#getting rakha's voice back in my head for probably resuming liveblog this week \o/

[blackjackkent]

Have you seen one of these grant applications? We're lucky Einstein didn't have to fill one out or God knows what "E" would equal.

For Rakha and Wyll!!

(From @bladesandbhaalspawn)

(Prompts from The West Wing)

Ngl this one stumped me a little. XD I haven't really messed particularly with modern AUs but even if I had I was struggling to come up with a reason why Wyll and Rakha would be applying for a grant. But! I am not one to turn down an ask generously offered, so instead I adapted things a bit and rather than quoting the line directly, let it inspire me in a more general way, and settled on the idea of the two of them discussing Paperwork in a different form. Hope you enjoy even though it’s bit different from the original prompt. :O TY for the ask! <3

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Rakha squints down at the fallen body of Gerringothe Thorm. Stripped of her golden armor, the corrupted creature looks thin and frail and grotesque. Piles of coin lie scattered around her like blood puddles. Her head lies at an odd angle and her black eyes are blank, staring into the broken ceiling of the tollhouse.

“What… was she?” Rakha asks slowly, nudging the corpse with her boot toe. 

Wyll purses his lips thoughtfully. “Well, the tollkeeper, it seems,” he says with dry, muted humor. He crouches down carefully next to Gerringothe’s body and prods it carefully with one gauntleted hand, then wrinkles his nose at the unpleasant squishing sound this elicits. “Ugh. It’s like her skin came off with the armor. Or the armor was her skin.” 

Rakha does not respond with disgust, but she stares down at Gerringothe unblinkingly. “She wanted us to give her gold. To feed her. To pay the toll,” she says slowly, in the tone of voice she uses when she is working out an array of facts in her head. “What did she mean?”

“The toll to get to the city, I’d wager,” Wyll says absently, wiping the sticky blood from the corpse off on his tunic. Then he recollects himself, realizing that this isn’t a question to the answer Rakha is actually asking. “It’s a tax required to bring goods to Baldur’s Gate,” he explains more deliberately, looking up to watch the slow twitch of muscles in her face as she absorbs this information. “Any route into the city requires paying it.”

She thinks this over. “Why?”

“Funds for the city. And a record of imports.” He shrugs slightly. “Anyone bringing goods to the city has to fill out a stack of forms. Information about what they’re bringing, where it came from. Who it’s being delivered to.” He tugs his lower lip with his teeth thoughtfully, recalling civic lessons drummed into him by his father years ago, in another life. “The records all go to the city.” He grins crookedly. “I used to think it must be the most boring job in the world, reading through them all.”

Rakha tilts her head slowly to one side. “And the tollkeeper. They consume the gold,” she says, slowly and carefully.

Wyll’s eyebrows shoot up and then he shakes his head hastily. “Ah-- no, they collect it for the city. They don’t normally eat it. This must be a product of the curse; this isn’t what tollkeepers are normally like.”

She looks at him with an expression as still as steel. “Are you sure?”

A long, long pause. Then, very slowly, he smiles. “Hell’s fires. Are you making a joke?” he asks, delighted.

Almost imperceptibly, the corner of her mouth twitches upwards. “Yes.”