed across nearby identical homes. The disturbance did not affect him as much as it used to, when he was young – especially not during his penance in the Tower; buried within miles of concrete and Flesh.

 For Mono….

 It was a colossal storm of force. Not a drop of water fell, not a net of mist in the air; only the splash and lash of glow conducted within the room. Nearest to the center of the home collapsed in a corner, lay a lopsided bookcase with broken shelves. The child huddled under a plank of wood, wrapped entirely in a pillowcase and cringing with each whip of radiance and tremendous snarl. The room and surrounding spaces held better shelter, such as a collapsed sofa chair beside a wall, or a closet. But Mono sought the area furthest from the outside, and open sky. Nearly all the rooms in this small abode had a window or more, the radiance made each pulse brighter than the memory of sunny day. Whatever those were.

 The buffeting clamor wasn’t terrible, barking and surging through the bellowing wind. It was the current slicing through. Mono was especially tuned to it, tensing before each brilliant ark belted through the dense cloud canopy. Blue, grays, bleak mauve.

 Not that a lightening bolt could hurt either, but it would not be pleasant. It did impede the Thin Man’s conduit to his powers, so best to lay low. He was not in the mood to challenge a faux supernatural force of nature, nor deranged denizen of the Signal Tower. After the day he had, it was an excuse to stop for a time and evaluate the situation. The last few days had not endured with anything but agitation, and the child was not receptive to pay attention when he d̴e̸m̶a̶n̵d̸e̶d̵.

 For a time Mono had done well not to stray off when the fancy struck, the child had even settled to get regular rest without persuasion. A stark change had come about, he almost missed the child constantly underfoot. During these moods the boy became inconsolable, curling into a corner or wedging himself in a crack in the wall where it was neigh impossible to extract him. Delaying the long and tedious venture to navigate the ruins of the city, a perilous task for a child.

 Once more he paced near Mono, scrutinizing the lump under the bent panel as it cringed. Not a second later, bleached radiance seared along the walls. The Thin Man hummed as the ions fizzled out.

 It had been a sequence of bad events, and now the electrical surge hovering. If not for what occurred the other day, he may have reserved the opportunity to escort his child self to a more suitable area, rather than this wretched hovel. It drilled out his patience, this struggle to keep the boy on task while Mono was dedicated to being led astray by any iota of thing that snared his interest. Maybe he did do it to spite him, the whole fiasco exasperated him.

 “Mono, no.” A sigh. “Come along.” Another sigh. “What now? What is it?” Sigh. After sigh. “You are going to collapse, and I won’t drag you O̸f̷f̷ ̸T̴h̶e̵ ̵S̴t̶r̵e̵e̸t̸.” Even that had not deterred the child or seem to spur his attention.

 This is what led to the end of what might’ve been a successful hit on substantial edibles.

 The road on one side remained whole for the most part, and it was the first day of no rain. Regardless visibility issues due to a thick fog, the Thin Man deemed the path safe. Somewhere along the route they (or he) passed a chain linked fence, which dissuaded interest due to the sum of Viewers gargling on the other side. Thinking back, Mono must’ve teleported through to investigate something. The Thin Man never saw what initially occurred, he was busy retracing his steps, after Mono failed to catch up. That failure made sense now.

 One of the Viewers gave an aggravated squeal from their shared club alley, and he put the two together. He flashed behind the fence in an instant, on the fringe to witness the whole swell of disgruntled denizens to swarm. Where was the child!

 The mob hurtled after a fluttering thing, bounding across the sidewalk and scrambling under mounds of ruble.

 “Mono! Here!” The Thin Man stalled time and discarded caution, opting to move fast and intercept the child before the agitated Viewers. However, Mono ducked behind a cracked piano flattened beside the building, and the Thin Man missed where he went next. The tempering enabled him to reach the piano before the deranged adults, and he traced along the only trail among rubbish piled high, seeking the shared transmission. The pace of time resumed its dutiful roll, and the piano began to bellow and clanged when the Viewers began shredding it; the attack becoming much louder and more violent with the escalating agony the instrument blurted out.

 By the time he realized Mono was not hidden nearby, he barely caught a flicker of the boy for the last time right before he squeezed into a drainage access cut into a gutter.

 The Thin Man didn’t hesitate to deal with the horde proper and well, before launching an investigation. The delay cost him spare few moments, but Mono was long gone from beneath the grate access. He leaned low peering into the depths, listening to days old rain gurgle deep within, the humid puff of grunge assaulted him. “Mono? Child?” No answer, and no tinge to the transmission. Gone.

 Damnit.

 Despite his firm admission not to pursue a desertion such as this, the Thin Man rationalized this wasn’t desertion. The child was frightened, and they were separated by unavoidable circumstances – those being Mono C̸o̶u̸l̵d̴n̶’̶t̴ ̶F̵o̴l̷l̵o̶w̷ ̴T̶h̷e̵ ̸S̵i̵m̶p̶l̴e̸s̴t̸ ̶O̷f̴ ̵O̸r̵d̵e̵r̸s̸.

 If the child didn’t revert to his flighty tendencies, he might locate him easily. Further down the road or in an alley, some opening would present certain liberation. Should. He only had to pursue the line and meet with Mono. He was not devoted to this task, but who could say, it was possible Mono was prepared to detach from his nightmarish future shadow and roam on his own.

 Navigating the twisted pathways was not a difficult trial (not alone), and every other city block or patch of alley presented one or more of the drainage accesses. However, no Mono. The Thin Man carried on, encouraged by the mild ebb of the transmission, and hoped the boy didn’t stumble onto a television or whisk away.

 After a prolonged search, he pondered concluding this lunacy and leave well enough alone. Until he came upon a sequence of collapsed skyscrapers, eviscerated over a shallow gulley, which was sculpted out from where the road once stretched through. For a brief time, he stood among the hollowed interior, while the gale whipped through tattered clothing snagged on the cleaved edges of the walls. The ground was at least stable, for now. Somewhere within the ruin, the ties to the transmission lingered strong.

 Within the splayed cavern of a building, he at last approached upon the irrefutable location where the boy was secluded. He poked around slanted and precariously stacked ruble, though not a sound gave Mono away. Only the dull threading of water carved through the stale atmosphere. He just knew by the transmission this was where he would be, he was waiting. Or… hiding. He was chasing the child when he asserted, he wouldn’t.

 The boy sat hunched beneath a collision of cement and rebar, back pressed to the wall. One knee drawn up, the other leg hooked over his ankle. The hat he wore lay low, the Thin Man could barely find those little eyes beneath its rim. Was he asleep? He reached a timid finger toward the hat—

 Mono twisted sideways and crawled into a small opening beneath the ruble, scooting on his knees and hands until he hit a barrier. He huddled there, body tense and eyes agape.

 “Mono?” he crooned, withdrawing his hand and tilting his head. “Are you staying? Here?” No answer, only that unwavering glower. On the cusp of his decision, the Thin Man leaned back on his knees. Then, Mono crept forward a bit and gazed up at him. “Ah, there he is. It’s not very hospitable under there, is it?” Still no speek, but this open place was not safe to risk such luxuries.

 In due time the boy did come around and departed the secluded cuvee. The Thin Man seized the chance and gripped Mono by the shoulder, in order to turn him one way then the other. “Are you hurt?” The child fussed and writhed in his grasp, but didn’t lash out or dig his heels into the cement. “Your eye is looking much better.”

 Cautiously, he released Mono so the boy wouldn’t lose his balance. Mono withdrew a step or two, but didn’t launch into the tight hide space. He fluffed out his damp coat, eyes fixed on the tall-tall figure.

 In a crackling flicker, the Thin Man shifted to his full height and adjusted his hat. The boy was all right, that was all he needed. This time he would not beseech, Mono could figure this out on his own. Without further suggestion, the man in the hat turned and began walking. He settled on no landmark or ambiguous recollection, his first goal was departing these dreary ruins.

 Beneath the steady trickle of rain from days ago escaped, the near imperceptible sound of a coat flashed around its wearer. With a careful glimpse from the corner of his eye, the tall thin man spied the boy trailing – bounding over debris and whatever else, whereas he stepped over with graceful ease. Perhaps one day, Mono would tire of this and discard him, the same way S̵h̶e̴ discarded Them. That was the boy’s right. That would never change. Not ever.

 Within this hushed bubble, the two navigated their own misgivings. The Thin Man engrossed by the presiding dilemma, and Mono wondering where he was going to find food, let alone when. Through raiding dwellings that remained put together, they didn’t find anything, at all. Not a crumb, aside from spoiled boxes, ruined merchandise, insect infested kitchens. Before they could commit to a firm scout of the grounds in good, the weather began its shift with all the force and power it had accumulated.

 It was Warhammer to anvil, the canopy of clouds crackled and surged.

 Under the plank of wood, Mono stifled his whimpering and tried to stay very quiet. He’s certain nothing can hear him through the horrendous ignite of each thunder blast, but he took no chances.

 Briefly, he has to kick the blanket off and rub at his hair and shoulders. Pins and prickly needles rolled through his nerves, some of the flashing beams felt aflame. Even his toes ached. At first he dismissed it as something that came from the train cart, but his teeth ached and his whole scalp sizzled. He didn’t remember what all happened that day, it felt so far away. It was hard, he hated that day. Thinking about it made the tingling worse, it wasn’t exactly painful, not all the flashing bursts. Some of the more intense whiteouts made him go stiff, while the air sizzled around his head.

 He wound the blanket up around his bundled shape (something that should never be done – it became a net) and thumped on the hard wood. Even his face bristled. The cracked slate shielded him from the flare blistering the sky, but couldn't blot the surge beating his senses. Beneath the next flowing crackle and groan, the clack of the Thin Man’s shoes passed close.

 The Thin Man paced occasionally. Coming to check him, before going back to the window. He said this bothered him too, but was lie? Mono didn’t care, he was mad.

 “It would help if you tried to relax.”

 Mono didn’t want do speek, or anything for that matter. He wanted to suffer.

 The boards creaked too near, and Mono poked his head up. He twisted around and snagged a crease in the panel beneath him, straining to anchor against the hands enclosing around his body, snaring him within the blanket. Mono had an impressive grip on such a thread thin space, but he couldn’t begin to contend with the Thin Man’s strength.

 “Nuhn,” he mewled, when his hands popped loose.

 “Calm, Mono. You need to be calm.”

 Mono hissed and flailed. Up until he was settled against the Thin Man’s chest – then he was clawing at the dense fabric, twisting, gnawing, fighting to dislodge from the hands clasping him. Or, express his agitation in a most vivid fashion. Naturally, the Thin Man wouldn’t let up. And that made him angrier.

 “This only makes it worse,” the Thin Man was saying, as he ambled around the room. He tugged the blankets edges tighter around Mono, confining his thrashing. “Don’t be tense. Relax.”

 The little rubbing motion on his back made the achy prickle lessen, but he didn’t have to show he liked it. For a while Mono would be still. He winced, as another sparkling sensation needled through his body. “Sad?” he creaked.

 The Thin Man stopped beside the window, checking for the flares far distant through the clouds. “No. The weather is a nuisance, but it will pass. These intense storms cannot endure long.” He continued to knead into Mono’s back, trying to uncoil the knotted muscles. Electric current is what made him, and to an extent the child. When the lad refused the lash given off by the polarity, it ‘stung’ him. If the boy was too resistant, he could work to distract him while he looped around the room. “You can feel the pricking before the surge. Don’t resist, do not withdraw. Relax, and let the current roll through.”

 That seemed too ambitious. Mono whined in his throat, while another wash of painful tingling coursed through his skin. It did sort of help, what the Thin Man was doing. “Hurt.”

 The Thin Man hummed through the sparking interference. “Try less.” He slouched back on the sofa chair and settled a glare on the window. “Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything.” The child squirmed, but he tried to keep him still and steady. Until the storm expelled itself completely, if necessary. Mono made some displeased sounds, quietly, but it wasn’t the ferocity from earlier.

 He could not maintain the stare off with the force of nature beyond the window, and thusly uncoiled to let himself lean on the chair’s arm. Mono stopped twitching, which was a good sign that the storm was losing its potency. Perhaps giving it the promise of eternal damnation moved corrupted nature to tears.

 “Sound,” Mono mumbled.

 “Pardon?” The child didn’t answer. Was likely asleep, which would be better. He would need the rest, as after this storm he was going to be sore. Then the prospect of escorting this child, stiff and aching. Joy-O-joys.

 Keeping track of the boy… was tedious. Much of the time the Thin Man would have preferred stay reserved for examining through building spaces, however, Mono was eager with distractions and inconsequential things. That was a fault of the child’s drive to puzzle through obstacles on his own, and then the resulting backtracking if an open route ended with no feasible means for navigation. Quite a bit of backtracking, and lost time.

 Unless the Thin Man could deal with the barrier, without bothering Mono. Such as something simple, open a door – usually the case – or, maneuver an item for him to leap onto, nudge a board over a gap. Simple alterations to the decrepit environment, which Mono was receptive of.

 Then! This opposition for assistance when it was only practical. Unforeseen barriers, stumbling through an alley wherein a new chasm now resided, or entering a room where the floor has vacated the premises…. Stirring up a horde of creatures into shambling pursuit.

 The Thin Man took a breath and sighed. The child was reluctant to really test his abilities – in relatively safe conditions, or under supervision. When he was child and dismissed the man in the hat, he came into those powers so effortlessly. Like slipping on a new hat. He remembered how it had been, the way it felt. The relief that swept through him after ‘conquering’ his foe. The thrill and sense of duty upon racing blindly through the massive doors, opened for him, inviting, straight into the Tower’s embrace. Not a thought or doubt in his mind. Foolish, reckless… gullible.

 Mono shifted, drawing his knees up and curled his hands over his face.

 Children learned fast to be self-sufficient or they just didn’t live long. For Mono, the entire drama ended when he was discarded. Left to the Tower, he would grow and age with no need unsatisfied, but for invoking his retaliation on the world. Rejected his inclusion, despised him, damned him to fail. That never changed… child or elder. The story never changed. The world wanted him to surrender all his ambitions, and when he did… he made them regret.

 Regardless his younger-self’s placement in that world, the Thin Man maintained stark apprehension. None of the dominate issues would resolve, the day-to-day struggle remained ever present; not helped by Mono’s preoccupation with mediocre… things. It worked well enough to settle Mono into a remote dwelling and bring the necessities he needed. Though that was inconsequential, Mono was driven to explore and seek – he was nothing but a child. He hoped to curb the compulsion and get that boy to rest, if possible, maintain a refuge for Mono to seek when one was needed. One day perhaps, one day that child would venture too far into the distance, and he would surrender all ambition to follow.   

 Mono was relentless. The Thin Man... was not.

 Some while later and no further cringing from his charge, the Thin Man deemed it appropriate to disconnect, and with a grunt eased back on the sofa arm. The storm was dispersed, some residual charge lingered in the atmosphere, but that was nothing but empty particles sputtering on the damp wind.

 The Thin Man set his hat over his face but made sure to gingerly stroke Mono’s back. Until he could no longer maintain the effort, and let his thoughts dissolve into distorted shadows, static, and four bleak walls.

 An hour or more of calm passed, aside from a dull creak of the building chastised by the howling wind. Then, Mono opened one eye and peered up at the Thin Man.

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