#illiterate runts

[juliouchhh]

me: i enjoyed penny dreadful

them: OMG ARE U SUPPORTING NONCON BEHAVIOR???

[kaiserposting]

Mayuri Kurotsuchi ― Truce

PAIRING: Mayuri Kurotsuchi/Reader WORD COUNT: 2.6k TYPE: Crackfic WARNING: Some NSFW jokes NOTE: Note: This is the same reader character as Thorn In Your Side, but you can read it without reading the first one

Someone left a note for Kurotsuchi Mayuri outside of office hours, which was impressive considering he worked until late at night. Whoever it was must've been very adamant not to cross paths with him and relay the message verbally. He examined the envelope with visible boredom, toying with the edges.

It was possible this came from the Captain Commander. Only Yamamoto was ancient enough for it to be reasonable to write a letter instead of contact Mayuri through the computer system, but then again, he was among cavemen. It could've been something the brute Zaraki asked the toddler to write for him (obviously, he had to be illiterate).

After he ripped the wrapping, Mayuri realized this was not Yamamoto's handwriting, though the paper had been folded and the words in the upper right corner brought a smile to his face.

Kuchiki, Byakuya Division 6, Captain Letter of Complaint Subject: [L/n] [Y/n], Division 12, Unseated Officer

Amazing. You could get in huge trouble for whatever transgression you committed against him. It was also nice to know you had become the bane of someone else's existence for once. The excitement at the prospect of having an excuse to fire you could've been enough to give him a boner on a bad day. Mayuri controlled his movements like he was trying to prolong the moment before he opened a long-awaited present, manic grin widening with every passing beat.

Dear Captain Kurotsuchi,

I would like to know how you have allowed that waste of a Shinigami to happen?

Whatever happiness Mayuri may have been feeling vanished. His eye twitched.

That snob Byakuya had some nerve using this as his opening line, addressing him in such an insolent manner. Maybe this was why he was an embarrassment to his clan, because he said shit like this. And... an unexpected defensiveness came over him. Sure, he had called you worse, but that was between you and him. Considering Byakuya's lieutenant was about as smart as a bag of rocks, Mayuri did not want to hear his criticisms of you.

Perhaps it was hypocritical since he had been excited to read all about it earlier, but he found it wasn't half as satisfying as he had imagined. Definitely nothing to jizz about. Regardless, he had to continue.

What were you thinking, letting an unseated officer prance around psychoanalyzing people?

Okay, Mayuri did not let you do that. It was one of those things you went off to do on your own, like usual. But that was part of the game, which Byakuya didn't understand since he seemed to be a moron or because he didn't care, but either way Mayuri disliked that the blame for your horrid behavior fell on him.

He was a man of research, however, and because of this, curiosity about what you had said to prompt this plagued him.

Surely if you had disciplined the fool properly, they would know they have no right to speak to me in that way. A District 72 runt of no standing to a captain such as myself, nonetheless.

There was the obligatory nobleman drivel. Though he found it interesting how you had pissed off Byakuya enough that he went and dug into your background. Mayuri scratched his chin.

This was a misunderstanding of your character. Mayuri had 'put you in your place' many times throughout the centuries you had known each other. It was just that it accomplished nothing. Since you were both dedicated scientists, things changed over the years, of course, since stagnancy wasn't beneficial. But something that wasn't prone to evolution was your audacity. Again, the notion that Mayuri tolerated you without repercussions was insulting.

And you knew you had 'no right' to say whatever you had said to Byakuya, probably. It didn't stop you from doing so, was all.

It disgusts me to type this out or think about it again, but nevermind. Needless to say, I don't appreciate being told that I am 'frustrated (in a vulgar manner of sorts) because of my self-inflicted vow of celibacy' and other such presumptuous things. Especially from the likes of that person.

I would hereby like to request [L/n] [Y/n]'s expulsion. I think it is a reasonable punishment for the level of disrespect I endured. Thank you in advance.

Regards, Kuchiki Byakuya

'Regards'? Bastard.

Then again, this went to prove Captain Kuchiki really was not an expert judge of character. Mayuri would sooner swallow acid (which he did sometimes whenever he was in the mood for developing a new unnecessarily potent drug) than let somebody boss him around. Maybe Byakuya's wish would have come true if he hadn't worded it like this. He moved his creepy chin-scratching down to his neck and stuck out his tongue, and his eyes darted around in different directions.

Yes, there was only one way to deal with this.

___

Your latest venture was therapy, so you set up office hours and everything.

You were one of the few people from Division Twelve who ever saw the sun more than once a month. Though Mayuri didn't like this 'going outside' thing you tended to do since it prevented him from supervising you, he never sent out someone to track you since that was similar to admitting defeat, and he never went looking for you because you thrived on negative attention. And, really, he had better things to do.

Then there was his method of surveying. When word got out he had set up cameras everywhere, it turned into a discussion about HR violations, since a lot of his subordinates filed complaints about it because he scared them shitless. His ability to monitor them when he wasn't in the immediate vicinity had disconcerted them. The Gotei 13 held a meeting about it, but then it turned in a two-hour debate during which Mayuri insisted that the other Captains were morons for not doing the same as him, and the matter never got settled.

After this, you called him a 'peeping Tom' and Mayuri publically denounced you as a degenerate. But that was beside the point and wasn't even the first time he had done so.

Since no one elected themselves as a subject to your counseling, you decided to satisfy your curiosity by forcing your therapy onto someone. Not that everybody avoided your services because you were stupid. Some people suspected you had so many screws loose because you knew so much you went crazy.

Mostly, the problem was that whatever you had planned was guaranteed to be unpleasant.

Byakuya was a skilled captain, so he considered himself competent enough to know when he's being followed, but this kind of stalking was different. For one, it was not very subtle.

"Hello, Captain Kuchiki," you said while saluting him.

Byakuya didn't answer, instead opting to keep walking.

"Hi," you tried again. "Hello."

He halted. Humoring you never fared well for anyone, but he figured if he spared you a few seconds, you would get bored and leave, so he turned and looked at you with steely eyes. Your smile did not waver.

When Byakuya was in a bad mood, he went outside and brooded while looking at the cherry blossoms. You had noticed that during your daily patrols around the Seireitei grounds. It was a bit auto-fellating, but you weren't here to judge. That wasn't what therapy was about.

You raised your hand and asked, "You and Captain Zaraki haven't been getting along, right?"

"We never get along," he said.

At this, you whipped out a scrapbook and a pen, and scribbled something. "It's been worse. Why's that?"

Levelly, he said, "I don't see how my personal affairs concern you."

"My observations tell me his vast bosom distracts you. That's no good for a captain, so of course I'm concerned." There was mock pity in your tone.

Appalled by what he just heard, Byakuya rose an eyebrow. Like he would ever look at that barbarian's 'bosom,' even if it was, in fact, huge. Maybe willingly poisoning yourself over and over was messing with your head. Apparently you took his silence as a cue to continue because then you said,

"And you've been angsting by the trees more than usual. It points to feelings of betrayal and self-loathing." That was how you interpreted his behavior after you gathered information from some books in the library, at least. Division Twelve didn't have a psychology department, and you were seeking to change that, but Captain Kurotsuchi had told you to get lost, and that it'd be more suitable for Squad Four, and blah blah blah. So now you have turned it into everyone else's problem.

He did not know how you gathered that from his vacant stare at some plants, or even how long you had been at this, but then he remembered the therapy poster you had put up all over the hallways. That was a few months ago.

"It's in your best interest to keep quiet," Byakuya advised. Captain Kurotsuchi also said this to you many times, in less refined language, but what was in your best interest never entertained you, so you pressed the issue.

"You don't need to take out your guilt on Captain Zaraki," you said. "He doesn't understand. It's not helping."

Again, Byakuya did not dignify that with a response, but his stare bore into you harder. Good, so he was listening. It seemed your expertise had rendered him speechless. This could only be a sign for you to keep going,

"Have you considered your celibacy is making you unpleasant?"

"What?"

"Like, your sexual frustration because of your fifty year long dry spell? It's making you irritable."

"What."

"Abarai is having a terrible time, Captain, I can tell."

Byakuya tensed his jaw and reached for his sword, though he didn't know if he could justify this kill in a report. Maybe he should leave the job to Kurotsuchi instead? At least he could pass it off as an accident during an experiment or something. You smiled, and it was unnerving because he couldn't anticipate what other horrible thing you could say.

He figured his best course of action was leaving and you wrote 'DENIAL' in your scrapbook. Then, before he could escape out of earshot range, you asked, "Are you not coping with bisexuality well, Captain Kuchiki?"

He shunpo'd to the other side of the Seireitei. You considered this a job well-done because Byakuya would probably need real therapy after this conversation, and maybe if he demanded for it, someone would consider making a suitable department somewhere.

___

"We need to talk."

You ignored Captain Kurotsuchi and continued typing up the report you needed to do, which provoked him into yanking you by the shoulder.

"I said we need to talk," he ordered.

"Oh, you're so desperate for my attention," you said in a shrill voice which usually made him mad, but this time he brushed it off. You tapped your chin curiously at his unusual behavior and he led the way since apparently he thought he was above providing an explanation.

While you stood in front of him in his laboratory, Mayuri reached for something crumpled on his desk and unfurled it. "I received this," he said, and you leaned closer to squint your eyes and try to read it. You skimmed it and noticed that he had been nice enough to underline 'I would hereby like to request [L/n] [Y/n]'s expulsion.' with red in case you somehow missed it.

A grin split your face and you pretended to be sheepish and wrung your hands together behind your back. "You know, I didn't expect him to be so sensitive about it," you said. "I mean, I know his wife's dead, but it's been fifty years, right?"

Mayuri didn't care about Byakuya's melodrama, and neither did you, since you were being so callous about it. So at least neither of you needed to address that. And your sad attempts at matchmaking a widowed man wasn't something he knew about, so you could shift the focus of the conversation.

"Ya think he's gonna need therapy after all that?"

"Not this again," said Mayuri. "Now that Captain Kuchiki, whose mental health I don't care about, has written me this letter, there's only one logical course of action."

"And that is?" You batted your eyelashes. "You're not letting me go, are you?"

Mayuri massaged his temples. "Could you stop being a pest for five seconds? I know it's hard for you to ignore your innate desire to be the most annoying creature on the planet since you have no sense of self-regulation-"

"See, I read about that in the psychology books. They claim I'm hedonistic."

"-but I'm trying to give you a promotion here."

When he said this, you both examined each other thoroughly for a few seconds. After a long bout of silence, you burst out into laughter and Captain Kurotsuchi ground his teeth together into his usual lunatic smile before he threw away Byakuya's note in the trash bin.

Only you and him would find rewarding a request for expulsion with a promotion funny.

Between making out in various attempts to drug one another, the many foiled assassination plans on both sides, and the brief time you spent as liquid in a labeled jar, you did not expect messing with Captain Kuchiki would be all it took to quell your hundreds of years long feud with Mayuri. Of course, the truce was only temporary since you loved to hate each other. Still, it was... sort of progress.

"Maybe I should piss off Captain Zaraki and make it to nineteenth seat."

Mayuri snarled, "Don't push it, I'm just being generous today." Besides, the more he thought about it, the less likely it was that both Kenpachi and the toddler could write a letter even if they collaborated. Sleep deprivation must have influenced his first imagining of the scenario.

___

Word of your promotion traveled, which made people question if you and Captain Kurotsuchi had 'squashed the beef,' which was jargon the talented hero Kurosaki Ichigo introduced to Soul Society, since he had refused to acknowledge your abilities before this. The rumor was something you and Mayuri strategically spread, so Byakuya would find out because what you had in common (pettiness) usually tore you apart, but this time, it united you.

"It's like a sadomasochistic relationship," said Matsumoto, who found your eternal fighting with your captain hilarious. She loved when you guys argued in public. It was the best drama this job offered, which was also a little sad.

"No. Sadosadistic," Yumichika corrected, which made Matsumoto cheer, since it sounded even more amusing and dysfunctional. Though he had also coined it a few seconds ago, so maybe there was a term that was more applicable. He was also the most adamant in his agenda that the two of you were somehow romantically involved. Ever since the moment during which you gave Mayuri pink eye by grazing his eyeballs with your lashes, and the comment he made about it that traumatized Nemu and Akon, he had been convinced this was the case.

Maybe Nemu and Akon could be exhibits in your argument about opening a psychology department? Yes, splendid. Thank god Yumichika went and ruined their day that one time.

Ikkaku didn't know why he was even listening to this conversation. Perhaps he enjoyed the opportunity to ogle Yumichika and Matsumoto simultaneously, but that didn't require listening. So he tuned them out.

[capnsoapy]

my most illiterate moment was when Ortus Nigenad first showed up in a Harrow flashback in HtN, I spent about half an hour trying to work out the hidden anagram message to work out why it was actually Gideon.. before I remembered that Ortus was just an actual guy and had showed up quite a lot in GtN

anyway that was far too long mulling on the meaning behind "Gideon Saturn"

or Sr. Gideon Tuna.

Tsar Gideon Nu.

Gideon's A Runt.

Gideon, U Snart!

[bcdrawsandwrites]

For Unity By @jaywings​ and me

Rating: T Genre: Friendship, Angst Characters: urGoh, skekGra, skekSil, skekSo, skekTek, skekVar, urVa, urSu, urSol, urZah, possibly others… Warnings: A LOT OF VIOLENCE. Description: One was as vile and repulsive as his brethren. He murdered, and maimed, and reveled in it. The other was as slow and indirect as the rest of his brethren. He hated his dark half as much as the others did theirs. But who they were did not matter, for Thra saw its moment, and seized its opportunity.

---~~~---

Chapter 5: Interlude: Unaware Summary: In which perspectives shift.

---~~~---

Report on Further Gelfling Division

Prepared excellently for His Most Royal Highness who Reigns Eternally, by skekSil the Chamberlain

As per my last report, my Emperor, those Skeksis living outside the Castle have found that Gelfling clans grow more and more distrustful of each other. Even here in the Castle itself, Stonewood and Spriton guards in particular now find it almost impossible to patrol together.

This is excellent news, yes! The very proof that our efforts succeed! Mmmm… Though, of course, if hatred between Gelfling grows unchecked, so too do our own forces weaken. This problem must be dealt with swiftly.

Word has come from skekNa, who suggests that

There was a loud, echoing click, followed by a prolonged creeeaaak, and the massive library door pushed open.

“There you are!” a crisp, nasally voice exclaimed, and skekOk swept into the room. “I’ve been searching half the castle for you!”

SkekSil, seated at the large desk in the middle of the room, dropped his quill into the inkwell and fanned his partially-written report with his hand. “Looking for me? Why?”

“A Gelfling wants to speak with you.” The Scroll-Keeper sounded rather cross. “A Stonewood guard. He says he has something important to share only with you. And of course I am sent running about the castle like a hapless Podling trying to find you—Why are you skulking in my library again?”

“Ah, apologies, highest apologies, friend Scroll-Keeper!” skekSil simpered. “I will replace everything exactly where found. I am merely writing new report for Emperor—is so hard to find quiet place in Castle to sit and write. You understand, yes? Other Skeksis are so loud and obnoxious. Care not for written word.”

SkekOk huffed, some of his irritation evaporating—or, at least, switching targets. “Yes, I have noticed. Did you know, skekVar once spat rotten tubers all over one of my newly-bound books! Took me weeks to remove the stains…”

“Yes, yes, is clear why so few are allowed in beautiful library—”

“—Very few, in fact. How do you keep getting in here?”

SkekSil cleared his throat quickly. “Where is Gelfling who sent for me?”

“Waiting in the empty guards’ quarters. He said he would not feel safe speaking elsewhere. Awfully demanding, if you ask me.” SkekOk approached the desk and, to skekSil’s annoyance, bent to squint at his report. He clicked his beak. “And why have you put ‘mmmm’ in writing?”

SkekSil stood abruptly, almost knocking the glasses off skekOk’s narrow beak. “Yes! I go, now, to speak with Gelfling. Goodbye.”

He rolled up his parchment and pushed it into his sleeve, then strode out of the library, leaving skekOk alone to mutter something about “illiterates.”

So… a Stonewood Gelfling acting secretive, he mused. Hmmmmm… A complaint about a nasty fight with a Spriton, perhaps, something that he could add to his report? Or something more interesting?

He quickened his step, shuffling his way across the castle until he reached the guards’ quarters that were always empty this time of day. At this point he slowed, and pushed his way through the door and into the room.

Immediately his mood soured as he smacked his head on the extremely low ceiling. He scowled, rubbing the wound. Spit-faced puny Gelfling runts…

“Gelfling?” he called, forcing a sense of cordiality into his voice and removing his hand from his face, moving further into the room. It was wide, used as lodging for many guards, but with bunks stacked along the walls and floor so close together that it was difficult for him to edge between them. The room also appeared dark and empty. “Geeeelfling? You wish to speak to me?”

“Lord Chamberlain?” There was a rustle, a flurry of movement from somewhere to the right, and a nervous Stonewood Gelfling appeared from around one of the bunks, his pointed ears turned backwards. “My lord—thank you for taking the time to meet me—” the Gelfling fell into a hurried bow— “I’m not worthy—”

“Yes, yes, very true,” skekSil said, waving him off. “You say you have message for me? For Chamberlain’s ears only?”

The dark-skinned Gelfling blanched; his pupils constricted, showing more white around them, and his hands intertwined near his chest, fingers trembling. Something was clearly terrifying him, though whether it was from being in the presence of a Skeksis Lord (most likely not, as he was a guard at the Castle), or from the news he carried, skekSil couldn’t be sure. As the puny creature ventured closer, skekSil could see that he had partially-healed burns all down one side, which gave him a faltering step. Recent wounds, clearly, meaning he must have received them from the battle against the Gruenak savages. Unless he had perhaps had a terribly nasty fight with a Spriton.

“My name is Hiral, my lord, of the Stonewood,” the Gelfling, apparently fond of pointing out the obvious, said. He was wringing his hands now. “You told us all to report any strange behavior to you. Well, I was in the Gruenak battle,” —as skekSil had suspected— ”but I was hurt too badly to continue fighting,” —again, obvious— ”...I got too close to one of the fires, you see, and one of those metal-manglers pushed me… My patrol partner Nuren brought me up the hillside away from the battle to recuperate, and when it was almost over, I… saw something.” The Gelfling hesitated, looking shaken.

“Go on,” skekSil prompted, taking care to inject his voice with a gentle, comforting note, as though he were a caring parent. “Tell Chamberlain everything. Gelfling is safe here. Chamberlain gives word, Gelfling will never be in trouble for spilling secrets of Gelfling.”

“But that’s just it, my lord,” Hiral said miserably. “This isn’t about a Gelfling.”

SkekSil stood up a bit straighter and fixed the Gelfling with a stare, his attention fully caught now. “Hmmmm?”

Suddenly the guard’s nervous manner made complete sense. He wasn’t racked with guilt and uncertainty over the misdeeds of a fellow Gelfling—he had witnessed something done by a Skeksis at the battle. But who? And what? Certainly, it could not have been something done against Gelfling, or Hiral would likely not have trusted the Skeksis enough any longer to come and tell skekSil about it, or allow himself to be alone with him.

With this thought, skekSil loosened his posture, softening his eyes and ducking his head the smallest degree, making himself look as harmless as possible.

“Not Gelfling?” he cooed. “Hiral is wise to bring this to Chamberlain. Who, then, does Gelfling speak of?”

A smile twitched at the corner of skekSil’s beak. If it was skekVar, that would be delightful—the cretin was far too interested in getting close to the Emperor for his liking…

The Gelfling looked skekSil in the eye, let out a long breath, and said, “It was the Conqueror, my lord—Lord skekGra. I… I think he’s a traitor.”

SkekSil’s thoughts switched track immediately.

SkekGra? ...Though yes, he should have known… skekGra had been acting strangely since he’d returned from the Gruenak battle, most unlike himself indeed…

The Conqueror was not, and never had been, an obstacle to skekSil’s own plans. He had no political ambitions of his own—he seemed to be perfectly content exactly where he was. Perhaps a bit too content. He could even have been useful, if he were more cooperative, but skekSil had the growing suspicion that skekGra didn’t much like him. Ah well.

“Lord Conqueror was chasing a few of the Gruenaks up the hill,” the Gelfling explained. “I saw him reach them, but then… he let them go without a fight. I don’t know why.”

That was it? SkekSil couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. Still, he had never known the Conqueror to let an enemy live.

He shifted backwards, steepling his fingers. “And you have told no one else of this?”

“No one,” the Gelfling confirmed, and hesitated. “There’s… something else. It—it was hard to see in the rain. But some… creature appeared.”

Hiral looked up at skekSil, uncertain, and skekSil inclined his head slightly.

“It looked hunched over,” the Gelfling continued. “And it almost looked like it had four arms. It made me think of those stories you hear, about creatures that appear in the dead of night—four-armed wizards that steal Gelfling souls, and even the Hunter…” His voice wavered, and he seemed unable to continue.

SkekSil turned his head a fraction so that Hiral would not see the hint of a smirk on his face, though he could not keep his eyes from widening. “...Mmmm… Thank you, Gelfling,” he said. “Is best if Hiral does not concern self with this any longer, and leave Chamberlain to deal with matter. Now, is there anything else, hmmm?”

“No. That’s all. And trust me, I won’t tell anyone else about this...” The Gelfling sat down on the nearest bed, looking pained—his burns were clearly bothering him. He peered back up at skekSil with a hopeful light in his eyes, his ears lifting. “But my lord, what you said about- about bringing information to you—and the reward?”

SkekSil casually waved a hand. “Yes, of course. Gelfling will receive full day’s extra wages.”

“Sent to my family, please, my lord,” Hiral said quickly. “At Stone-in-the-Wood. My two daughters, they’re barely out of babyhood, twins… My brother’s been looking after them, and we don’t have much—”

SkekSil’s eyes narrowed slightly. SkekOk had had a point earlier—this Gelfling was entirely too demanding of his lords. “Of course, Gelfling. Of course.”

He turned swiftly and took his leave before the presumptuous guard could ask for anything else, exiting the barracks and heading toward his own chambers with a hum emanating from his throat and his mind whirling with this new information.

---~~~---

Yes… he eagerly awaited the return of the famed Conqueror.

Take your father's job and watch over the observatory, they said. It would be an easy job, they said.

But they didn't say anything about enormous monsters barging in, sneezing everywhere, and then falling asleep standing up! This had not been part of the job description!

"UrGoh! Ah! UrGoh!"

Throwing herself against his side for the fourth time, Fedle found the strange creature had once again failed to budge. She'd shouted at him, jabbed him with a finger, and even pinched his one of his weird wrinkly hands at once point, but nothing happened. What was she supposed to do with this great thing?! What happened to him?

Fedle stole a glance at Mother Aughra, who still lay softly snoring beneath the Orrery, and felt a tightness in her chest. Aughra had been there for many trine... how long had it been now? A decade or more since she'd last awoken?

She looked from Aughra to urGoh, a sudden worry gripping her: had urGoh fallen asleep as Mother Aughra had? Would he, too, be asleep for a decade or more? It was hard enough having to watch over Aughra, but this enormous beast? She couldn't even reach the top of his shoulder! How would she dust him?

But... no. Aughra was very clearly asleep, her eyes shut, while this beast's eyes were wide open, yet unseeing. She moved to his front, hopping up and down in front of him and waving, but again he failed to respond. Perhaps something had gone wrong with his eyes... if she could bring a stool up to him, she could get a closer look.

Grumbling to herself, Fedle grabbed a stool that sat near a tower of books and pushed it over to the front of the great creature, crawling on top of it to get a better look at his eyes. Perhaps something bright from the Orrery had shone into them and made his vision go funny? That had happened to her once, when a beam of light from the Great Sun hit the metal of the Orrery just as she happened to glance at it, and she couldn't see right for a good few minutes. If she could just block his view...

To her surprise and delight, it seemed to work—urGoh's eyes flicked downward to face the spinning crystal in his palm. Fedle hummed in approval, and was about to address him again when she saw... something.

Something wasn't right about his eyes, his face. It wasn't the unseeing look he'd had before—it was something darker, stranger, as though she were looking into the eyes of another creature entirely...

And without any warning, he collapsed.

Fedle yelped as his head knocked against her stool, sending the seat crashing backward and her along with it. Groaning, she pushed herself upright, and frowned at the massive beast. Well, if he hadn't been asleep before, he was now. But unlike the easy sleep Mother Aughra was in, urGoh seemed to have fallen into a troubled rest, his creased brows furrowing the already-deep wrinkles in his face. She hoped it meant that he wouldn't be asleep for an age.

As she got back to her feet, she looked over the creature's face again, but any sign of that... strangeness she'd seen earlier was completely absent. No, he was merely asleep, and seemingly having unpleasant dreams.

Well, whatever had happened... she was going to see to it that Mother Aughra paid her family extra for this mess.

---~~~---

With a final cry and a satisfying squelch of green blood, the last Arathim was dead.

SkekVar regarded his work with a contented snort. The dark Grottan caves, typically lit with a soft blue glow from the moss, now had a greenish hue to them from the sheer amount of Spitter blood that coated their stony floors. It was a rewarding sight—a sure sign of victory.

No thanks to a certain obsessive, foul-faced idiot who was supposed to be leading this entire campaign. He’d been absent almost the entire time!

Which... wasn't like him at all.

With a sigh, skekVar glanced in the direction of the tunnels he'd come through. In previous campaigns, he had never praised skekGra’s prowess in battle—not without a grumble of spite or a bite of sarcasm to his words, anyway. In truth, skekGra was never anything other than a competent leader in military conquest. It was the reason he was the Conqueror, after all. (In fact, skekVar had even stolen a few techniques from him—while calling them his own, of course—when leading military campaigns without the Conqueror.) Every battle skekGra led was a victory; every pathetic race he'd determined to stamp out had crumbled, with him at the helm.

So what had happened this time? The Conqueror had drawn up the initial attack plans, yes, but after that... he'd run off to chase down a few puny Spitters, and then disappeared. It was lucky for the Conqueror that they had won. If they had lost due to his absence, the Emperor would have flayed him with his own claws.

"Lord skekVar," one Gelfling said, and he turned to face her. It was too dark in these tunnels to make out exactly which clan she was, not that it mattered—these things all looked the same to him. "The Arathim seem to have been vanquished, but we have several wounded that need to be treated immediately."

SkekVar snorted. "Fine, do as you will." His blood-soaked claws itched to be scrubbed in the spa at the Castle, but he supposed skekSo and skekUng would be displeased if more Gelfling soldiers were lost than necessary. Numbers were important, after all—they were part of what helped the Skeksis win victories... alongside competent strategies. Speaking of which...

With another grunt, he turned back to the tunnels again, and raised his voice. "I need any able soldiers to follow me immediately," he said, and trudged back in that direction. Several soldiers fell into step behind him as he fished through his pockets, producing the crumpled map that skekGra had shown him earlier. It was hard to see in the dark, but he was pretty sure they were going the right way. If not... he could probably find the Conqueror by smell alone.

"If I may ask," one Gelfling said, "where are we going, my lord?"

"To find Lord skekGra." Part of him wanted to say something about the Conqueror's absence, but, tempting as it was, he kept his beak shut; speaking against the other Skeksis in front of these things might make the weaklings question their loyalty. The Gelfling knew nothing about the Skeksis punishment rituals, and never heard any negative talk of their lords. As far as they knew, the Skeksis were perfect, unerring Lords of the Crystal, as it should be.

Even so, he heard the soldiers behind him whispering in confusion. "I noticed he wasn't with us in the battle," one said.

"He saved Bayl from a Spitter! I saw it."

"But how come I didn't see him when we got here?"

"Silence!" skekVar spat, and the Gelfling all came to a stop at a fork in the tunnels. "I need to concentrate."

In truth, his sense of smell wasn't exactly hindered by their speech; he just found it grating.

Stretching his neck forward, skekVar drew in a deep, long snort, taking in the scents of the cave to figure out which direction they should go. He registered damp dirt, putrid Arathim blood, the muddled traces of various Gelfling clans, clay, and...

SkekVar froze.

He'd attended more than enough punishment rituals to recognize the sharp, pungent tang of fresh Skeksis blood. The scent was unmistakable.

His gaze drifted to the ground, where he could just make out dark splotches among the rocks and dirt, making a trail further into the tunnel. Vaguely he remembered smelling blood when he’d first come across skekGra in these tunnels, but the other Skeksis had seemed fine despite any wounds he might have borne.

Yet there was blood puddled on the ground, and skekGra had not returned.

“This way,” skekVar grunted to the Gelfling soldiers. He stomped down the path, his scowl fixed firmly on his face in defiance of his racing thoughts, which were beginning to border traitorously on panic.

Surely the Conqueror could not have succumbed to a few measly spiders. The Arathim had few battle techniques other than “screech and try to bite things,” and most of all, they were stupid. The Skeksis had nothing to fear from them except their sheer numbers.

So unless… skekGra had been overrun…

SkekVar quickened his pace, though snapped his beak irritably when he found that the tunnel became too narrow to walk upright, forcing him to awkwardly crawl through the dirt hunched over on his knees like a Gelfling infant.

The Gelflings behind him murmured their dissent as they followed.

“This tunnel gives me the creeps.”

“Is this really the right way? Why in Thra would Lord skekGra come down here?”

“I want to turn back. This isn’t worth it!”

No, it isn’t, skekVar silently agreed, though the fact that the Gelflings’ worries echoed his own was humiliating. How badly injured was skekGra, anyway?

Wounded enough that he couldn’t come back…

He didn’t know how long he crawled through the dark and the cold, how deep under the surface he was and how he would ever find his way out of here again.

“I think the tunnel is widening!” one of the Gelflings behind him said suddenly. SkekVar sniffed the air again, drawing his lips back in surprise. The air seemed fresher here, and he thought he could even see light up ahead. Where were they?

"Wait," one of the Gelflings breathed as they approached the light, "is this not...?"

"Yes! The Grottan have a Tree of their own, don't they?"

Tree? SkekVar shook his head. What in blazes were they talking about? What sort of tree grew...

The tunnel suddenly widened into a massive cavern, twined with roots snaking in all directions. SkekVar heaved himself up properly onto his feet again, staring up at the enormous, twisted tree trunk towering above his group. Well... that answered that question. Around him, the Gelfling let out exclamations of wonder.

"Wow, it is the—"

"Lord skekGra!" A shriek broke through the awed atmosphere, jolting everyone out of their reveries.

Shaking himself, skekVar tore his gaze from the tree to survey the area, and felt a freezing talon close over his heart.

There, lying in a heap on the ground, surrounded by pools of shining blood, was the Conqueror.

“Oh Thra…”

“I’ve never…”

"The Lord Conqueror! He's—" One of the Gelfling swallowed. "He's not dead, is he, Lord skekVar?"

"Of course not!" skekVar snapped, glaring down at the soldier, who cringed away. We cannot die.

...Can we?

He slowly forced himself to approach the other Skeksis' still form, scanning him for any signs of life, though truthfully he didn’t have a clue what to look for. SkekGra’s eyes were tightly closed, his robes torn and his helmet lying several feet away, the decorative ruff around his neck hanging raggedly by a few threads and revealing ugly purple bruises around his throat. Some unpleasant emotion that skekVar refused to identify stirred within him as he stared down at the lifeless body, his own going very still.

We are eternal.

"Ugh! What is that?"

Jerking up his head at the Gelfling's cry, skekVar was surprised to see that skekGra hadn't been alone here in the cavern. Lying a short distance from him was a much smaller figure, this one drenched in dark blood. Something about the smell of it was familiar to him—along with the metallic tang of blood was a clay-like scent, which was like... like...

"Gruenak?" skekVar murmured, leaning closer to it, but he did not step away from skekGra's body. "What's a Gruenak doing out here?"

Tipping his head, he glanced at skekGra once again, and the memory of a chance meeting in a lightless tunnel hit him in a flash.

I saw a group of three cowardly survivors fleeing down this way.

It hadn’t struck him until now that skekGra had never specified that his quarry were not Arathim. He must have been in enough of a hurry to assume skekVar would know what he was talking about. But... how could these creatures have survived? Had they not perished in that last battle a few days ago? The Podlings were still washing Gruenak bloodstains out of his other outfit!

"Could that scum have hurt Lord Conqueror?" one of the Gelfling suggested, staring in open disgust at the Gruenak corpse, and skekVar let out a hiss.

"The Conqueror should tell us himself," he grunted, and finally stooped down to shake the fellow Skeksis' shoulder. "SkekGra, get up! The battle is over! SkekGra!"

Behind him the Gelfling were muttering again, their voices pitched in anxiety. "Could Lord skekGra really be...?"

"But the Lords can't die, can they?"

"What if he doesn't wake up?"

"Quiet!" skekVar snarled, turning to glare at them. He pointed to the one of highest rank. "You, captain! Get out to Domrak, or the Tomb of Relics, or wherever the blasted Grottan are right now, and find a healer!"

"Yes, my lord!" the captain said, and charged back down the tunnel.

"Be quick about it!" skekVar shouted after him, and turned his gaze back to the fallen Skeksis. He tried shaking his shoulder again, and hissed when the Conqueror gave no response. "Conqueror, if you don't get up, I'm... I'm going to give your helpings of dinner to the Gourmand. He'll gladly take them!"

The other Gelfling soldiers were at either side of him now, staring down at skekGra's form silently. He could smell the terror on them, and it made his hackles rise. "Stop moping around!" He waved them away with all four of his arms, lashing his tail. "The Conqueror will be fine."

And yet, unwittingly, he pictured his lone return to the Castle, bearing two ceremonial staffs, with news of a sweeping victory for the Grottans but a staggering loss for the Skeksis…

Shaking the image from his mind, he glared at one of the soldiers. "Make yourself useful and see what else you can find here!"

While the remaining soldiers began a search of the area, skekVar stooped closer to skekGra, trying to listen for signs of... anything. He wished the Scientist were here. Vital signs and health fell under his area of expertise, more or less, so he should know, right? Either way, skekVar did not know, so he hummed in thought, wondering what else he could possibly bribe skekGra with to wake him up.

Slapping his tail against the ground, skekVar leaned in close again. "If you don't get up right now," he said, "then... when I get back to the castle, I'll go to your room, and—no, no, I'll have the Chamberlain go to your room, and have him do what he will with all those nasty puppets of yours. I'm sure he'd make good use out of them!"

He was almost certain he saw the Conqueror's face twitch, and he snorted in satisfaction. Even so, the other Skeksis did not wake up.

One of the Gelflings made a repulsed noise, and skekVar looked up, but it seemed the soldier had only found the severed head of the fallen Gruenak. In the dark, and in the midst of his... well, in the midst of fuming over skekGra, he hadn't even noticed the corpse had been missing a head. But they found nothing more, and skekVar resumed his watch.

"Hey, keep up, will ya? These tunnels aren't that hard to get through!"

SkekVar perked up at the new voice and turned toward the tunnels. A very young female Grottan zipped through the tunnel they'd come out of and landed neatly on one of the roots of the massive tree to survey the situation, a satchel swinging from her shoulder. "What seems to be the problem here?" she asked, as though it weren't obvious.

"Are you the healer?" skekVar asked, straightening his spine.

The girl brushed some dirt off of her outfit. "No, the healers are busy tending to the other Gelfling, so my mother sent me here."

Growling, skekVar eyed her—she wasn't even full grown. What in the name of the Crystal were these Grottan doing sending—

"Princess Argot," the captain gasped as he climbed out through the tunnel after her. "You must bow before the Lords. And I've been... trying to tell you..."

“Oh! I forgot!” the girl interrupted, and fell into a clumsy bow. “I’m Princess Argot, like he said. You’re the first Skeksis I ever seen, my lord.”

Princess, huh? What was that supposed to mean, again? It was always skekZok and skekSil who understood the Gelfling politics. The rest of them never bothered with it. SkekVar shook his head—whatever, it was a title, so she was someone of importance, though the mere thought of speaking to this childling like an equal made his skin crawl.

"It's Lord skekGra, Princess," skekVar said, gesturing to the unmoving Skeksis on the ground. "We believe he was attacked by a stray Gruenak."

"Hm, never heard of a Gruenak bef..." The girl trailed off as her eyes fell upon the Gruenak’s corpse. Immediately her demeanor changed, and she rushed up to it, placing her hand on its back. "Oh... oh no..."

Argot looked back up at skekVar, suddenly appearing every bit her young age with her wide, worried, coal-black eyes, and her ears turned back over scraggly blond-ish hair. “What happened here, my lord? These creatures were under my mother’s protection…”

Around them, the congregated Gelflings let out gasps, glancing quickly at each other. Some of them noticeably tightened their grip on their weapons.

SkekVar let out a puff of air through his nostrils, letting his beak open slightly in the beginnings of a snarl. “And who’s your mother, then, the Maudra?”

The Gelfling child’s eyes hardened slightly, though she still looked shaken. “Well, yes, my lord. They don’t call me princess for my shiny hair!”

“Hmph.” SkekVar bristled at the green-skinned runt’s snotty attitude, but decided that the matter at hand was pressing enough to let it slide. “Then the Grottan Maudra rescued enemies of the Crystal and placed them under her protection?”

Argot stood, her wings rustling and green skin going pale, casting fearful glances at the hostile glares of the other Gelfling. “Enemies? What do you mean?”

“We fought a battle against them two days ago!” skekVar growled. He struggled to remember the paltry explanation the Chamberlain had given to other nosy Gelfling asking the same question. “Those Gruenak savages stand against the Crystal of Truth and spit in the faces of the Skeksis Lords!”

“I didn’t know!” Argot gasped, scrambling away from the body. “Mother didn’t know! We didn’t know! Please, my lord, don’t punish us for this—”

SkekVar narrowed his eyes to dangerous slits. “Attend to Lord skekGra,” he said, “and we���ll see.”

The Gelfling princess immediately hurried to skekGra’s still form and knelt beside him, leaning close. SkekVar craned his neck slightly in an attempt to see what she was doing, but her back was to him.

“That poor girl is too young to see all this,” one of the Gelfling soldiers murmured behind him.

“Do you think they really didn’t know about the Gruenaks?” another on whispered to his friend, who shrugged.

“Who knows? The dirt-dwellers don’t care about anything on the surface. And they’re idiots. I bet this childling doesn’t even know the first thing about—”

“This Lord is alive!” Argot announced, and skekVar almost drooped with relief. The Gelfling under his command seemed to let out their own breaths, some even smiling at each other.

But skekVar’s relief dissipated almost at once. “Then why is he unconscious?”

“That, I don’t know.” The princess stood and paced around skekGra, striding with ease over the uneven roots strewn through the dirt, and rifled through her satchel. “He has burned and bleeding hands, a bitten shoulder—Spitter bite, of course—and bruises on his neck. We have healing salves for those things, but I think you’ll just have to wait for him to wake up on his own. And then he can tell you himself.”

“And won’t we be glad to hear it,” skekVar grunted, shooting a look of poison down at the Conqueror—though with this stunt, he may not be the Conqueror much longer. He waited with mounting impatience while the Gelfling girl cleaned and tended to skekGra’s piddly wounds and lifted his head to drip water down his throat; he muttered commands to his nearest soldiers for someone to mount their swiftest Landstrider and head for the castle at once with news.

At last Argot stood and crossed lightly back to skekVar, bowing low. “I think that’s all I can do for him, my lord. I don’t think he’s in any danger, but you should get him back to the Castle of the Crystal to have your own healers tend to him.”

SkekVar grunted. The castle didn’t have full-time healers, unless you counted the Scientist, but sure.

“My mother and I, as well as our clan, owe you our lives. We thank you for coming to our aid.” These words sounded practiced. Argot continued on, glancing back at skekGra. “And um… As for lifting him into a carriage… Maybe I can ask urLii for help?”

“Early when?” skekVar barked. “I’m getting him out of this place now. Just have to get him to the blasted surface.”

“Oh, that’s the easy part.” Before skekVar could say another word, the princess ran to the trunk of the enormous tree and pressed her hand to it, closing her eyes. After a long moment of nothing happening she blinked her eyes open again, looking at skekVar in surprise. “My lord, is there something special about this Lord?”

SkekVar snorted, tempted to say “absolutely not,” but decided against it. “The Twice-Nine are all extraordinary. Now, get us to the surface.”

But it was already happening. Tree branches reached down, wood creaking loudly, to none-too-gently wrap around both skekGra and, to skekVar’s simultaneous surprise and horror, himself, lifting them swiftly toward the sky.

He struggled against the restraints, but they did not slacken, and he looked down toward the cavern floor in alarm. The princess was still there, waving at him... rather absently, it seemed, for her gaze was trained on skekGra's unconscious form. Was she still worried about him, even after she'd said he would be fine? SkekVar glanced back at the Conqueror, only to give a start—he finally seemed to be stirring.

Before he could think on this much longer, the tree finally lifted them out of... itself, it seemed, before planting them a bit too firmly on the damp ground outside. At least the rain had stopped.

To skekVar's side, skekGra was beginning to murmur incoherently, eyelids fluttering open but not really seeing. With a frustrated grunt, skekVar stooped down to lift him up underneath his good arm. His armor made him heavy, but it was nothing skekVar couldn't handle. "Wake up, idiot," he growled. "We're heading back to the carriage."

"No... no... I can't... no..."

"You can walk just fine. You don't have anything wrong with your feet!" Snorting, he yanked the Conqueror forward, and the other Skeksis' legs seemed to obey automatically, though skekGra did not seem fully conscious. SkekVar shook his head and looked around them: they were atop a tall hill with that massive tree, and he could spot the carriage some distance off. It wouldn't be such a problem if he weren't half-carrying skekGra as it was, and he had to resist the urge to just chuck him down the hill. But the Emperor likely wouldn't approve of that, so he begrudgingly began the ridiculous task of helping the Conqueror down to the carriage.

"Have to... have to..." skekGra murmured, his eyes starting to drift shut again.

"Did you drink a gallon of ale with that blasted Gruenak before you beheaded it? Ugh."

It took a great deal longer than it should have, but skekVar finally managed to get skekGra over to the carriage. By the time they reached it, the Gelflings were already approaching, some of them rushing up to the two of them in concern.

"Lord skekVar! Is Lord skekGra all right?"

"We heard he was gravely injured!"

"Lord skekGra is fine," skekVar said, finally hoisting the half-conscious Skeksis up and shoving him onto the floor of the carriage. SkekGra groaned, but made no other protest, and the Gelfling soldiers did not dare argue. "I'll be taking him back to the castle immediately, unless he has any better ideas."

The two ceremonial staffs they’d brought fell on top of him, but he was out of sight of the Gelfling soldiers, and skekVar didn’t care enough to remove them. They’d brought those staffs for their victory celebration, but it was clear that no one was in any mood for celebrating.

SkekGra’s hands twitched. "H... have to... m-make... have to..."

Make what? skekVar wondered, only to smack his hand against his beak. Of course, he would want to make a puppet show of this, wouldn't he? If skekVar hauled him back to the castle without some souvenirs, he'd probably never hear the end of it. Snorting, skekVar turned toward a few Gelfling toward the back of the group—three of them that had just arrived. "You there! Get back into the tunnels and bring some Arathim pieces with you. Hack off some legs or something. We'll... um, be needing them. For important matters."

The three Gelfling exchanged exhausted glances, but obediently turned around, heading back toward the caves.

That settled, skekVar clambered up into the carriage and settled in his seat, looking back out over his soldiers. "To the Castle!" he said, and pulled the lever.

The armaligs jolted awake and began rolling forward, finally taking them away from what was feeling like a strangely bitter-tasting victory.

[helloitsace0space]

Our current DnD party (including npcs)

Derek: dwarf sword bard, also a wanted pirate. Calls most of the shots because he’s the only one who’s knows how to take charge. Is a bitch

Dex (npc): changling artificer, has lots of secrets and disappears regularly. Is also a court wizard but isn’t a wizard and will cough up blood and die if they try to answer our questions but still wants to help even if they’re cranky (calls Derek a bitch)

Tüll (on hiatus): a chaotic rogue but very good rogue. Tried to steal my magic rock once. Also a wood elf with drow abilities for mysterious reasons and has fancy boots that’s lets him walk on walls and ceilings. Tüll isn’t his real name (also calls Derek a bitch)

Gerd (me): goblin Druid, grew up in a forest and raised by a gnome. Likes books but is illiterate and speaks 5 languages and is learning another. Was in love with a blue dragon. Made a musical horn out of a horn and like to doodle on the ground when camping (has called Derek a bitch)

Kivni (npc): artificer kobold runt. Where Gerd is chaotic good Kivni is chaotic neutral. Loves shines, fire, and tinkering. Has a crush on Gerd. Will and has cut a dude’s finger off. Also has a literal flamethrower (stole from Derek pretty much calling him a bitch)

Liliana: human paladin. Really buff and part of an order of paladins that don’t serve under any one particular god. Accidentally romanced a city guard and went a date. Has the absolute worse sense of direction, got separated from her group and walked across two countries over to us in the opposite direction (legally can’t call Derek a bitch)

Dust on the road: tabaxi rogue. Really shit rogue, yelled “get em boys!” While in a tree in an open field in broad daylight to try and trick guards into thinking bandits were attacking so they would run away in fear. This did not work. Will also scream loudly when climbing buildings. Somehow has a girlfriend (respects Derek too much to call him a bitch)

Kylanthra: half elf ranger with a panther named Brethiel but we usually call them Kia and Princess. Usually level headed but likes to fight and will fuck your shit up. Tries to be the mom friend but everyone else is too chaotic to listen to her (hasn’t called Derek a bitch to my knowledge but has probably thought it)

Thomas (npc):

Construct, he says “I am Thomas” and plays lute. Made by Dex. Best boy

[placesyoucallhome]

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

Gah safds I accidentally posted this early, I can’t believe Xkit would betray me like this! QoQ

- Ruhka was excited by the discovery of snow for exactly one day when he was living in Gridania, having never seen it before. He then decided ‘fuck that’, as he realized he really had no ability to retain heat and got cold far too easily.

- Salt plays a psaltery, and is the actual origin of her nickname, which most believe is her actual name. Her real name is Allyria, she doesn’t correct anyone.

- Canum is aetherically florescent, or his blood is anyways. It shines cyan blue if he’s using magic, or just generally around other strong sources of aether, but it’s not terribly bright and only really shows in the dark. It also shows up in his eyes making them faintly glow, which often gives him a killer headache.

- Corbeau’s eyes are particularly sensitive to light, and he often wears his red tinted glasses around even inside. Shine off fresh snow is sometimes painful to look at.

- Hazard is illiterate, but very good at math, it’s just all in her head for the most part. She does know written numbers, but she rarely had opportunity to use them.

- Amiette is studying to be a chirugeon, even though she has the head of the estate position waiting for her when she’s older and Corbeau wishes to ‘retire’. She’s top of the class, and the teachers usually love her, the students however are terrified.

-Toby, Ruhka’s direwolf, was a present from Sezul, sort of. The gift was to pick out a pup from the recent litter, Ruhka very specifically picked the runt of the litter. Ehcatl Nine still don’t quite understand why, but Toby is certainly happy where he is.

[plazmafields]

Cardinals

Cold weather again, Cullen thought, staring up into the sky as a single snow flake drifted to his forehead, melting and making its way down into the crease of his nose, rolling off the tip of his chin. The snow wouldn’t be so bad on its own, but the temperature was less than perfect, requiring several layers to make it a few blocks down the street.

A few timid steps forward, trying to avoid frost on the ground, and Cullen was out the door and on his way to the park. It wasn’t often Cullen had time outside of work to do anything for himself, but today he was determined to treat himself. The sky could fall later; Now is for myself, he grinned to himself with confidence.

As he walked at a leisurely pace, Cullen noticed a small flash of red bouncing alongside him in time to his steps. He glanced over to his right, gazing into the stark white snow. Nothing there. So he began to walk again, quickly reinstating his stepping pattern from before: hands in his pockets, head down, curls gently rocking with the slight breeze.

Only a few strides in and he saw it again, this time bouncing ahead of him just slightly before stopping and letting him pass, then hopping ahead again. Cullen turned more quickly this time, curious and annoyed at the shapeless distraction from his ‘me time’. When he glared to his right once again, he caught a glimpse of it: a little cardinal, bright red with black streaking feathers over its eyes, wrapping around to under its beak.

“Oh,” Cullen said sweetly, kneeling next to the bush the cardinal had scurried into. “Hello, little guy. It’s okay, you just surprised me.” Cullen held out his hand, cupping it gently to make himself seem more welcoming. The bird stared at him, breathing quickly and head cocking back and forth, afraid to approach.

“It’s okay, sweet guy, I won’t hurt you. I don’t think I have any food either, though.” Cullen wanted to check his backpack but was too scared the rustling would scare the puffy little avian away.

As Cullen continued to stay completely still, crouched with his arm extended, the bird began to warm up to him, bouncing out of its twiggy shelter and toward his welcoming hand. Just as the bird got close, ever so close, a flash of light startled Cullen—and his bird friend—out of his stance, causing him to clamber to his feet.

“Sorry!” A dark skinned man revealed himself from behind a large camera with many zoom and lighting attachments, “I needed a little extra glow.”

Cullen still felt in shock, not quite grasping the situation as it unfolded.

“Is this your…bird?” Cullen asked, not a clue as to what was happening.

The man quirked a brow at him, “Well, in terms of ownership, no. The wild Cardinal is not mine. He is, however, a beautiful subject and an excellent model.”

The dark haired beauty came closer, hanging his camera from his side and extending a hand to Cullen, “I’m Dorian; good to meet you. I’m a photographer, as I’m sure you guessed.”

Cullen took his hand in a ginger hold, somewhat cautious. “Cullen. It’s a pleasure.”

Dorian smiled brightly, causing a wave of comfort to flow over Cullen’s bones, loosening his posture automatically.

“You weren’t…taking pictures of me, were you?” Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed but oddly flattered.

Dorian chuckled, “Oh, no, not at all. Well, sort of. Only your hand, maybe a shoe. I was more focused on the bird, honestly. Not that you aren’t a sight yourself.”

Cullen’s eyes widened, blushing, and he scoffed, “I—Well, I don’t know about that…” he mumbled to himself.

Dorian gave a laughing huff, walking past Cullen to the bush where the cardinal had hidden once again. “He’s the first I’ve seen this year, and it’s only just turning to winter. He’s also quite small, isn’t he? I have a feeling he’s a runt.” Dorian said all this quietly as he pulled his camera back around his body, very slowly crouching and inching toward his subject.

“Don’t worry, darling, I won’t use the flash on this one.”

After a short silence where the whole world stood still, a satisfying camera shutter click! rang out, startling the poor puffball away.

“Damn, I’d hoped he wouldn’t be so shy.” Dorian muttered as he rose from his position, “Still, those were some lovely shots. Thank you for your help, Mister Cullen, you were the perfect distraction.”

Dorian’s shining smiling caught Cullen off guard. “Do you…take photos around here often?” Cullen wasn’t sure what his question would accomplish or why he felt the need to ask questions at all.

Dorian looked at him curiously again, tilting his head and furrowing his brow slightly, “Can’t say that I do. I rarely go out planning to take pictures, I just lug this thing everywhere I go—believe it or not—until I find a worthy shot. But I always have my eye open.”

“Looks heavy,” Cullen gestured to the camera.

Dorian lifted the camera in front of his face like he was lining up a shot, “You get use to the weight of it, but every little mod I add changed the balance, and I have to do a week’s worth of practice shots before I’ve compensated for the extra weight.”

Cullen tried to listen carefully—mostly just because he could tell Dorian was passionate—but if he was honest, he knew nothing about photography and even less about cameras.

Dorian lowered the beast of a camera to his side again, “I’m boring you, aren’t I? You can be honest.”

“No, not at all!” Cullen rushed to reassure him, “I’m just tech illiterate.”

Dorian gave a hardy chuckle at the phrase, “Well if we’re headed the same way, maybe I can tell you more on the walk.”

Cullen was already red from the cold, and he wasn’t sure if he could get redder, but his cheeks were heating up again. “I’m, uh, headed to the, um, park myself.”

Dorian’s smile was as white as the snow falling heavily around them, “Looks like we are headed the same way. To the same place, in fact.”

Dorian took the lead, dark skin making for a beautiful contrast against the winter scene ahead of them. Cullen jogged forward a few steps to catch up, walking alongside the photographer at a quicker pace than before they’d met.

“So, you don’t mind if I use your likeness in my photography, do you?”

“What?” Cullen was a tad shocked, wondering if Dorian was asking him to model or something.

“Your hands, actually. Your hand’s likeness. That’s all I got of you in the shot, but it’s still part of you.” Dorian leaded a little closer and dropped his volume, “I legally have to ask.”

Cullen wasn’t sure if he was serious or not, but it made laugh. “Do I get any royalties?”

Dorian laughed enough to toss his head back, “Now you’re asking the important questions!”

They chuckled together.

“Well, if I did portraiture I certainly wouldn’t mind having a handsome man like yourself as my model.” Dorian bumped shoulders with the blond.

By god, he must be absolutely crimson by now. Cullen couldn’t remember the last time someone paid him compliments like this, and he was starting to enjoy the attention.

Before he could become a brighter shade, Cullen asked, “What do you photograph then?”

Dorian sighed, recounting in his head. “Mostly wildlife and architecture. Lately, anyway. I’m in a lovely position where I can more or less photograph whatever takes my fancy day to day. I work for a magazine, but most of my money comes from freelancing and selling to stock photo sites. Always nice to have multiple sources of income, no?”

Cullen found himself fascinated. He’d never met a man who seemed so content and openly happy with his living. Cullen smiled as he watched Dorian nearly prance next to him. But the moment their hands brushed against each other, Cullen pulled back, staring into the sidewalk in front of him.

Dorian didn’t directly address it, but simply said, in a kind and soft voice, “Your hands are very warm.”

Cullen glanced over, both hands in his pockets again, “Oh…yours were…pretty cold, actually.”

Though he couldn’t tell for certain, Cullen could have sworn the darker man’s skin started to take on a red tone. “Think I could borrow some heat?”

Cullen couldn’t help the boyish grin that spread across his face as he cautiously reached for Dorian’s hand. And when their fingers intertwined, they both heard a little song come from the tree above them. And when they looked up, their little cardinal friend almost seemed to smile.

[sangcreole-archived]

What about the way you and Lestat were raised made you and him into such different people, even though you're both from the same time period? Relatively anyway.

"The main factor that both defined and differentiated our lives was our home life, and our family structure. We are both products of two very different ‘broken homes,’ as they say. 

I cannot speak extensively of Lestat’s upbringing, but he was the youngest son, and therefore considered the runt of the litter, in many ways. It was a struggle each day just to prove himself to those who looked down on him, and his father was a monstrous tyrant who attempted to break his spirit and punish him at any given opportunity. In a way, I think this has attributed to how Lestat strives for attention and adoration even now. He was an alien in his own household, and even the one he was closest to, his mother, was not equipped to give him the type of solace he sought. There is a reason he began his narrative with the wolf hunt. Lestat’s hunger for power, for autonomy and fame and luxury, can be traced back, in my opinion, to his childhood.

I, on the other hand, was not ignored and beaten, but rather raised with a silver spoon. I will admit it, my upbringing was relatively tame and uneventful, in comparison to Lestat’s. Well, it was, until my father died. I was young, yes, but not too young to assume all of the responsibilities my father left behind. It was extremely difficult: I was forced to make impossible decisions, and with the entire fate of my family in my hands, I could not afford to make any mistakes. And so, unlike Lestat, I refused to take risks. I never ran away from home, and I had no time for romance or adventure. I’m sure you know by now that I was also raised Catholic, which meant that any time I didn’t spend worrying over indigo shipments and crop rotation, I spent quite literally hating myself for whatever sins I was convinced I must have committed. I had been running that plantation for ten years by the time Lestat found me. I had all the power that any man in Louisiana could want, and I wanted nothing more than to get rid of it. I was living my life for other people- my siblings and my mother- and because I was forced to mature so early, by the time I actually entered adulthood, I had no idea who I really was. 

It is also important to take into account environmental and societal factors that differed between us. Lestat had a title with no wealth; I had wealth with a relatively new title (since we immigrated to the New World when I was too young to remember). Lestat was illiterate and therefore always somewhat dependent on others for communication and interpretation. I had the finest education money could buy, and eagerly learned how to speak for myself. Though I do not buy into the whole ‘brain versus brawn’ dichotomy, I do think that our communication tactics vary so much due to our relationship with words. Lestat tends to rely more on physical communication (touch or body language), while I prefer to carefully craft my thoughts so I can articulate them in the right manner. One thing we do have in common is that we were both raised in untamed environments- if you asked anyone from that period about either of the places in which we grew up, they would scoff and call us savages and hillbillies. He had wolves in his backyard, and I had alligators. I’d like to think that this gave us a similar...appreciation of nature (and fear of God’s dominion).

Lestat and I are...what is the term...two sides of the same coin. Opposites, yet mirror images of one another. And that is why, despite how often I complain, I do believe that we fit. He is ma moitié.”

[poemlocker]

Primeval Beasts rearing from green slime— an illiterate country, unable to read its own name. Stones moved into position on the hills’ sides; snakes laid their eggs in their cold shadow. The earth suffered the sky’s shrapnel, bled yellow into the enraged sea. At night heavily over the heaving forests the moon sagged. The ancestors of the tigers brightened their claws. Such sounds as there were came from the strong torn by the stronger. The dawn tilted an unpolished mirror for the runt mind to look at itself in without recognition. Neolithic I shall not be here, and the way things are going now won’t want to be. Wheels go no faster than what pulls them. That land visible over the sea in clear weather, they say we will get there some time soon and take possession of it. What then? More acres to cultivate and no markets for the crops.                       The young are not what they were, smirking at the auspices of the entrails. Some think there will be a revival. I don’t believe it. This plucked music has come to stay. The natural breathing of the pipes was to a different god. Imagine depending on the intestines of a polecat for accompaniment to one’s worship! I have attended at the sacrifice of the language that is the liturgy the priests like, and felt the draught that was God leaving. I think some day there will be nothing left but to go back to the place I came from and wrap myself in the memory of how I was young once and under the covenant of that God not given to folly. Christian They were bearded like the sea they came from; rang stone bells for their stone hearers. Their cells fitted them like a coffin. Out of them their prayers seeped, delicate flowers where weeds grew. Their dry bread broke like a bone. Wine in the cup was a blood-stained mirror for sinners to look into with one eye closed, and see themselves forgiven. Mediaeval I was my lord’s bard, telling again sweetly what had been done bloodily. We lived in a valley; he had no lady. Fame was our horizon. In the spring of the year the wind brought the news of a woman’s beauty. Her eyes were still stones in her smooth-running hair. Her voice was the birds’ envy. We made a brave foray; the engagement was furious. We came back alone. Sing me, my lord said, the things nearer home: my falcons, my horse. I did so, he listened. My harp was of fire; the notes bounced like sparks off his spirit’s anvil. To-morrow, he promised, we will ride forth again. Modern And the brittle gardens of Dinorwig, deep in the fallen petals of their slate flowers: such the autumn of a people! Whose spring is it sleeps in a glass bulb, ready to astonish us with its brilliance? Bring on the dancing girls of the future, the swaying pylons with their metal hair bickering towards England.

R.S. Thomas, “Perspectives”

[thatoneshadyshop]

30th of Sun’s Height, 2E 581

Once cannot quite decide whether the Khajiit’s indifference to one’s anger is insulting, or for the best. 

One most decidedly remains angry at Qau-dar, for he has betrayed one and found a way to justify it that even one, with all one’s worldly knowledge and intimate acquaintance with the Khajiit culture, cannot argue against, at least in such a way as is framed by Khajiit thinking. Tis maddening that one cannot properly articulate one’s ire without receiving a well thought out and calm retort. Barring venting one’s anger out at the Dunmer - which would, given that one suspects the fool is still taking whatever infernal concoction it is that is making him irritatingly biddable, be a waste of one’s time and energy - one has had no choice but to stew in a cloud of one’s irritation, wearing it as a shroud about one whilst riding at a distance from the others.

Well. Not all the others. One suspects that one could have been aflame and speaking in the Daedric tongue of old, and Ma’Riahni would not be content to leave her beloved and wise teacher alone. Insufferable child. One was hardly in the mood to allow her to climb all over one, never mind perch upon one’s head for a leisurely nap. Yet every time one removed her from one’s personage, she returned, giggling like some inane Imperial court whore. One has had no peace from her, neither from her presence, nor her questions. Everything has suddenly a question of “why?”. Even one’s explanations are met with another why, leading one into talking in circles and grappling to explain concepts for which there are no words. Tis simply infuriating. 

One notes that her fool and erstwhile, irresponsible husk of a fur clad father does not attempt to care for her himself. Tis typical. And about as much as one would expect from that traitor.

At least one has time enough to be with one’s thoughts and dwell darkly upon matters. With the cart of supplies being driven by the Dunmer’s foul servants, progress is steady, if not exactly rapid. One, at least, is able to ride by oneself, having bought a rather splendid thoroughbred courser from the stables as we left. Two others in the company have their own mounts, the Dunmer and the Argonian bodyguard he has hired, both riding the guar creatures that are so common in Morrowind. Qau-dar, lazy rug that he is, has taken to reclining in the cart as it trundles along, passing the time attempting to draw the two servants into conversation. Fool notion that that is. The woman is as shifty as any common hired blade one has ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon, keeping her thoughts to herself even as her hateful eyes show quite how she is sizing all the rest of the company up as threats and targets. The other Dunmer is, if anything, even more insufferable than his heretical master. One swears, if he dares sniff at one once more, one will rip his nose off and feed to him. Through his eye sockets. Looking down his nose at one, speaking to one as if one were just some common thug. One is the scion of a an unbroken line from the Divines! Tis not for some uppity little grey skin runt to speak down to one!

Pah. One should not concern oneself with the action of these lesser scabs and illiterate creatures. One should be contending oneself with other matters - the route ahead of us, for instance. Having passed through Riverwood already and being headed towards Helgen, the question of the route beyond that township is coming sharper into focus. One has yet to get a satisfactory answer from the Dunmer, not that that at all surprises one. One would trust him less to lace his own boots than plan out a route south and across the border. Nominal leader of this expedition that he is, however, one thought it best to at least allow him the appearance of having a notion of where he is leading us.

Alas. He seems not to have given the matter much thought. Incompetent fool. He clearly has no idea of the implications of his choice. The path through the Pale Pass and into the Jeralls north of Bruma seems the most obvious, yet that means dealing with the Imeprial garrison at Fort Neugrad, who will seemingly be wary to let such an eclectic band of races pass through into their country, especially in such a time of war and chaos. To say naught of the dangers of the nearby cave systems - rumours speak of an evil in the caves at the Southfringe in particular, while the Greywater Grotto is a veritable haven for wild creatures - or the possibility of what lurks in the abandoned Bloodlet Throne fort at the end of the pass. Heading west around the mountains brings its’  own challenges, however, least of all being having to find some path for the cart. Taking that path would risk drawing the attention of eyes from the Hammerfell border - and with two of the factions warring in the conflict blighting Tamriel already involved in this endeavour, it would be foolhardy to involve the third. We could, of course, head east along the feet of the mountains and enter Cyrodil from the Rift, yet that would add some considerable time onto our journey, and would see us enter Cyrodil in the relatively wild north east of Country Cheydinhal, which is hardly the terrain for a cart of supplies.

Still. One is only the guide, tis hardly as if one would be consulted on such matters. Far be it for a servant such as one to offer an opinion without being asked. 

Besides. It may be amusing to discover just how much further the Dunmer can sink in one’s estimations.