#in the interim

[cordiallyfuturedwight]

mots7 hobi for @senor-hoberto 🤍 (cr. namuspromised)

[jasper-the-menace]

Praetor Elizabeth meets Archangel Elspeth.

[purplesaline]

The average cost for a blood transfusion per unit of blood in the US is around $200-$300

In my city larger dogs can donate blood to the dog blood bank, and for every unit of blood they donate they would get a free unit of blood should they ever need a blood transfusion in the future.

Do you think a system like this would encourage more people to donate blood?

I'm not entirely certain given how many people have the "It won't happen to me" mentality.

[prose-priest-potentate]

In the Interim

Fic on Ao3: Here

<<< Previous | >>> Next

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Chapter 8: The Street Fight and the Morning After

After months of long days, Izek is ready for a drink. Sliding into a seat around one of the tables in the tavern isn’t as comfortable as it should be, because he follows Imrath and Wixen to a different table. The new one doesn’t have the scorch marks or claw gouges in it, and doesn’t have the perfect view of both doors. It’s probably for the best that he starts breaking old habits now. He keeps remembering – reminding himself - that this place isn’t good for him. It keeps him off-kilter. He hates it, but it’s something. 

Something quieter than the hate in his chest that bubbles constantly. A different ache. One that can be doused back down, replaced with a simpler, easier irritation when Wixen gets too touchy, or teases him too much. He could kill her, but scrapping with her is more fun. The new something can be coaxed into amusement when Imrath says something ridiculous or puts his foot in his mouth again and goes red all over. He could torment him, and he does, but it’s more fun when Imrath torments back. Izek likes the fight.

Doesn’t do much about the emptiness, of course, but Izek wouldn’t know the difference anyway, so he doesn’t notice it. He just watches his friends run around. Wixen is on all fours, running under tables with Bram and Brom. She’d snuck up and sprinkled some other powder on his spines, but he’d caught her with a clap to the ear before she scurried across the room, chattering and giggling. Imrath originally went to the bar for refills, but has since veered back by, following Danica with a tray of rolls and a quick apology: “Sorry dear, she was swamped.”

Whatever, he’s too damn helpful anyway. S’in his nature. 

The tavern is back to its usual decibel with the Wachter woman gone for good - there’s a new string bean bard plucking on an instrument and winking at the crowd, regardless of who gets slapped by their partner for it. People tell stories and tables erupt in laughter. Hunter’s boast. Some people climb up into their chairs with dramatic declarations that most other patrons smile at. Izek watches as Imrath bows deep and pulls Danica into a quick twirl around the floor to a plucky tune when the bard starts it up.

He is watching them, finishing off the last of Imrath’s drink in recompense for taking so long with refills, when a stranger struts up and leans on the table hard enough to jostle the plates. Izek’s spoon slides off his plate. The empty vat in his chest fills with vitriol like a breaking dam.

“What the fuck do you want?” He snarls. The man is clearly drunk – red in the face with spilled beer on his chest. He looks strong enough for a commoner – must be a farmer or a hunter, but little else. Easy overkill if he hits him as hard as he wants to. 

“I’m just a curioush citizin,” He slurs. Looks back over his shoulder to one of the other tables, but Izek’s laser focused on his face. He turns around slow. So so easy to just be rid of. Like strangling a babe. Izek’s patience thins in the time it takes him to finish his thought. 

“I was just wondering… what the infamous Captain Stazni has been up to. You left,” the man gestures with a tankard that sloshes onto the floor, “outta nowhere. Now you come back and the lizard man’s got you on a leash.” He’s too lost in his giggles, eyes shut, drinking deep after the last dregs of his beer, to hear the scrape of chair legs on the wood floor. 

Izek stands. Looms. Anyone should recognize the bloodlust when they see it, even through drunken fog, but this stranger has had a bit too much liquid courage. He slams his tankard down and keeps talking. “I mean, different strokes, I guesssh-” 

He squawks when Izek jerks him up by his neck, claws dug in. The tavern goes quiet, except for Danica, Imrath, and Wixen, who react with, respectively, a demand to take it outside her bar, concern, and gleeful amusement. The idiot stranger squirms, flails, and aims a punch at Izek’s face. It lands with a smack, gnashes Izek’s teeth further in his jaw, but doesn’t move him. Through the red, he thinks he hears Wixen giggle and Imrath growl. He’s squeezing and dragging the man to the door slowly. Stalking him out into the dark. Towards another excellent spot for a shallow grave that he’s had in mind for a rainy day like this one.

Comments of, “poor guy” “pity” and “Moringlord have mercy” follow them, but Imrath’s voice breaks the tension, ringing like a bell. 

“Oh! Wait for me!” He sounds entirely too cheerful. “I volunteer as referee!” 

What? Izek goes to look over his shoulder, but Imrath is already there with a smile and a firm hand on his wrist. 

“Every duel needs a judge to declare the winner. Don’t worry, I’ve done it before!” Imrath squeezes hard, and Wixen sweeps in with a cackle to pry the man from Izek’s claws – which still drag across his neck and leave deep scratches. Imrath touches his back and pushes, guides, with a smile that doesn’t fool him as they walk outside. 

The three of them head down the stairs, with the man who started it gasping and rasping, wriggling in Wixen’s iron grip – for a woman as small as she is, she’s almost as much of an immovable object as Izek. 

The man coughs and tries to yell, but it’s haggard, “What? You gonna reign in your bitch?!” 

Imrath bristles. The smile he put on for the crowd falls into bared teeth as Wixen laughs too loud in the man’s ear, “You must really have a death wish!” She forces him up to his feet, sneering, “Stupid. We’re here to keep you alive.”

Imrath’s rumbling growl is too low for anyone in the crowd that has followed them out onto the porch to hear, but Izek is staring at him with the same uncanny focus that he’s had the whole time when he leans in close, as he shoves his blindfold up into his feathers, pinning them back. His reptilian eyes are slits against the ambient light, but Izek’s sure he sees them try to dilate when he catches his eye. 

“Please don’t use fire, darling. I wanna watch you beat the shit out of this guy.” 

Izek squints at him for a full second before he smirks. It's cruel and makes Imrath’s heart jump in his chest, so he turns quickly, biting down his own grin, to address everyone. He has to blink and squint against the light from the doorway and windows, but he bears it.

“Alright, alright. Gather ‘round. Place any bets you’d like.” He gestures grandly at Izek. “Izek Stazni, versus… what was your name sir?” 

The man is standing now, hand to his throat, with Wixen stalking around keeping him in place. He doesn’t look interested in the sport of it - a shame. “Raj. Sevolad.” 

“Raj Sevolad.” Imrath’s voice is cordial and charming. “Gentlemen, the rules are as such: no weapons, no magic, including from friends, until after the fight is called. This is a fight to unconsciousness or yield – and I reserve the right to pause the fight to ask for a yield at any point. Ready?” 

Izek nods before he finishes the question, but Imrath is looking at Raj, who is only fueled by stupidity and ego. Imrath raises an eyebrow, waiting while he considers - looks from Izek over to the crowd on the tavern porch, to his friends and neighbors. Perhaps his sense of self-preservation is finally surfacing through the booze. That won’t do.

Imrath maintains his smile. “Yielding before your opponent returns at least one blow would be a great shame, Mr. Sevolad.”

Raj jumps; pride wounded, bluff called. He squares himself and raises his fists. Excellent. 

“Begin.” 

The fight is fair. Imrath makes sure of that, but it isn’t a competition by any means. He stands by the steps beside Wixen with rapt attention as Izek goes painfully easy. Izek, who he’s seen skewer a hag to a stone wall with a good overhand and was halfway to killing Raj in the tavern. Izek, who is a wolf toying with his prey – letting him get close to another hit and just snarling at him. Shoving him by the back of the head toward the ground instead of decking him just to laugh when he spits dirt out of his teeth. Wixen is loving it too, cheering and mocking Raj for his misses. A few other voices join her. A few in support of the idiot shout “close!” and “get him Raj!”

Imrath speaks over them with all the command his ancestors would be proud of, “Gentlemen, do either of you yield?” 

Izek is cocky and rabid. Raj is furious. “No!”

Guards investigate the commotion, and are waved over by several citizens to watch the fight as well. They’re clearly torn, because Izek turning his wrath on anyone usually ends with a corpse, and he’s clearly enjoying this too much – in a way that is familiar to those who used to work under him, but he is, once again, in good with the Baron. Or, his friends are. They’re technically town heroes again. So… do they risk interfering? 

They hesitate, and Imrath makes a big scene of asking for another yield. Both men say no, and the guards gradually shift from hovering to mingling. Good. 

Izek needs this fight, and the villagers need to learn to mind themselves - heroes or not. This is an example - an important precedent.

The fight picks up when Raj hisses out something nasty again and Izek doesn’t dodge. He takes a punch to the gut like it’s nothing and uppercuts him with his left. Raj sputters and scrambles back up onto his feet. Bless him, Izek beats him bloody, but he stays on his feet for another two punches. The last one digs into his diaphragm and he curls up on the ground, gasping for the air he can’t seem to find. Imrath moves quick to put himself in the way, and Wixen reaches to stop Izek’s next coiled punch. The guards pull swords and step forward, but everyone pauses. Half the crowd groans.

Imrath steps in close and pulls Raj back to his feet. He feels the man tense under his claws, but tries to be gentle.

“Careful, Mr. Sevolad. That was a good fight.” He steps back, leaves Raj holding his abdomen and wheezing, to address the crowd. “That was an effort to be proud of, wasn’t it everyone?” 

The crowd responds with murmurs of support and nodding heads. Yeah, they suppose it was. Izek isn’t known for his mercy, after all. Raj doesn’t appreciate the pity, but Wixen is at his side, grinning with a maw of fangs faster than he can protest. To give credit where it’s due, at least the man seems to know when to keep his mouth shut when he’s sober. He stands still, as straight as he can manage with his undoubtedly broken rib.

Imrath doesn’t fight the open fondness on his face when he turns back to Izek with a beaming smile. He takes Izek’s left hand and holds it all the way over his head, presenting him to the crowd on the porch. “Ladies and Gentlemen, your winner!” 

They cheer. It’s a little half hearted from most, but Izek gets a few claps that he is quick to dismiss, and Imrath lets it be. It’s as much of a success as they can expect. Izek thinks, now that he’s exorcized his temper, that it had been a good save.

Izek watches Imrath flash him another smile - looking at him with pride and indulgence like they’ve pulled off some kind of sweets-out-the-jar heist instead of turning a murder into a street fight. Though, perhaps those are similar enough for the dragonborn. Weirdo. 

As the crowd dissipates and patrons return to their tables, guards to their rounds, and nearby window shutters latch back closed, Imrath is checking on his opponent - glowing will brilliant sunlight through the scales of his hands to heal him. He says something that Izek can’t hear, and Wixen snickers. 

Then the guy, Raj, jumps. Imrath stands with no tension in his body, smiling and holding one of Raj’s hands in both of his. His mouth moves, and the man tries to pull away, but Imrath’s hold is a vice, and he is halted. Izek perks up. 

He keeps talking - keeps smiling, and Raj’s face screws up. The poor beast, stuck in a trap, looks around for help and only finds Izek as witness. Everyone else only sees a couple of helpful town heroes having a chat with him. Pity. The pathetic sod jerks back around to stare up at the dragonborn looming over him. Imrath ducks his head, and Izek watches him say something else.

Raj rips himself away. He scrambles back, stumbles and barely catches himself. Wixen laughs out loud when Izek snorts. 

Imrath only stares as Raj finally turns to run home and lick what is left of his wounds. Keeps his reptile’s eyes fixed so that every time Raj turns to check over his shoulder, he hasn’t moved.

Huh… Wonder what he said?

______________________________________________________________

The cheer from the audience is honestly a lot more pathetic than Imrath is used to. Duels back home are a regular occurrence, but always a welcome and raucous spectacle. When a gauntlet is thrown or a fight demanded, word spreads fast through social circles, and you could expect many of your friends and clan members to show up to support you. They would cheer and bellow and stomp their feet, some would even break out into chants and dances to bolster their preferred combatant, and hiss and taunt the opponent, if the duel lasts long enough. Given the high stakes of dishonor on your clan for losing, most dragonborn would rather be dragged away in pieces than to lose.

Imrath had only been part of the crowds - he wasn’t allowed to cause that kind of trouble for his family, but it had never failed to make his blood sing for the show.

This? This was just a scrap, but it was the best that Barovia had offered, and Imrath would never deny a gift like watching Izek fight. He watches the crowds fall silent too quickly and file away. A shame, he thinks. 

Still, he is grinning. He’s soaring with pride when he turns to smile at Izek - his beautiful force of nature, Izek. He could kiss him then and there. Would, in a heartbeat, if he thought for a second that it might be wanted. The easy affection demands it of him. But he is a gentleman, so he only smiles and squeezes Izek’s hand before he has to turn to finish handling Raj.

He doesn’t want to be civil, but he will be. He takes a deep, grounding breath before he makes it over. He needs to school himself - he’s at work. C’mon Im.

“Mr. Sevolad,” Without his blindfold, the disgust is easy to see on the man’s face. He ignores it, “how are you feeling?” 

“Like shit, as you should well know.” Imrath nods, and reaches to take one of Raj’s hands in his. When he does, the man curls his lip. “I ain’t interested in anything you have to say, lizard.” 

Imrath takes his hand anyway. “I’m sure, but nevertheless,” His palms glow as he calls up some magic to ease some of the damage. Raj can stand much better when the sunlight dims. “Forgive me, I really must have a word with you.” 

Raj, who had been distracted by the magic, jerks his head up to look into Imrath’s face. “I said I don’t care what you say.” He tries to pull away, but Imrath curls his fingers. His claws dig in, and Raj pauses when he feels them hook into his skin. “What’re you-” 

“Mr. Sevolad,” Imrath interrupts. The edge of his lips try to curl into a smirk, but he bites it back down. “You and I are going to come to a mutually beneficial agreement.” He waits, lets the words sink in. Wixen’s ears have spun around to listen, and Raj tries to look around, but clearly finds no sympathy. Imrath does not take his eyes off the frightened man. 

When Raj pulls again, Imrath unlatches four claws and uses that hand to pat Raj’s. “You are going to swear not to disrespect my companions again,” Wide, incredulous eyes spin around to face him. He maintains his smile. “and I will swear to you that if you do I will not save you from the fight you went looking for.” 

He leans in, speaks more softly. His next words are almost lost to the giggling of the woman at his elbow. “I will help Izek hide whatever is left of your ashes, and perhaps, if you beg me in your last breaths, I will give you a proper funeral somewhere where no one will find you.”

When Raj moves to wrench himself free, claws be damned, Imrath lets go, and the man stumbles. Wixen laughs loud in his ear, but Imrath is unmoving. Staring. Menacing him on purpose. He needs this man to believe this truth, because Imrath doesn’t want to have to see it through. He really isn’t a vicious man, but this place seems to only speak in fatality, so Imrath will do what he must.

______________________________________________________________

Danica is there blocking the door with her hands on her hips when they try to rejoin the crowd. “Now I know that y’all are town heroes - and I am always grateful for that,” She wags her finger, “but I’ll not have my inn turned into a sparring ring.”

Imrath, ever the mediator, ducks his head like a child that’s been scolded. “Sorry, Miss Danica. It was the best I could do given the circumstances.”

The circumstances, standing on either side of the dragonborn, give each other sidelong glances. Danica spends another second regarding Imrath, just so that the motherly disappointment sinks in. She gives Izek and Wixen both a stern look.

Izek glares at her, “I didn’t start it.” Danica deadpans, and he gestures out into the street, “and I was leaving. I didn’t even get blood on your floor.” 

“Well.” It isn’t lost on her that any other day, Raj would have gone missing and Izek would have come back to the pub to drink himself under the table. Whatever this band of misfits is doing, it tends to work out. With a sigh, she steps aside and ushers them back in. “I suppose you all did well enough, just try to limit the street fights.”

They all nod with varying degrees of sincerity, and Imrath says, “Yes ma’am.” 

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The rest of the evening goes as it should have in the first place. Imrath buys them a bottle of wine and promises not to drink too much of it. Izek enjoys his glass while Imrath scrubs the drying blood off Izek’s knuckles. Wixen chugs her first glass, tells some dramatic story about the Great Forest she grew up in, chugs her second glass, and takes off under the tables to make mischief with the kids again. 

When Urwin scurries by carrying an armful of plates, Imrath can’t seem to help himself, and tries to help out again. Unceremoniously, Izek grabs him by the belt and plants him back in his chair.

“No you don’t.” Imrath spins around, frowning. Before he can prattle out whatever indignation he has, Izek pokes him in the chest with a claw. “I’m tired of you running off. You stay right there, drink your wine, and enjoy this awful music.” 

He watches him think about it; watches his jaw muscles work like he’s picking an argument and his snout curl up. Izek rolls his eyes. He pushes his chair back enough to yank Imrath’s tail around to tuck it under his own thigh - pinning it there.

“What? Izek c’mon-” Imrath tries to pull it back, but Izek puts more of his weight down.

“I’m serious.” He gestures with his glass for Imrath to grab his own. “You already did your good deed for the night, now you just gotta sit here and scare off any other drunk idiots.”

Imrath purses his lips, but does eventually smile and relax. “Alright, alright. You’re in charge.” 

______________________________________________________________

Izek wakes up sweaty.

The radiating heat is the first thing he notices. On the blurry edges of his consciousness, it’s suffocating and he immediately hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in his miserable life.

The next thing he becomes aware of is the sickly sweet smell of booze. Gods be damned, he hasn't woken up hungover in months. He needs a new shirt, and a pitcher of water. Or another tankard. He isn’t sure what kind of day it is yet. That’ll depend on what bullshit he has to deal with at work today…

He tries to lift himself and doesn’t move. His eyes snap open with the spike of fear through his chest - the deep seated nightmare that his arm will be gone again and he’ll be- 

A wall. Red spikes. Okay. He closes his eyes against the morning light and forces himself to take a deep breath. His arm is still there. It’s just all pins and needles. He grits his teeth, mutters a curse, and gets to work rolling the dead limb back up onto the bed. It’s a struggle, because even his human arm seems to be betraying him, but he finally makes it up onto an elbow. 

He groans again, and the bed beside him shifts. 

What the- Oh. Izek blinks again; tries to squeeze the sleep out and focus. 

Imrath’s horns and a few feathers poke out from under the covers. There are at least two limbs wrapped around him.

He’s stricken, rooted in place.

Torn between enjoying a rare quiet morning where they don’t actually have to do anything and getting up to tend to his aching head - and to maybe not be caught all curled up in bed like this. Not that he cares what anyone thinks, but the idea is alien. The closeness is alien. He doesn’t know if he likes it the way he likes the undivided attention.

He’s still deciding if he can let himself have the feeling in his chest about it - warm but not angry. It almost makes him hurt when he realizes that he doesn’t hate it, because the hurt is what he knows best.

It is a ghost of a feeling that other people might call contentment, but Izek doesn’t try too hard to parse it out anymore today. His head fucking hurts. He needs food, and then to curl up somewhere dark where Wixen can’t find him and annoy him yet.

Memories float back in from the night before: the fight, the very nice wine that mixed with all the ale he’d already had. He’d arm wrestled Wixen at some point. Vaguely, he remembers winning. He remembers having to hold the walls to make it back up the stairs to their room, and being determined to take his bath himself, thank you very much. 

He thought he’d gone to his own bed? He’d never drunkenly crawled into someone else’s bed before. Which, even if he had and never remembered it, anyone else would have just cleared out and slept on the floor before they curled up with a monster. Not that he cares either way. He’d prefer sleeping alone - not waking up so damned hot. Imrath’s a furnace. Izek kicks the covers off his leg and props it up on the floor. 

It's grounding, and offers another half baked memory: it's blurry, but he thinks he recalls seeing a fox tail disappear out the window for the roof, and glowing pink eyes blinking at him when he laid down. Had Imrath tucked him in? What the Hell?

He’s trying to think straight between his headache and his stupid numb arm giving out on him and he can’t get up without- Imrath shifts again, nuzzles closer, and Izek can feel his nose horn dig into his side. The tail curls up further on his thigh. 

Izek watches his horns move around and he mumbles something in his dragon language that feels like, “5 more minutes.”

So he snorts and flops back down, dragging some of the cover up off their feet to cover his own eyes.

<<< Previous | >>> Next

Whatever. He can heal me later.

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[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

Much to the Inspector’s dismay, the BOOTH returned him and Mona to London weeks after they’d stepped inside.

Coming face-to-face with Mona’s gran didn’t help. Plus, she had worrying news: the world had gone mad in the interim.

[freakinthefridge]

you always look so troubled

[notbecauseofvictories]

Anyway, Terry Pratchett invented the Our Blessed Homeland / Their Barbarous Wastes meme, almost 25 years before Tom Gould got around to it

[mon-ster-chen]

✨️Interim Deputy Director of Turalism here! If you're planning a trip to Tural, be sure to visit our Tour Tural website for all of your travel needs ✈️🗺️

[beanabina]

finished my fanbind of Interim by starkraving (@punishandenslavesuckers) and I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out!

it was my first fanbind and it's nowhere near perfect (the gold foil fought me every step of the way, the spine is about as straight as I am, and I forgot a somewhat crucial piece of cardstock beneath the bookcloth...) but i'm so, so happy to have this amazing fic on my shelf now, and i'm stoked to take what i've learned in the binding process this time into my next attempt!

[peachcott]

[ aa ] reflecting / witnessed

[jasper-the-menace]

Jaren is a beautiful moron and his girlfriend is only just now figuring this out.

[kingjasnah]

alright. the differences between the ghostbloods on roshar and the ghostbloods on scadrial are so stark.....after TLM came out and we saw them fr for the first time it was like....this is just Final Empire Crew Part 2. they call him 'kell'. they have stupid in jokes. its not that i think kelsier is above getting a little evil with it but when marasi doesnt join the ghostbloods it's whatever but when shallan doesn't join she's like "um guys theyre going to kill my entire family." did iyatil pop over from scadrial like actually this time we're operating like an actual secret society and NOT a frat house

[prose-priest-potentate]

In the Interim

Fic on Ao3: Here

<<< Previous | >>> Next ______________________________________________________________

Chapter 7: Putting the Broken Pieces Back Together

It takes a full night for both men to wake up with their faculties and be properly bandaged once they’re no longer in living nightmares or talking to the doctor like she’s their dear friend who is heartlessly ignoring them when they ask what needs to go on the grocery list.

Imrath is saddled with a sling. No matter how much radiance he pours into his own wounds every morning, some things just need to heal the usual way. It makes him feel awkward as he struggles into his vestments, but the collective town heroes give Nikolai Sr. the burial and ceremony he should have had a while ago. Privately, Imrath promises to come back as soon as he figures out how to help their sister as well. 

It’s a long day, with the promises of more to come, as they wait for Imrath to heal enough to wield his sword again. He doesn’t like it, but he knows he would just be a liability as soon as anything more intimidating than a wolf showed up. He’s still got a stitch in his ribs from where The Abbot smote him that he had just been dutifully ignoring.

Oh well. He’ll make the most of their time, now that they have it.

They have a collective single good night’s sleep between them before they have to start again. 

______________________________________________________________

Danica is alight the next morning, happy that they’ve succeeded and happy to feed her intrepid, nosy heroes. She even finds the sunk to elbow Imrath’s good shoulder and tease him that his dance with Izek in the town square all those weeks ago must have gone much better than he let on. All he can do is duck his head behind his tankard as heat rises all the way up to his horns and say that he’s been quite happy with the way it all turned out. He feels Izek looking at him - as unreadable as always, but leaves whatever it was meant to sat hanging in the air while Wixen, who finds his fluster hilarious, fills Danica in on all the juicy details while the two men try to ignore it and make conversation about the day’s plans.

Imrath and Wixen take their spare morning to visit the orphanage again; Wixen occupies the children in the yard, working off their boundless energy with games of chase and hide and seek (paying special attention to her favorite, little Oscar), while Imrath talks to the Head Mistress and Millivoj, and Izek hovers nearby, too loyal to leave their vicinity, but not at all interested in staying there. 

The rest of the day is for separate tasks - Wixen is out on the town with Muriel for the afternoon, and visiting with Kassimir and the newly minted Petrina for the evening, while Imrath and Nikolai have agreed to meet at the Baron’s mansion; since the place really should be his by rights, if he is to assume power, and because Izek and Viktor (who is under strict orders to stay unseen) are going to take the chance to clean out their rooms and pack their remaining things.

______________________________________________________________

Imrath and company arrive first, and it shouldn’t really come as a surprise that Izek still has the correct key to the door, as a hopefully invisible Viktor scurries through the entry and out of his sight down the grand hall, but it is.

Yet another reminder for Imrath that he plucked Izek from a complete, adult life, where he had a kind of family and a job that he enjoyed, with responsibilities and power at his fingertips. He sometimes wonders if Izek misses it, along with all the other things he wonders about him. He had gone with them… for his own reasons. He’d mentioned needing to get his father’s permission, but Imrath had, even then, still expected it to be a harder sell to Izek himself. 

Vargas was an easy mark, with his ego and vanity so easy to flatter into just about anything, and he was loosened further by liquor when they had given him a story about needing an escort to Barovia village - that someone like his own son, his right hand, would make an excellent impression on the other Baron if he, and thus Vargas himself, were part of the party seeing the Baron’s precious daughter home safely… 

But Izek hadn’t really ever mentioned why he wanted out.

He leaves the door cracked to let Nikolai know they’d already arrived and wanders after his mystery man, up the cold marble stairs with carpets to cut the chill that always reminded him of home, but hovers in the doorway. Imrath lifts his blindfold to his forehead, waiting to see Izek’s room for the first time himself. Wixen had told him, of course, when she’d run off from dinner to spy….

Izek hesitates for just a half-second, a half-step, before letting him - probably embarrassed about the dolls, but Imrath only looks around at them all. Wixen had shown him one of them, and Blinksy had explained how many he’d demanded over the years. It isn’t a surprise, and besides, he had already trusted Izek with Mari… 

He walks in slowly, lost in his memories, looking around. He had been prepared to kill Izek in a second, if he had been any danger to Marileina, and he is infinitely glad that his intuition didn’t lead him astray. He pauses by the now empty bedside table. He touches the gouges in the wood that would line up perfectly with Izek’s claws, wondering what had Izek kept there. A journal - like he did? A knife, probably… A glass of water, or a favorite book perhaps? 

“What’re you staring at?” Izek is coming out of a closet with crates stacked in his arms, shoving another with his foot, with clothes tossed over his shoulder. Imrath furrows his brows and raises his chin, but stays zoned out at the claw marks in the wood. 

“This is your bedroom.” 

“Yes.” Imrath never minds the sass, even when it lands on the ears as: No shit, dumbass.

“I forget, sometimes, that you had a whole life here.” He never manages to forget that Izek has a past, or that it’s likely more blood and beer than anything else, just that it was such a long time. 

“It wasn’t much of a life.” 

“Twenty something years, right?” 

“Twenty-four.” 

“I remember being so surprised that you were so ready to leave with us.” Imrath smirks. “I knew I wasn’t that charming.” 

Izek gives him an unamused look as he passes by, collecting up dolls and wrapping them carefully in shirts and pillowcases. Imrath holds out his hand to help, and Izek, reluctantly, lets him hold some tiny Marileinas. Imrath actually thinks they’re cute. Weird as shit without context, but cute enough with it. Not so different from the drawings of Izek in Mari’s diary.

Both siblings were strange, in sometimes unfathomable ways. Imrath thinks of Marileina’s divination. Briefly, he wonders if she watches Izek through his eyes…

“I was impressed by you, y’know.” Imrath says it quietly, knelt over the crate to let Izek pack the figures as carefully as he likes while Imrath talks, “Captain of the Guard is no title to blow smoke at, and authority suits you.” 

Izek looks up, incredulous and raises his bushy eyebrow. Imrath nods. 

“I know, I know. I didn’t know what that meant then, and you’ve grown a lot already - which I’m very proud of you for, by the way. I don’t say that enough. You have only continued to impress me.” He babbles and fluffs his feathers. Izek clears his throat. “Anyway… I just, well, I didn’t think you’d say yes. Thought that note I wrote would be the last I saw of you.”

“I wasn’t expecting to have a reason to stay gone.”

Imrath smiles and holds up the doll in his hands. Younger than he’s ever seen her, with similar pretty bows in pigtails this time instead of pins by her ears, and even smaller little buckled boots. “It worked out.” 

“Yeah.”��

“I bet you were a cute little hellion as a kid.” 

Izek snorts, “I was just as oversized and ugly as I am now.” 

“Adorable, then.” Imrath catches himself, barely, with his tail when Izek shoves him. “I was a gangly monster - all busted knee scales and feathers all over the place.”

“So, like you are now?” 

He snorts smoke in Izek’s face, and he is laughed at, so he stands and paces, continuing to hand Izek his things, and be nosy.

"I think the weirdest part is this being out of order.” 

“Hm?”

“We’ve been on the road for three months and shared just about everything we feasibly could, and I’m only now sitting on your bed.” He says as he sinks down into the mattress - plush enough for a mansion, but still the least favorite foster son of a vain man. “Though mine isn't so different back home.”

Izek half-listens, like always, as Imrath vaguely describes the layout of his own childhood bedroom. Izek chooses not to mention that he’s had three childhood bedrooms. No need to remind him how pathetic Izek’s actual raising was.

“-my bed is much larger though. With how small you are, your going to have so much room in a-"

Izek tunes back in, "Small?!"

"Well not that small compared to me but I'm not big myself. There’s more room than I’ve ever needed in my bed back home-" If he notices the scandalized look Izek throws him, he ignores it, “-when Ru and Daisy stayed the night, we could all pile up easy enough, but Nyerg would have to make a spot on the floor if he didn’t want to try to drag his bed down the hall. Our parents’ hated that.” He shrugs, smiling happily over at Izek, “Either way, you’ll be able to stretch out, and I think you might even get a whole night’s sleep there.”

Izek huffs a little laugh that never quite sounds like amusement. 

Imrath is always talking about something, and it is more and more often about their hypothetical trip to his home city. He always says it so confidently. Exactly the way he says sweet things like handsome and love and darling. That last one doesn’t come out often, always following his first name or said quietly after a thank you. It doesn’t sound patronizing the way it had when Baron Vallakovich used it for Lady Lydia. 

Izek’s still getting used to it though - the lot of it.

“Alright,” The dragonborn stands and takes a deep breath, “Nikolai should be along soon.” He pulls his blindfold back down, hooking the loop over his nose horn.

“You’re meeting him in the banquet hall, right?”

“Yeah. It’s a lot more palatable than the office, I think.” His snout curls up in that way Izek likes, wrinkled like a dog’s snarl.

“Alright. I’ll be done before you.” 

“Don’t rush on my account.” Imrath tosses him a goofy smile, “I know you find gubernatorial law riveting.”

Izek snorts and smacks Imrath’s tail. “Go.”

______________________________________________________________

Of the things he’s managed to learn about Barovian politics and the people that live in the valley, Imrath knows a little about Nikolai Wachter; he is young man, technically a nobleman on the same level of social hierarchy as Viktor because he’s the oldest son of the late Lady, then Baroness Wachter. 

He has learned that, previous to the total overhaul of the government, twice now, he and his brother Karl spent most of their time drinking, goofing around, and beating the shit out of Viktor for what he did to their sister when they found him in town. As such, the Wachter boys don’t necessarily like Izek either (by various degrees of relation and politics, which Imrath understands.) Hence why Viktor and Izek are both making themselves scarce while he tries to do work.

Imrath is surrounded by dusty legal tomes and stacks of scrolls when Nikolai wanders in. 

“In here!” Imrath meets him at the end of the table, shaking his hand, and guiding him to the head of the banquet table. “Thanks for meeting with me.” 

“Sure.” He’s tense, and looking around. Imrath doesn’t take it personally. “It’s uh, the least I could do for helping us put our dad to rest.” He picks up one of the books when he takes his seat. Dust comes off the cover in the shape of his hand. “Gross. What’s all this for, anyway?” 

“These,” Imrath settles in a chair on his right and rests his elbows on the table with a sigh. “are your work. Every legal notice, tax policy, trade agreement, and treaty that I could find this morning.” 

“What the Hell are you talking about, man? What do I need from when Vallakovich was in charge?” The tone he uses is about as disgusted and venomous as Imrath expected. 

Good. The dragon born nods to himself and relaxes into his chair. “He was a pretty bad ruler on several fronts, wasn’t he?” He gestures for Nikolai to sit down with him, smirking.  “Even I could see it.”

Nikolai likes the joke and coughs out a laugh. “HA. Got that right. Those damn festivals always getting in everyone’s way, wasting time and money just so he could stroke his ego!” 

Imrath is glad that he asked Izek to find somewhere else to go. He may not think as highly of his foster family anymore, but they did take him in, and Imrath knows it would grate on his sense of loyalty to hear Nikolai, who is still listing problems, talk about the late Baron like this - true or not.

“Which…” Nikolai’s voice falls. He seems suddenly all twisted up between the truth and what he wishes wasn’t. “I guess my mother wasn’t much better, between the cult and the lottery, and-” keeping Dad preserved in their bed like that. Imrath doesn’t make him say it, and just reaches out to squeeze his shoulder.

“We’re here to fix all of that. That’s what I mean when I say this is your work,” he points around the table, explaining which piles are old treaties that aren’t in effect anymore, which ones are laws that Lady Wachter vetoed, which ones appear to be letters that were never sent, etc. Nikolai’s shoulders get more and more tense as Imrath talks on, so he pauses and looks over at him. 

“You okay?”

“It’s a lot… uh, a helluva lot more than I ever did before. Do I even need this?” He scans the contents of a nearby scroll, “What does half of this shit mean?”

Imrath scurries over, pulls his hood over his face enough for some shade, and slides off his blindfold. “This one… looks like an old trade deal with Barovia Village. No longer in effect.” When he looks up, Nikolai is staring.

“Holy shit dude.” 

Imrath smiles, and slides his blindfold back down over his snout. “Sorry. Had to read it.” 

“So you can see?!”  He’s loud, and Imrath laughs.

“Sort of! Only in the shade, really.”

The conversation about how and why Imrath wears his blindfold is a nice step back from the serious paradigm shift in this man’s young life that is about to be asked of him. Plus, it’s nice to chat with someone his own age. He learns more about what it was like to be one of Wachter’s children - he learns that their father was much more involved in raising them - like his own - but that they didn’t get much official noble education besides literacy.

“I do wish someone had trained you before you inherited this responsibility.” He sympathizes, unrolling another scroll to read over.

“Why do you keep calling it that?” 

Imrath blinks. He looks up, confused, at his new friend. “What do you mean?”

Nikolai, who has leaned back comfortably in his seat, gestures dismissively. “Being Baron is just being rich, having kids, and being seen around town, right? It can’t be that hard.”

Imrath’s feathers bristle. “That’s what Vallacovich did. We both intend for you to be a successful Baron, right?” 

“Of course!” He sits forward, “so I write a few laws and shmooze with other nobles - that’s just parties. Not festivals though.” He wrinkles his nose. “Fuck that.” 

Imrath turns fully in his seat to face the young man who hasn’t yet realized that he is already Baron Nikolai Wachter, burgomaster of the Village of Vallakai. 

“Nikolai, I need you to understand something that generations of rulers have forgotten: your title is a working position, and lording over the common people is a luxury paid for by your own labor as well.” 

Nikolai furrows his whole face, like the sentence asked a lot of him. Imrath tries again. 

“What I mean is that the things you enjoy as Baron aren’t free.” 

“Right. Taxes.” He nods, missing the point. “I can’t raise those right now, people hate raising taxes.” 

Bless him. Imrath fights the pity from showing on his face. Instead he grabs some books from the middle of the table and starts building. 

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and I have faith that you’re gonna do fine.” A little reassurance as Imrath makes the base of a tower from some books turned on their edge sides. “Think of it like this; you’re at the top of the village.” 

Nikolai nods, still confused, but willing to watch Imrath play with blocks. Imrath holds out a red book, indicating that it is meant to be him. 

“There isn’t a top until you make a bottom. This book has no where to go unless I stack the others first.” Having stacked them, he balances the Tome of Nikolai on top of the others. One of the books at the base, the one he sat on its edge, crinkles and opens under the weight. The tower collapses. 

“That didn’t work.” 

“Right.” Imrath re-stack them, with the bottom books oriented correctly on their bottoms - sturdier. This time, it doesn’t topple even when he jostles the tablecloth. “If you’re the top book, your people are your base. If they’re healthy, happy, and strong, you are too.” 

Nikolai is quiet for a moment, thinking critically. Imrath thinks it’s sinking in. 

“I can’t force them to be happy though. That doesn’t work.” 

“So what do you think makes a person happy?” 

“Plenty of beer and wine, and good food.” He lists quickly the things that make him happy. “Low taxes. Not having their time wasted on festivals.” He raises his eyebrows and pulls his mouth into an amused little frown. “Not getting beaten to shit by Izek for nothing.” 

Imrath has a wide grin when he looks up, and has written those things in a bullet list on a spare piece of paper. They work together to name a few more: Imrath suggests safety, from the beasts in the woods and Strahd as much as possible, Nikolai offers up good weather and good hunting, because he hears people in the tavern complain about bad weather and poor hunting. It’s a good list and a great start, so they move into how to make it happen. Imrath has gotten up to pace, skimming through a book away from the light of the hearth they lit to fight the chill.

“Some things, like weather, you won’t be able to control.” He shrugs, “But people like to have something to complain about; so long as it’s just the weather, we’ll be fine.”

“Right! Add complaining to the list.” Nikolai has been slowly reading through an expense report, trying to parse it out into its numbers. Imrath wanders over and puts a hand on his shoulder with a hopeful smile.

“You get it now, right? How much of a job being a good ruler is?”

Nikolai still makes a face about it, but, “Yeah. I think I’m starting to.” He looks up. “You’ll help me figure all this out, right?” 

“Of course. I’ll be a resource for you for as long as I can, and you can always write to me with the Marticovs.” 

Sudden anxiety relieved, they go back to their work. Imrath sticks close, reading along and advising that whoever was ruling when this report was written should have worked with the other villages to make sure that everyone had enough to eat through Winter, since they had a dry growing season and a bad harvest. Once pointed in the direction of a problem, Nikolai starts reading closer, counting dates, and complaining about the oversight. 

“How did people eat with only,” He squints at the script, “50 bushels of potatoes that year? That’s a lot, but there are a bunch more people.”

“Some probably didn’t.” Imrath circles himself over the holy symbol on his chest. Nikolai watches. His finger stutters as he traces the shape of the Sun out on the table with his finger. Imrath keeps prodding, “Fewer mouths to feed isn’t a solution, though, is it?” 

“...No. Not really.” He says it like a decision – that it might not be something he’s willing to do in the future. Good. This is going pretty well.

“You know,” Imrath is serious, zoned out in the air between the young man’s face and this sheet with its implied death toll. “Neglected work always pays for itself - with broken equipment, barren land, or pounds of flesh.”  

“Dude.” Nikolai deadpans. “You can be really ominous, you know that?” 

Imrath shrugs. “Occupational hazard.” 

From behind them, the sound of heavy, uneven stomping down the stairs echoes around the corner. Nikolai hesitates, perked up like some skittish creature fighting its fight or flight. Imrath turns with a soft smile, as Izek steps past the door frame with a crate cradled in his demon arm. 

He immediately pulls a face. “Why do you look like a tent?” 

Nikolai stays standing, uncomfortable, as Imrath sticks out his forked tongue. Izek’s seen him do this now countless times before, but is being mean for fun. “Did you get done?” 

“Yeah.” He walks in and drops the crate on the other end of the table. It shakes, but the book tower stays standing. “I packed up some of the other stuff from the office too.” He wrinkles his nose and makes eye contact with Nikolai. “You’re gonna want another carpet in there. It still reeks of dog.” 

“Yeah. Sure.” It’s not a smooth conversation between them - bad blood is hard to get over, but they’re both trying. Izek nods, cordial. Likely for Imrath’s benefit. 

“Nikolai, do you wanna sleep on all this and come back tomorrow?” Imrath offers. They’d been at a pretty hard graft for the past several hours, and their stomachs had started growling an hour ago.

Distracted, the young baron sucks in an exhausted breath and runs a hand through his hair for the hundredth time that day. “Shit. Yeah. I’m beat, dude. I bet I’m gonna dream about,” he frowns, “expense reports.” 

“Try not to think about it anymore tonight.” Imrath pats his shoulder as he passes him, doing a little cleaning up of their make-shift desk before they all head out. Izek has another crate in his arm as they all lock up and walk out awkwardly into the night. There is some tension with either man using him as a barrier, but Imrath manages some more small talk with Nikolai until they need to go their separate ways for the night. Nikolai heads off towards his house and they turn towards the steps of the Blue Water Inn.

Imrath spares a thought for the woman in the upper floor, and the misery that permeates the Wachterhaus. He’d like to have the burgomaster’s mansion cleaned out and ready for the remaining siblings to move into as soon as possible. But that’s a problem for tomorrow.

He spares another thought for the twisted up sense of righteousness in his gut about Stella and Viktor and Vasilka – of the Vallakoviches and Izek and where the blame falls. He wonders if Viktor will ever absolve himself enough to deserve the future he was making with Vasilka – wonders if losing her, his parents, and his station is enough misery to balance what he did to Stella. It has to be, he thinks. He’s going to have to make peace with that in his heart some way or another...

He shakes the thought out of his mind and holds the door for Izek, his beloved friend.

______________________________________________________________

<<< Previous | >>> Next

[rogueddie]

Part one

Steve has so many questions, especially once they get in Eddies van. Everything is different- from the shops to the people. Even the trees look different. He wants to know why.

"We already told you," Dustin sighs. "Time has passed, fashion has changed, whatever."

"But why?" He leans forward, jabbing his finger at one of the shops. "Why did they change the colors?"

"I don't know!"

Dustin doesn't yell, not like his father would. He doesn't do anything other than groan too, encouraging Steve to keep asking questions. He even dares to stick his tongue out when he finally starts complaining, asking Steve to shut up.

By the time they pull up outside a small, wooden cabin, Dustin looks ready to strangle him.

It's kind of funny.

"Alright," Eddie finally speaks up. "Let's go."

He quickly jumps out, jogging around to catch Steve as he steps out, throwing him over his shoulder. He laughs when Steve yells, trying to kick him.

"Don't be a brat, Harrington!" He cackles.

"This is why you aren't cool like Robin!" He yells back, twisting around so he can tug at his hair. "You're a meanie."

"Ow, dude, not the hair!"

Someone clears their throat, making Eddie stop walking. Steve tries to wriggle around, trying to see who it is, but Eddies jacket blocks his view no matter what.

Someone snaps their fingers, after a moment, and Eddie gently lowers him back onto his feet.

The man standing in front of the cabin door looks stunned, when Steve turns around. He blinks at the group for a second, before silently pointing to Steve.

"We don't know," Robin answers. "He's been like this for a while."

"Let me guess; parents aren't home. Again."

"They're busy!" Steve defends.

The man snorts, shaking his head. "That's what you always say, kid." He steps aside, nodding towards the cabin. "Come on, she knew you were coming."

Before Steve can step inside, following the group, the man stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Kid," the man clears his throat as he crouches down. His hand is gentle on his shoulder. "You doing ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Steve. This is probably very confusing and scary, I know, but you need to trust us. We want to help you."

Steve scuffs his feet on the floor, grumbling, "yeah, I know."

"So if you're not ok, you can tell us."

"Yeah, I know."

The man stares at him for a moment, before nodding. "If that changes, let us know, ok?"

"Ok."

"Good. Come on."

The inside of the cabin is cozy. Cluttered. Lived in.

"Hello Steve!" A young woman greets. Her hair is shorter than his, Steve notes. And she has a nice smile.

"Hello."

"I am Jane, but you can call me El." She offers her hand.

He shakes it automatically, a little surprised when she doesn't let go. "El?"

"That is what my friends call me." She gestures towards the two pillows set out on the floor, in front of the TV. "I am going to find out what has happened to you. It won't hurt."

"Uh, right. What- uh..." He looks to Robin, who nods encouragingly. "What do I do?"

"Sit with me."

She gently tugs him over, sitting on one of the pillows. She smiles at him when he hesitates, waiting, patient.

He keeps quiet, looking to the others when she pulls out a blindfold.

"It helps her think," the man explains.

Steve nods, even though he doesn't understand what that means.

For a moment, nothing happens. They sit there, almost silent- the static from the TV starts to grate his ears, especially with how close they're sat. But the others look tense, impatient, so Steve tries to stay where he is. He tries to behave.

Until he spots blood.

"She's bleeding!" He points out.

He goes to jump to his feet, but a hand quickly lands on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

It's Robin.

"It's ok, she's ok, it's just a nosebleed," she says. "It's harmless, really. She knows what she's doing."

Robin stays next to him. She even lets him hold her hand when he reaches out for her.

It's not long, after that, until El lifts the blindfold off. She looks confused.

"Well?" Dustin snaps. "What is it? Is he ok? Did someone do-"

"Hey," Eddie gently interrupts, leaning over to bump their shoulders together.

"He is ok," El says, once Dustin relaxes a little. "But I... don't know how this happened."

"How do we change him back?" Eddie asks.

"I can't, I'm sorry. But it is taking too much power to sustain itself."

"Wait, wait, wait," Robin rubs at her forehead. "So, you can't change him back but, what, eventually he will on his own?"

"Yes."

"How long will that take?" Dustin asks.

"I am not sure. Maybe a week? Two?"

"And until then he's just stuck like this?"

"I am sorry, Steve," El says, turning to him. "When it is weaker, I might be able to help?"

"That's ok," Steve quickly reassures her. "I will be ok. I know how to take care of myself."

"What?" El tilts her head, confused.

"Kid, you're staying here," the man says.

"No, Hopper," Robin cuts in, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "I'm gonna take care of him. He's, like, my soulmate! And he likes me!"

"Woah, hold on," Dustin says. "That's not fair! He's my family!"

They continue to argue for an hour. It's mostly playful, but Steve kind of likes it. He's never had anyone fight over him before.

"He is staying here," Eddie finally speaks up, when it looks like the man- Hopper- is about to explode. "Neither of you two have thought of a single excuse for your parents. And you can't leave him in that big house on his own. He's safer here."

"Oh, fuck," Robin suddenly jerks upright. "What the hell do I tell Keith?"

Part Three

tag list for those who asked; @songbird-garden @str4wb3rry-guy @badcaseofcasey @lioniheart @irethsune @starry-eyedlune @newtstabber @messrs-weasley @vesme @penny00dreadful

[moth-time]

It's BOOK TIME again! It has been forever since I last bound a book wow.

This is Interim by @punishandenslavesuckers, which is a fantastic botw post-canon Link/Zelda/Ganon fic that you all should go read if you haven't already. It's great, go check it out. I stayed up way too late reading it.

The binding is a sewn-board binding, which means the cover stiffeners are sewn directly into the text block, instead of wrapped around and glued to the endpapers. This makes for a very tidy and modern looking binding, AND because the boards are doubled (sewn in like the endpapers) allows for fun shenanigans like that indented triforce.

I'm SO proud of how the triforce came out! I was really careful with all of my measurements and it really paid off.

Oh yeah and I finally found a place with a good guillotine, so now I can make SMALLER books and still have nice crisp edges. Look at it, it's such a cute size. Perfect for holding.

Next step… painted fore-edges, maybe owo