#i can only slay for so long before i start decaying | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

the-faramir · 9 months ago

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Extinction Curse Session 2023/09/20: The Hag's Heart

Warning: graphic violence!

Midori, Vavo, and Zookdar entered Opper Vandy's embalming room.

"This chamber has a strong odor of chemicals and decay. A long, brass table stands by the south wall, and at the foot of it, a stained iron grate is fixed in the floor near a pair of barrels and a bucket. The north wall holds a work table with a variety of unusual implements, including a large syringe with tubing attached to a glass tank filled with a cloudy fluid, and a large number of surgical instruments, some still showing bloodstains. The back wall of the chamber is covered in shelving that holds hundreds of urns of clay, stone, and metal as well blank nameplates in brass, and even a few gravestones that have yet to be inscribed with names of the deceased.

"This laboratory is where Vandy drains bodies and embalms them with a chemical mixture of alcohol, camphor, and myrrh. It is an imperfect process, but it preserves a body reasonably well for a few days if the weather isn’t too warm. Drained fluids are poured through the grate in the floor, which descends 6 feet to a gravel sump. Vandy regularly dumps chemicals down this drain, but it does little to forestall the stench of death that arises from within. The shelving at the rear of the lab holds unused urns and gravemarkers that he sells to clients. Cremations are performed off-site."

Vavo pointed toward the urns and gravely stated, "There. The night hag Skarja hid her heartstone in one of those urns."

"Why waste time searching? Let's smash them all!" Zookdar hefted his gnome flickmace and started bashing the urns to pieces. One urn made of lead simply toppled to its side, its lid still intact. "So far, nothing. It must be in that lead one!"

"You know, we could have just looked through them," Midori interjected, "There weren't that many, and those urns looked expensive!"

Zookdar shook off Midori's concerns. "This is too important. We have to stop the hag before she can claim any more victims!"

Vavo approached the lead urn and opened it with no small effort, causing a puff of ashes to billow out. "Let me see…aha!" Vavo pulled out and held aloft a silvery necklace with a heart-shaped pendant made from a clear gemstone. "The Hag's Heart! Midori, hold onto this. Put this in a safe place and tell nobody." He tossed the necklace to Midori, who tucked it away into one of her belt pouches.

Suddenly, the skies outside of the embalming room rumbled angrily. The party rushed outside to investigate.

"The air is split by a cloud of brimstone-laden steam, which parts to reveal a hideous hag with elephantine feet and a body covered in razor-sharp horns."

Midori smacked herself on the forehead. "Ah, shit! We touched her stuff an' pissed her off! Well, it's three on one. Let's get her!" She drew her rapier in preparation to fight.

Then, through the billowing steam, another figure emerged: an enormous black horse with flaming hooves. With every breath, it exhaled black smoke. It strode to Skarja's side and nuzzled her.

"Foolish mortals! That item belongs to me! Give to me my heartstone this moment, and I shall release the mortician to you." She extended her hand expectantly.

Vavo stepped forward, chest out, and struck the shaft of his beer-stein flail defiantly onto the ground. "Foul creature, we shall do no such thing! Your reign of terror ends tonight, for we are true and righteous heroes, and we shall defeat you and your hellish minion!"

Midori's eyes shifted from side to side. "Well, maybe some of us are righteous," she muttered.

"No deal?" Skarja was taken aback momentarily. "Oh, uh, that is only a minor setback. Yes! I shall slay you all and take my heartstone back from your cold, dead hands!" She swiftly mounted her pet nightmare and cackled intimidatingly.

Zookdar bellowed, "Then we fight!" He let out a war cry and dashed at the night hag. A swing of his flickmace connected with her, but did not appear to damage her much. A sweep of his flickmace at the nightmare missed the target.

Midori's attention was drawn to the nightmare as she desperately tried to recall any knowledge she could about the hellish beast. "Uhhh, fiery, smoky horse. Right. Well, EAT ROCKS!" She waved her left hand to telekinetically pull up some blunt stones from the ground, then fired the projectiles at the nightmare. They bounced off of the nightmare's nose, causing it to flinch, earning Midori a menacing glance. "Huh. Guess I better try somethin' else."

Skarja pointed a clawed finger at Zookdar. "Impudent fool! I summon the plagues of the abyss to vex thee!" The color ran out of Zookdar's face and he slumped somewhat, weakened. She slashed out twice at the gnome with her claws for good measure, bloodying his face.

The nightmare bit Zookdar and pounded him with its flaming hooves, knocking Zookdar to the ground.

Vavo shouted, "Zookdar!" He quickly called upon Cayden Cailean for the divine power to heal his injured companion, but Zookdar was still bloody.

Zookdar pulled himself to his feet with some effort and swung at the hag and the nightmare.

Midori lamented, "We never shoulda started this with only three of us! Hey, what if we start up a circus performance, and then send in the clowns! Yeah! Then the clowns can help us fight!"

"Midori!" Zookdar yelled, exasperated, "You're not helping! And it doesn't work that way!"

"Ugh, fine!" She raised her hand upward and her eyes glowed green. "Behold, the grand finale of your wickedness, Skarja! My words, sharp as daggers and swift as arrows, shall pierce the veil of your dark arts. Let the truth bite deeper than lies with my biting words!"

Skarja just looked at Midori and cackled. "Oh, child! Your powers are weak! Perhaps some more weakness would suit you…." She pointed at Midori, shooting a ray of cold light into her forehead. Midori felt her body grow feeble. "Now sleep, little one!" Skarja flicked her wrist and Midori felt a wave of exhaustion hit her, but she shook it off and remained alert.

"Hyaaah!" Skarja encouraged her nightmare to run over Zookdar in a straight line headed toward Vavo, who was unable to evade the trample. Zookdar grunted and collapsed into a heap on the ground. Vavo shrieked in pain from the hooves and caught on fire from the flames.

Vavo stumbled away from his foes and moved toward Zookdar, casting another healing spell his way. "What?" Vavo exclaimed as Zookdar remained still. "Midori, we're in over our heads, here! Zookdar's down!"

Not about to back down, Midori sustained her spell. "Skarja, you may lurk in shadows and deal in nightmares, but your malice is no match for my spirit. With these biting words, I strike at you, let my voice carry the weight of my resolve!" Skarja squawked from the power of the attack. Midori followed up with another telekinetic projectile attack on Skarja, eliciting a hiss of pain.

"You vex me, little one, but first I shall attend to the one with real power!" She turned the nightmare around toward Vavo and readied a strike with her claws. As rider and steed bore down on the halfling cleric, hooves and claws struck true with sickening squelches. Skarja turned toward Midori. "Now it's your turn to die!"

With the last bit of her spell's power, Midori spat out, "Skarja, you may think you're a night terror, but I am the dream you fear! Your malevolence is no match for my melody. With a voice that cuts deeper than the sharpest blade, I unleash upon you the power of my biting words!" Skarja reeled from the hit. Midori let loose more projectiles but completely missed her target.

Skarja wiped her face with her hand. "Little fox. I just realized something. YOU are the one holding my heartstone." She twisted her hands up into the air. "Heart of hearts, bring forth a shadow blast!"

From Midori's pouch where she was hiding the heartstone, a glowing, sickly red light emanated followed by a destructive blast of shadows, lightning, and ice slamming into her body. She screeched with pain as every muscle in her body contracted at once. She almost fell to the ground, but was able to catch herself by using her rapier like a cane, barely holding on to her consciousness. Midori looked up at Skarja in combined fury and defiance. "Still standing, bitch!"

"Not for long." Skarja's face twisted into a cruel, vicious grin. "Crush her!" The nightmare strode forward to trample Midori.

Midori's vision blurred and her eyes flickered shut briefly, opening to see the nightmare drawing closer as if in slow motion. The red light from her pouch illuminated the nighttime scene with surreal highlights and shadows. Once the nightmare's hooves landed upon her, pounding her into the ground with jarring crunches, Midori felt the most intense pain that she had ever felt in her life. She felt the urge to scream but found her throat too full of liquid to make a sound. Before she could process what was happening, the pain stopped, much to her surprise.

Midori thought to roll to the left and jump to her feet, but she quickly realized that she was completely immobilized. Her feet would not respond. Nor her legs. Nor her arms. She could not even turn her head to look for Skarja. Her urge to gasp for air yielded to the inability to move her lungs.

Midori's eyes flickered shut once more. Fractions of seconds became minutes to her.

In her mind's eye, she saw a vision of her parents. "Okaeri nasai, Mido-chan <Welcome back, Mido-chan>," they replied together.

"Tadaima <I'm home>," Midori replied, reflexively. She saw visions of Toby and Myron appear as well. "I'm…dead." They all looked at her with sorrow.

"Wait, where are my siblings? Are they not with you?"

The visions reached out to embrace Midori. She reciprocated, but a wall of force prevented them from touching.

Midori felt something tug at her soul, pulling her farther and farther from her loved ones. "No, wait!"

Midori's eyes opened once more to see Skarja's hideous face grinning down at her, illuminated more brightly by the increasing glow of the heartstone that Skarja had just liberated from its hiding place. "Ah, young fox, how your light fades. Gaze upon me and despair. Your life force ebbs like the tide. Your dawn will never come. This is the fate of all who dare stand against the night."

Midori's eyes closed.

#pathfinder #pf2e #extinction curse #kitsune #halfling #gnome #night hag #nightmare

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julek · 3 years ago

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my kingdom for a kiss (upon your shoulder)

read on ao3 | rated T | 6.2K | no warnings | for @asweetprologue <3

The sun shines soft in Toussaint.

Geralt can’t remember whether it’s always been like that — if the golden tint that falls over the city as gently as wind-blown petals is genuine or just a product of his imagination. Spring isn’t in full bloom yet, timid flowers peeking at him from the side of the road, proud birds carrying twigs and feathers to their newly-made nests, the tree branches still cold after the last snow.

They’re not far from the main square, their pace steady and unhurried since they set out to Beauclair in the morning. The midday commotion fills Geralt’s senses, spices and bread and frantic conversations making him shake his head in discomfort — busy cities always take a while to grow used to; thankfully, he never stays long.

Next to him, Jaskier sneezes.

“This weather, I tell you—” he starts, but gets immediately cut off by another dainty, kitten-like sneeze. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, then makes a face at it. “Be the death of me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’ll take more than pollen to take you, I fear.”

“It doesn’t stand a chance against me,” he says, and strikes a pose, like one of the heroes in the silly novels he insists on buying, but the puffy eyes and red nose dampens it a bit. He doesn’t seem deterred, though. “Besides, I wouldn’t let pollen, of all things, keep me from performing at tonight’s ball.”

Geralt hums, flicking a fly off Roach’s mane. They were in Spalla when Jaskier was approached by a passing servant and asked to partake in some baron Geralt couldn’t care enough to retain the name of’s early spring ball — naturally, Jaskier had jumped at the invitation, eager to be among the distinguished crowds that frequent such events, even more so after a long winter tucked away at Oxenfurt.

“By the way,” Jaskier says, picking an inexistent piece of lint off his doublet, aiming for casual even though he knows Geralt can hear the curious lilt to his voice, “will you be attending tonight?”

“I might not make it in time,” he says truthfully. He rubs his thumb over the contract he’s holding in his free hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. “I will hunt this afternoon.”

Jaskier nods. “Well,” he says, his voice soft as he bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. “You’re welcome there. I’ll vouch for you, you know.”

Geralt smiles at him solemnly — then bumps him back, laughing when the bard accidentally crashes into an old woman perusing the wares of a silver-tongued merchant.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says indignantly, smoothing out his doublet and shooting the woman a sideways glance that’s more annoyed than apologetic. “You can’t just push people.”

“Apologies,” Geralt says, not sounding sorry at all. “My balance seems to be off, lately. You know how it is.”

“With your old age, yes,” Jaskier says and pats his arm sympathetically. “I fear you’re showing signs of decay already.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier takes his arm and loops it through his, a steadying hand at his back. “Your gait is off— look, even Roach looks concerned for your wellbeing.”

Roach looks unfazed.

“And all the lines on your face!” Jaskier gasps in mock-horror. “My, Geralt, we should take you to a healer. Perhaps you’ve been cursed— There! Those dreadful frown lines you sport, old friend… Have you considered retirement? I hear there are great Witcher-friendly settlements in this area, and— hey!”

Geralt smirks as Jaskier rubs the side of his head where Geralt’s innocent and weary hand slapped it. He can see the worn-down sign of the inn he favors when they’re in the city a few steps ahead, can already taste the fresh ale on his mouth.

“Whoops,” he says, trying to school his features into something that isn’t a smug smile. “Seems I’m losing control of my limbs, too.”

The Rose and Thorn is as it has ever been. Clean wooden floorboards that creak as they walk in, the blossoming vine hanging over the kitchen door, the innkeeper’s old dog napping in a spot of sunlight pouring in through the window.

It’s good.

Geralt likes routine. He thrives on it. He likes familiar faces and comforting smells and the sound of pans and pots banging together as the cook murmurs a string of expletives that would be considered indecorous on a lady’s mouth. He likes knowing where he stands, likes the well-loved booths and the tankards that are cracked around the edges, the face of an unruly lion faded on the ceramic. He’s pleased with the way the innkeeper’s eyes crinkle with recognition as she nods at him and Jaskier, as she wordlessly takes his coin and points her head in direction of the room he always takes.

They move upstairs, Jaskier’s lutecase hitting the narrow walls as Geralt pushes the door open. The room is simple — two beds and a small table under the tall window, light pouring in through the thin linen curtains. He sets his bag on one of the beds — the closest to the door — and puts his sheathed swords next to it before allowing himself a moment to sit and wind down.

“I’d say lunch is in order, don’t you think?” Jaskier says after a while, even though his words are muffled by the pillow he’d thrown himself face-down onto and he doesn’t seem to be moving any time soon. “I’m aching for something other than apples and jerky, if I’m honest.”

Geralt’s stomach rumbles in agreement. “Too coarse for your fine palate, bard?” He teases.

“Never,” Jaskier says, lifting an accusatory finger at where he supposes Geralt is sitting. Then, because it isn’t as dramatic as it should’ve been, he rolls over, facing Geralt, his hair sticking up at odd places and his face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I’m well used to all kinds of provisions, but the soul wishes for something a little bit more substantial every once in a while.”

“Hmm,” Geralt concedes. He laces up his left boot tighter than the right one and stands. “Let’s go, then, man of substance.”

Jaskier grins up at him, bright and easy, and leaps out of the bed so fast the wind gets knocked out of him.

Downstairs at the bar, there are steaming bowls of pottage being sent to the patrons that are starting to overflow the room, bread and cheese abundant at every table. It must have been a fruitful winter, Geralt reasons as he nods to the barmaid and gestures to the plates.

“Ale as well, Sir Witcher?” She says as she wipes her forehead, no trace of fear in her voice. She’s probably too busy for it.

“Two, please.”

He makes his way to the table where Jaskier’s already tearing a loaf of bread in two, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the hard wood as he looks out the window at the passersby. There’s a neatly-made arrangement of wildflowers on the wall by his side, larkspur and thistle with a touch of baby’s breath, Geralt thinks.

“Here,” he says, passing the half-full tankard over to Jaskier and taking a sip of his own.

Jaskier hands him a piece of bread. “So, what are we slaying today?”

“The only thing you’ll be slaying today is your audience’s eardrums,” Geralt says, smirking at Jaskier’s huff of indignation. He takes a bite out of the bread. “There seems to be an archespore around the vineyards.”

“An— the—” Jaskier’s face does a complicated thing and Geralt wants to point out that he looks like a gaping trout before he says, “An archespore?! This mythical— magical— never before seen creature—”

“It’s been seen plenty of times,” Geralt points out.

“Not by me!” Jaskier thumps his fist on the table, defeated, and his ale sloshes dangerously. He wipes a hand down his face. “Ugh. And I can’t even fight you on it, because I’ve got, uh, what do they call it— Geralt, help me out here, what’s the word—”

“A compromise.”

Jaskier gags. “Yes. That. I shall honor my, uh, compromise to the arts and leave you alone and defenseless before such a legendary creature. Naught but two swords and the strength of” —he looks Geralt up and down appreciatively— “roughly twelve men built like bulls to keep yourself out of harm’s way.”

Geralt lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed, and leans back on his seat as a barmaid approaches them with a bowl in each hand. “Thank you,” he tells her, and digs in.

The stew is pleasantly hot and thick with spices and vegetables, the potatoes sweet and the meat tender, and he lets a pleased rumble escape his chest.

He doesn’t get to indulge in good meals very often — when he gets the opportunity to sit down at a proper table and have a proper plate placed in front of him, the food is usually sizable and filling, but never particularly appetizing. It’s mostly overcooked, tough meat — if he can afford it — and out-of-season vegetables that remind him of dried-out fields rather than a lavish banquet.

Jaskier is used to them, though. Or was — right before he was hit on the head with a chunk of stale bread and had the brilliant idea to trail after a Witcher, to trade comfortable beds and roasted pheasants for a hard bedroll spread on the forest floor and charred squirrel, at best. It still intrigues Geralt, watching Jaskier roll up his sleeves and dig into the pottage like it’s the finest meal he’s ever tasted, like it doesn’t pale in comparison to what he’ll be served tonight. Like he doesn’t see it — the immensity of the gap between Geralt’s world and his own.

There are moments of hesitation — moments when Geralt thinks Jaskier will wake up. When he thinks the bard will look around and shake his head in astonished confusion, and his blue eyes will widen comically like they do when he’s caught slipping treats to Roach, and he’ll see through the desperately-sewn seams of Geralt’s life. He’ll see that behind the so-called heroics and martyrdom there’s nothing more than a Witcher and a horse and a lonely road ahead.

But then, just when Geralt’s doubts start to creep into his hairline and show on his face, Jaskier will prove him wrong. Like now, as Jaskier lets his spoon fall into his empty bowl and leans back on his seat, sighing happily, nothing but contentment and warmth on his scent. As he watches through the window again, with a smile that dimples his cheek and sunlight crinkling his eyes.

Geralt feels something touch his leg. When he looks down, the innkeeper’s dog is resting his chin on Geralt’s thigh, his eyes big and pleading.

He picks up a hard bit of bread Jaskier had set aside earlier and carefully brings it up to the dog’s nose for inspection. After a few curious sniffs, the dog gently takes it out of Geralt’s hand, tail wagging excitedly. His fur is soft where Geralt smoothes it out with the flat of his palm, softer than Roach’s mane.

When he looks up, Jaskier’s eyes have abandoned the window, and he’s watching the two of them with a smile that’s half fond, half soft. Too tender.

Geralt’s never been looked at like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

It feels inadequate, and he pats the dog’s head to hide the almost imperceptible tremble of his hand. Jaskier’s smile reaches his eyes, and doesn’t waver.

It’s good.

The soft breeze wafting through the window as Geralt straps his swords to his back is tempting.

Jaskier yawns.

“You sure you don’t wanna get a nap in before you,” he yawns again, “go?”

He’s sprawled on his bed in a position that just can’t be comfortable, limbs long and bent at weird angles, pants unbuttoned and doublet resting on the back of a chair. His hair is ruffled and his cheeks are pink from the meal and the impending sleep that will follow.

“I’ve read, somewhere,” he continues, forcefully wrestling with the blankets that are firmly tucked into the bed, “ah, that napping increases, um— aha!” He wiggles under the covers. “It increases your strength, sharpens your” — a yawn — “mind, and whatnot.”

“Hmm.” Geralt adjusts his potion belt. “And how’s that worked out for you?”

Jaskier squints at him, managing to stay awake just to be annoyed. “See? You just continue proving my point! That,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Geralt with a half-covered hand, “would easily be fixed with one tiny nap!”

“Your naps are never tiny.”

“Well, no, because as a bard, I require more energy than a Witcher. Besides,” he says, closing his eyes, “I never seem to get enough sleep, you see, since I keep getting assaulted by this beast of a man who thinks dawn is already late.”

Geralt snorts and walks over to his bed. “Should put a contract out, then. A Witcher may come across it.”

Jaskier turns around, facing Geralt. “Oh, no, thank you. One Witcher is enough for me.” Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Checking he’s got everything he needs, and closing the open windows for good measure, Geralt turns to Jaskier. “I’m going. Stay here.”

This time, it’s Jaskier who has to snort. “Napping, remember?”

Geralt hums. “Don’t sleep through your performance,” he says, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of Jaskier tossing and turning while making indignant sounds makes him smirk.

The walk to the vineyard doesn’t take long. He passes the district alderman’s house on his way over, discusses the payment and whatever information he has to offer about the vineyard itself and the archespore sightings. The man’s face goes white when Geralt asks about any late violent crime.

The sun is still high in the sky when he gets to the heart of the vineyard, the earth uneven and freshly dug up. The victims’ bodies aren’t there anymore, he knows, but the archespore can’t be too far away from him. He draws out his sword and walks deeper into the field, watching the ripe grapevine sway with the wind.

There’s a vine in particular that calls his attention, thinner and bare, no grapes clinging to it. Just as he gets closer to it, it disappears under the ground. Geralt crouches and backs away, waiting to see it come back up — except when it does, it’s not just a lonely vine anymore.

The archespore stands tall and imposing, growling at Geralt as he signs Igni at it and aims for its trunk — he only gets one good blow before it buries itself under the earth. He waits again, looking for the green-brown color, and it shoots back up with renewed force, surrounding Geralt with acid-filled pods.

He casts a quick Quen and gets closer to it, choosing Aard this time as Igni causes it to relocate, and seizes the way it trembles minutely to get behind it and run his sword through its flesh. The creature growls, its jaw-shaped leaves curling around Geralt’s limbs. He struggles and manages to cast Igni at it, freeing himself as the plant relocates itself. When it sprouts back up, one of its pods blows up next to him, making him fall to the ground as the creature towers over him, its screeches deafening.

The archespore opens its forked mouth and screeches louder this time, acid shooting through its pores before Geralt can shield himself. The acid burns his skin where it reaches it, but the creature seems satisfied enough that it misses the opportunity to pin him to the ground. He reaches for his sword and lunges, casting Aard and tearing its leaves and damaging its thick stem.

This time, when it goes underground, Geralt has a feral smile on his face as he takes his Golden Oriole and upends it in his mouth. The venom stops burning for a second, and, when the archespore comes back up, its tendrils reaching for Geralt, he ducks and rolls, positioning himself behind it. The archespore screeches one final time as Geralt runs his sword from its head down to its core before it collapses to the ground, lifeless body still twitching. Geralt throws the severed head far enough that it won’t be able to reattach itself and slices up the remaining pods, their venom oozing sluggishly onto the torn-up ground.

He makes his way back to the city, the head of the archespore dripping slightly from its bag. The sun is setting, painting the walls golden against the pink sky, the shadows cast over the buildings helping the buzzing in his brain. He takes the less-traveled roads to avoid the commotion of the streets, but it seems the city is already mellowed out.

He thinks of Jaskier.

The first star of the night is twinkling against the pink-blue sky, the moon translucent. The baron’s residence is distant, surrounded by a stretch of the city’s walls, but Geralt imagines it’s close, close enough that Jaskier’s voice can carry through the night — that his soft melodies can reach them all.

He thinks of Jaskier, dressed up in his finest clothes that he had especially tailored — because I’ve filled out in the winter, Geralt! — drinking sweet wine from the vineyard he’s just left behind, mingling with the nobles and regaling them with honeyed tales of the Witcher’s heroism. The Witcher who is currently covered in muck and sticky with dried acid, carrying a severed head across the streets of Beauclair.

But Jaskier would disagree. He’d see a knight in shining armor, coming home triumphant after saving a family’s livelihood, the scars of the ferocious battle showing on his face. A defeated beast and a courageous warrior. A tale worth telling.

After dispatching the head and collecting his coin — what they’d agreed on, thankfully — Geralt heads back to the inn. The humming in his veins has simmered down, leaving behind a hint of exhaustion that clings to his bones and makes itself known. He calls for a bath, ignoring the innkeeper’s knowing look — she’s seen him trudge inside wearing worse.

Once he’s in his room, he takes his time unbuckling and sets his armor aside, a filthy pile that he’ll have to tend to eventually. After, he thinks, and sinks into the steaming tub. The room’s windows are open despite him closing them before leaving, tacit proof of Jaskier’s aversion for closed spaces and feeling oppressed, Witcher, and his distinct lack of self-preservation. Geralt’s chastised him enough about being easy prey, but there’s something in the way the bard moves that makes him want to protect, rather than prevent — he’d rather be the one to free Jaskier from his cage than be the one to lock him there in the first place. Not that Jaskier would ever let himself be locked away — he’s feisty enough on his own — but something about him screams freedom.

Geralt can’t take it away — wouldn’t ever want to. So he lets the cool air enter the room.

His bed is neatly made, pillows fluffed and sheets crisp. Next to it is Jaskier’s — somehow, pillows are on the floor and the sheets are turned inside out, twisted like a serpent around the blanket. His side of the room looks like it’s been a victim of a cruel whirlwind — clothes and accessories are strung about the room, picked up only to be frowned at and then put back down.

It’s tempting enough; to crawl under the covers and blow out the candles and get a half-decent night of sleep. Maybe get something to eat from the bar downstairs. Maybe drink some ale. But—

I’ll vouch for you, you know.

He knows.

It’s a beautiful night, in truth.

The ball is being hosted in the halfmoon-shaped garden, the cool spring breeze dancing around the guests as they dance themselves, carried away. Moonlight and candlelight alike wash over the cobblestone, a few delicate and intricate paper lanterns placed over a wooden railing casting gentle shadows on the whole scene. There are flowers all around — on tall vases in every corner and on the small centerpieces at every table, on the open hand of every statue and weaved into delicate crowns for everyone to wear.

It isn’t like anything Geralt’s seen before. He’s been to many balls — begrudgingly — but never one in which everyone carries themselves so freely, where raucous laughter is allowed if not mandatory, where not one person sits alone at their table, instead gathered around savoring the food, where there are chairs but no one sitting on them because they’re so busy prancing around the yard, marveling at the flowers and the outfits and the beauty of the night. Where everyone seems to be there because they want to be — because they belong.

He’s standing by a pillar, not hidden but not in plain sight, either. He tightens his jacket around himself, half to fend off the chill of the night air and half to hide the stain on the chemise underneath — a dangerous encounter with a drunk Jaskier and a goblet of wine. His leather band is on his wrist tonight, his silver hair tickling the spot behind his ear and catching on the high collar of his shirt. People are still coming in through the garden gates, the path to the grounds lit by small candles by each side of it, couples strolling hand-in-hand across the grounds and children running around, their flower crowns hanging off their heads.

There’s no music yet, just conversation carrying the night away. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat somewhere in the gardens, but hasn’t seen him yet — perhaps he’s encountered one of his old dalliances and is catching up, as he’s often done before.

Geralt moves to the balcony with the stone railing, the one looking out to the lake. The waves are calm tonight, gently rippling back and forth, shimmering under the stars. He leans his elbows on the railing, feeling very small as he looks down.

Heights used to scare him when he was a child. It’s one of the only things he can remember. His house sat on a small hill, and every night, after his mother went to sleep, he would tiptoe across the kitchen and open the window, and he would look down and feel terror beat inside his chest, gripping his heart like a vine.

Now, as he looks down, he can see the scrape of the stones jutting out of the earth, the clear beach beneath him. He can see the boats resting on the shore and the stars reflecting on the water. Looking down, he just feels at ease.

The sound of children protesting catches his attention. When he looks back to the courtyard, he can see two small children — siblings, he presumes — looking at their mother with very exaggerated frowns on their tiny faces.

“You mustn’t use your sister’s dress as a cleaning rag, Petyr,” she says to the boy as she tries to wipe down the girl’s gown.

“But the floors here needed cleaning!” Petyr responds, petulant. “You told us things should be squeaky-clean.”

His mother is about to reply when suddenly a voice cuts in. “And your mother is right, of course,” says Jaskier, winking at her and meeting her smile of relief with one of his own. “But this is a party! You’re meant to have fun, you and your sister! Don’t you like to dance?”

Petyr and his sister shake their heads. “We don’t know how to,” she admits.

Jaskier’s grin is wide. “Well, then you must be born singers!” At that, the girl smiles.

“Mama says our singing sounds more like a dying wyvern’s last breath,” she says simply, and it makes Jaskier laugh, “but we like to sing anyway.”

“And you should! Singing is the way our soul gets to have a laugh,” he says knowingly, and slowly takes his lute out of his case. “I don’t suppose you know what this is?”

The children’s eyes light up. “A lute!”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s right!” He holds it out to them. “Here, try a strum.”

The children look at each other, then at the lute like it’s something precious. Geralt knows it is. “You go first, Fiona,” the boy whispers to his sister.

Fiona approaches the lute carefully, and holds out her little hand. Jaskier takes it on his own, then gently, very gently, he runs her hand through the strings. It’s a simple chord, and Jaskier’s holding the note, but Fiona looks blown away. “Wow,” she whispers. “It’s so… pretty.”

Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s mouth quirks up and his eyes go soft at the corners. It tugs at his heartstrings.

“Now,” Jaskier says, “Do you want to try, Petyr?”

The boy nods, coming forward. He knows what to do, having watched his sister, so he simply lifts his hand and strums. Jaskier’s changed the chord, a lower one now.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier exclaims, and applauds the both of them, making their cheeks flush. “Naturals, the both of you.”

Petyr’s hand is still on the lute, feeling the strings and reaching the pegs. “And what do these do?” He says just as he turns one of them, the string deflating slightly.

Geralt wants to laugh at Jaskier’s pained grimace as he tightens the string back as he explains to Petyr that he should leave those to the adults, but suddenly he feels a pool of warmth in his stomach, an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt before — as if all the spring’s air has been stolen from him.

He watches Jaskier play a silly little ditty for the children to dance with their very amused mother, and he can’t look away. Can’t stop staring at the way Jaskier’s eyes crinkle with joy and his face is full of laugh lines and his own flower crown threatens to fall down, small yellow petals gathering at his feet.

And the thing is — he knows Jaskier. He knows he’s kind, and thoughtful, and painfully honest. He knows he feels everyone’s pain as his own, everyone’s joy as his own.

Everyone’s love as his own.

He knows that he’ll play silly made-up songs for bored children just as he knows he’ll gather herbs for Geralt’s potions without being asked to, just as he’ll buy treats for Roach, just as he’ll carefully avoid the fork on the road to Blaviken.

He sees it, now — the way his face is lit up but not from candlelight but from within, because he’s so in love with the world that he can barely stand it.

And he’s seen him before — has watched his furrowed brow illuminated by wavering candles as he writes well past dusk, has seen the curl of his mouth and the freckles on his nose and the scar that goes through his left eyebrow and yet—

Yet it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.

There’s a smudge of ink on Jaskier’s cheek. There always is. There always has been.

Geralt’s never wanted to wipe it off.

He wants to wipe it off, wants to tuck his hair back behind his ear and kiss the spot where his jaw meets his neck. He wants to hold him close to his chest tight enough that maybe he’ll crawl into his heart and never leave.

It should scare him. It should feel like standing at the top of a hill and looking down.

It doesn’t.

Jaskier walks into the stage, a space of elevated marble he supposes a statue had been resident of. It suits him, the small pedestal — the way the golden thread of his dark green doublet glitters when moonlight catches it makes something ethereal of him, the few fallen flowers of his crown tangled on his hair — now tousled and matted with sweat — making something beautiful of him.

“Yes, yes, I’ve returned with more!” He exclaims at the whistles and cheers from the crowd, who’ve undoubtedly fallen in love with his first set. “We’re changing things up a bit now— How would you feel about something softer for a change?”

People cheer again, and Jaskier’s face breaks into a blinding grin. “Perfect! Now,” he looks around, “I want you to find the people you love. Your spouse, your lover, your friend, your sister, your child— everyone and anyone your heart beats for.”

The crowd starts gathering around in different groups, and Geralt smiles at how mismatched they are — tiny children and their grandparents, groups of single maidens hugging each other tightly, couples tenderly embracing each other.

Jaskier’s smile is softer, this time. “There,” he whispers. “Because love is something to share— This song I’m sharing with you.”

And then he’s gone — all his stage-borne facade falls away as he starts to play. His fingers are plucking a gentle, easy melody, and he’s humming along. People start slowly swaying to the sound of his voice, their eyes bright and shiny with mirth and love. Then, very softly, his voice barely above a whisper, he sings,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you…”

It’s incredibly gentle, and Geralt feels drawn to it immediately. He watches as Jaskier sways with the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed, completely lost on it. There are buttercups on his hair and love in his mouth and Geralt suddenly wants to reach for him, put out his hand only for Jaskier to hold.

Jaskier opens his eyes as the last verse comes in. “Take my hand,” he sings, and he does a brave thing and looks into Geralt’s eyes. “Take my whole life, too.”

He would.

“For I can’t help,” he says with a smile, and looks out to the public. “Falling in love with you.”

The song ends, but Jaskier keeps playing the chord progression softly. The crowd isn’t there anymore — they’re all somewhere else, holding their beloved in tender arms and swaying to the tune of their love. As Jaskier’s playing slowly fades out, there is no applause, no enthusiastic cheering nor plea for an encore.

They all know.

Geralt’s looking out to the waves when Jaskier joins him by the railing.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Geralt turns to face him. “Hey,” he whispers back.

Jaskier’s smile is soft as he takes him in. “You came.”

“I did,” Geralt says, voice low. “Was told someone would be waiting for me.”

“And here I am.”

The waves crash against the rocks.

“That was a new one,” Geralt murmurs, looking at the scar on his knuckle. “The song.”

“It was,” Jaskier replies simply.

Geralt looks at him. “I liked it.” It’s no big compliment, but Jaskier seems to understand him all the same.

He always does.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I like it too.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, their shoulders almost touching. Jaskier’s cheek is still smudged with ink.

“You have…” Geralt says, gesturing to his own face, and Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt shakes his head. He licks his thumb and reaches, Jaskier’s skin soft as he swipes the ink away, his mouth slightly parted.

“There,” he whispers, but his hand doesn’t leave Jaskier’s cheek. “Do they really say it?”

Jaskier frowns, confused. Their shoulders are touching. “Who?”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s flower crown and looks at him, a silent request. Jaskier nods. Geralt takes it in his hands and gently tucks the loose stems back together, the way he’d seen girls do it in the town square. He doesn’t lose a single petal.

“The wise men,” he says, placing the crown on top of Jaskier’s head, where it belongs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Jaskier takes them in his. “It is foolish to rush in unprepared. You taught me that.”

“Am I wise, then?”

Jaskier laughs, shakes his head. “I never said that.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, watching Jaskier’s rings as they glint in the moonlight, watching Jaskier’s fingers as they play with his.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, looking at their joined hands.

“I know.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Geralt looks at him. “I know.”

He needs the weight of his swords strapped at his back. He wants to be brave.

He looks down.

“I love you,” he says. “I can’t help it.”

Jaskier smiles. “Well, now you’re just being mean— plagiarizing my song right in front of me.”

“Jask.” It sounds like a prayer. Geralt squeezes his hands, amber meeting cornflower blue. “You know what I mean, when I say—”

“I know what you mean,” Jaskier says. “I know.”

They drink each other in, and Geralt knows this is the first time they’re seeing each other. Gently, he places one hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, the other on his nape, and brings their foreheads together.

Jaskier’s hands find their way to Geralt’s waist. Nobody’s ever held him like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

His nose grazes Jaskier’s cheek and he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

And Jaskier’s smiling when he says, “I wish you would.”

So he does. Soft lips against chapped ones, lute-calloused hands against scarred ones. Jaskier kisses him back tenderly, unhurried, and it’s honey-sweet like the wine he can taste on Jaskier’s mouth, like the love he can feel on his scent.

When they pull apart — only because they have to — Geralt circles Jaskier in his arms, pressing small kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his forehead. It makes him laugh.

“Tickles,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Your beard.”

Geralt presses a final, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers against his lips.

The party has carried on without them, as it is wont to do. There’s a harp player on the stage now, plucking a soft melody from its strings.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright when he looks up at him. It feels right, to be holding him like this, to drown in his warmth and press love into his hands like it’s all he can do — and it is. All he can do is watch into Jaskier’s eyes and try not to get lost in them and stop a smitten smile from curling on his lips.

He’s helpless, he knows. It doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Home?” Jaskier murmurs against his cheek.

The inn, he means. “Aren’t you playing?”

Jaskier’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile, one of Geralt’s favorites. “They’ll survive without me, I reckon.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Jaskier—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he protests, rolling his eyes. “We need the coin. Ugh— one would think the guy confessing his undying love—”

“Now, undying is—”

“His undying love for me would change things, would buy me some indulgence— not at all!” He buries his face in Geralt’s neck, letting out a long-suffering groan. “Why must you be so responsible all the time?”

There are many reasons. Looking at Jaskier’s flushed face and capricious frown, Geralt can’t remember any of them. “Go,” he says softly, nodding at the stage. “For me.”

Jaskier groans louder. “That,” he says, poking Geralt’s chest, “is a very unfair card to play.”

“And why’s that?”

Jaskier tangles their fingers together. “Because you know I would do anything for you.”

Geralt’s face softens. He knows. “Go. I’ll wait for you.”

Defeated, Jaskier looks at the stage, then at Geralt, pouting. “Won’t you at least kiss me farewell? I’ve a long journey ahead.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes — still, he reels Jaskier in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Great start!” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Now, like you mean it.”

“Insufferable,” Geralt murmurs, but he gives in. The kiss is deep and slow, and somehow full of promise. He can feel Jaskier sigh happily against his lips, his scent gone sweet and warm as Geralt’s hands find Jaskier’s sides.

They part, begrudgingly. Jaskier’s cheeks are deep pink and his flower crown sits askew on his head once again, so Geralt fixes it for him.

“We should get one for you,” the bard says, watching him.

“Hmm.” Geralt presses a final kiss to his lips. “Go.”

“I’m getting you one,” Jaskier says stubbornly, ignoring Geralt’s wish, and Geralt loves him too much. “Just wait here.”

He lets Jaskier go, and watches as he runs over to the stand where a young woman is weaving tulips and baby’s breath together into a crown. He watches as he excitedly gestures at it and cradles it in his tender hands, a look of genuine joy on his face. He watches as he turns around, his lips stretched into a too-wide grin as he waves at Geralt, pointing at the crown.

He watches as he walks toward him.

He waits for him to fit into his open arms. He waits for him to place the crown on top of his head and adjust it once, twice, before it’s deemed perfect. He waits for him to kiss his cheek and groan about having to return to his duty as entertainment for the evening.

He waits for him as he plays.

“I love you,” he tells him later, when they’re both tucked in bed and their fancy clothes have been folded and their legs are tangled together.

Jaskier grins. “Say it again.”

Geralt can’t hide the smile that curves his lips — he doesn’t want to. “I love you,” he says, and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” his forehead, “I love you,” his eyelids. “I love you,” his mouth.

He says it so much the words sound foreign in his mouth. He says it until they belong in his mouth again.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says after a while, candlelight framing the tenderness in his eyes. “It’s been good.”

Geralt smiles.

It has.

#mywriting #geraskier fanfic #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfic #geraskier fluff #jeff buckley lyrics my beloved

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dhwty-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Dreams

Merry Christmas, everyone! This is my contribution for the @thewitchersecretsanta for @heyabooboo on tumblr.

My thanks also go to @contemplativepancakes, who betaed this fic for me. Thank you for your patience while I was still writing this <3 You guys should also definitely go check out her work, I love it to pieces!

Anyways, I shouldn't bore you too much. Let me just say one last thing: I think this is the most well thought-out piece of fiction I have written in my entire life. I have weighed every words of this five times at least. I hope you guys like it.

Have fun reading!

Summary: Geralt takes on a contract to investigate some spectral activity in a haunted ruin. As it happens, he disturbs the residence of a powerful being, that traps his soul in a nefarious netherworld. Jaskier, local bard with no sense of self preservation, does the obvious and follows him, trying to parse information from talking plants and braving unspeakable horrors in order to bargain for his witcher's soul. If only that were as easy as it sounded.

Moodboard by the amazing @petrificustotaluss

Warnings: Rated T. Canon-typical violence

Read on AO3

It was a serene and sunny day when the witcher scaled the hill to the abandoned mansion. It shouldn't have been, by any rights; neither day nor sunshine quite set the scene for a monster hunter to come slay to his prey. Alas, Weather does what they want rather than what they should—most of the time they are too busy laughing at humans they catch by surprise, to notice another one of their storms escaping anyways— and neither of that is to set a picturesque scene for a murder to take place.

Well, not necessarily a murder; that might, admittedly, be a bit crass. An eviction, rather, though the witcher did know yet that was what he was about to do. He simply marched up there, convinced that he would do some light reconnaissance and then return to the bard he had left behind. He was so adamant in his conviction, even, that he simply couldn't imagine anything else.

Geralt of Rivia slid from his saddle and pat Roach on the side of her neck. "Good girl," he muttered as he tied her reins to the withered remains of a tree on a field of dried grass.

He stepped back to retrieve his sword from her saddle and heard the telltale sign of a dried-up flower crushed beneath his boot. Geralt lifted it. It was a dandelion. He cursed internally. Were he a superstitious man, he might’ve thought it a bad sign. He wasn’t, though, so he knew it to be a bad sign.

Nothing good ever came from places where not even weeds could stubbornly cling to life. It usually meant that nothing would stay alive—or dead— for very long either. He'd have to be fast. 'A quick look around and I can go back to Jaskier,' he promised himself, the only silver lining on the horizon of this shitty day.

With a grunt he went to the road that led towards the ruin looming up above him, taking in every detail of his surroundings. The tree Roach was tied to seemed to have belonged to a grove, considering how systematically the husks of the trees were arranged. 'Like gnarled fingers trying to reach for the sky.'

Geralt huffed. Jaskier was rubbing off on him again. The collapsed stone wall lining it was another strong indicator that once there had been someone tending to the woods. 'A cemetery?' he wondered. It might be a strong start...

He stepped past the large erratic to his left to vault over the crumbling wall. He had barely taken two steps when a dark shadow fell over him. He looked up to see the sun inching closer and closer to the horizon. A shiver ran down Geralt's back. ‘So late already?’ He had barely set out an hour ago, he was sure of it. And yet— something moved to his right and his medallion vibrated. “Fuck,” he cursed. He didn’t like this at all.

Still, he had come here for a reason, so he turned away from the deserted grove and headed to the ruin. It wasn’t a large ruin, by any means, barely three walls standing. The first floor was completely decayed, so he didn’t have to check that, at least. In less than an hour he’d be done.

That didn’t alleviate the uneasy feeling in the slightest. With each step it seemed like the temperatures dropped further. By the time he reached the facade his breaths were visible in white clouds, mingling with the fog drifting up from the ground. The weather was changing entirely too fast for his liking.

Slowly, Geralt stepped over the threshold into the broken mansion. He kept his eyes on the fog the whole time. The tendrils were thicker now, larger than any snake he'd ever seen as they slithered across the rotten floor. 'I should turn around,' he thought. He knew he should turn around. Still, he kept moving further into the mist.

A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. His head snapped around. One of the wisps rose above the ground, twisting and twirling to a melody he couldn't hear. "The fuck," Geralt grunted and reached for his sword.

He regretted taking the contract already. It was a fool's errand, and he had known it to be. But coin was scarce these days and he had to make do. Even if it meant investigating haunted ruins that made his medallion nearly jump off his chest.

The shrill sound of rusty door-hinges made him twirl around. He was met with an inscrutable wall of fog. "Shit." His sword was in his hand before he could even think about it. A gentle gust of wind swept through the ruin, as if the air itself around him heaved a breath of relief. 'I have to get out of here.'

He turned towards where he had entered and bolted; not quite running, but almost. He hit the wall face-first. "Fuck!" he cursed, holding his bleeding nose.

An all-too-familiar laugh rang through the silence. "Fuckin' idiot!"

"Lambert?" he groaned as he raised his hands to set his own nose. It hurt like a bitch.

"Who else, you bastard?" his arsehole brother answered.

"Where are you?" Geralt wanted to know, feeling blindly for his sword. 'Fuck.' Why had he dropped it? It had been stupid to drop it. He knew better than that. He was a witcher, for fuck’s sake.

"Right behind you!" Lambert laughed again. He was probably within a punchable distance.

Geralt found the grip of his sword and whirled around, coming face to face with... fog. Nothing but fog. "Lambert?" he asked, desperately. No answer. "Lambert!" He waved his hand, a futile attempt to disperse the mist, and squinted, as if that would do anything. Of course, it didn't.

There is something to be said about the eyesight of mortals, and that is that every single one of them possesses a truly despicable one. So, it shouldn't come as a surprise that when the witcher blinked and tried to focus his vision, he did not see anything he hadn't seen before; which was nothing at all.

A quiet groan rippled through the dark, and Geralt stumbled forward before he even knew what he was doing. "Eskel," he gasped desperately, trying to follow the ragged breathing. He’d know that sound everywhere, he had heard it far too often already. "Eskel, where are you, I'm coming," he promised, while the maddening mantra of 'I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't.' kept fluttering through his head. He knew exactly what he would find, Eskel with his face slashed open, bleeding and barely breathing. 'I can't do it again, I can't, I can't, I can't.'

"No!" the high-pitched shriek made him halt in his stumbling, nearly doubling over. "Get out!"

"Yenna," he breathed. He vaguely realised that the world was spinning around him and fought the instinct to throw up.

"No, help!" she screamed again.

"Yennefer!" he shouted in response. "Where are you?"

A woeful giggle swept past him, one that might've belonged to a child or a giant or something else entirely.

"Did I not train you well?" a weak voice, that barely sounded like Vesemir, coughed. "Is your sword your only weapon?"

"N-no," he stammered and raised his trembling hand. He willed his fingers to bend; each movement was pure agony. After half an eternity his hand formed the sign of Aard and the fog dispersed.

Never in his life had he regretted anything more. "No-" he choked out weakly as his knees hit the blood-slick floor. "No!" He could barely comprehend what lay before him, only that they were dead dead dead, all of them, gone, dead, their blood soaking him to the bone.

"What happened?" he whispered, whimpered, wailed. There was an uncomfortable feeling coiling in his gut. It was something important, he knew. Something he should do. Somewhere he should go. Someone he still missed. But whatever it was, there was a thick fog clouding his mind that he could not see through.

"You failed me," Yennefer answered, rising from her last resting-place. With each movement her broken bones popped back into place. But there was nothing to be done about her torn-up chest; nothing to be done about her empty eyes, picked clean by the crows long ago, full of accusations.

"And me," Eskel agreed, blood trickling from the gashes on his face. And his legs. And his arms. And his guts. There was not much to trickle left.

"And me," said Lambert's head where it lay inches from his torso. Two swords protruded from his body, one silver and one steel. They had stripped him naked save for the medallion around his neck, a snarling cat where there should have been a wolf.

"You failed all of us," Vesemir rasped, lying limp on his deathbed. After months of sickness and starvation, he could count every bone on his body. But it was the garrotte that had been his end.

"Who did this?" he gasped.

"You did," they answered in unison.

"Me?"

A shadow giggled and caressed his cheek. "Of course, you," a velvety voice answered. "It’s what you do. Butcher. Hunter. Priest. You brought war to my peace."

He groaned quietly, desperate to lean into the touch. When he did, he nearly toppled over. He caught himself inches from the ground. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. "Who are you?"

"Who am I? That answer's not yet due," the strange voice answered; wisps of fog danced, curled together, formed what might have been a body. "The real query is: who are you?"

"I-" He inhaled sharply as realisation hit him. "I'm- missing someone."

"Missing someone, are we?" The shadow giggled. "Pray tell, who might that be?"

He did not want to answer. He didn't. Still, he said: "Where's- Jaskier!" Fear closed its icy fist around his heart. True fear, that was paralyzing, numbing, horrible. He wanted to do something, wanted to— he didn’t know. His hands were shaking too much.

"Geralt!" a bard’s piercing scream ripped through the eerie silence.

The sinister giggle rang again; a wisp of fog caressed his shoulder. Suddenly, there was light. So much light, it was overwhelming after the all-encompassing darkness of the fog. He screamed in pain, trying to avert his gaze, trying to flee— but he couldn’t.

"There you are," a smile spread on what might’ve been the creature’s face as they bent down, their mouth dragging across the shell of his ear, "Geralt."

#my writing #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #eskel #lambert #vesemir #yennefer of vengerberg #For You I'll Always Wait #FYIAW #the witcher secret santa

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keepswingin · 4 years ago

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The dungeon is dark and dank, rats festering in the corners her lantern’s light doesn’t reach.

The bottom of her nightgown drags across slick stone and she startles far too easily when she accidentally steps in a shallow puddle, water sloshing in an echo around her.

A ragged growl escapes from the deep folds of utter darkness in front of her at the sudden noise, and she lifts her light higher before she can stop herself, racing heart settling once more when she’s greeted by the proud seal of her family’s royal crest. It sits heavily in the middle of the twisted iron of the first cage she sees, squared awkwardly to the wall so that four other cages fit alongside it, Where everything else in the dungeon itself is decaying, the crest shines, and for the first time ever in her life, she thinks she doesn’t care what it stands for.

Described in the crest is, after all, her great-great grandfather slaying an untamable beast, long sword sticking proudly out of a deflated chest, a flag raised high into the air behind him, the entire imagine encased by a half-risen sun, signaling the end of a dark war-torn century.

And here, in this very room somewhere, sits one of the captured leaders of their forever sworn enemy.

Her stomach churns, urging her to turn back, reminding her of her duties as a queen-to-be, but she shoves the uncomfortable feelings aside, and begins to approach the first chiseled cage.

Inside is a skeleton, hands still outstretched toward the closed door, as if they had died begging to someone - or something - outside of it. She straightens her spine as she moves onto the next, which is bare of anything at all, and then to the third. Chains hang from the ceiling sporting heavy shackles, and the door is opened, as if waiting for it’s next victim, but otherwise the small section is clear.

She turns to move to the fourth cage, one away from the furthest wall from the spiraling stairs she had descended, and freezes in her tracks when she sees bright yellow watching her from the dark.

She knows it’s eyes, she knows what’s behind those eyes, and she knows what she’s learned from the stories she had grown up with, but even with all that knowledge beside her, she still decides to take a breath, and then to continue walking.

The eyes don’t blink once as they watch her approach, and she doesn’t falter as she comes to a stop in front of his cage, lifting the light so that she can see what awaits her inside.

There’s new cuts and gashes spattered across the expanse of his open skin, covering intricate lines of body markings she’s only ever seen inked onto paper. They’re beautiful up close, careful lines and detailed pieces of history and family that a crest could never compare to. His shirt is ripped, one shoulder bare, and his pants are scuffed, caked with mud and dried blood. A line of twine hangs around his neck, but what rests on it is hidden beneath his shirt. His hair is matted to the front of his forehead, white slashing through dark brown, and his eyes are piercing when she meets them again, but she doesn’t back down.

This was where her curiosity had led her, and so far her hunch wasn’t wrong. Something wasn’t right about the history books, or the pictures that had shown gaping mouths and sharp teeth, furry snouts and claws longer than swords.

Because, from where she was standing, this werewolf was looking far more human than he should’ve been.

“How badly are you hurt?”

Surprisingly, her voice comes out strong. She’s proud of that. Those yellow eyes continue to watch her, analyzing, deciding, and she dares to take a step closer. Yellow flickers.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says, taking another step, “I’m sorry they did what they did to you in the square.”

(“Behold!” her parents’ squire had gloated, “As our King has captured the leader of the beasts!”

Cheers had erupted from the crowds around them, her father looking among his people proudly before turning around and grabbing the foreclaimed beast from his royal knights waiting behind him. He had shoved him forward, his knees digging into the ground as he had fallen, growling and fighting loudly all the while.

The chain around his neck had dug enough into skin to be bleeding, fat rivulets of blood soaking through the furs of his ancestors, the vest of a leader. She had thought the sowing to be pretty when she had first seen it, and then her father, as kind of a man as he was cruel, had torn the sacred material from his shoulders, and then had it set ablaze beside him.

The roars of the crowd had drowned out the keening roar of the beast.)

“That…wasn’t right.” She reaches out and wraps a hand around the bars, blue eyes still clashing with brilliant yellow. “I—“

Before she can think of saying another word, a hand is wrapped around her throat. Short claws dig into her skin, not enough to cause any real damage, but just enough to be a threat. Yellow eyes bore into her, burning with anger, sadness…fear. A soft growl tears from the wolf’s throat, tampering off into words.

“You smell important,” he says, his voice deep, haggard from disuse. “Like that man who burned lifetimes of history for the likes of a crowd.”

She’s calmer than she’d thought she would be, her breathing even despite the strong hand that could snap her neck in two without so much as breaking a sweat. Her thirst for the truth is stronger than she gives it credit it for.

“It was wrong of him to do that,” she agrees quietly, keeping still. He watches her for a moment, and then seems to grow angry, his hold tightening the slightest bit.

“Who are you?” he snarls, fangs shining in the lamplight. She hadn’t planned to share exactly who she was when she had come up with this idea to sneak down here and talk to him, and she could just lie, but something inside of her told her not to. Something inside of her told her that if he wanted her dead, she would’ve been already.

“I’m Addison Wells—“

“I should kill you, right here,” he snaps, upon hearing mention of the royal name that has been at odds with his pack for as long as he’s lived, as long as his great-great grandmother had lived, “for all the hundreds of my kind that have been murdered, the life of a royal wouldn’t be much, but it would matter.”

Addison exhales slowly.

“So kill me then.” She’s met by bewildered eyes. “If killing me is what you need to do to start the healing between our bloodlines, then do it.”

She goes to press her neck into his claws, but he lets go of her before she can finalize it, regarding her in silence. His hand lowers back down to his side.

(“They’ll get you,” her mother warns a fussing toddler Addison after dinner because she had wanted her father but her father was in a war meeting. “They’ll come from the woods, snatch you in the night, and sink their teeth into you if you don’t stop this nonsense right now, my dear.”

She had sniffled and buried her face into her mother’s gown, fear wrapping tightly around her gut. Her mother had hummed and pulled her closer, kissing her hair.

“That’s my princess. Come on now, your father will be done soon.”)

“Why are you here?” he asks finally, and the yellow is gone when he blinks a second later, leaving no trace of it behind.

“To find the truth,” she replies easily, because she’s sick of being lied to. She thinks it was the burning earlier today that had begun this awakening inside of her, because for all that her parents had done right, that wasn’t something that could be reversed or forgiven. Her emotions had been all over the place since, and even now they were still loose and rattling around her head, but one thing was for sure - what would a captured werewolf gain from lying to her?

“And what makes you think I know it?” He turns away from her and heads to the corner of the cage, sliding down the wall and taking a seat on the stones. He doesn’t have a bed, or a basin, or anything at all. She wondered if the servants were even allowed down here, and made a note to herself to check the next day. They had left him in complete darkness, but she had figured that would be the worst of it.

Maybe there was more to all of this than she had originally thought.

“Because you’re the only one who does,” she supplies evenly, and his eyebrows raise in question.

“What’s to keep me from lying to you? Wouldn’t I say anything to get myself out of here?”

Addison can’t help the small smile that begins to lift the corner of her lips. “Werewolves are forbidden to lie.”

He looks impressed by her answer, the most solid emotion he’s shown so far, but it’s gone as fast as it appears.

Silence stretches between them once more, and Addison waits for him to break it, not wanting to push too much or too far. He eventually does, arms crossed, eyes still watching her carefully.

“A princess who wants to know my secrets, huh?” he muses, a smirk crossing his features at the sight of her blush, “It’s been a while since that’s happened.”

(Kisses pressed along her jawline before teeth nip playfully at her neck, hands splayed across the bare skin of her back. Her own hands sliding from the nape of his neck into his hair so that she can drag his head up so that his lips meet hers again.

Her hands dip back down to his chest after, and a short laugh had puffed out of him as he had pulled back, their foreheads pressed together as her fingers traced the lines resting on his skin.

“They’re nothing special,” he had whispered to her and she had shaken her head before kissing him slow and soft, her hands coming to a rest on the sharp curve of his hips.

“They’re apart of what makes you who you are.”

He had smiled then, the kind of smile that had made her heart and stomach do all kinds of things they shouldn’t, and then had kissed her again, and again, and—)

She shoves the dream aside quickly. That wasn’t part of the reason she came down here at all, because she doubted it was anything. It wasn’t like she was a seer or anything of the sort, so it just had to be a fluke, though the lines in the dream she had a few weeks ago were awfully similar…

She opts for the safe answer among the red that’s still steadily dusting her cheeks. “Your *people’s* secrets.” And then another thought strikes her. “May I ask what your name is?”

He stills, the smirk slipping from his lips. Something changes in the air, but she can’t quite grasp what. He looks down at the ground, eyes chasing the rats that huddle and chase and keen, before looking back up to the girl before him. Her hair is long, and as white as the moon on a clear evening, her eyes trusting, her hands steady. Her skin is tinted orange from the lantern, and her nightgown is dirty at the bottom from her trek down here.

Something in his heart twists.

“Wyatt,” he says, despite the chiding voice of his mother inside his head. Addison smiles, and wonders if maybe they could end this lifelong war between human and werewolf after all.

#zombies 2 #wyaddison #wyatt x addison #royalty au #keepswingin writes #mine #they’re like…in their 20s for this idk i’m goin to bed #upon looking back at this in the royalty sense it probably makes more sense for them to be like 17 or 18 really #idk i don’t think i have any super good ideas to write more of it so it doesn’t really matter in the long run lol

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soundofez · 4 years ago

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@mastar-week 2021, day 3// solace

The Untamed AU. In the end, even Black Star cannot defy his own death. The clans gather to facilitate his fall.

Maka doesn’t let them. It drives her own clan half-mad, but she will not give the world a dying man to execute. She will not give up the man she has left so long abandoned. She will not let Black die unloved.

Warnings: hurt/comfort but mostly hurt, insanity, major character death. this one's a big ouchie my guys ಥvಥ

Ten Years Ago.

After the last surviving branch of the Star clan finally submits itself to the judgment of the Death clan, the wards around the Sunken Hills fail.

The other clans swarm, metaphorical pitchforks readied, eager to tear apart the notorious Last Dragon of Star. Maka arrives too late to stop them from trespassing; she flies past trampled gardens that twist her heart with grief and fury. How dare they disregard the toil of the people who lived there; how dare they claim themselves superior to innocents who wished only to survive.

She arrives in the central cave, the so-called Den of the Last Dragon, to find Black Star holding the rioting clans at bay, untouchable even now, shorn hair tied into powerful charms and dried blood applied with morbid skill to woven talismans. The stink of rotting yin is almost overpowering: lesser cultivators lie strewn about, their natural yang insufficient to counter such high concentrations of that dark energy.

Maka waits until she is noticed, until the assembled cultivators finally back away from Black's final wards. They ask her if she wants the honor, and she nods curtly in return. "Only right," they agree, though their voices betray a rapacious hunger for violence. "Only right for the Jade of Death to avenge her young master."

She does not deign to use words with them. They are not the ones who need to hear what she has to say.

When at last they all stand silent and waiting, like circling crows, she walks past their bedraggled ranks to stand before Black Star.

He nods as she approaches, and she walks directly through the wards that had so powerfully repelled the other cultivators. He keeps his charms and talismans to hand, but he makes no move to use them against her.

The look in his eyes frightens her. He is not defeated, not quite; but he is weary and grieving, and to Maka he appears to be awaiting condemnation.

From your sword, he had once told her, I will face my death and consider it just.

Maka casts her own wards in one smooth flourish. They blaze behind her, brighter than Black's wards are dark. "Leave," she says aloud. She does not look away from Black. She cannot bear to, not now, not when there is so little time left between them.

The cultivators grumble with confusion that morphs into surprise and indignation and shock. "She has been bewitched," one of them cries. "He has corrupted her," shouts another.

Maka turns to face them. "Leave," she repeats.

She has to encourage them with a sweeping blow from her sword before they obey. She grants them no more words, even as they express promises to return. (To free her, the stupider ones declare; to slay her, the smarter ones say.)

They do not understand what she is doing. How could they, when they are so utterly convinced of the guilt of the man she is protecting?

Black Star does not seem to understand, either. "What are you doing?" he asks as their opponents flee.

"I'm doing what I should have done a long time ago," Maka replies.

Black spreads his arms. "Kill me, then."

The accusation stings. Maka permits it. She has done nothing to earn his faith. "I won't," she replies.

Black Star smiles at her, coughs— there is blood in his teeth, dribbling down his chin— his wards fail, and her own are suddenly blindingly bright—

She lunges to catch him before he can hit the ground.

—

In the end, even Black Star cannot resist his fate. His cultivation technique, which draws so heavily on natural quantities of yin, overwhelms his body's supply of yang.

Maka had known it would happen. She hadn't known how little time Black had left.

They spend those last months together, her and Black Star and a surprise child she found around the back of the cave. The girl's eyes as green as Maka's, though her hair is that brilliant blue infamous to the Star Clan. She looks startlingly, heart-achingly similar to how a child might look if Maka ever bore one for Black Star.

Maka salvages what she can of the former gardens, replanting radishes while little Hoshino Ao does her best to plant herself, too. They collect Black's favorite lychee from the trees, hard-won little things that Black had been so proud to show the cuttings of eighteen months ago, when they had stumbled into each other in the little town at the base of the Sunken Hills. Maka washes and peels and pits the tiny fruits, saving their precious flesh in a shallow dish specially reserved for them. Ao loves them as much as Black does; Maka has to teach the little girl restraint, even as she wishes that she could peel all the lychees the two Stars could ever desire. Ao obliges even so, sharing the dish with Black while

Maka inspects the illusory wards alone. They cover a smaller area than Black's old wards had, but there is no longer a clan here who needs the space. Maka doesn't have access to the same techniques Black had used to cover such an enormous area, anyway. She secures the edges of the wards as the clans storm around invisible border, oblivious to her presence; Maka in particular watches her father, who appears more distraught than dissatisfied. He is one of the few cultivators to come daily, and the only one to beg and grovel for her to come home. He has an uncanny knack for knowing when she is present; he always seems to start pleading when she is around to hear him.

Maybe it is not so uncanny. He knows the feel of Death clan wards as well as she does, even if he cannot get through them. Still, Maka cannot safely speak to him, and so she doesn't. Time enough for forgiveness after Black dies.

—

They talk quite a lot in those last months, even as excessive yin rots his body and decays his mind. "Why are you protecting me?" he asks early on, while he still has his sanity. "The honorable Jade of Death shouldn't be helping an evil cultivator such as myself."

"You were never evil," Maka says hotly. "I should have protected you sooner."

Black laughs her off, light-hearted even as he waits for his grave.

At other times, Black is morbid. "You'll have to live here forever," he informs her. "If you leave this place, they'll kill you." He says this with regret. You shouldn't have come for me, Maka hears, even though the words do not leave his mouth.

"They won't kill me," Maka replies.

Still other times, Black flirts with her. "You can have your way with me, you know," he'll say, winking. "Nobody can stop you, least of all me. I'll never tell, either."

He is trying to drive her away. Tough: she's not leaving him until one of them dies. She tells him as much, though instead of acknowledging his failing body, she simply says, "I'm never leaving you again."

His spirit fails. He is tormented by ghosts who do not exist and nightmares that escape the realms of sleep. Still, he seems to recognize her. "I missed you, you know," he tells her, half-delirious. "All these months I spent cooped up in these hills, I missed you."

"I missed you, too," Maka replies, pressing a cup of water or a bowl of radish stew to his lips. He seems to hear her, and he smiles.

He starts to forget that she's there: when she returns from gardening or lychee-picking or checking the wards, he will startle and beam at her. "Maka, you've come to visit!" he will cry, or even, "You! I love you!"

She never knows if these last words are truly meant for her. "I love you, too," she replies anyway, pressing lychee flesh to his lips and letting him lick the sweet nectar from her fingers like a child. The fruit seems to keep the horrors at bay, at least for a little bit, at least while she's with him.

The last time he speaks to her, he is strangely coherent. "You shouldn't have gotten involved, Maka."

She sits beside him. "If I'd gotten involved sooner, you wouldn't be dying," she replies, thinking bitterly of the years she's spent dithering, and for what? She is already twenty-two, fast leaving marriageable age, and the love of her life is dying.

He is only twenty-two, and he is dying.

"You don't know that," he replies. "And that's beside the point. You should have let them kill me. The gods know I deserve it."

She leans over him, takes his face in her hands. "You promised you would be killed only by my hands," she tells him. "I will not kill you. I will not let the world execute an innocent man. I will not leave you because you are dying. I should never—" Her voice cracks on the word. She swallows and continues, staring into his black eyes, wondering if she will ever fall into such blackness again. Never, she thinks. It's impossible. "I should never have abandoned you, Black."

I will not let you die unloved, she wants to tell him later, but by then he is beyond hearing.

—

She buries his body. She does not take down the wards. She steps out from the Den of the Last Dragon and into her weeping father's embrace. She pushes Hoshino Ao into his arms before she submits to the clans' judgment.

She is not executed, as she had predicted. Lord Death is still too fond of her. Still, she is sentenced to daily lashes and seclusion for a year. It takes another year for her to recover.

Of course, she never really recovers. She continues living, and she is dutiful to the clan, and she finds some measure of joy in teaching the new cultivators; but she does not begin to recover until she sees a man in plain grey robes, his hair white but his eyes that impossible black, placing a talisman she’s seen many times before on a corpse who should have been long gone.

#soul eater #mastar #mastar week #mastar week 2021 #maka albarn x black star #fez scribbles #fez writes #mastar week more like mastar yEAR AMIRITE

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sidespromptblog · 5 years ago

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The End For Him... For Them

Summary: They say that chasing after someone for years can be exhausting and mentally draining, but Logan has been the one giving the chase for centuries with no end in sight as his companion the chaser sees no problem to their game going on and on for however long they exist.

But Logan does, he doesn't want this life anymore.

So the truth comes out in surprising ways.

Warnings: Logan needs a hug, Logan is willing to let Remus kill him, Flashbacks, and Logan gives up.

Word Count: 4300

AO3 LINK

In the beginning, there were two gods created for the earth.

One of the wild.

He was the god of all of the creatures that roamed the earth, both feral and tamable creatures alike found shelter with the god. He was protective of those under his care, willing to slay anything and anyone that overstepped their boundaries, or for any perceived slights against him or his wards. He controlled the rate at which trees, vines, and grass took over the dead that died on his lands. He was responsible for the decay that would bring about new life, and he was said to be just as untamable as the creatures in his dominion. It was said that no other being alive or dead would be able to match him, that his savagery would be unparalleled by all of the pantheon, and that he would spend his days alone with nothing more than his creations to keep him from the brink of madness itself.

Then there came to be a new god on earth.

A god of the sky, of the sun, the stars, the moon, and the clouds.

For eons they wrestled with one another, the god of the wild trying to catch the stars and moon, trying to protect his creatures from the harmful rays and heat of the sun, and to lay claim to the sky. Since their very creation, they were made to oppose one another, as opposites in almost every way. The god of the wild holding his dominion over all of the earth, and the ground that had come with it. As well as the god of the sky, and everything that came with his claim. They were equals, as the power of one was just as equal as the power of the other.

They were meant to chase each other for all of eternity, one never allowed to catch up with the other.

Until...

“Please Remus,” Logan openly begs without a hint of shame to his voice, and just the sound of it, the mere idea of Logan begging him for anything is enough to make that primal thing in his chest writhe and thrash. It hurts... it hurts in a way that he’s never had to know before. It hurts to hear Logan begging like this, just as it hurts him to see the resignation in Logan’s eyes. With the knowledge that Logan isn’t going to fight back, and it hurts so much worse when the other man bares his neck to him. He has to clamp down his jaw at the sight of the tears that slowly make their way down Logan’s face. “Whatever you do...just make it quick... Please.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Logan wasn’t supposed to give up, and just let this happen.

They… they were supposed to chase after each other for eternity, or for as long as their lives would allow them to.

Something between a growl and a whine builds up in his throat the longer that he stares down at the other, for the life of him… he couldn’t recall just how long the two of them had been there. With Remus having seized Logan’s wrists firmly pinning him to the ground, and leaving him with no way to escape. Before his nails had scraped against Logan’s skin, leaving little shallow cuts wherever he had touched the other man.

But now…

His touch was softer than the actual ground that he had Logan laying on, his claws just barely grazing the flesh that they had once been so savagely ready to tear into.

With little to no effort, Logan could easily slip away. Just as he had done for the past hundred years, leading the chase on once again. But this time… Logan didn’t move, he didn’t kick his feet out to get Remus off balance, and he didn’t surge up to try and escape. He just… laid there, with his throat open and awaiting whatever Remus would do to it, as if Remus could do such a thing.

The whine that he had been repressing slipped out, “Don��t,” Remus softly warned, leaning his head so very close to Logan’s throat as he rested his forehead against the pulse point that had lept like a jackrabbit the moment his canines had gotten close. Logan was scared, there was no denying that. “Please don’t.” He whispered again, unable to stop himself from giving the other’s neck a soft nudge, as if he were no more than a mother wolf trying to get her cub out of the den. “Don’t do this to me, you…” Remus’ throat seized for a moment as every feeling he had been tussling with for over a century slammed into him all at once. “You know I can’t do it…”

Move! He silently begged the other, wishing that he would do anything other than just stay there awaiting a death that Remus couldn’t give him. Move please! Just go!

“You’ve been wanting this Remus, since the very beginning of our creations.” Came Logan’s gentle words, as the other man’s hand easily slipped out from under Remus’ claws. Not to escape… but to gingerly clasp the back of the other’s neck, rubbing the rigid tendons and muscles with his thumb. As if that could possibly make Remus kill him any faster. “I am giving it to you… so take it.”

The very thought of doing so is enough to make Remus sick.

He doesn’t want it, not like this… or ever really. This had been their game for who knew how long, Remus would chase him throwing wild threats and Logan… he would evade and throw back his own clever words. Words which would make Remus’ heart drum wildly in his chest, as the thrill of the chase was on once again.

“I’m going to catch you!” Remus roars as his feet scrape the ground, his shoulder aching from where Logan had ducked under him at the last minute and led him to collide with a stone wall. “And when I catch you, I’m going to tear open your pretty throat and bathe in your blood you mistake of man and science! You can’t escape forever!” He had already shaken off the earthy dust, his injuries, and aches no more than meaningless drivel in the back of his mind.

Ahead of him Logan laughs, a carefree and honestly… a beautiful sound if he had ever heard one.

“You may try,” The other man bares his teeth in a sharp smile that is full of way too many teeth, Remus adores the sight of it. He’s going to wear it as a necklace someday he just knows it. “But if need be, I can give you a few months to catch up, old man. Having a little trouble… rising to the occasion?” And with his roar of rage and with that laugh… Logan is off, his steps infinitely faster than even the quickest movement that Remus could ever make.

He has a feeling though, that Logan only slowed down for his benefit. Not that he’d ever admit to such a thing.

“Why?” He asks, shaking himself from the decades-old memory that had seized him in that moment. “Why this? Why now Logan? After so long… why?”

There’s a sad smile on Logan’s face, the kind of smile that isn’t suited for the Logan of his memories… of that sharp wit that he had come to know and love. It makes him want to seize the other’s neck, and just shake and shake until something either pops loose or Logan starts acting like himself again. He doesn’t like the sadness in those eyes, just as he doesn’t like the way that the other’s thumb is still rubbing the muscles of his neck as if that by some miracle would make his questions go away. He doesn’t know what the burning sensation in his stomach is, but just like this moment right here…

He doesn’t like it.

Logan’s hand falls flat against the base of his skull, his fingers threading through his long braided hair his fingertips running over every bead that had been incorporated into it. There’s a look there that he doesn’t understand… it’s warm. “Remus…” Logan says his name like its the last thing he’ll ever say, “I am so very tired… I...I…” If he had been panicked before, he was now horrified as tears welled up in the other’s eyes, just barely clinging to his bottom lashes. “I don’t want to fight you anymore, I’m exhausted of this chase, no matter how you may be enjoying it. I want more from my existence than this… I…” The man that Remus had come to know since his creation swallowed thickly, “I am in lo-.”

“Shut up!” He snarls baring his teeth harshly against the other’s neck, his hands pressing quickly and efficiently over Logan’s mouth before he can so much as utter another word. “Shut up!”

“Do you ever get tired of chasing me?” Logan had asked one day, his legs dangling over the lip of the cave that Remus had found himself licking his wounds in. The view of the ocean was amazing, which was partially why he had come here, to begin with. “I mean… you never catch me. So… why do you keep going on and doing it? Doesn’t it get boring knowing how it will end? I’m always faster, so… why haven’t you given up?”

A rough snort is Logan’s answer, tying his latest scrape up with reeds and a healing salve Remus can’t help but to glare balefully up at the feet he can see swinging over the edge. He knows that without a doubt, Logan would be up and out of the way before Remus could even throw himself at those ankles. Either way… his feet hurt too much from the constant running, so it's not like he’d be able to get too far if he did give a chase to the irritatingly deep sky god. He hates how right he is about this, and he hates how much the other’s words make sense in this moment. But either way…

He has his own answer.

“It’s not the outcome,” He gruffly answers, as he sparks a small little campfire into existence with the snap of his fingers. “It’s how you get away each time that makes me come back, each time… there’s something new with you. Some new trick that you’ve learned or had hidden up your sleeve, it… makes you interesting.” He confesses a warm bubble of something lingering in his chest. “If you weren’t interesting I wouldn’t give a chase… or I’d just kill you and be done with it. Find some other god to chase, or settle down in the wild again.”

He’s not entirely sure if he means it or not. A part of him says it just so that Logan will get the hell out of his cave so that he can eat and sleep, and then again… another part of him wants to answer the other god’s question as much as he can.

There is never a lot of time for the two of them to talk when Logan’s being chased, and this is probably the first time in decades that they’ve just sat down and not tried to kill each other.

But even so…

“Are you done?” Remus can’t help but snap, the swinging of those legs distracting every time that he tries to settle down. “I am busy when I’m not chasing you everywhere. You know… things to do and people to decay.”

Logan doesn’t answer him for a long time, and for a moment Remus is absolutely certain that the other god is either just ignoring him or has replaced his legs with a decoy so that Remus makes a fool out of himself. It’s only when he hears Logan sigh, and the other’s legs shift out of view that he knows that Logan finally got the memo. However, he hasn’t left yet, evidenced by the small wrapped up package that’s dropped down mere seconds later, just smelling it he can tell that its a mixture of clean nonpoisonous berries meant for him to eat. He doesn’t want to admit it… but it puzzles him, as he cautiously makes his way forward and snatches up the offered gift.

On the roof of the seaside cave, he hears Logan’s feathery light footsteps walking away as slow as can possibly be. “Remus,” And there’s a pause on the top of the cave. “Take your time healing… I’ll still be here when you’re done. Sleep well.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Remus likes to say that he doesn’t remember about that day and the gift that Logan gave him, but in all honesty… he very much does.

Remus’ sharp canines sink into the unscathed slope of Logan’s throat just the tiniest bit, and in an instant, without even giving himself even a second to think about it or the blood that he can just barely taste on his tongue… he jerks his head back. There, the first mark he’s ever made on the sky god with his fangs alone is a series of shallow cuts, with beads of dark red rising to the surface before sluggishly dripping down his collarbone and disappearing into the fabric of his deep blue and silver top. They’re relatively small by comparison of what they could have been had he actually bitten down, so small to the point where it honestly barely even counts as an injury. It’s certainly nothing compared to the accidental injuries that Remus had done to himself while chasing after the god underneath of him.

But it’s a wound nonetheless.

His blood doesn’t even smell like blood, it smells like the ozone after a lightning storm. Of fresh rain on an open field when the mice and moles finally come up from their burrows to have a good drink. It smells like everything and nothing all at the same time, so much from just a shallow and small wound.

But...

The sheer amount of horror and guilt that abruptly slams into him at the sight, smell, and taste of it is almost devastating as he lifelessly slumps against the other god’s chest.

A low keening howl leaves his throat feeling more like shards of glass, “No,” He whines, butting the top of his head against the underside of Logan’s jaw in a desperate bid to lick the wound to stop the blood flow. “No, nononono…” The god of the wild mumbles as his hands slide from Logan’s mouth, to the sides of his head in order to wrench the other’s head back more for a good look at the tiny cut.

It’s so small, and otherwise inconsequential. But coming from him....

“No!"

“Remus…”

There’s no telling what it could do to Logan. How it would affect him. Or if he'd even die from the slightest wound that he got from him.

“Remus.”

He could actually die.

“No!”

“Rem-”

"What do you think happens to us if we die?" Logan curiously asked as he patiently tapped his foot in front of Remus waiting for the god to regain his senses before their chase continued as per usual. Once again it was one of those times in between their chases when Logan always had so many questions about him, it was his most intriguing and yet most annoying quality all at the same time. "Do you think we'd get remade into our domain? Like I'd turn into a cluster of stars, if you actually managed to kill me. Or would I just cease to be?"

Remus groaned as he rubbed his aching head from where he had impulsively bull-rushed Logan head first, closing his eyes he saw stars of a different kind.

A smile curled onto Logan's lips as he leaned down just a little in order to be face to face with the god of the wild. "Would you howl and cry for me at night? Would you howl at my moon and stars?" Remus fought back the urge to snap at Logan's nose, as the other's smile turned melancholy. "I'd mourn you. In your waterfalls, in the earth after a storm, and in the cries that your animals would make. I'd mourn you, even if you wouldn't do the same for me…"

There was that look again.

That deep far away look that Remus had never been able to pin down before, it was a look that had oftentimes left him feeling very perplexed about the god in front of him. It was a look that told him, had Logan not been created to be the sky god… he would have been someone incredibly smart for who he was. He might have been the kind of guy who didn’t have anything to do with the stars and everything involving the sky.

Like an astronomer.

"Damn you," He openly cursed, as he surged up, just to have Logan step away as soon as he did. "Don’t.” He openly and rather darkly warns, in Logan’s eyes there is clearly no love lost between them, but in Remus’ eyes its another matter entirely. “You don't know a single thing about how I'd mourn." His mouth ran off before his mind could truly catch up to him, as he stubbornly and rather sluggishly brought himself back up to his feet. "I'd fucking mourn." But just not in the way that Logan would ever expect him to.

The whole earth would be silent for the stars if they never were to shine again, Remus would ensure it.

Without Logan… meaning would have no meaning.

There is no warning for what happens next.

As Logan surges up, clasping Remus’ head between his hands and slams their mouths together cutting off the panicked flow of disjointed words that the other god had been babbling at the bite on his neck. It is anything but pleasant given that it’s his first time, and even more so considering that Remus’ first instinct is to snarl at the pressure on his mouth, his clawed fingers curling almost possessively down the curve of his neck and around his shoulders leaving a trail of white lines where they touch. Regardless of how Remus reacts afterward, Logan at least has the satisfaction in knowing that the other god is no longer panicking himself into a stupor. Or more importantly...

He’ll no longer feel bad about ending the sky god’s existence now.

Except… as inexperienced as both he and Remus are… the kissing doesn’t stop, not that Logan is complaining about that. It’s animalistic, what with the way that Remus’ tongue drags over Logan’s lips, as if trying to taste every little bit of him, with the way that his sharp canines nip and bite at his lips and jawline something much more satisfying happening, and with the way that Logan isn’t even being pinned under the god of the wild. What with the way that his arms have securely looped under the sky god’s body bringing him firmly against Remus’ chest, and in turn his warmth.

They had never touched like this before, for Remus it was a surprise to feel just how cold Logan was to touch. It was like trying to touch a cold gust of wind, or even worse… touching the chilled body of a dead creature that had been dead for days. There wasn’t a spot of warmth to be felt on the other god’s body, unlike Remus, who felt absolutely blisteringly warm with the heat of the earth’s core. In all honesty…

It was the first time that Logan had felt warmth like this, and not have it chased away with his own internal temperature.

He couldn’t help but to melt under that warmth, as his eyes closed blissfully and his head tipped back, even more, exposing even more of his unmarked neck to the other god. It didn’t matter if he would die right then or not at all, not if Remus kept holding him like this with a grip so strong that it was practically guaranteed that he wouldn’t fall. Despite everything that he had thought in the past, or even just assumed of the other, his grip and his warmth… it didn’t hurt. It was like feeling the sun’s rays through the shade of the trees, with the promise that he wouldn’t get burned by it. It felt comfortable and it felt… safe. Safer than any of the close calls he’d ever had with Remus, and safer than when he’d just been pinned under the other god mere moments ago.

Speaking of which though…

“Don’t stop,” He whispered the moment that Remus’ lips moved from his mouth down to his neck, “If you hate me… then kill me right here and now with as much swiftness and painlessness that you possess. Please.” He asked.. no, begged again of the other. There was no being transparent about it now, and there was no sugarcoating things now that he had already done the impossible and kissed the god of the wild.

His opposite in just about every way imaginable.

But even so… that didn’t stop the deep savage growl from curling up from Remus’ chest and right into his throat, so that it vibrated against Logan’s own. His teeth that had scraped against Logan’s throat with each brutal kiss, were now bared once again, the pearly whites glinting dangerously against the setting sun of what would be their crossroads. And just as quickly as it had come, the bright and brilliant hope that had burned in Logan’s chest was almost instantly smothered with the dark snarl of Remus’ teeth that swiftly and rather remorselessly wrapped itself about the sky god’s esophagus. There was no mistaking what it meant, and there was no mistaking the end either.

Remus had promised that he would tear open his throat, he had sworn multiple times that he would do such a thing. There was no use crying about it, and there was no use lamenting about it either. He too had promised that he would give Remus exactly what he wanted out of their confrontations.

And he would.

But even with all of that, Logan still couldn’t bear to look. As he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the tears as he allowed himself to go limp once again. He would be ready when it would happen, and he would not cry.

He would not cry.

He. Would. Not.

“I am in love with you.” He whispered, allowing himself this one small moment of weakness, as the tears that had been clinging to his bottom eyelashes finally fell. “I love you, as the moon loves the ocean…”

Forever.

A low guttural growl rumbled through Remus’ throat, “I said shut up.” He mumbled, as he sat up practically dragging Logan up with him so that he remained firmly squished against his chest. Logan could feel the pounding of the other’s heart against his own, it was racing practically galloping behind that ribcage of his in the way that could only describe one emotion. Horror. “I said that I couldn’t do it before,” Remus said against his neck, nestling and nuzzling his face against the lines where his teeth had accidentally sunk in. “You think that I’m going to do it when I already feel the same?”

In that moment, all of time itself seemed to slow down.

Never in a million years would he have thought that those words would Remus’ mouth, sure the other was always headstrong about his feelings and his innate need to hunt him down for whatever reason. But never would Logan have assumed that Remus would be actually willing to admit it out loud, maybe as more of an understood thing if the other god didn’t kill him, but never an openly and shamelessly admitted confession such as this. It went against practically everything that he knew about Remus in general, but then again… how much was that really, if he had honestly thought that the other god would kill him?

“Really?” He nervously asked, still not daring to believe it just yet, not after so long. Not that Remus would ever hold it against him. “No tricks, like with your brother and the snake incident?”

“No tricks.” Remus openly promises.

He sees it, for the first time. That pale yellow dusting of blush, the color of sunsets and the stars passing over Logan’s freckled cheeks. He sees the hope that was always missing in the vacant stares that the other god would sometimes give him whenever he had his questions, and it fills him with a deep warmth that could never be matched by the actual temperature of his body. It’s relief he knows, its the one emotion he knows enough about, given that he’s felt it every time that Logan has successfully evaded his attacks and threats. It’s no less overwhelming than it was before than it is now, but he counts that as a plus.

It means that he cares.

Logan swallows thickly, “Good.” The sky god says rather bravely.

And this time, without hesitating their lips crash together once again. Only this time Remus rolled onto his back, allowing the sky god to pin him down to the earth as his cold lips explore his. All while keeping his hands rather firmly on the other’s hips, now touching him as much as he had wanted to in the past. There’s nothing to stop either of them now, not as they fully fall into one another.

Just as it was always meant to be.

#logan sanders #ts logan #ts logan sanders #ts remus #ts remus sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #intrulogical #ts sanders sides #ts sides #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #ts sanders sides fanfiction

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itsbenedict · 4 years ago

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Two-Faced Jewel: Session 1-B

(Part B, for length- see Part A first.)

Zero and @eternalfarnham are Looseleaf and Saelhen du Fishercrown, a mothfolk animist and a half-elf conwoman whose travels take them to Blacksky University, where the discovery of an unknown magical artifact sets them on the path to discovering the secrets of a shattered world.

Saelhen du Fishercrown has just involuntarily bonded with a magical bracer under false pretenses. The deans of the School of Natural Arts and the School of Arcane Arts have reached a compromise- send Looseleaf (equipped with a wand of Locate Object) to keep an eye on her. None of this bodes well for her plan to skip town and pawn the thing- if she doesn't follow the magical arrow, it's going to be hard to explain.

So... she figures she might as well find out where it's pointing, and see if there's a way to remove it and/or shake her tail at the end.

Saelhen du Fishercrown:Saelhen is best served by seeming a bit silly, here. So I think she's going to follow the arrow directly and just straight-up cross over the fences. Looseleaf:Looseleaf fidgets a bit. "I mean, honor has to tarry for things like, classes, and stuff, occasionally, right?" "Not to mention, you still, like, need to do a whole interview." "And you can't just- like, at the least I'd want to get the campus news department involved, y'know, put this in the news and stuff, right?" Saelhen du Fishercrown:"I will be proud to answer any questions you have as we go, Madam Looseleaf." Saelhen approaches the campus fence and begins to struggle over it. Looseleaf:Looseleaf is only vaguely sure that this campus has anything like a newsletter, but something about this lady's insistency on walking off into the sunset as quickly as she can is making Looseleaf's antennae twitch, a little bit. "Uhhhhhh," Looseleaf says. "Okay, sure, then."

They take a pretty direct route to where the arrow's pointing. On the way, Looseleaf puts the screws to Saelhen by poking at her cover story.

Saelhen continues to roll crazy good on Deception, vs Looseleaf's History, and Looseleaf can't find any fault in Saelhen's staggeringly-detailed hand-calligraphied forgery.

Benedict I. (GM): So- it seems like this was written by someone who's at least read A Flawless History of the Elven Peoples cover to cover. There aren't any obvious contradictions, and a lot of supporting details- it's hard to believe someone could've just made all this up. Looseleaf: But, okay, wow, Looseleaf is... absolutely engrossed in this book. This is the good stuff. Benedict I. (GM): You're familiar enough with the vagaries of the biographical tradition that there could easily be creative reinterpretations or doctored facts in here, but you don't have any way to distinguish them from reality. Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen keeps up a running commentary while they walk. Looseleaf: But presumably there is no mention of any kind of accession ritual? Saelhen du Fishercrown:Jack nothing! Looseleaf:And definitely nothing along the lines of a stone bracer being involved in some kind of ancestral spirit worship ritual.

Yeah, something's fishy here. But it's a long book, and it takes a long time to read, and before Looseleaf can get through it, the arrow starts to swerve.

The bracer seems to have lead them to Yoshimimoto Plaza, a wide pavilion in the middle of a ring of government buildings owned by the Oyashio Port Authority- the city's secular government. Saelhen recognizes the design as remarkably similar to the floor of the Ryokou Temple in Kanzentokai.

The Ryokou Temple, hundreds of years ago, was once a great hub of teleportation, where travelers from all over the world came and went. Thanks to teleportation magic, the concept of "cities" and "nations" and "regional governments" didn't make a lot of sense back then, and the world was something of a fragmentary monoculture featuring several different competing governments- distributed governments which claimed authority over their members, not over geographical territories.

(If you've read anything of the Terra Ignota series, they were basically like the hives.)

Two or three centuries ago, though, something called the Blackout occurred. Teleportation magic suddenly failed- planar travel broke, as did the teleportation hubs in each of the world's major cities. Suddenly, the world was shattered into geographically distant territories, which suddenly had to administer themselves without contact with the rest of the world. The world as it is today was shaped by the effects of this Blackout, and how people rebuilt.

Yoshimimoto Plaza, now an unremarkable empty square, used to be the city's teleportation hub.

Saelhen, following the arrow, touches the bracer to the center of this plaza, and all hell breaks loose.

The bricks underneath them all suddenly fall into a pit, landing about twenty feet down on a squishy surface that yields under the impact. Despite the cushioning, Saelhen takes 5 bludgeoning damage from the fall. (Looseleaf can feather-fall with her moth wings, so she's fine.)

So, what you've landed on... first and foremost, it smells. It smells of mildew and decay, of something sealed up and left to rot. The walls of the pit aren't dirt or stone- you're not sure what they are. They're gray-green and porous, interwoven with what might be vines. The floor has a ton of bricks on top of it, but where those bricks fell unevenly, you can see the floor is a mass of these squishy vines- or maybe tentacles, it's not entirely clear.

What's not fine is the old man who was feeding the pigeons on the plaza, who's broken his legs and is screaming for help. Also not fine are a couple of Oyashio Port Authority guards, who were chatting there and are now very perturbed.

Also not fine are the walls of this pit- they've got holes in them. Holes from which horrible little fleshy winged creatures are crawling:

These bloodsucking fiends claw their way out of the weird porous walls, and begin divebombing people with unholy shrieks.

The party rolls for initiative! Saelhen readies an action to intercept the enemy, and it's a good thing- she downs one of the stirges with a hidden blade when it gets close. (Looseleaf notes how suspicious it is that a noblewoman had a hidden blade up her sleeve.)

Looseleaf uses Rend Spirit on another one- a magical attack that uses animism as a blunt force weapon. The spirit of something is different from its soul- a living thing has a mind, but it also has a spirit, which is just sort of a semi-sentient magical handle on its body and the nature thereof. The spirit of something's muscles says "I want to expand and contract in response to nerve stimuli"- and Looseleaf can tell the muscles "No, you want to snfdkdfrksfjklafdr." The muscles' spirit gets real confused by this and tries to make its physical host do some snfdkdfrksfjklafdr, which makes no sense and results in chaotic flailing and tissue damage. Or, uh, "force damage", D&D's vaguest damage type.

She seizures the other stirge to death, but three more crawl their way out of the walls. Two go for the guards, who call for help and manage to take one down- but the third goes for the defenseless old man. Saelhen whiffs her thrown knife to intercept it, and the stirge buries its proboscis in the man's side and begins to drink.

Looseleaf: Holy shit, this woman is going to get people killed. Her nonsense- and probably confabulated- ancestral quest is going to get people killed.

Saelhen follows up by charging the stirge and slaying it- but four more stirges crawl out of the walls. There's no end to the damn things!

Looseleaf, who has wings, remembers them- and also remembers her starting gear! When do players ever do that? She gets out her 50 ft of rope and drops a rope ladder to help people escape.

The stirges are on the move, though- those not distracted by the guards go for Saelhen and Looseleaf. One of them gets through and impales Saelhen- who only had 6 hit points left after the fall damage, at level 1. It rolls well, and she goes down.

One of the guards grabs the old man and begins climbing out of the pit, just as reinforcements arrive with crossbows- but it's too late for Looseleaf, who gets herself divebombed by a stirge, which beats her AC and latches on. She tries to Rend Spirit it off her, but fails- and its next attack finishes her off. Meanwhile, Saelhen is still down in the pit being fed on, and rolls a critical failure on her first death save, counting as two failures! The party is completely KO'd by these horrible bloodsucking monsters they uncovered.

Luckily for them, they went down... in the middle of the administrative center of a highly populated city, surrounded by emergency services personnel who were actively trying to save them. As a result... they wake up in the hospital, not dead.

Looseleaf: "When the inquiries come in, I just want to make it clear, miss du Surplus," Looseleaf says in her hospital bed, "I do not know you and I do not know who you are and I am pretty sure that this is all your fault." Her antennae are swishing furiously, which is moth for 'fuck everything about this'. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "In my defense," says Saelhen, "I have no frigging idea why that bracelet summoned infinite bats, haha." "Ow."

It seems- from the chafing on her wrist- that someone tried to steal the bracer off her arm while she was unconscious, to no avail.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "If your university wants it back, you're maybe going to have to use a cleaver. Ha ha. You know, I've actually been to places where they chop off your hand for stealing." Looseleaf: "You better hope they don't decide to chop off your arm," apparently Looseleaf's got more of a vindictive bent to her than you'd expect! "You folk only have two arms." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Gonna be a super dishonorable wound." Looseleaf: "Yeah, we're dispensing with the whole, elegant elf politese thing entirely now, are we." "Not that it exactly made sense for a dignified hyper-polite elf to run around with a dozen daggers tied to them under the robes." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "For what it's worth, if you weren't dogging me so closely, I would have probably screwed off, tried to sell it, found out I couldn't and... I guess left town with the next circus. Amazing halfbreed with bad taste in jewelry." "But it's obviously not your fault, right? No idea your actions would lead to that." "Yeah, the mysterious maiden of the orient thing gets old after a while but so many people buy into it." "I am disowned, though, if it helps."

Saelhen pretty much spills all the beans to Looseleaf- and tries to lay out a plan for how they can both avoid taking the blame for this. Looseleaf is shocked that Saelhen has the audacity to try to keep up the con, after what happened- and horrified at the implication that she was somehow responsible for this.

Looseleaf:"You're thinking of trying to keep up the scam," Looseleaf says in disbelief. "By Harmony, you actually want to double down." Benedict I. (GM):"...suspects, wanted for...!" "...my students..." "...jured patients!" There's an argument happening outside your door. Looseleaf:"Oh, there it is," Looseleaf sighs. She folds her arms and looks up at the ceiling of the hospital room and resigns herself to be utterly annihilated by terrible inexorable fate.

The door opens, and in walks... uh. A nurse? It's a round tiefling woman dressed in... not so much a nurse's outfit as a sexy halloween costume of a nurse's outfit. It's... a lot. She seems to be playing the part of an actual medical professional, though, and after a quick checkup, asks which of their two guests they'd like to speak to first.

Who are these guests? Well, the first one is Provost Hamori, from the school. The drow lady. Something in Looseleaf's moth bones shudders as she enters the room and the trailing of her dress masks a skittering noise.

Luckily for them, the provost is very happy with them! Earth-shattering magical discoveries that unleash hordes of blood-sucking monsters on the populace of the city are not at all occasions to be mourned, in her opinion. There's so much new research to be done! It's exciting!

Plus, apparently, while they were out, refugees crawled their way out of the tentacle-floor in the pit! Supposedly descendants of people who disappeared from the face of the Jewel when the Blackout occurred. They'd managed to survive in that sort of horrible Stranger Things-ass upside-down horror-world for hundreds of years! Very exciting!

Provost Hamori reassures them that everything will be fine, and asks them to tell the truth to the nice police lady who's about to have a friendly chat with them.

Said police lady takes her turn to speak to the hospitalized party.

Benedict I. (GM): "My name is Stella Lastwave. I am captain of the Port Authority city guard. I am required to disclose this information." Then she leans in. "Would the two of you like to tell me what the fuck is happening in my city?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: Good question! Benedict I. (GM): "Dozens of bloodsucking hellmonsters are menacing the citizens, a troop of ultraviolent feral children are wreaking havoc in the streets, and the Yoshimimoto Plaza is a ruined crater of necrotic energy!" "I have fourteen witnesses stating that you walked up to the middle of the plaza with a magic item, touched the ground, and unleashed hell on the innocent citizens of Oyashio!" "You're going to explain what the hell you thought you were doing, right now!" Looseleaf: “Um. It was an accident?” Looseleaf begins, and then hedges, because this intimidating cop lady is intimidating her, and all of her prepared lines of explanation have gone right out the window. Benedict I. (GM): "An accident." "Again."

Captain Lastwave is highly suspicious of Saelhen's story- as the de la Surplus family doesn't exist in any of the shipping records they have for the world's busiest port city. If they're not in the records, they either don't exist, or they're smugglers.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "We have... fallen on difficult times as of late. It is a stain on our honor that we have failed to contribute to Kanzentokai's glory, I realize." Saelhen sighs. "...it was my hope that I might restore our reputation by completing the succession, when the means were lost to us for so long." Benedict I. (GM): "Yeah? And your 'succession' means siccing demons on a city of innocent people?" Looseleaf: “They just assigned me to her as an anthropology assignment,” Looseleaf babbles. “I was supposed to follow her doing her rite thingy and write it down and turn it in as an essay for my self-directed project.” Whatever the splash radius of this negotiation is going to wind up being, Looseleaf is absolutely making sure that she ends up outside of it. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Strange are the ways of my ancestors. It is my hope that I will be allowed to serve the free citizens of Oyashio, as I have served those citizens long-imprisoned by the Blackout." Benedict I. (GM): "This is the seventh goddamn evil magic apocalypse that witch up in Blacksky has tried to wipe out Oyashio with! Even when it's not them, it's them, or-" "-what, are you talking about the murdercrazy teenagers running wild in the streets?" Looseleaf: Looseleaf looks at Fishercrown. ”Oh.” Saelhen du Fishercrown: "So I have been told." Looseleaf: "So that’s what the Provost meant by... whoof." "So, ‘we found humans on the other side of the portal’ was definitely a euphemism, huh.”

Thanks to Saelhen once again rolling absurdly high on Deception, Captain Lastwave lets them off with a warning, and leaves. They leave the hospital- or rather, the Temple of Karou, Heartlifter, God of Joy.

as you leave the Temple of Karou, you learn that the Temple of Karou comprises the upper floors of the building, 2 and up the first floor, run by the local bishop of Karou (Vermillion Hansen, the tiefling "nurse" you met) is the Pink Lips Pleasure House- an official government institution funded by the Ecumene of Joy. it is a brothel. the Ecumene of Joy is a little weird.

So with that crisis officially Not Their Fault, Looseleaf and Saelhen return to Blacksky, where the Provost- in exchange for keeping it Not Their Fault- will be having them conduct further research on this bracer- which has sprouted a new arrow, pointing off somewhere to the northeast.

Next session, we'll see what that research entails!

#twofaced jewel

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utilitycaster · 5 years ago

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freckledmccree

replied to your post

“Cumulus Rocks reminds me that once I made a list of the most goth...”

okay, but i'm gonna need to see that list

Oh believe me I wrote this with this list on hand just in case. I split it by class and to an extent alignment and I’ve updated the commentary (and in the case of the rogue, the subclass itself). I had forgotten about Yasha, Fig (kind of), Vax (kind of) and Liam (Wilhemina, not O’Brien). Liam W. is not quite as pastel but he is a very pink boy and Fig ended up changing to college of lore but she is more of a punk goth. I posit that as soft lovers of flowers who also happen to be very good at killing, while Vax and Yasha are more classic goth in their aesthetic they could be swayed into the romantic goth category, if not full pastel. Oh and also I believe Emily’s character on NADDPod’s recently finished campaign, which I will start listening to very soon as I’m almost caught up on RQG, is Circle of Spores but in a very not goth way, but don’t @ me or spoil me on that.

Barbarian:

Inherent gothness of the class: unless you want to make easy jokes regarding the Germanic tribe, low, usually. You get angry and you fight things.

Path of Zealot. In addition to the necrotic damage option, you get the most goth ability of all, the ability to keep fighting while raging even when you are technically speaking, dead. You are also very hard to kill and easy to bring back from the dead.

Bard:

Inherent gothness of the class: very low in the classic interpretation although between the spell list as is, magical secrets, and RP you can do a pretty good job. I’m of the opinion, however, that it’s best to lean into the glam influences here, since bards are pretty glam. Think Lovecats Cure, not A Forest Cure.

College of Whispers. You can capture the shadow of a fucking dead person and cause all kinds of fear effects.

Cleric:

Inherent gothness of the class: medium to high. D&D is rife with religious imagery and having a cleric in the party is an opportunity for the DM to put you up against all kinds of undead, have you explore catacombs, etc, etc. Plus, all clerics get plenty of necrotic and radiant damage access plus resurrection spells and similar.

Grave Domain, in which you respect death as a part of the life cycle and hate undeath. (note: Death Domain is only in the DMG so usually players can’t pick it and it’s also pretty explicitly Evil Only).

Druid:

Inherent gothness of the class: as in the PHB pretty low - you turn into animals, and you can’t even turn into a bat until like, 8th level. Outside of the PHB it gets a little more Fey and a lot more goth.

Circle of Spores, which is into death and decay and okay with undeath to an extent, so a good way to be sort of neutral on vampires without going full evil. Circle of Twilight is a very close second.

Fighter:

Inherent gothness of the class: I would have said super low back in the day before I saw the continuum of Goth v. Prep rather than Goth v. Jock. For truly, these are the jocks of D&D. As such I’ll still say low, but not unheard of.

Monster Hunter. It is literally in the Unearthed Arcana: Gothic Heroes, and it lets you slay monsters, plus engage in some light mysticism. It also provides the ability to improve your arcana skill. Do you want to play John Constantine in D&D? Yes you do.

Monk:

Inherent gothness of the class: low. You’re sort of too busy being both a nerd and a jock (martial artist) to get really deep into Cocteau Twins.

Way of the Long Death. You study death extensively (goth nerd with jock tendencies?) such that you can drain the life from others (but only after you already brought them to 0 HP, so it’s not vampiric), scare people, avoid death yourself (but not in an undead way), and do necrotic damage.

Paladin:

Inherent gothness of the class: medium. Despite the fighting nature, it’s one of the more aggressively medieval classes, plus we again get that religious imagery/catacombs option.

Oath of Vengeance. It’s also a bit more dramatic and definitely dark, and they get the Bane spell which is pretty goth. (note: the Treachery option is also pretty goth but again it’s more geared towards villainy and evil alignments only).

Ranger:

Inherent gothness of the class: medium. You live in the forest alone and have weird nature magic. Whereas Druids are a little too hippie to be goth, Rangers fit the bill.

Either gloom stalker or horizon walker. Gloom Stalker is a little more industrial and gritty; Horizon Walker is a little more ethereal. Both go into dangerous and arcane places and tend towards shadowy evasive maneuvers. I think Gloom Stalker wins, but only just.

Rogue:

Inherent gothness of the class: high. You skulk in the shadows in black leathers like, as a class.

The Revived. Not sure why this is explicitly a rogue class because presumably anyone could be revived...unless maybe the process of being brought back makes you want to be a rogue? But anyway you slowly realize that you are not on your first life and sort of channel your past life and also are sort of undead and can talk with corpses.

Sorcerer:

Inherent gothness of the class: high. The arcane casters, bar the Bards, are all pretty goth as a concept, and the innate ability of the sorcerer is a nice touch.

Shadow Sorcerer. You literally are said to exist between life and death. You can get a hound of ill omen. You can teleport between shadows. You have ties to the Shadowfell, aka the plane of gloom. It’s very extra.

Warlock:

Inherent gothness of the class: literally as high as possible without fucking Pretty much all of them. I’d argue in fact that Celestial and Archfey are the least goth, but you could get Archfey to work what with the planar magics and scaring people. As written, Hexblade has Shadowfell elements although everyone kind of ignores that piece of lore; also per mostly ignored lore the Raven Queen is the queen of the Shadowfell. Undying involves a pact with an immortal who gives you basically the top hits of the necromancy spell list, the Seeker sends you into the astral plane, the fiend is literally a being from hell, the Great Old One is all Lovecraftian and eldritch, and while I’m not a huge fan of the modern setting idea, the Ghost in the Machine sounds pretty fucking cybergoth too. I think Undying probably wins (especially since most disregard the Hexblade lore) but all can get there.

Wizard:

Inherent gothness of the class: medium. Robes and a wizard hat aren’t as fashionable as you’d think, and that nerdiness can end up being a little too cheery, but still as an arcane caster they’re naturally pretty goth.

Necromancer, obviously

#freckledmccree #d&d #important research in goth d&d studies #dungeons & dragons

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rakuraiwielder · 5 years ago

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at the eleventh hour (don’t you dare knock)

Even through her hazy deliriousness Shinobu is sure of one thing. She cannot let Tomioka Giyuu die. // When Shinobu wakes in the aftermath of a mission, she knows she is dying.

Giyushino. Where both are fatally injured in different ways.

A Kimetsu no Yaiba Fic / Allusions to manga spoilers.

Also on A03

Foreword:

i am that one friend at parties that get the prompt ‘nsfw’ and immediately think of gore instead of spice- in that vein, this could be considered a very late submission for giyushino week’s bonus prompt

Shinobu wakes to a sharp flare of pain and the light of an approaching dawn. Her head aches all over, buzzes with a numbness she was only vaguely aware of. The feeling only grows heavier as she attempts to sit up, hazy eyes blinking sluggishly as she struggles to gather her bearings. Strange, she thinks as she sways against the rapid beats of her pulse, that it should hurt to breathe.

They had been fighting a demon; her partner and her, her partner-

Shinobu snaps her head up and flinches, feels bits and pieces of her memory return in the form of painful stabs to her abdomen. Giyuu had been with her; the two of them fighting off a demon classified to be on par with that of a Lower Moon. It should have been easy, it should have been easy and yet...

They had been taken wholly by surprise; the mission had gone awry, and she had remembered nothing else but the shattering of bones amid a demon’s dying scream as she fell, fell and fell and-

The choked noise that leaves her mouth spittles into a croak; Shinobu feels her whole body threaten to lurch, trembling as she tries to focus her sight on battered flooring and broken rice paper doors. They had cornered the monster in an old deteriorating shack both to mitigate the damage and draw as little attention as possible from the surrounding village. It had been a smart move then, but she was beginning to think it had backfired now. No one would find them here if they were rendered incapitiated. No one would come, and for the first time she feels trepidation as the pain that courses through her flares sharply again.

From behind, a hand curls over the cloth of her haori, tugs her back weakly, and Shinobu feels herself fall against something warm and decidingly not flat. A hiss of pain catches in her throat even as her head lolls back, resting against the crook of...of something. Slowly she becomes aware of the low rise and fall behind her back, the pair of legs that encompasses her sprawled body, the hand that she now sees clenching the bloodied ends of her sleeve.

“Tomioka san..?”

Ah, she was just wondering where he had gone.

Relief rises in wisps through the receding numbness, bringing with it the rising awareness of more pain, of the slow stirring in her gut that alerted her to something being very wrong. Shinobu tilts her head, squints at the sliver of faint light that streamed through the quiet trees and splintered wood. She wonders just when had she closed her eyes. Sluggishly she turns around a little more, feels her stomach pang and throb as she tries to find the presence behind her. Every motion brings her pain; another slow shift, digging the backs of her ankles into the grainy wooden floor, poised to lift-

Pain, white hot, blinds her vision, forces her mouth open into a rattling cry. The hand on her haori spasms, and Shinobu feels pressure on her other side, foreign fingers curling gingerly over the disheveled redness of her soiled clothi-

Shinobu screams, flinches away from his touch and curls in on herself as her pulse skyrockets and her ears ring. It hurts. For a few moments thereafter she cannot hear anything but the rapid pounding of her own heart. The scale of its intensity scares her; makes her mind race for answers through the numbness. It must be more than just a few broken ribs. Appendicitis? She thinks back to that one moment of snapping bone as her body collided with the ceiling; the taste of bile and blood tingeing her tongue as the demon had lunge for her. It wouldn’t be unlikely for the broken bone to puncture an organ from the impact then or after she fell. If she even fell. There were no bruises and cuts to show for it.

She cannot remember now, but the thought of having a ruptured stomach or bleeding innards here scares her enough to break through the haze. Clarity returns to her in between sets of delirious pain. Her head swims, but still she struggles, tries to turn around again. The hands that held her had retracted, but as she moves they return to her sides, fisting into the ends of her haori and forcing her still.

“Don’t.” A raspy whisper from behind her. Giyuu breathes, heavy and ragged, and Shinobu feels the last of her reassurance burn into ashes.

“Don’t.” He says again, before she can open her mouth, clutches the fabric of her clothes tighter as he heaves. “You are hurt, Kochou.”

Why hadn’t she realised it earlier? The erratic rise and fall of his chest. The signs of struggle in every clench of his hands. Most of all, why he remained unmoving in a place like this after the slaying of a demon. The Water Pillar may be a man of few words, but even she knew him enough to know he would never want to linger on the deathbed of death and decay.

“So are you. What’s... wrong?” It hurts to speak, and she has to focus on each word as she slurs them out. Shakily she lifts one hand, raises and drops it on his leg. The movement makes him tense; he gasps, soft and unnoticed as she pokes weakly at his knee. “Come now, let me turn around.”

Shinobu does not wait for him to protest, shifting her buzzing legs to the right as she attempts once again to search his face. She makes it halfway before the pain starts to take over, a warning flare that brings tears to her eyes. This time the wave leaves her floundering, coils tight over her heart as she sways. Giyuu reaches for her shoulders before she can collapse again, fingers curling against the expanse of her arm and guiding her closer as she slumps tiredly, this time sideways against his firm chest. He wavers for a moment before touching her, and Shinobu knows, even through the ache, that he did not want her to cry out again.

It was so like him to blame himself for it, though it was more her fault than his. She would scold him for it, but as it were she could barely focus on the ground before her. Slowly she tilts her head again, blinking through the haze to squint up. Giyuu can barely meet her gaze, his ragged breaths borderlining wheezing as he pants in uneven tempo.

One look at him and she knows he has been poisoned.

No wonder they had been unable to leave.

You look awful, she wants to say. But all that leaves her mouth is another pained whimper. The poison had spread, turned his skin pale and clammy, highlighted the bulging veins that circled his temple and eye as he attempted to maintain total concentration breathing. Shinobu wonders when the demon even had the chance to inflict the deadly deed. But then she remembers the dust-like spores that had encircled the shack’s perimeter before, and thinks she understands.

For now, she must start on administering the antidote. As far as she could see, he had not coughed up any blood. Perhaps the poison worked in different ways, and he wasn’t in immediate danger. She can only hope so. Her hands shake as she turns back into herself, struggles to get them past the layer of bloodied haori into her inner pockets to reach the pouch that held her syringes. A careless brush against her chest makes her see stars; Shinobu cannot tell if she made a noise, but when she comes back down the hand over her shoulder was quivering, Giyuu’s other fist clenched tightly over butterfly winged cloth.

He had pushed away from the wall, head lowered and face buried into her hair; she can feel him shudder with every heavy exhale. It makes her heart clench, though it could have been just from the pain. He was not himself.

“Tomioka...san..?”

“I’m.. I’m alright…” Another deep breath before his fingers loosen their hold, dropping off her shoulder. “It’s... not what you think.”

He was turning incoherent, and Shinobu tries to shake the anxious drumming of her pulse as she reaches for her haori and tries again. The poison’s effect was escalating; it could have been one that takes away lucidity, has the victim experience confusion and hallucinations. It was not nearly enough to work on, but Shinobu notes it down anyway, finally grasping the pouch out from her uniform and fumbling it open with numb fingers. She needs him to keep talking, if only to reassure her, if only to let her have something to anchor herself onto besides the unbearable pain.

“Our...crows?”

“Gone at first light. The Kakushi will be here soon.”

But how soon is soon enough? It was a traitorous thought that she quickly stamps away. She can cure him before anything happens. She must. She cannot consider herself the Insect Pillar if she fails doing this one simple thing that was under her expertise otherwise.

The medical kit drops from her shaky hands, hits the wooden floor with a metal clang that rings painfully in her ears. Giyuu picks it up before she even notices, presses it back against her trembling fingers. It takes her too long to grip it properly so he can let go, longer still to push her head off his chest so she can face him. Giyuu makes a soft noise but pulls back. His eyes were glazed, fixed unseeingly at a point on her mouth. She wonders if she really was slurring her words that badly.

“Tomioka san (c’mon, work with me here), I need to-” Another wave of pain from her abdomen. She can barely curl her arms around it, fearing that touching the wound would only agitate it more. More bile rises up her throat. “I need to...check your symptoms if you want me to help you.”

“I-” The Water Pillar hesitates, unable to meet her stare as a slow flush of red crept over his ears, neck. Fever..?

Shinobu would interrogate him more, but then his fingers were on her cheeks, swiping at the water under her eye. His gaze was soft, softer than she expected, the pad of his thumb gentle and lingering as it presses into the corner of her lips. It barely lasted a couple of moments, but as soon as she thought to comprehend it he snatches his hand back, cheeks tinting pink. His mouth parts uncertainly, seemingly at a loss for words.

The ghost of his touch dissipates from her skin, fleeting like the forgotten words on the tip of her tongue. Later, she is sure it would confound her more than anything if she remembers.

“I recognise the effects.” He says almost shamefully, breathing strained.

Shinobu nods, blinks slowly as her head swirls and she struggles to keep her balance.

“...It’s acting like an aphrodisiac.”

Shinobu feels her brain shock circuit.

Silence, as it takes her too long to put the pieces together, during which Giyuu turns increasingly more embarrassed. His palms clench into rigid fists as he rests them by his side, but he makes no other moves to touch her. She thinks she owed to be grateful, but somehow like this it feels harder to stop her back from collapsing in on itself. It was easier to keep steady, knowing that his hands were there if she ever needed the support.

...How strange her thoughts were. The internal bleeding must be getting to her.

“...Is that it..? No wonder you are acting strange.” She smiles then, a jittery, feeble thing as she untenses. The gravity of his words had hit their mark with its somber weight, but still Shinobu wants to laugh at the irony of the situation. As it were another flare from her abdomen shoots down her legs, and her smile trembles, fades into a thin line. “That makes things easier...”

“Can you..?”

“Who do you think you are talking to?” This time she does laugh amidst the pain, breathy and stuttered as she folds into herself. She regrets it immediately, feels something shudder and shift wrongly inside her. Something brushes the edge of her covered elbow, tugs hesitantly at the sleeve; it takes her mind off the pain a little, even as she struggles to ground herself, knuckles turning white as her grip on the medical kit becomes bruising. “I will have you better in no time.”

“You need help too.”

Only the look of sheer disbelief on his face and the need for propriety gives her pause when she teeters dangerously close to slumping against his chest again. She doesn’t want to agitate him, doesn’t want to agitate herself.

“...Yes.” She says, not liking the helpless look he was showing her. “But that can wait after you.” Help you to help me and all that. Another pained smile. “It won’t do you any good for anyone to see you like this, no..?”

She wants to tease, but another shock runs through his body, turns his eyes dark and hazy. Giyuu growls lowly as he returns, the restraint in his eyes razor thin as he stares fixated at a point she cannot see. Shinobu has no time to wonder before the cloth of his haori was dragging across hers, his arms encircling the space of her small frame. They stop, barely touching the side of her body as he looms before her.

“I’m sorry Kochou.” He slurs, eyes flickering with turmoil as he grapples to stay his hand. Shinobu feels it fist tighter into her haori anyway, his arm brushing the small of her back as she starts to sway. A whimper leaves her throat, unrestrained as the motion rocks the pain back into focus, and she sees Giyuu freeze for a bare moment even as he bends, pressing his face into the exposed skin of her nape.

His touch sends shockwaves through her body, makes her jerk and tense as he starts to nuzzle, warmth breath tickling the curve of her neck as he pants. A voice in the back of her mind begins to drone about unspoken boundaries and the splintering cracks of their established dynamic, digging into her heart the bolder he becomes. Shinobu pushes it all away, hitches with stuttered gasps at the reverent way he cups a palm over her waist.

She would wonder, if she wasn’t so aware of the precious time slipping through her fingers. Black spots darken her vision, but the weight of his chest was enough to ground her back as she fumbles at the metal case in her hands.

“I’m sorry.” He shudders again, mouth pressing the words into her neck. It makes her shiver and lean into his grasp.

“Oh Tomioka san… If nothing else, I would say that your self control was admirable to this point.”

“Don’t.” He makes a choked noise, and Shinobu feels him pull back a little. “Don't joke about that. I, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Ahah...don’t be ridiculous. Like I would die to something like this.” She says, thinks it a lie as her vision starts to blur. How frustrating, that all the effort and preparation she put herself under was going to be rendered obsolete because of one off-the-trails mission. All these years of slaying and training for the one fight she was going to stake her life on cut short due to bad compatibility and a bleeding inside. She would grit her teeth if she wasn’t feeling so weak.

She cannot die here. She cannot die until she fulfills the vow she made to herself.

“You are trembling. Kochou?”

And yet...

Even through her hazy deliriousness Shinobu is sure of one thing. She cannot let Tomioka Giyuu die. She will administer the antidote on him if it is the last thing she does, on her honour and pride as the Insect Pillar. She won’t take him down with her. She won’t. It was all she could do now.

“-chou? Kochou, say something pl-”

“I’m here.” She coughs, runs shaking fingers over fastened needles and surgical knives when she finally pries the medical kit open.

She must have blacked out, because she barely remembers prepping the antidote together, her body on autopilot as she stumbles in and out of clarity. Aphrodisiac effects were not fatal as long as they could be flushed out of the system, though that was clearly out of the question now. What she had on hand would only work as a temporary neutraliser to restore awareness and basic motor functions to the victim for a short period of time. It would be enough, she knows even as she mixes the concoction and spills precious drops down her haori, if it was Giyuu with his boundless self control, Giyuu; who fought and trained and compensated for more than any other Pillar, it would be enough.

The uncapped syringe was in her hands when she feels her stomach churn unnaturally, bile sour and unpleasant as something inside her twists. Her body spasms in unbearable waves, and with widened eyes she pushes out of his grip, heaving a silent cry as she throws up mouthfuls of her own blood.

Shinobu heaves over and over again, dry heaves some more even when there was nothing left to throw up. She was scarcely aware of the man beside her, of the spreading pool of blood that blankets their feet, could only register the clotted fluid as black and sweet smelling. Ah, she thinks through her dizziness, hopes against hope that he does not recognise the scent of wisteria.

She didn’t think she could explain it to him anyhow, with the way they are now.

Soft cloth wipes at her lips when she slumps back, and she opens heavy eyes to see Giyuu brush the sleeve of his haori across her mouth. Apprehension dances in his eyes, fades in and out like a blurry canvas as she forces herself to focus on the antidote in her hands. Or maybe that was just her, and she was about to black out again. It only further stirs the restless anxiety that laid exhausted within her bones.

It takes longer than she would have liked to reach for him and position the syringe over his wrist. Giyuu has to hold her hand to steady her grip, help guide the needle into his skin. Black spots dance at the corner of her eyes again; Shinobu resists, wills herself to watch every last drop of antidote sink into his veins. With the rest of her dwindling strength she pulls the needle out cleanly, hears the clanking of metal and glass as the syringe drops to the ground.

The sound echoes oddly in her ears, as though faraway. She blinks, feels her eyes droop as she looks at her frozen fingers. Giyuu was speaking to her, but she cannot pick apart his words, can barely recognise the odd puffing sound she could hear come from her mouth as darkness took her back into its embrace.

Oh, since when had her skin become so ice cold?

The black out feels longer this time, but still she fights, claws her way out of the endless dream with pained gasps and tired wheezing. It cannot end like this, not until she was sure the Water Pillar could move. When she wakes again her head was resting in the crook of a familiar neck, her body swaying in the rhythmic motion of being held in a person’s arms. The pain in her abdomen was still present, ebbing and flowing with very breath she takes. She takes comfort in that. It means she was still alive.

Gentle warmth and birdsong caresses her face, strokes the deep sleep from her eyes as she opens them slowly. Small beams of morning light stream down the canopy of leaves, halos their wounds and disheveled clothing with every step down the forested path. Shinobu takes this all in, tilts her head up just in time to feel Giyuu stumble as he moves.

The sudden jerk sends a sharper pang through her chest, and with a hard swallow she coughs, curls deeper into the grip of his arms. She can hear him mumbling a mantra, words soft and trembling as he struggles with every step. Please, please please please.

“Don’t die on me, Kochou.”

He sounded almost afraid, the raw vulnerability making her heart clench again. She doesn’t like this new side of him, doesn’t want herself to be the cause of Giyuu’s uncertainty. Giyuu, who never wavers, who refuses to play along with her antics, who allowed her to see glimpses of the person he used to be. Giyuu, who was the one solid constant in her life she trusts more than anything. Her partner. Her head lolls to the side, wheezing softly from her lungs as she struggles to keep her consciousness. It hurts to speak, but she can do it. For him.

“Oh..?” She croaks, feels him tense at the sound of her voice, as though he had not expected her to answer. Had he been speaking to her all this time? “You...won’t let me..?”

“Never.” He bites out, uncharacteristically fierce and taking her by surprise.

She wants to laugh, but she lacks the energy to even try, the taste of blood bitter in her mouth. Instead she grounds her head into his shoulder and focuses on her breathing.

(Shinobu, her sister sings into her ears, the most important thing to total concentration breathing is to relax and brace-)

“Then, I will be in your care…”

(Kanae, she thinks as her vision darkens, I might be selfish for this. But I don’t want to see you just yet. Not today. Not until I have no more regrets.)

Shinobu closes her eyes, oblivious to the quiet panic of the man carrying her, and drifts off to his calls of her name.

Kochou Kochou Kochou Kochou pleas e

Shinobu..!

When Shinobu wakes, she knows she is not dead. The room she was in looked strikingly similar to those of the Butterfly estate, and there was an aching numbness all over her body, throbbing with an insistence that felt too much like material pain. She could barely feel because of it, hardly think of anything past the numbing emptiness in her head.

She has no idea what Heaven could be like, but she was sure it wouldn’t be like this; a direct continuation of her torment from before. But ah, she could be in Hell for all she knew, and that was a thought sobering enough to have her close her eyes and try to sink deeper into sleep.

A slight sensation envelopes her hand and breaks her from that notion.

Slowly her eyes flutter open, turn to stare at the face looking down on her. Gentle recognition pierces through the veil of comprehension, and Shinobu cracks a smile even as her limp muscles protest. Giyuu blinks back, looking worse for wear; dark circles hanging under his eyes of his too pale face, but the relief was palpable in his expression, and to her that was enough.

“You kept your promise.”

“I had to.” His face contorts and falls at that. “I almost-”

He cuts himself off then, narrows his eyes unseeingly at a corner of her bed. He was falling back into old habits, one that Shinobu doesn’t see the point of. It was misplaced; all of it. If anyone was to blame it should be her. Because she was the weak one.

But the haze was blowing the thought away before she could think it further, turning her musings to mush. A convenient distraction, she thinks in a daze, something she wishes she was quick witted enough to use on the Water Pillar now.

“Ah.. you haven’t been listening to the doctor’s orders, have you?” It takes more effort than she wants to get the words out. But Giyuu turns to look at her, so she can consider it a success. “You look tired.”

His answer comes in the form of his head hitting her pillow. The soft thump snaps her out of her reverie, and Shinobu stares at him with wide eyes as he moves closer until their heads touch. Giyuu turns his nose into her hair, sighs in exhaustion as he breathes her in, that for a moment she fears the poison’s effects had yet to leave his system.

The fear fades when he shifts some more, this time until their foreheads touch, until Shinobu can see clearly the silent desperation in the depths of his eyes and how they threaten to drown him in. Here, in the quiet lull separated by four walls and a single wooden door, he allows himself to loosen the facade he always wears, lets her catch glimpses of the person he used to be.

You are a very kind person aren’t you, Tomioka san? She should be flattered; that he would feel so for her, and yet all she can feel is a sense of painful emptiness. She supposes this is what near death situations does to you; make you connect with fellow survivors in a twisted, tragic kind of way. So lost in thought she was, that Shinobu does not notice the ache of her own heart through the medicinal numbness that locked her body still.

Giyuu makes a soft noise, and she closes her eyes, equally tired.

“Go to bed, Tomioka san.”

“I can rest here.” He says back, burrows his nose into the pillow as he exhales raggedly. “Shinobu.”

Another shock, milder than the last, as weariness starts to take its toll. Shinobu would stare, but as it were she could barely open her eyes.

“I thought I lost you. Shinobu.” He says her name again, on the cusp of an invisible boundary, but in that moment all she could think about was the kind of face he had made, and how she never wanted to be the subject of it ever again.

“I’m here, Giyuu san.” She whispers, knows full well they were both breaching something unsaid and untouched.

As her consciousness slips away she squeezes the sensation over her fingers she now knows as his hand, hopes to convey what she cannot find the strength to say. He grips her tighter, burying his head into her matted curls, and joins her in sleep.

A/N

i had a lot of fun making the title and synopsis as clickbaity as possible aHAh

i think Shinobu would be both flattered and anguished if she ever has the chance to see Giyuu grieve for her. it’s an unbearable feeling i don’t think she will be able to take, knowing how important she was to him

#giyushino #kochou shinobu #tomioka giyuu #kimetsu no yaiba #writing #Property of the Rakurai #honestly I have no idea what their current relationship in this fic is #its probably a weird more than friends less than lovers grey area rn

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falseroar · 5 years ago

Text

Silent Watch Part 4: The Stranger

((This stranger who’s had his eye on Jameson for a while isn’t about to change his plans just because some wannabe law student is there to try and get in the way. Sorry these have been on the short side. I was tempted to combine this part with the next one, but it’s already twice as long and there’s enough going on in both it felt better to leave it as it is. Plus cliffhangers are fun, right?

Warning: This part contains some elements of body horror and possession.

Links to Part 1 and Part 3.))

From behind, you could see Jameson’s shoulders square up as he prepared to challenge that threat, but before the first word could leave his mouth, the stranger flung out his hand toward both of you. Even in the dim moonlight filtering down through the trees, you thought you could see movement splitting the air before Jameson doubled over with a sickening sound somewhere between a groan and a desperate gasp for air.

“Jameson!” You reached out, following his hand to the center of his chest, but you couldn’t feel anything there, no blood or torn clothing or anything that the stranger might have thrown at him, nothing except for the spasm of the muscles in the man’s chest as he struggled to take a wheezing breath. You struggled to support him as his knees began to give out while the stranger just laughed.

The sound was no better a second time, and again it didn’t seem to come from the figure in front of you so much as all around, growing more disjointed as it grew closer with each passing second.

“What did you do?!”

The laughter stopped abruptly at your question, the silence following in its wake somehow worse as the stranger moved closer, seeming to miss several steps in between as he suddenly towered over you and Jameson on the ground. This close, you could see something trickling out of the corners of those solid black, unblinking eyes.

“Giving his desperation that little extra e̸d̴g̵e̶. Because you all will do anything if you’re desperate enough.”

You felt Jameson’s grip on your arm tighten and risked looking away from the stranger to see Jameson’s eyes meet your own, his lips moving in a silent plea that you couldn’t read in the darkness.

“̶͛͜D̸̖͒o̸͔͑n’t l̸̞͒ò̴͜o̶͋k ä̷̳́w̵̝̌a̴y fr̷ọ̵̌m̸̭͋ m̸e!”

You felt the claw like hand on your throat before, with a strength that did not match his emaciated frame, the stranger dragged you to your feet and pinned you against the trunk of a tree, just high enough that your kicking feet only brushed at the leaves on the ground. You gasped, hands scratching and tearing at the arm holding you up, but the stranger didn’t seem to notice or care even as his arm began to bleed.

Even though you were struggling to breathe, you could still smell when he—it leaned closer, the rot and decay that came with its words.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” it said, lifeless eyes studying yours as it watched your futile attempts to free yourself. “I had planned to save this, in case our b̸e̷l̴o̸v̷e̷d̴ actor needed some extra persuasion, but this…this could be fu̵n.”

The stranger’s other hand, which he did not even need to keep you so helplessly pinned, began to glow in the darkness with a strange, silver light. You only had a second to see him reach toward your chest before everything slowed to a stop. You felt something pierce your chest with all the subtlety of a freight train, as your heart skipped a beat or stopped entirely, but just as suddenly time moved forward again, the stranger turning his head to scoff at the figure behind him.

“A̴fr̵a̴i̴d̵ I forgot about you?”

Jameson wheezed, one hand still pulling the stranger’s elbow back and away from you as he swung with the other.

His fist hit the stranger’s jaw with a sickening crack, but otherwise the other person did not so much as flinch. It was Jameson who took a step back as the stranger only gave him a smile made lopsided by the jawbone hanging at an angle now.

“What…what are you?” Jameson asked, his voice a tight whisper.

That laughter again was his only answer, as something began to pour out of the stranger’s mouth. It looked like a cloud or a mist, hard to see in the darkness except that it had a definite movement and purpose to it and a clear target in mind.

You shouted and tackled the stranger, but there was no resistance from the body that hit the ground. The withered, emaciated body showed none of the inhuman strength it had only seconds ago, and the bloodshot eyes staring up at the sky were lifeless in a different kind of way than the hollow, solid black gaze that had met your own before.

Whatever had been piloting this body was gone, leaving only a broken, twisted corpse in its wake.

A shaky laugh came from behind you as you staggered to your feet, and you turned to see Jameson standing there, head down and shoulders shaking as his fingers gripped his chest as though trying to reach something inside there.

“…Jameson?”

He looked up at you, a smile on his face despite the terror in his eyes.

“Not…quite…”

The actor’s body jolted and twitched before his head lolled forward again.

“Stop…fighting it,” he said, his voice a growl in his chest and unlike anything you had heard from him before now. “I’m in control now. You…are ņ̵̕ơ̴͂t̵̝̗̋h̶in̶g̵̏!”

Jameson’s head thrashed backwards before his stance changed, his hands dropping to his side as though nothing was there to hold them up anymore.

“So…useless,” he said. “Everything you’ve ever had, wasted. F̷̆ͅailǔ̶̺ṟ̷͗e̷.”

“That’s not true!” You grabbed Jameson’s shoulders, felt the muscles seizing violently under your hands as you looked him in the eyes. “Jameson, don’t listen to…whatever that thing is, it doesn’t know—”

“About the studio? About how everything you touch b̴̢̜̥̱̉͒̈́rea̷̻͖͎͕͘ks? What everyone is saying about you, you know it’s true. But I can fix it.”

His voice was changing, stuttering less now.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of this life you’ve screwed up. Everything you ever wanted, will be o̴urs.” Jameson looked up at you, the blue in his eyes changing to a green that gleamed in the darkness. “And when I’m done, n̷o̴ o̸n̵e̴ will be able to look away.”

You stared, trying and failing to think of a way to get through to him while wondering if Jameson, the real Jameson, could even hear you anymore. “Jameson—”

Those green eyes flickered up toward you and a cruel smile formed on his lips.

“Do you want to know how I’ll start?”

You took a step back as Jameson advanced, everything in his posture and stance suddenly different. More aggressive.

“Jameson Jackson, the h̴͔̀̚e̵͉͂ro̷̊ that slayed the monster in the woods. Such a shame he couldn’t do anything to save its victim.”

Your eyes darted toward the withered remains on the ground and back toward Jameson as that eerie laugh came from somewhere not quite within the body in front of you.

((End of Part 4. Thank you for reading, and I’m sorry if the zalgo text is distracting or hard to read. It’s hard to find a balance between not enough and “wait, what is this supposed to say?”

Link to Part 5.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate @missksketch ))

#markiplier #jacksepticeye #fanfiction #wkm y/n #jameson jackson #antisepticeye #monster au #sorry y/n #that's not the monster he's talking about

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disruptedvice · 5 years ago

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Starmora + Demon/Demon hunter AU

“You know how last time I helped you out, you promised you’d ‘lose my number’?” Peter asked sarcastically, going to their usual antagonistic banter before the smoke even cleared. “Guess that’s what I get for trusting a hunter.”

He let out a huge huff, because never let it be said that he wasn’t the most dramatic demon around. “I mean, some of us have lives.”

That wasn’t true in the slightest, and they both knew it. Hell was boring as, well, hell. Besides, they both knew it was a joke when she said that last time he was topside. If you couldn’t have friendly banter with the hunter who had your sigil memorized, what could you do?

It was actually pretty fun, this working relationship they had. A mutually beneficial arrangement- Peter provided his expertise with minimum whining, used his supernatural abilities when necessary or if he felt like it, while Gamora was his visitor’s pass to this mortal plane, and he got to experience this world instead of the bland monotony of hell he resided in the rest of the time.

The first clue Peter had that something was off this time around was when he realized the circle he was standing in wasn’t restricted at all. The grin fell off his face as he felt the full access to his powers. There weren’t any protections put in place.

____

Demon/Hunter Starmora one shot

____

He let out a huge huff, because never let it be said that he wasn’t the most dramatic demon around. “I mean, some of us have lives.”

That wasn’t true in the slightest, and they both knew it. Hell was boring as, well, hell. Besides, they both knew it was a joke when she said that last time he was topside. Gamora had his summoning sigil memorized, and he totally didn’t mind that a demon hunter (among other things) knew how to draw his sigil.

It was pretty much routine by now. Gamora would summon him, set out the stipulations for this job, bind him, then break the protections keeping him immobilized and powerless. They’d spend the next few days, weeks, however long necessary on the job she needed a demon’s help to complete.

It was actually pretty fun, this working relationship they had. The friendly enemies and verbal sparring they had going on. With actual teamwork. They could almost be called partners if she wasn’t a hunter and he wasn’t a demon bound by his summoner.

Sure, the first few times were a little rough, but then bonding happened. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement- Peter provided his expertise with minimum whining, used his supernatural abilities where necessary or if he felt like it, while Gamora was his visitor’s pass to this mortal plane, and he got to experience the human world instead of the bland monotony of hell he resided in the rest of time.

If he liked making the stoic hunter laugh more than he should, and if Gamora introduced him to more snacks than strictly necessary, that was between them.

(If Gamora liked the way his eyes lit up with such an innocent excitement at every hotel room, like two beds and a tv could ever really be that different from any other cheap hotel room, well… Peter didn’t have to know that either.)

That’s not something an experienced hunter like Gamora would forget to draw on a summoning sigil. No matter how well they knew each other, and how close to actual friends they had gotten. They were basic precautions. The circle was supposed to act as a barrier, one the demon couldn’t pass or get out of until the summoner released them, or- if the demon wasn’t agreeable to the summoner’s terms- sent them back to hell.

The circle around him was already starting to fade when the smoke cleared. No barrier, no power constraint, no nothing.

He should be happy. This was a demon’s dream come true. No contracts, no rules, no limits. Just set loose- nothing holding him back, no one to rein him in.

Peter felt sick. Something was very, very wrong.

And… where was Gamora? Usually the first thing he saw was her smirking at him, cocked hip, a spark in her eye, saying I’ve got a job for you. But she wasn’t in his line of sight at all.

It didn’t make sense. Demons could tell who was summoning them, he knew it was Gamora, but everything about this felt off in a way he couldn’t quantify, a way that had every alarm going off in his head, a way that had him worried and scared. There was a trickle of dread in his gut that he knew meant bad news.

He gave the room a preliminary sweep, but it wasn’t until he turned around that he found what he was looking for. There.

Gamora. On the ground, slumping back against the wall, breath ragged and strained. She’s injured, bleeding heavily, too weak to even sit up without the wall to support her.

He could see the sheen of sweat from where he stood. She looked paler than he’d ever seen her- blood loss, his mind supplies numbly.

Her fingers are dark and dripping at her side. She drew his summoning sigil in her own blood.

“Hey Peter.” Gamora greeted him with a weak smile, her voice raspy and faint. “You know anything about healing?”

Peter should go. He should walk away. How many centuries had he spent planning what he’d do if he ever got an opportunity half as good as this?

Gamora’s a good hunter. He has no doubt that she’d be able to send him back once recovered.

He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone being on his trail if he just left. She’s the only one who knows he’s up here. As long as he didn’t murder anyone or wreak too much havoc, it would be ages before any hunter figured out there was an unrestrained demon walking the earth.

He could do so much with that.

He should leave. Mortals die. Everybody knows that. Hunters expire quicker than the rest of them- there’s a high turnover rate. It’s expected. He should be expecting it.

Everybody who goes into the business of hunting supernatural monsters is well aware the years and decades they’ve sheared from their life expectancy by doing what they do.

Mortals die. And hunters die sooner than most. This is the natural way of things. You make a livelihood out of hunting creatures far deadlier and far more powerful than you could ever be, and all it takes is just one time where it’s not your lucky day, and you’re killed by the very thing you’ve spent years vanquishing.

Peter is a demon. He should walk away from the dying demon hunter who summoned him, enjoy his freedom- as free as a demon ever can be.

He had plans, you know? First starting with eating an ungodly amount of sugar, savoring the flavor, all of the senses in the human world that were so bright and beautiful and loud.

He’s got new candy he wants to try. And churros. He didn’t get a chance to eat one last time, but they sounded delicious. Churros were on his list of stuff to do, things to try.

But… he wanted to try churros with Gamora. She said he’d love them. Gamora was always coming up with something he needed to experience, and sharing that with him.

He should walk away. He’s a demon. He can locate churros on his own.

Instead he stumbles forward, pulled by a string, and gets to work.

“What did this?” He whispered, finally seeing just how bad it was now that he was kneeling beside her.

Something’s taken a chunk out of her side, but it was the decaying flesh around the wound that had him worried. Sure, it’s not like the rest of her got off easy (he thought her leg was broken, she’s scraped up to shit, gashes on her arms from fighting, her leather pants torn like something with talons had been digging into them, she’s just all around bad). But the injury on her stomach- it’s center mass. Something shredded into her with what looked like claws. There were black and purple marks spreading on her skin, radiating from the wound. Some kind of poison leaching into her system.

But the actual edges of her injury- it was more than just poison.

Peter had never seen this kind of decay. It was like her flesh was deteriorating, everywhere that came into direct contact with whatever did all this damage.

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?” Gamora asked with a laugh. It was that wet, hopeless kind of laugh that someone only makes when they know they’re dying.

Peter believed her alright. He didn’t know anyone or anything that could do something like this. And Peter knew a lot.

“This is gonna suck,” he muttered. More so for him than her.

Peter bit his thumb, deep and quick, and let his blood drip into her wound.

Fuckin' mortals and their easily damaged bodies.

“Hey, so I’m not gonna look like me after this,” he warned her. “So don’t, like, slay me or whatever.”

Luckily, he’d have enough time to tell her the important stuff before it took effect.

“You ever see a demon in it’s true form?” Peter asked conversationally, even though he was sure he already knew the answer.

Gamora frowned, brows furrowing in concentration. “You mean when they go all monster mode and- demon looking?”

“No, I mean a demon without a vessel.”

Gamora’s eyes widened. She swallowed. “I… I guess not.”

“Cool, so don’t freak out. Ignore the inhuman screaming. Don’t kill me. Don’t let anyone else kill me,” he continued with the grace of a flight attendant detailing emergency procedures to a plane full of passengers who weren’t really listening anyway. “It’s not just banishment. It’s gone for good, no more existence. So seriously, don’t let anyone kill me.”

He was both relieved and panicked to feel the tingling edging in that meant it was getting started. And by tingling, he meant burning, like ephemeral battery acid except way worse in every possible way. He knew it was only going to get worse from here. Better finish up quickly.

This wasn’t something that a demon would normally reveal to a mortal, but then again, this is not something that any demon would ever do. Peter was a fucking dumbass, what else is new?

“I’ll probably look pretty fucking nightmarish for a few days, and pretty drained and… vulnerable,” his mouth tasted like tar, his tongue thick and heavy. He’d already lost the sensation of feeling hot or cold. Too bad he didn’t need a vessel to feel pain.

“Don’t send me back,” Peter said, looking into her eyes, because this was maybe the most important part. “I’d rather die for good than go back not able to defend myself.”

At the seriousness and intensity of his request, Gamora could only nod. She didn’t look away. Her eyes kept flickering back between his. He wondered if she could already see the burning.

“This transfer fucking sucks, so when there’s a creature of unimaginable horror shrieking in pain, do not fucking kill me.” There was no real way to prepare her for seeing a demon’s true form. Hopefully he’d get the don’t kill Peter message through her head enough to stick around to forgo instincts when she would be a mortal confronted with pure nightmare fuel any second now. And Gamora’s hunting instincts were pretty strong.

Peter cursed under his breath, some dead language that probably hadn’t been uttered in this plane for centuries. “You’re so lucky I like you,” he said, shaking his head at himself. He already regretted every decision he’d ever made in his whole immortal existence. “You owe me big time, and I will never forgive you if you let me die.”

He started scooting away from her then, remembering that this wasn’t exactly something you’d wanna be close to. “And, uh, don’t touch me,” he added quickly. “A demon without a vessel isn’t something you wanna feel.”

“Peter?”

His vision was already fading, but he’d already seen the decay start to wash away from the edges of the claw marks. Her voice sounded stronger too.

“You’ve probably got time for one question, Gamora.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For not leaving.”

“Yeah, well…”

He wasn’t able to finish that thought before the room was flooded with a burst of bright, hot light.

Author’s note: I wrote this all today, so there’s a chance there’s typos I won’t catch until tomorrow, but I will fix them as soon as I do. I was too excited to get this out.

#starmora #gamora #peter quill #gotg #guardians of the galaxy #MCU fanfiction #demon AU #demon hunter AU #fanfic #gotg fic #demon/hunter #creature feature #my gotg fics #my fic

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ansgar-martinsson · 5 years ago

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The Best Intentions - Part 11

“And I’ll undress you a hundred – no,” he purred, “a thousand times more in my mind tonight, but it’s just the one time that will matter.” As the car rounded a corner, he leaned in, took her face between his thumb and forefinger and turned her to him, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth. “You are absolutely radiant,” he murmured over her skin. “Those shoes create the most elegant lines of your legs.”

“Like what you see?” she mimicked his earlier boast. She nuzzled against the bristles of his beard.

“I liked them from the first moment I saw them.” He tipped back and dotted the tip of her nose with a warm, soft kiss.

“They’re er… they’re not mine,” she admitted.

“I know.” He brushed his lips over the arch of her cheekbone. “But it doesn’t matter to me whose they are. They could belong to one of the Kardashians for all I care.” He faced her, ghosting the backs of his fingers over the line of his kisses. “I don’t want you for your Louboutins. I would buy you a hundred pairs if you asked it of me.”

She smirked. “Well, that’s a bit much.”

“Okay,” he bobbled his head, “one or two pairs. Regardless,” he sighed. “I am gobsmacked by how beautiful you are. I mean, you stabbed at my heart before, but now… you slay me.”

“Thank y –,” she whispered, but before she could get the sentiment out, he had canted his head, cupped her cheek and kissed her. He kissed her deeply. So deeply that her words of gratitude whirlpooled into whimpers and moans. Her sharp breaths echoed in his mouth as his hand drew down her shoulder to rest upon the open skin of her neckline, just teasing the skin above her breast.

“Mmmm,” he hummed, “I’ve been waiting all day to do that again.”

“Yeah,” she licked her lips, “I wasn’t able to concentrate on work very much today.”

He chuckled. “Me neither. But I will have you know that we did manage to make a nice dent in the little theater cleanup.”

“I hate to think of what your bill is going to be when all is said and done.”

“Jorah has already submitted the information to the Opera House’s property insurer,” he said. “Got a claim started for you and everything. They’ll be sending us a check in two days for the initial clean up, and then they’re going to have an adjuster come out and look at the space tomorrow for the rest. Apparently,” he sat back, curled his fingers over and made as if to study his fingernails, “your board of directors made the wise decision to purchase a full replacement cost policy on the building.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he grinned pridefully, “that you will get your brand new little theater paid for, minus the deductible, of course, by Trygg-Hansa. And, from what I understand, my amazing insurance liaison has managed to convince the mighty insurers to throw in an extra bit for new lighting rails, a new light board and sound board, a new lift system, and a new catwalk… something about the moisture contributing to the decay of the metal and the electrical components?”

Joline stared at him, wide eyed, for a long moment.

“We will have plans drawn up within the next two weeks, ready to present to your board by the end of the month. I mean, it’s awful that the pipe broke; but if you really think about it, it is rather fortuitous, isn’t it?”

She kept staring.

“Well?” Ansgar perked. He shook his head and raised his brows in anticipation. “What do you think? Surprise!”

“I think,” she said slowly, her lips curling into an immense grin, “I could kiss you.”

He shrugged. “I’ll take it on account,” he said, indicating out the window. “It looks as if we’ve arrived.”

The driver pulled the car to the kerb and lowered the divider. “What time would you like me to return, Herr Martinsson?”

Ansgar leaned forward, resting his hand on the partition. “Take the rest of the night off, Tomas,” he said. “My building isn’t far from here, and it’s a beautiful night. I think we will walk.”

“Very well, sir,” Tomas nodded.

***

“Ansgar Martinsson. So good to see you again.”

“And you, Helene darling,” Ansgar replied. He extended his hand. “It’s very good to be back.”

Helen, a prim, professional-looking blonde dressed in a Saint Laurent suit took his offered hand, covering his with her other. “Yes, and we are so glad you’re back. And you must be Froken Lindberg,” Helene smiled warmly at Jolene and held out her hand. “I am Helene Soderberg, the manager. Ansgar has told me so very much about you. I am very happy to meet you, and I am certain that you will enjoy your experience tonight.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Froken Soderberg,” Joline replied, giving the other woman a slight bow. “But, what do you mean by… experience?”

Ansgar grinned as he wrapped his arm around Jolene’s waist. “I’ve brought you to Ekrastedt, darling,” he said. “This will not just be a meal, it will be an adventure.”

“Have you ever dined with us before, Froken Lindberg?” Helene asked.

Jolene let her eyes rove quickly around the inside of the restaurant. “No, never.”

Helene gestured them into the restaurant space. “Then, please follow me,” she said. “We’ve prepared your room for you.”

Joline frowned. “Room?”

“Herr Martinsson has his own private area in our establishment, reserved only for his use.”

“Oh, I’m sure you made good use of it, seating others in there whilst I was gone this past year, Helene.” Ansgar said.

Helene stopped and turned, her hand on the handle of a mullioned and stained glass French door. “No,” she shook her head, her eyes intent upon him, “we didn’t.” And with that she opened the door, and gestured inside.

The room was small and intimate, centered around a natural timber table for four set elegantly for two. Gleaming flatware and white linen napkins accompanied white plates lined with delicate gold. The walls were pine panel, decorated with tapestries and metal vines that cast long shadows in the low light from a dimmed chandelier above. One door off to the left provided access from the kitchens, and another to the right led to a private restroom.

“Please,” Helene said as she pulled out the chair for Jolene, “sit down and be welcome. Gustav will be in momentarily to guide your explorations of our wine selections, and then Nicklas will tell you the story of our menu for this evening.” She bowed respectfully before backing out of the door. “Enjoy. I will check in with you later.”

The door closed with a click behind dear Helene, dropping the two of them in a noticeable hush. A sly smile pulled at the corners of his lips when his eyes landed on Joline. “What is it?” Ansgar discovered his date assessing him.

She dropped the distinguishing gaze, displaying a coquettish smile. She shook her head bashfully, lifting her hands to the sanded and treated table. Her splayed hands stretched out in front of her, arms straight, the natural wood feeling sensual against her forearm. Goddamnit, even the lighting felt erotic. She could only attribute is to the company she kept. “You surprise me, Ansgar Martinsson.”

“How so?” He bit his lower lip enjoying… her. Just her. “The theatre? The repairs?”

“Well, yes, of course that, but that’s not what I meant.”

He watched her fingers play with the winged linen napkin. Her nails were unpainted, and the white semi-crescent tips were rounded. He only noticed because Faye’s nails had always been decorated bright red. He thought that maybe he preferred the natural look. “What did you mean?”

A coy grin appeared and she looked up to him from under her lashes. “This. Wine, dinner, private accommodations. I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it.”

Concern fell over him. “Are you disappointed? We can go elsewhere if you prefer.”

Joline blinked, taken aback that he’d misread her. “Oh, no… no, that’s—no, everything is fine. No! More than fine. More than that. Charming, impressive… and unexpected!”

“I’m relieved to know it, Joline.”

She shrugged one shoulder, “Helene said that you told her… about me?”

He smirked at the flattered tone. He took one of her outstretched hands and brought it to his lips to kiss her palm. “Make no mistake, Joline. I’m proud to have you with me and I would tell anyone willing to listen.”

Gustav entered with a gentle knock and an approval command from Ansgar. Joline tugged at her hand, but he held fast to it. She didn’t want the server to think he’d interrupted. The wine selection was vast and varied, but fell on deaf ears. Ansgar took control of the situation, having made up his mind. “I’ve heard enough, thank you,” he cut in before Gustav got too far in his practiced list. “Two glasses of Asti Cinzano. Chilled.”

Politely, Gustav bowed and exited obediently.

Joline raised her eyebrows in question at his choice.

Focused solely on her, Ansgar spoke slowly, “I want you. I will not have my sense dulled when I have you. You, Joline, will be just as sober to experience everything I do to you.”

Joline indulged in a long minute to catch her breath and lower her pulse after the intense spike in arousal. The man was determined to keep her wet and ready for him. Goddamnit. “Ansgar,” she swallowed her voice rough. She shifted in her seat, but some higher being threw her a small reprieve.

Nicklas entered with wine-laden Gustav to explain the experience of Ekrastedt, a six course meal, much of it prepared over

an open fire. Most of it unheard by the patron who needed the lesson on it. She only had eyes for Ansgar, and she trusted him to order for both of them. She was open for anything and she could enjoy all of it.

When they were left alone again, Ansgar seized the opportunity to actually chat her before the amuse bouche was brought in. He kept his fingers dancing and shushing against hers, drugged by the silky soft skin on the top of her hand. “I would like to know more about you.”

“Me? There’s not much to tell.”

“Tell me about America… or how you got your job. Why Opera?”

Joline sat forward and took a tiny sip of her champagne. “After uni, I got an internship to a place in Florida.”

“A place in Florida?”

She squirmed in place, having been caught in her vague attempt to cover her slight embarrassment. “I don’t want to tell you.”

He chuckled, “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

“It’ll cock up my entire image. Taint it entirely.”

“That can’t be true.”

“You don’t know what it is yet!” she exclaimed, an uncontrollable laughter bubbling up to cover.

“Tell me and I will know what it is.”

She dipped her head, gave him the once over, and spilled. “It was just an internship. I was there for about twelve weeks.” She stated it, apologizing for it in the process.

Ansgar fell into her contagious laughter, smiling along with her. “I forgive you.”

“I worked at Disney World,” she admitted covering her eyes, elbow on the table. “It was this hideous production of Robin Hood, it was. Painful, Excruciating. When they say that it’s the happiest place on Earth, they’re fucking lying.”

“I- I can’t see you there.” He shook his head, trying to place Joline with her dark hair, black leathers and motorcycle and it didn’t jive.

“It was awful, and the actual stage show was only thirty minutes, because young kids have the attention span of a fly. We did eight of those fucking performances a day. Hell! Every thirty minutes felt like a year.”

“Where to next?”

Joline sat up a little straighter with the worst of it over. “A lottttttttttttttt of dinner theatres. Soooooooo many. They take on anyone desperate enough to take their shitty jobs. I stayed on that for quite some time. My ex—is that too weird?” She stopped herself and looked to him for approval, flicking her forefinger between them.

“Not at all. Please.”

She took another sip from her flute. “My ex hooked his ride to a governor down there. He was an activist… of sorts. He fell into it and never resurfaced. Last I knew, the governor is now a senator, and Steven is still working with him.”

Ansgar narrowed his eyes in thought, analyzing how this bit of information played into her. “Diplomacy. I can see that. You have to possess that when dealing with so many different departments in a theatre company.”

“I suppose that was it. But I moved onto Los Angeles via Chicago from there.”

“I had you figured for New York, surely…”

Joline slapped her hand on the table, not hard, but just to punctuate the point. “I tried. I didn’t get that job. I did assistant stage manager for the Lyric Opera… in Chicago. Then stage manager for the Los Angeles Opera.”

“How did you go from Robin Hood to opera?”

She laughed at the connection, and how incongruous it was. “I sat in on a masterclass with Salvatore Fisichella. The things he can do with his voice and body blew my mind. It’s a fascinating instrument to play, to master… I just love it. The voice alone can convey so much, and in opera specifically, it’s an art form.”

“Do you study the languages?”

She twisted her face in a moue of disapproval. “No, not at all. I don’t need it. I watch and listen.”

Their first dish arrived and Ansgar reluctantly let her hand go after all that time. The server came in long enough to leave the food and respect the privacy of the two diners.

Joline took the opportunity to let him know that she was still curious about him too. His wedding ring was safely in a small zipper pocket of her clutch. “I’d like to know… still… about your ex and why you went to America.”

#the best intentions

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lovemesomesurveys · 5 years ago

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What Rhymes With “AY”? Warning: This survey has 114 questions

1. Do you enjoy listening to reggae music? I haven’t listened to much reggae music.

2. Have you ever rolled in hay before? No. I’m actually allergic.

3. Has anyone ever broken a promise they made? Of course.

4. Last time you went to a café, what did you order? Coffee.

5. Have you ever been to a matinee performance before? No.

6. Would you like a chance to ride in Santa’s sleigh? Why or why not? Would it be like the one in The Santa Clause that had a hot chocolate and cookie dispenser? ha. Swap the hot chocolate with coffee, though.

7. Have you ever taken ballet lessons before? How about any other type of dance lessons? No. That was actually something I wished I could do when I was a kid and in high school. I thought the dance team was cool.

8. Do you own any sexy lingerie? Nope.

9. Have you ever caught a bouquet of flowers at a wedding before? Nope.

10. Do you know how to do the Whip/Nae Nae? I do, actually.

11. Have you ever played croquet before? Nope.

12. Has a horse ever neighed at you before? No.

13. How much do you weigh? I’m not exactly sure, but I am definitely underweight.

14. Do you ever wear a beret? No.

15. When’s the last time you’ve been to a buffet? Back in February. There was a breakfast buffet at Disneyland where you got to visit with various characters while you ate. It was cute.

16. Have you ever attended a cabaret? No.

17. Have you ever eaten at Swiss Chalet? No. Never even heard of it.

18. Do you know how to crochet? How about doing macrame? No.

19. Do you have a duvet on your bed? No.

20. What was the last thing that ricocheted off of a surface? My phone did.

21. What do you put on your ice cream sundaes? I’m good with just vanilla ice cream and strawberry syrup, but sometimes I’ll add chocolate syrup as well. Bananas and whip cream are also great additions. Wow, it’s been yearsss since I’ve had one but that sounds really good right now.

22. Have you ever woken up to the “Reveille” bugle wake-up call at summer camp? No. I’ve never been to summer camp.

23. What is your favorite entrée to order at your favorite restaurant? My favorite restaurant is Wingstop and I always get the garlic parm and lemon pepper boneless wings.

24. Is crème brulee your favorite dessert? I don’t like actual creme brulee, but I like the creme brulee latte at Starbucks that they offer in the winter.

25. Do you know anyone who wears a toupee? I don’t think so.

26. Have you ever made a soufflé before? Was it good? Nope. I like the spinach and artichoke breakfast souffle from Panera, though.

27. Do you prefer ice cream or sorbet? Ice cream.

28. Do you know anyone named Renee, Jay, Clay, or Ray? I know someone whose middle name is Renee if that counts, and I also know a Jay and a Ray.

29. Have you ever had café au lait? Yes.

30. Have you ever gone to a restaurant called “Chez ______”? No.

31. Hey, how’s it going? It’s almost 730AM I should be going to sleep. My medicine I took a bit ago is making me feel a little nauseous, too, cause I took it on an empty stomach. That wouldn’t have been a problem if I just went to bed, but nooo. :/

32. When’s the last time you wore a lei? It’s been several years.

33. Did you obey your parents when you were younger? Yes.

34. Who do you want to hunt down like prey? No one.

35. Have you ever had whey before? No.

36. What message would you like to convey to someone right now? Nothing at the moment.

37. Whose survey did you take last? I don’t know who made it.

38. Have you ever been to a bay before? Yes.

39. Do you have a bae? “Or nah.” Ha, old Vine reference. Anyway, no, I do not.

40. What’s your favorite day of the week? They’re all the same to me, really, since I’m not in school nor do I have a job.

41. Have you ever had to read “The Cay”? Nope. That title doesn’t ring a bell.

42. Are you feeling okay? I’m feeling tired, hot, and kind of nauseous.

43. Do you know anyone who is gay? Yeah, a few people.

44. Do you like the acting of Tina Fey? Sure.

45. Have you ever listened to The Fray? Yes, I like a few of their songs.

46. Do you have any frayed clothing? No.

47. Do you prefer bluebirds or bluejays? Bluebirds.

48. Is May your favorite month? No. I only like saying, “It’s gonna be May” haha. You know, the NSYNC/Justin Timberlake meme.

49. May I ask you some more questions? Sure.

50. Have you ever voted “nay” to anything before? What? Yeah. I was a board member for a club in college and there were things we voted on.

51. Have you ever wanted to make someone pay for something that they did? I’m not a revengeful person.

52. Do you ever just lay around all day? That’s all I pretty much do everyday.

53. Are you a happy little frickin’ ray of sunshine? No. I’m a little black raincloud.

54. Is there something that you would like to say to someone? “There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don’t know howwww.”

55. When’s the last time that you were so excited that you exclaimed (or at least thought) “yay!” ? I said that the other night when my brother said he was making his bomb spaghetti. haha.

56. Have you ever felt like you’ve lost your way? I’ve been feeling that way for the past few years.

57. Do you ever wish that people would just go away? lol I’ve felt that way in some situations.

58. Have you heard an animal bray before? What animal was it? Yeah, a donkey.

59. What’s the last thing that you made out of clay? Nothing.

60. Are you starting to go gray? I’ve found a few here and there. D: It was like the minute I turned 30 I found my first one, ha.

61. Are you feeling okay right now? No. I still feel how I felt earlier when you asked how it was goin’. :/

62. Do you pray? How often? Yes, but not nearly as much as I ought to.

63. What’s the best play you’ve seen before? The Phantom of the Opera.

64. What did you like to play with when you were younger? I was obsessed Barbies, I could play for hours. I also liked playing house and school.

65. Do you know how to sashay? “Sashay away.”

66. Would you like to slay dragons? Nah. I wouldn’t want to mess with a dragon.

67. Have you gotten your pets spayed? All my dogs were fixed/spayed. My doggo was spayed before we could take her home from the adoption shelter.

68. Have you ever begged someone to stay with you? Not begged, but I didn’t want them to leave.

69. Has the room ever started to sway before? I hateeee that feeling.

70. When’s the last time you ate a meal on a tray? Uhhh. I don’t recall.

71. Do you know how to do math arrays? You’re speaking math so no.

72. Have you ever experienced a delay of any sort? Yeah.

73. Do you have any tooth decay? No.

74. When’s the last time you wrote an essay? What was it about? Back when I was still in school, so it’s been 5 years now since the last time.

75. When’s the last time you competed in a relay race? I participated in a few wheelchair race events when I was a kid.

76. Have you ever wondered how you could ever repay someone? Yes. I wish I could spoil and take care of my mom one day for everything she has done and continues to do for me. She deserves so much.

77. What did you do today? So far just Tumblr, surveys, and listening to ASMR.

78. Would you ever take in a stray animal? We don’t really have room for another pet, but I’d want to help in some way. Once we had a stray dog wander in our backyard and we took care of him until we were able to find him a good home. We also once had a cat who often went into our backyard and she ended up having kittens, so we cared for them and found them all homes, including the mama.

79. What’s the last cleaning spray that you’ve used? Lysol disinfectant spray.

80. When’s the last time you splayed your fingers? I’ll do it right now.

81. Has your airway ever been blocked before? Yes. Such a scary, traumatizing experience. It’s why I can’t take pills now at all unless I can crush them.

82. Has anyone ever led you astray? In some ways.

83. When it’s hot out, do you sleep with blankets anyways? Noooo.

84. Have you ever felt betrayed? Yep. Not a nice feeling.

85. When’s the last time you listened to a DJ? My cousin’s quince a few years ago.

86. What’s the last unfortunate thing that happened, to your dismay? This pandemic.

87. When is payday? The 1st of the month (disability).

88. Do good moments or bad moments replay through your mind more often? My mind likes to dwell on all the bad stuff instead.

89. Do you prepay for anything? I typically like to pay all my bills at the same time each month instead of waiting until the day each of them are due.

90. Have you ever walked on a runway before? No.

91. Do you know a runaway? No.

92. Have you ever ridden the subway before? How about driven on the skyway? Nope.

93. Have you ever used an ashtray before? No.

94.How do you feel about public displays of affection? I don’t mind a little bit, like a quick kiss, hand holding, arms around each other, or a hug.

95. Where would you like to go for a getaway? I wish I could rent a beach house and have my own private beach area.

96. Do you do any gateway drugs? Some say weed is a gateway drug, but I personally never had any interest in try anything beyond that.

97. Have you ever felt like someone wasn’t meeting you halfway? Yes.

98. What were you doing at midday? I’ll be sleeping.

99. Have you ever stopped midway through a survey before? Yeah, I did that with this one. I started it last night, but got too tired to finish it.

100. What’s your favorite holiday? Christmas.

101. Do you like to drive on the highway/thruway? I don’t drive, but yeah I prefer taking the highway over driving through town and hitting all the red lights.

102. Have you ever put something on layaway before? I haven’t, personally, but I’ve gone shopping with my mom and added stuff of my own along with her’s that she put on layaway.

103. Have you ever been cornered in an alleyway? No.

104. When is your birthday? July 28th.

105. Do you know anyone who was a castaway? No.

106. How long is your workday? I don’t have a job.

107. What do you typically do on the weekdays? I do the same things everyday.

108. Is there a walkway or a pathway to your front door? Yeah.

109. What do you want to be someday? A functioning adult.

110. What is something that you do everyday? Drink coffee.

111. Do you park in your driveway? Do you even have a driveway? I don’t have a car, but yeah my house has a driveway that my parent’s use for their cars.

112. Have you ever won a giveaway? Yes.

113. How important is foreplay? I wouldn’t know.

114. Hooray! You’ve made it to the end! What are you going to do now? Eat my ramen. I was waiting for it to cool a bit.

[a-zebra-is-a-striped-horse]

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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creativerogues · 5 years ago

Text

Campaign Diary #5: The Journey Home...

RECAP!

When we last left our Heroes, they were resting within the Forests of Valdor, after a failed attempt to slay the Local Green Dragon by the name of Danae, the Deathlady.

This Session begins with the Party waking to their new priority, resurrecting the Party’s Tabaxi Bard, Foot.

Campaign Diary #5: ‘Operation: Fuzzy Rising’...

The Session begins at dawn, with Hard Hat ritual casting his Phantom Steed Spell twice to create two shadowy mounts for the Group to ride until they reach whatever town or city is nearby.

Hard Hat’s Player even notes that he could've done it last night, since Ritual Casting does not use up a Spell Slot, he just forgot about that during the Session… Whoops!

So the Party (who slept next to the dead body of their Bard Friend! Just... So you know...) packs everything up, and Kentucky takes the body of Foot the Tabaxi Bard and decides to carry it across his shoulders, which I ruled as Kentucky 'technically carrying’ Foot, since Foot's dead body could technically be considered an object for the purposes of the amount of people the phantom steeds could carry…

I know, I'm too kind…

So with that, Hard Hat and Potosh take one Phantom Steed, and Kentucky (carrying Foot) takes the other; with Whinny, the Kenku Rogue currently frozen thanks to a Spell Scroll gone awry, put on Kentucky's Phantom Steed.

So with about 30 Minutes of the Phantom Steeds left, Hard Hat casts See Invisibility on himself (covering his face with talc and powdered silver in the process), just so he can keep an eye out for any Invisible Green Dragons that just so happen to be nearby…

And the Party is off! Travelling about 5 Miles by Phantom Steed and out of the Region of Danae’s Lair, with Potosh navigating them and Hard Hat keeping an eye on the skies…

And Kentucky carrying two bodies: But only one is dead, so… yay?

So with that done, and the Party now (still) in the Forests of Valdor (albeit in a less dragon-filled domain), they had a lot of issues to fix, the main two being the frozen Rogue and the Dead Bard currently strapped to the Barbarian's back…

There’s also the issue of the Giant Green Dragon... And Potosh’s Pet Bear, who is currently strewn across Danae’s Cavern Lair, but that’s probably for another time…

The Party travels for a while by Phantom Steed, resting while Hard Hat ritual casts Phantom Steed over and over, with Kentucky taking flight and scouting the Local Area in the hopes of finding a small town or city.

And they do! Huzzah!

Kentucky spots a small town to the south-east and notes that there seems to be a Church there, though it seems a little run-down…

And with the Short Rest over, the Group gets back on their Phantom Steeds and travels towards this town in the middle of nowhere...

As the approach, they see large wooden spikes impaled into the ground to form a fence, though they seem a little battered from previous incursions of the Green Dragon variety...

They go in on foot (rather than Phantom Steed) and walk up to the small Church to see if a Cleric is there.

But when they walk in, they find that the town has turned this old and tiny church into a makeshift tavern and inn, barely surviving in the middle of nowhere, with most people passing through as they moved west over the mountains.

The Party starts to lose hope, with the Bartender telling them to leave (because they did just drag in the stinking and rotting corpse of a Tabaxi Bard with them…) and as they turn to leave and exit, they're followed by an individual.

As Hard Hat begins to cast the Tiny Hut on the outside of town for the Party to rest in, they're approached by a battered, tired old half-orc woman in old and tattered clothes, and struggling to stand on her own two feet, using a wooden stick like a crutch.

She introduces herself as Agn-is Thrak (or Thrak as the Party called her), and she says she can help raise their Friend, as they seemed lost and tired without him, though she requests payment in the form of a favour.

These guys are just racking up favours with NPCs now… But I’m not complaining...

She tells the Party to follow her into the woods outside of town, and she begins to ask the Party questions about Foot as they travel, asking if Foot was a good man, how long ago he died, and if he had any unfinished business...

By the time they get to where Thrak wants them, she asks the Party to sit cross-legged in a circle around Foot's Body, and think about Foot and the life he had as she begins her ritual.

She then asks if the Party has the massive amount of diamonds necessary to cast the Spell, and when they say that they're practically penniless, Thrak takes pity and opens up her pack to reveal a small wooden chest, and upon opening it, the Party sees a small fortune's worth of diamonds, a good thousand gold or more of the stuff.

Thrak then takes a deep breath and a handful of diamonds from her wooden chest, and begins to sprinkle them across Foot's Body as she mutters some strange words in both Orcish and Celestial.

And the Party waits for a moment as the diamonds lay there on Foot's Body, and individually, each diamond cracks and shatters of it's own accord, becoming a fine dust that seeps into the wounds of Foot's Body and begins to undo the decay from the past week or so Foot has been decomposing.

Foot's Body looks as good as the day he died now, and with that, Foot's eyes open slowly, as if someone waking up from a deep sleep.

Foot sits up, then stands, and the rest of the Party stands up, as Thrak embraces Foot and welcomes him back into the World of the living.

HURRAY! Foot is back!

And as the Party reunites, albeit with a still frozen Kenku Rogue, Thrak asks for her favour to be paid immediately...

Just a tad bit awkward...

The Party does, of course, accept and asks what she wants, and initially she says that she just doesn't want to feel tired anymore, she wants to be able to disappear without anyone trying to find her.

Hard Hat comes up with a few ideas while the rest of the Party is still celebrating having their Bard back, with Foot being obviously confused as to what the heck is happening right now...

A Potion or Scroll of some sort to make her undetectable by any means, or some kind of Magic Item to make someone more resistant to the effects of Exhaustion or Fatigue.

Hard Hat then realises he has some contacts, and decides to cast Sending to Kenzo, the Wood Elf Rogue and fledgling Guild-Master to the Thieves Guild she's creating in the Capitol City, with Hard Hat asking if Kenzo could find any kind of Magical Items that could make someone unable to be found or physically change someone's appearance: Kenzo being an Expert Rogue and all...

Kenzo replies and says it might take her a while, but she could get what she thinks they need, and tells Hard Hat to meet her outside the Capitol to make the hand off and payment.

Hard Hat relays this to the Group, and together they decide that taking their Ship (the one they left up north) is probably their best bet, but none of them want to travel through Danae's Domain again, and so choose to travel through the Himmelblas Mountains.

Hard Hat then asks Thrak is she's willing to travel with them to gain her payment, and she accepts, because why wouldn't she?

Hard Hat, the curious little tortle that he is, then asks if anyone in the Party might know of someone in the Silver Charge Mercenary Company, the Mercenaries for Hire that work around the Himmelblas.

Kentucky says he remembers a fella, a big ol' Minotaur that stayed in Coppiborough before going back down South.

Hard Hat then sends a message to this big ol' Minotaur fella within the Silver Charge, asking him to meet the Party on the highest peak of the southern himmelblas and escort them back up north in exchange for coin.

And he receives a reply, a deep and gruff voice saying that the Party should meet him on the peak for sun-down, and he and his group will escort them north at a price of one gold piece each, per person per day.

Kentucky then butts in to say he and Potosh will go scout out the peak, and Potosh wildshapes into a Squirrel, with Kentucky picking him up and the two going about scouting the area for a safe place on the highest peak in the area, where they're not likely to be seen by any wandering monsters...

They find a spot and fly back to Hard Hat and the now resurrected Foot, and relay to everyone the point they should meet at.

Then Kentucky and Potosh make their way ahead while Hard Hat casts his Phantom Steed Ritual yet again. Kentucky flying off overhead while Potosh rides on Kentucky's back in the form of an extra fluffy cat, with massive claws digging into Kentucky "just in case"...

Do cats like heights?

Kentucky and Potosh get to the meeting point, and Foot, Hard Hat (who now has a frozen Whinny the Rogue strapped to his shell with rope) and Thrak the Half-Orc following behind, all meet at the point, Hard Hat casting the Tiny Hut to keep everyone warm while they wait.

As dusk comes, the sun sets, and the Party is still waiting, with Hard Hat passing the time by apologising profusely to Foot for casting the Spell that killed him, explaining how he was charmed by Danae and would've helped the Party if he could have...

The Party continues to chat, with Thrak saying that no good man intends to cause consequences, and Hard Hat is a good man.

This is until they hear a voice shout for a Magic-User.

Hard Hat pops out his head to see, strangely enough, another Tortle!

And behind this Tortle stands a seven foot tall Minotaur, and a noticeably shorter Human Man in arcane attire.

The first thing the three do is ask if the Party can pay, and the Party manages to convince these Silver Charge Members that they can indeed pay them despite having no funds right now…

The three Silver Charge Members then request that everyone sleeps here until morning, where they'll escort the Party north, reaching the Northernmost Part of the Valdorian Side of the Himmelblas in about a week or two...

The Human Wizard (who the Party hasn't even asked his name yet...) then casts a very familiar Tiny Hut, but this version seems to be a deep blue and white, and sparkles with glints of some kind of metallic substance.

The three Silver Charge Members then climb into their own Tiny Hut as everyone gets ready for a sleepover on a mountaintop...

And so the session ends with what is now a Party of Nine! Count them... NINE! With a Elderly Female Half-Orc Paladin and three Silver Charge Members waiting to ride out north at dawn...

Are the Party ever going to get revenge on Danae? Maybe....

But who cares! That’s help out this one NPC!

#campaign diary #dnd #DnD 5e #creativerogues

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