#incantations of the mad mage

[cat-esper]

Find the Word Tag

I'm getting a little behind on these. Thanks for tagging, @kaylinalexanderbooks

My words are rib, write, expect, spin, and person

I'm tagging @awleeofficial, @illarian-rambling, and @revenantlore and your words are home, bright, age, and creep

These are from The Zodiac Circuit, since it's been a while since I talked about it.

Rib

The wights make their move. It's like a switch has been activated and creatures that were once docile now become aggressive and violent. They're charging toward the base, heedless of the laser grid. It rips them apart but they just keep coming, their constituent parts pulling back together again into creatures that are whole, but wrong. Twisted limbs fit onto broken ribcages and crushed skulls gnash their broken cranial plates like extra mouths. There are other bones that are not human. A mass of dog, rodent, bird, and cow bones intermingle with the human remains to form monstrous things, still wearing their tendons and the weeds they crawled through to get out of the ground.

Expect

The youngest conduit, Shao Xin, raises his hand. Director Koehler crosses his arms. "Yes, conduit?" "Will we get androids soon?" Everyone seems to perk up at this. They look excited at the prospect. "That you will." Koehler smiles as if he looks forward to it too. "But I have to warn you, these are no ordinary household androids or labor models. They are classed Regulator 10-45s. Highly autonomous, capable of handling a variety of weapons, and priority improvisation. A regulator's number one priority is to protect its conduit. It's number two priority is to obey its conduit. These are high-functioning weapons and I expect you to treat them as such." This doesn't seem to deter the conduits at all. "Tomorrow you will be paired with your regulators and you will have the chance to practice syncing up once you reach Albuquerque. But the real test will be in the field, fighting the wights. I wish all of you the best of luck."

Spin

Before she could spin toward the exit, he spoke again and this time, she understood every word. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. Is there anything I can do to relieve your distress?" "You're a machine," Rhys breathed. "An android, yes. Identification 10-45-500-R, though you may call me Jonathan. Who are you?" This was just what she needed. In trying to hide from Salvada, she'd found something infinitely more dangerous.

Person

MARTHA DALTON: If it's not too much trouble, what was it like? The public are only aware of what the news tells them. They consider conduits to be heroes. But what is it really like? In the thick of it. HECTOR RODRIGUEZ: It's...Christ, I don't even know how to describe it. At first it's chaos. The wights...they don't fight like people. They don't fight like animals, either. They just overwhelm you with numbers and even when you mow them down, they keep on coming. You want an account of fighting them, you ask a soldier. But being a conduit, it's...different. Difficult. You don't see or hear things like everyone does. MARTHA DALTON: How do you mean? HECTOR RODRIGUEZ: I mean...it's like you're living this life, seeing the world as a regular person all this time. You're used to it. Red is red, water is wet. Everything makes sense. But when you plug in, it's like...it's like all your senses get scrambled. You hear smells and taste colors. You're experiencing so many sensations at once that your brain can't make any sense of it. MARTHA DALTON: Sort of like synesthesia? HECTOR RODRIGUEZ: I guess, yeah. It takes a lot of practice to get used to the way the world feels when you're channeling. That's a big reason we have androids. They stay in touch, keep us grounded, and tell us what we're seeing since we often can't tell for ourselves. And I can tell you that trying to fight under those conditions is not an easy task. It's draining and it's confusing. There are all these sounds and colors and the whole time, you feel on the brink of a panic attack. Your whole body is out of sync and it takes everything you have to keep it together.

And the last one from Incantations of the Mad Mage:

Write

Someone had set up a table on the main deck and stretched a heavy piece of canvas over it. Unsticking her frozen joints, Kas shuffled over to join Dleyda, Vier, Keldr, Ered, and Arna, who didn't seem nearly as miserable and close to death as she felt because of the cold weather. Keldr placed weights on the edges of the canvas to keep it in place and Dleyda uncapped a bottle of ink. Others joined them. "I'll need everyone's energy for this," Dleyda said. He dipped a quill in the ink and began to write. No one said a word, watching him concentrate as he wrote in the tight, looping characters of Emdakhra. Kas recognized the setup for a seeking spell, the one she and Dleyda had argued about during the beginning of the voyage. After a few minutes, he gestured to Keldr, who handed over the book, Taragren Svara: Hero of Skabray. He opened it to a page with the Reverie's specifications and began to input those into the spell. Next, Dleyda took out Reman's sword and used Dranarai as a reference for describing Dranasha as best as he could. When he finally finished, placing the quill aside, he had line upon line of spellscript filling the canvas.

General taglist: @thatrandomlemononyourcounter1, @teacupsandstarlight

[starberryfarms]

𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐨𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

tags: fluff, mini make-out (?), fem!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1.0𝐤

𝐚/𝐧: 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨! 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 <3

You all walk back into one of the Orca’s houses to rest for the night. After the debacle with the Mad Mage and Dryads, you all definitely need it. Marcille has instructed Laois to practice his healing magic while she fixes Ambrosia, and you were the last of the group to be healed. You were holding off on him healing you, claiming you were “fine” and “it’s honestly not that bad.”.

Everyone went off to do their respective tasks and training, while Laios worked on trying to heal you. “Try not to kill her Laios.”Chilchuck jokes as they all exit the room. Laios chuckles nervously as he sits in front of you, the tension in the room thickens as you both look at each other. “No pressure…” You chuckled nervously as your eyes met his.

 “So, where’s your injury?” Laois asks as he looks you over. There was nothing he could physically see.

 At that your back straightens, “L-Laios, you really don’t have to do this. I can ask Marcille to do it later.” He pouts at your dismissal to his help.

“I can do it, I promise you’ll make it out alive …probably.” He jokes to try and relax you, thinking that’s why you were so adamant on him not healing you. 

“Okay…” You sighed knowing you’d regret this. 

“My uh… my injury is on my chest.” You say as you start to loosen your shirt, and look up to meet Laios’s eyes. His face flushes red as he brings his hand up to your chest, his hand trembling. You bring your hand up over his own, to firmly place it over your wound. 

Laios stares deeply into your eyes, you both say nothing for a while. His brown-gold eyes pierce into your soul.You clear your throat once you realize how long you’ve been staring at each other, “Um Laios, I think you're supposed to start now.”

 He jumps, closes his eyes and starts the incantation. As the words filled with magic traveled through his lips, you could feel it flowing through you as Laios chanted. The heat of his hand on your chest, makes your heart race the longer it rests there. You feared that the close proximity would give you away as you tried to focus on staying calm. Your eyes open, they flit down to watch his lips move as he speaks. They roam over his face taking in all his features. If you focused enough you could probably count the freckles that dust across his skin. 

“Stupid”, you think to yourself as you watch him. You’d done the one thing Chilchuck explicitly said not to do. But falling in love with Laios was like breathing, it came naturally. 

Laios opens his eyes and pulls his hand back slowly before looking over where your cut used to be. “H-how does it feel?”

He looks almost shocked by the fact that he’d actually healed you. He runs his pointer finger over the area, and a shiver runs down your spine. He looks up to meet your eyes, his hand still softly caressing over the now scar. “It feels good… a little itchy, but good.” you mutter breathlessly. 

Laios smiles as he looks up to meet your eyes, the distance between you two closes as his finger traces over your scar. “Sorry I haven’t mastered healing it up all the way.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind Laios.” Your hand comes up to rest over his, a soft smile blossoms on your face. A smug look falls over his face at his success and pink hue dusts his cheeks. He starts talking about how proud of himself he is and his shock that he was able to heal everyone. You chuckle as you watch him brag about his victories, and how he can’t wait to show Falin how much he’s learned when they get her back. 

You try to focus as he talks, but your eyes can’t help be trail over his form as he speaks animatedly. The way his muscles flex as he flails them about recounting their run in with the Dryads. The way his lips look as he smiles while talking. 

You interrupt him before he can run off on a tangent. You grab his hands to bring his focus back towards you.

 “Thank you Laios!”, you hug him, which shocks him at first, but then his hands slowly come around your waist to hug you back. You both stay like that for a while, his hands traveling up and down your back. Your arms that are loosely around his neck tighten slightly as your hands tickle the hair at the nape of his neck. 

When you both pull away, your faces are inches away from each other. You can feel his breath tickle your nose as your eyes flit from his own down to his lips. It’s like there’s a mysterious force that brings you both closer together.

“Sweets…” Laios whispers as his lips graze against your own. You don’t know what comes over you, but you close the distance between you and him. A gasp escapes him before he relaxes into the kiss, his hands that were on your waist tighten slightly. His grip pulls you in as the kiss escalates. The feeling of his hands on your waist, stirs something in you. 

His lips were rough against your own softer ones. Your hand slides up until it’s entangled in his soft golden blonde hair. You sigh as you feel the golden tresses of hair in between your fingers. To finally be this close to him, to feel him against you was unimaginable. 

You feel his body shiver as your fingers lightly scrape against his scalp. The kiss was sloppy with inexperience, you both had no idea what you were doing, but you knew one thing.

It felt good and it felt right.

Your noses brush softly against each other as this kiss grows in intensity. 

His hand comes up and his thumb strokes your cheek as you pull apart, his face a bright red. He looks at you in disbelief at what just happened. His breaths come out in huffs as he leans his forehead down to rest against hers, “H-how-…You-.. What?”. You giggle as you catch your breath, not quite meeting his eyes. He grabs your cheeks to pull your face up so that you are looking at him. His eyes filled with a warmth you’ve only seen when he spoke about the monsters he’s encountered.. 

Maybe you aren’t so stupid after all.

[aldisobey]

Touring Weisshaupt

“Shit!! Shit shit shit. EMMRICH STAY BACK!!”

Rook roared over his shoulder, tanned skin hidden in the slick of coating blight. He could see an edge of the necromancer, still pale, still clean, still pale, still clean. Teeth dug into his shoulder. A shriek from Assan, feathers on his cheek, the teeth released, griffon away Genlock dead, and sent a dagger through the eye of another.

Green flashed around him, necromantic energy whipping, sparking, exploding in support. Here and there skeletal hands, but it was all he could do to keep the flood before him, hold back the tide with his brother’s shield at his side.

“Sorry!” Davrin’s voice kept a chuckle within, the tones thrown back to the mage’s ears behind them, “No tour today Professor!” Sword flashing, breaths heavy, but that grin kept in play. Rook felt it, matched the smile, the only white on face those teeth as he ducked below a hurlock’s swing. Let his voice ring loud with laughter.

“But I promised!” Rook ran at his fellow Warden, his eyes locked tight on an ogre approaching from the blind, took it’s attention from the warrior with a thrown dagger sinking deep into its navel. “C’mon we’re close to the barracks!”

“Closer to the prisons!” Davrin replied, both Wardens laughed. If the necromancer did want a tour of Rook’s quarters that would be the place. And then Rook went sailing. Misjudged that ogre fist, a knuckle clipped a rib. And with a squelching crack he went flying. Landed in a tangled heap of limb and dead darkspawn flesh a mere pace from Emmrich’s feet.

“Rook!” The shaking fear in Emmrich’s voice drove the groan in Rook’s chest to a chuckle. No time for pain as the breath loosened from the hit came out as a weak but surprisingly light and cheerful “hullo…”

Davrin had the fore, ogre and horde distracted at the choke, held back by griffon, shield, and flame. Rook clung to his side, grimace morphing to grin as he waved off a quivering gloved hand reaching down to help him up.

“No!” His voice was sharper than he wanted, the delicate fingers flinched away, but… “Behind!”

The necromancer was performing impeccably, but the madness swallowed Weisshaupt whole. Emmrich’s eyes went wide as he turned to face the danger, incantation only midstep, and then he’s falling, sword singing where throat had been. Rook caught him, had swept the legs, cradled the peppered head with a growled, “Got you.”

And then Rook let go, sprang straight up, strength of legs driving his skull up and into the Hurlock’s chin as he launched from the ground. Resounding snap crack, darkspawn went limp. “Bastard.”

Rook wasn’t looking down at Emmrich as he grabbed the mage’s shoulder. His hand enclosed, firm, almost bruising as he yanked the professor to his feet and gutted a genlock with the other arm. The grimace from cracked rib twisted morbidly to some odd wild delighted face. One eye closed, blood from split head running blinding into it, but he made sure the swaying professor had his feet as he glared round the near area. Clear, safe. Good.

“Shit that always hurts,” he took the briefest moment to touch at the cut, looked calm into the wide eyes of the mage, “you good?” Emmrich did not but nod, countenance ghostly, staff supporting as the green glow reached out, touched at the rogue’s head and stopped the flow of thick red.

“Hey! I said no tour!” Davrin was starting to feel the push at the point, ogre bloodied but making ground. Rook’s brow furrowed, but both eyes open now, “Apologies sir, my room’ll have to wait.” He gave Emmrich a parting bloody wink and dipped the silliest bow before running laughing back into the embrace of the fight.

[professorchatwin]

Just a Pinch of Magic...

"Tell me you didn't just breath that in" Morgana said, running her hands over her face, "Magnus that's unrefined magic!"

Magnus sneezed so hard it knocked him back on his heel, "I didn't - ACHOO- mean to" he pouted. He submitted sheepishly to Morgana's attentions. She looked him over, top to bottom, front and back looking for changes he couldn't even begin to imagine. After be compelled to undress and redress and spin on the spot three times, finally she appeared satisfied.

He gave her his best approximation of puppy dog eyes, "Now my waistcoat is wrinkled"

She kissed him on the forehead and sighed, "I'm sorry darling. You just never know with experimental magic. Do you feel different? Body, mind, emotions?"

"You're pretty when you're worried about my well-being" he teased.

"You think that's funny but if- when this is finished it's supposed to be of the love potion variety"

"Love potion? What does the king need a love potion for?" Magnus asked, settling himself at the cluttered table. Books, scrolls, and other magical sundry stacked high. Being involved with the court mage could be a messy, even dangerous affair and he wondered to himself how he had made it this long without accidentally ingesting one of her projects. He pulled over the plate she had enchanted for him and mumbled the inscription on the rim until a hearty dinner materialized.

"Not the king, the prince. He scheduled to meet his betrothed and he's terrified he might not be her type"

"Not to salt the wound, but does it matter? It's a very sweet sentiment but I don't believe either of them have much say in the matter. I do hope she likes him a little. It took me ages to find someone suitable in temperament and lineage"

"Shame his father wouldn't let him marry for love"

"I think we've given him as good a chance as any" Magnus said, "Speaking of the prince, that isn't supposed to do permanent physical change is it?"

"Oh, goodness no. 24 hours at most. It's more of a temporary transfiguration. When she sets eyes on him all he has to do is say a few words and he'll be slightly more shaped in the way that she likes if he's not already" she paused, pulling up a chair beside him, "that powder you got a nose full of is the transformative agent. It doesn't seem to have affected you so perhaps I diluted it too much"

Magnus took a moment to, in as gentlemanly a fashion as he could muster, wipe the gravy from his beard before responding. "I didn't say any incantation, it might not be your ingredients. I'm half way there, shall I test subject for you"

"It would be a very unreliable test" Morgana mused. She snapped her fingers and two plates appeared. One with her dinner and another loaded with treats that Magnus delightedly anticipated would soon be following his turkey leg. "The problem is love, I already find you incredibly handsome"

He swallowed a whimper alongside several bites of a strawberry tart. Her hand was warm against his belly even through his clothes, her finger sliding into the gap forming between his buttons. "And growing more handsome by the day. We'll have to have your clothes let out before the wedding or you might just pop in front of everyone"

The devilish grin she was wearing would have been enough to make him blush on it's own, the feeling of her hand sinking into his belly was driving him absolutely mad. He poured himself a glass of wine with shaky hands and drank to steady himself.

"You're a *hic!* vixen" he purred, "Look what you've done to me darling. I *hic* was a squire once I'll have you know"

"And now," She straddled his lap and held a leg of honeyed mutton under his nose, grinning when he obediently set into it as though he hadn't eaten in days, "Now you're my good little piggy. Isn't that right?"

Magnus moaned and ate with more ferocity until there was nothing left on the bone. Morgana gently wiped the grease from his lips before leaning in for a kiss that made his head spin and his hips buck.

*POPPOPPOP*

"Fuck" he gasped, shocked to his senses by the cool air on his lower belly.

"Soon darling" Morgana purred in his ear. Her hands squeezed his muffin top before running her hands over the belly that was fighting her for room on his lap. "So much for needing an incantation" she mused, patting the side of his belly just to watch it jiggle.

Just then they heard the seams of his trousers creak. Magnus panted, "There's easier... ways to... *hiccup* get my... clothes off" he teased.

He might have gone on if she hadn't pressed a slice of cheesecake into his mouth. Magnus groaned and ate with obedient fervor and his belly inched out again, impossibly plump and soft for how heavy his stomach felt.

"More" he begged breathlessly.

She snapped her fingers and a feast appeared on his plate. She rocked her hips, pressing slice after slice of pie into his mouth. His gut welled out further and further proving to be a perfect shelf for his softening chest. Soon his face had grown soft, jiggling with bite. Finally his belt snapped and wave of fat spilled out into the open space with enough force that it almost knocked Morgana off his lap.

She set the plate, still piled high, on top of his heaving tummy. Then in one swift motion she coaxed his trouser down and was kissing up the inside of his thigh.

"Oh... Oh gods.." he moaned.

Morgana lifted Magnus' belly out of the way and kissed the tip of his cock. "Now darling" she grinned, "be a good boy and empty that plate for me"

[th3-0bjectivist]

The Great Unlearning, and the ruined Tri-Towers in the Ash

In the western center of Atma’Zae, the bent and skeletal remains of what was once a city of higher learning lies abandoned, broken and cursed under a hazy and poisoned sky. Those that dare to gaze upon the remnants of the Ash Crossroads speak of the sight of gloriously colorful and enigmatic ruins. Stabbing ever skyward, three decimated towers still arise from the embers of a capital city which was contaminated by volcanic powder and shook by a series of earthquakes not but four decades previously. These are the Towers of Magick, Industry, and Insight. Now resting in the desolate, nothingness of the Ash, the books of the Realm’s history are piled messily in fields of stacks below the Tri-Towers. It is rumored that so much as the delicate touch of one’s fingertips can turn these fields of books to hovering cinders, for their information is forbidden and forever better unlearned. Once known as Qraeto, this once-city is best left entirely evaded by travellers seeking to avoid the loss of their sanity, and their very lives.

The Tri-Towers once represented a delicate balance of illusion and devices, a place where the Ancient Gods first placed the Tomes of Foundation into a mound that became a great tower by men in the Enlightened Age. The southern and northern towers stood for the concentrated magic of the South, and the impressive and innovative industrial technology of the North. Written knowledge, and the application of this knowledge was vital to this city’s identity and was stored in the tallest and most ancient tower, the Tower of Insight. Only dedicated scholars, magickal bards, holy paladins and ethereal mages of the Realm were allowed access to study in the Tower of Insight. All through the Enlightened Age, cultures of the North and the South waged a cold and then hot war for control over the Realm. When this war reached its very peak, two twin-volcanoes thought to be inactive suddenly spewed molten lava and smoke. Mount Eden of the Northwest, and Mount Eve in the Southeast suddenly came to life once again, and covered the World in an ashen shroud that permanently concealed the Three Suns and the Moon.

The Ruins of Qraeto still sparkle, as the shattered stones and stained-glass ruins bend the light of the region’s aether into constantly changing neon hues that still make the city appear alive and active. Those that dare to amble through the Ash Crossroads have reported intense nightmares just before, during and months-after their journey through this region. To stay in this province for a mere fortnight is to go gradually mad, and then suffocate and perish beneath a visually stunning and toxic atmosphere. Over the millennia that defined the Age of Enlightenment, ten God-Kings and five God-Queens ruled the Realm, educated by great anthologies, technical manuscripts and magickal reference books of spells and incantations carefully stored and catalogued in the Tower of Insight. For when the Ancient Gods faded into irrelevance, and there were no longer any immortals to worship, humankind began to worship their own reflection. In that vanity and egocentricity, we were borne into current times, the Days of Ash.

The Remnants of Atma’Zae: The New and Once-Great Settlements of The World, After the Nemesis.

Lore Entry # 2 (click here for art)

[tarnishedinquirer]

Stormveil Gate Courtyard

I went through the back walkways of the castle for a bit before I came out overlooking the entrance. There was a fog door here, but no imp statue in sight. So, there was only one way to go.

Now that I was above and behind them, it was easy to take out the ballistas. There were a good dozen soldiers in the yard, at least, but through careful use of chokepoints I was able to take them out one by one.

I'll be honest, standing on a mountain of dead soldiers like this was a little bit scary to me. I was never a master swordsman nor mage. Just a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Now, all of the sudden, I was cleaving through trained soldiers like it was nothing. I could justify that maybe they were weakened by whatever was covering their armor in thorns, but no... this was me. This is the strength of runes.

In the gatehouse, I found a commoner's garb, and the voice filled me in on something I'd already guessed.

Modest garb made of cloth. Standard wear for commoners of the Lands Between. The board hung from the neck depicts a sprawling tree, its roots and branches forming two holes. This is a self-imposed shackle, a voluntary display of allegiance to the Erdtree that increases faith.

All you have to do is look at the commoners to understand what this does. Over immortal decades, even centuries, it depresses the collarbone and makes it look like their neck is unnaturally extended. Even some of the skeletons I've fought have that long-neck look.

It says this is voluntary but the alternative must be death, exile, or worse to keep people wearing this shackle. And you don't put shackles on slaves. Are there any actual commoners in this land? No wonder you have brain-dead nobles digging in the dirt with their fingers.

Gostoc was directly below me, but I had no reason to talk to him right now.

There was just one thing left to clear in this courtyard, and that was a massive, sleeping beast in one corner. It seemed to be guarding the promenade leading to that giant bridge.

I didn't have to get very close for it to spring into action. An immense grey-skinned lion, it had an equally immense blade chained to its paw. At first I thought it was like the mutilations Godrick had inflicted on the hawks, but it didn't seem to be mutilated at all, just chained. There was also something almost human about the lion. It's proportions were just a bit off...and were those stubby horns poking out of its mane?

It was hard for me to get a good look at the thing as it was constantly moving. The thing had incredible speed and energy for a creature its size. It was all I could do to keep up. Fortunately, I had Aurelia to draw its attacks away. Once its attention was divided, its attacks became more manageable, and I was able to bring it down.

Just when I start getting concerned about the potential power-madness of runes, something like this appears to keep me humble.

The voice told me to pick up a strangely deformed fang that had been knocked loose from its mouth. It said

These multiple, overlapping fangs grow from a single root. Perhaps they're a vestige of the primordial crucible.

Interesting. So the crucible can also cause mutations like this, beyond just its incantations? Maybe the horns, grey skin, and odd body shape were also part of the Crucible?

At any rate, while the bridge looked interesting, I should save it for later. I have a job to do in this castle.

Was the lion a crucible creature?

Why did it have chains and blades attached?

Why was it guarding the bridge?

[hundredsspoons]

I'm wondering about love/compassion in Elden Ring. It's stupid, but basically, I've always been wanting to build a super-goodie-two-shoes character and have been wondering if an intelligence only or split intelligence/faith build would be more lore appropriate lol

Argument and dlc spoilers below

Just as a preface, I would consider goodness to be kindness, compassion, respect for the autonomy of others, standing up for others. Pretty basic stuff, I think.

Faith is associated with various religions, most of which actively participated in genocides and religious persecutions at some point. This seems to suggest that faith is a symbol of blind devotion that leads to hatred of the Other.

However, faith allows you to use more healing and defensive spells, suggesting a concern with healing those who are hurt or being attacked. This stands in stark contrast with the actual actions of faith-based groups, which would not offer solace to omen and others that viewed as "sick". Does this suggest that the healing "grace of gold" faith is only willing to help certain people, people who the religion deem acceptable? Or does it perhaps suggest that there is a desire to heal at the heart of (at least some forms of) faith that has been twisted by existing religions?

On the Minor Erdtree incantation, it reads

"Secret incantation of Queen Marika. Only the kindness of gold, without Order. Creates a small, illusory Erdtree that continuously restores the HP of nearby allies. Marika bathed the village of her home in gold, knowing full well that there was no one to heal."

suggesting that the violence that the Golden Order came to be known for was not at the core of the "gold" religion.

Moving to intelligence, it is the stat that stands in contrast to faith and represents the followers of the stars and moon, like Ranni.

Ranni fights against the oppressive Fingers and says she wants a world where mortals can choose their own fates. So intelligence seems to represent freedom, as well as the opposite of blind devotion. However, Ranni is afraid of the moon for some reason we don't know, possibly simply because the ability to choose your own fate is a terrifying thing or perhaps because she knew she would have to leave the Lands Between behind to follow the moon's will. But possibly because it is also a god with its own agenda.

Putting that unanswerable question aside, her desire for a free world seems quite compassionate. However, the moon is distant and cold, and presumably while it will be too far removed to harm mortals, it will also be too far removed to offer help to mortals as well. Makes sense for the symbol of freedom. And given what we've seen of gods with even good intentions, it might be the best outcome for the Lands Between, even with all the scarlet rot and madness and deathless beings wandering around that you might wish a powerful being was there to deal with. So maybe it is the pessimistic, but truthfully most compassionate ending the Lands Between can have.

So it seems so far that intelligence is clearly the "good" stat.

But we know that intelligence and intelligence-based groups are capable of evil.

On the Graven-Mass Talisman, it reads

"A talisman depicting the first school of graven mages- a nightmare that would continue to haunt the academy. Greatly raises potency of sorceries. The primeval current is a forbidden tradition of glintstone sorcery. To those who cleave to its teachings, the act of collecting sorcerers to fashion them into the seeds of stars is but another path of scientific inquiry."

On one hand, this points to some people treating scientific inquiry in the same way the faithful treat religion- as something that supersedes the importance of the rights and dignity of the individual. On the other hand, they are practicing a tradition that is forbidden by the larger culture. You could say then that the violations that exist as the point and purpose of faith-based systems exist more as exceptions in the cultures that practice intelligence-based spells.

On the Comet Azur sorcery, it reads

"Fires a tremendous comet in a torrent akin to the distant starry expanse, the place said to be the origin of glintstone... When Azur glimpsed into the primeval current, he saw darkness. He was left both bewitched and fearful of the abyss."

And on the Stars of Ruin sorcery, it reads

"...When Lusat glimpsed into the primeval current, he beheld the final moments of a great star cluster, and upon seeing it, he too was broken."

Interesting to note here is the fact that Azur is looking into the origin of glintstone, which refers to the larger intelligence-based culture. This "primeval current" was enough to drive two of the greatest minds insane, and the Comet Azur description suggests that it is perhaps where glintstone intelligence sorceries came from. I can't help but wonder if this has some sort of relation to the fear that Ranni holds for the moon. You could say that it being frightening doesn't mean it is evil, but it does make me concerned about the potential future of sorceries/weapons/technologies built around it. Perhaps there is a dangerous god at the center of it, or perhaps it is simply a natural occurrence that humanity doesn't fully understand yet, but continues to use for its benefits while blissfully unaware of the potential dangers- something like a fantasy fossil fuel perhaps. A fossil fuel that drives you crazy.

Returning to faith, the other big example of faith and compassion is, obviously, Miquella. He desires a gentler world and is said to help all manners of people- even people hated by the Golden Order and his mother, like the Omen and the Albinaurics. But he slowly gets rid of everything that makes him him -including his love- in order to create that gentler world. It seems that he was at least indirectly responsible for the scarlet rotting of Caelid (presumably before he divested himself of everything?) which, along with his rampant mind control, really makes me doubt his competence, if not his compassion. It's one thing to sacrifice individuals for the "greater good," regardless of whether that is morally correct or not, but it's an entirely different thing to destroy that level of land. Where are people going to grow food in your gentler world, Miquella? In the rot swamp? God knows how many people were killed in the rot explosion. I guess he was just willing to sacrifice like 1/9 of the continent for his goal. That would be like if idk someone nuked most of Texas and said they were doing it for the future of the United States. It's a cataclysmic natural disaster completely at odds with his stated goal. Miquella seems like another example of the perverse nature of faith in this game, even when there are good intentions.

Interestingly, both St. Trina's swords, which represent the love Miquella threw away, use intelligence as a modifier.

However, the reason why I even considered a int/faith build for a "good" character in the first place was Miriel.

Some quotes from Miriel (which I included in a different post as well):

"The Shattering has caused us - all of us - to lose sight of something very dear. It is here, at the Church of Vows, that the great houses of the Erdtree and the Moon were joined."

"Very well, let us both learn together. Heresy is not native to the world; it is but a contrivance. All things can be conjoined."

"Radagon once cleansed himself with celestial dew, repented his territorial aggressions, and swore his love to Rennala. The Order of the Erdtree and the fate of the moon were conjoined, and all the wounds of war forgiven. This miracle blesses the church to this day. And so, you need only follow Radagon's example, to restore any bond, however strained or severed, to its rightful state of harmony."

"My faith does not waver. The miracle rooted in these grounds will, once again, mend the world. And this time, its bounty will not be squandered. If you would be Elden Lord, Tarnished, I hope that you, too, will share my faith."

Here are some other examples of faith and intelligence coming together.

The description of the Sword of Night and Flame, a weapon that requires intelligence and faith, reads:

"Astrologers, who preceded the sorcerers, established themselves in mountaintops that nearly touched the sky, and considered the Fire Giants their neighbors."

For the record, the Fire Giants are associated with faith, in case you've forgotten.

The description of Order Healing, an incantation that requires intelligence and faith, reads:

"The noble Goldmask lamented what had become of the hunters. How easy it is for learning and learnedness to be reduced to the ravings of fanatics; all the good and the great wanted, in their foolishness, was an absolute evil to contend with. Does such a notion exist in the fundamentals of Order?"

He's referring to the hunters of Those Who Live In Death here, who kill the undead who supposedly sully the Golden Order of Marika, who removed the rune of death.

In all of these examples, intelligence and faith together represent people embracing the Other, questioning their own beliefs, and ultimately living peacefully with people different from them.

On the other hand, we have Rellana.

The description of the Remembrance of the Twin Moon Knight reads:

"Once a Carian princess, Rellana disavowed her birthright and chose to stand at Messmer's side instead, knowing full well that not even the brilliance of the moon could grant him succor. Before long, she became known as the Sword of Messmer."

The description of Rellana's Twin Blades reads:

"Carian light greatsword embedded with blue glintstone. Weapon of Rellana, the Twin Moon Knight. Two swords as a single armament. When two-handing, a straight sword engraved with golden flame will be carried in the left hand. Here, and here alone, were moon and fire ever together."

First of all, small but annoying detail, the Sword of Night and Flame exists in the base game; Rellana absolutely is not the only example of moon and fire together. Maybe this shows that it is so unusual that Rellana thinks it's never happened before idk

Anyways, she reached out to Messmer presumably out of some sort of love, and while I certainly feel bad for Messmer, he still chose to lead a crusade for his mother. So we have here an example of how love, symbolized by Rellana embracing faith-based flame even though she was a follower of the moon, can lead people to commit atrocities for what they love. This is another theme of the dlc, with Marika beginning her reign of bloodshed after the Hornsent killed (and ig jarred?) everyone in her village and just... all of Miquella.

I should also note that there are multiple Golden Fundamentalist incantations that have int/faith requirements or just int. And these spells seem to be mostly neutral in terms of political allegiance or spiritual beliefs, just in what their descriptions say. However, traditional Golden Fundamentalism frowns on Those Who Live In Death and seems particularly fanatical about Marika and the Golden Order. So these could exist as an argument for int/faith not having anything to do with the acceptance of others.

As an added point, all the gods (with the exception of the Crucible, I think?) come from beyond the stars, including the Greater Will and Elden Beast. Intelligence-based cultures look to the skies for answers, as opposed to a worldly faith, but... most faiths are derived from the same place. And potentially, the moon is just another god.

The Mother of Fingers, the "magnificently gleaming daughter of the Greater Will, and the first shooting star to fall upon the Lands Between" herself came from space, and the two weapons you can get from her Remembrance require both intelligence and faith. One of the those weapons is a staff that lets you cast both incantations and sorceries. So this might suggest that the categorical difference ascribed to them are completely arbitrary to begin with.

Count Ymir and his disciple both look to the stars for guidance in a very Carian-esque manner. And Ymir cradles a fingercreeper and is obsessed with becoming the perfect mother.

The description of the Beloved Stardust talisman he gives you reads:

"A talisman depicting a wizened hand gently gripping a glintstone. Shortens casting speed for sorcery and incantations by the utmost, but increases damage taken. Count Ymir was known for his recitations. 'One need only envision the romance of the stars above with adoration for stardust in one's heart to become a great sorcerer. Do so, and you will know love.'"

Another example of love being related to int/faith and the Fingers being related to the stars. However, like Rellana and Miquella (and to be fair everyone aside from Miriel), he is willing to kill to reach his goal.

And then there's Arcane. :)

Tbh in the base game, I wasn't really interesting in arcane's morality because it mostly involved eating the hearts of others or other inherently violent acts (bloodloss), but the dlc gives us Sir Ansbach, a man fighting to free his lord from Miquella, who is desecrating his corpse, and raises the possibility that Mohg's Blood Dynasty was not as gruesome once upon a time as it is now that Mohg is being controlled by Miquella.

Blood represents life. It is the only source of power that comes from within you, though it might still come from the Formless Mother or the dragons so idk.

Also, one of the kindest characters in the game, Nepheli Loux, is a warrior who uses weapons that rely on strength and dexterity. No faith or int. Meanwhile, we face tons of enemies who weird faith, int, or sometimes both!

So maybe the main takeaway from all this is that it isn't what you use, but how you use them that matters :)

Yes, I did just write a small essay to come to a conclusion I'm sure anyone who made it to this point already came to. 👍🫡

[princepsumbra]

>starter for: @lionheartedsunflower

Magic, for all the knowledge gathered on the topic, remains a vast well of undiscovered information. Why are mages typically stronger with one element over the others? Why do some grasp dark magic without succumbing to madness, while others crack under the strain? And the biggest question of all--why do some develop a talent for it at all?

He didn't care for an answer as a child. All that mattered then was proving his worth as a potential heir, someone more suited to Nohr's dark throne than his golden brother. It had been something of a mantra from his mother, one of many drilled into his young head. He'd long grown used to her disappointed looks when he failed to best Xander in any given skill. Never mind Leo's rapid progress; he was still second-rate, and that equated worthless.

Pursuing magic did not exist as an option in those early years. Xander commanded no magic, so therefore, Leo never needed to bother with it. Yet he'd watch the court mages in fascination, green eyes narrowed while trying to determine how they called fire, or wind, or life, to the palms of their hands.

In an act of defiance--or perhaps one last ditch effort to earn love from a mother incapable--he'd snuck a book on basic spells when he should have been studying history. He proved his worth not with a blade but with incantations. Magic answered his call, became the one thing he could call his.

Except staves. They sputtered in his hands, a pitiful glow of light emanating from the top unable to even a paper cut.

Leo rarely gave it much thought these days; he'd outgrown those childhood anxieties, now spending his spare energy on researching the human side of magic. Mainly, why it largely seemed a person held the capacity for only one branch.

"Ah, Lachesis, thank you again for this," Leo inclines his head, shaken from his thoughts. "As I said, I haven't tried any form of light magic since I was a child."

Lessons in Faith

[aggressivelyclueless]

summoning

in which the ghost king has returned

contains: cult shit

No living soul in a thousand years had been able to summon the lord of the dead.

In the old days (and those days were very, very old) it took a council of nine to hold the ritual.  Generally high mages, generally at the stroke of midnight, behind closed doors and in hushed whispers - but those days were long gone.

The first time the ritual had failed, it was thought by those in attendance that there had been a mistake.  It was no ordinary summoning spell - for the king of ghosts? no, that was laughable - and the details were intricate and complex.  Surely, something must have been overlooked; upon subsequent attempts, it became increasingly clear that the ritual wasn't being misperformed - it had simply quit working altogether.

Living mages and scholars spent decades trying to discern why, trying to glimpse past the jaws of death itself for answers, but that was a dangerous road.  Most who took the path of necromancy were deemed mad; fewer yet became proficient enough to provide the answers that others sought; and, among those, none wished to share the secrets gleaned from beyond the veil.

Centuries later, the king of the dead was a legend at best.  Few even knew of the rituals anymore, much less attempted them; to most of the world, tales of old magic and ghosts were stories to be told at campfires.  But, of course, for every legend, there was always one odd soul out there that knew the truth behind it.

It was a storming Saturday night when the ritual was performed for the first time in three hundred years.  Those involved knew how long it had been a failure; they knew that one day, seemingly out of the blue, it had begun to yield nothing at all.  There had been fierce speculation among them for a while - had the king of ghosts ceased, somehow, to exist?  Was he bound by something else, somehow more powerful?  If the ritual was completed, were they to summon that something in the mighty spirit's stead?

By now, they were sure there was an answer.  When the incantations reached their crescendo and the ancient runes carved into the floor began to glow a hard, bitter green, each of the nine of them leaned in just a little closer.

The ritual, after centuries, was a success.

The thing that took shape in the circle began as a muddled shadow, rolling with smoke that tinged the air with a sour, acrid smell.  The shape began to solidify - the King of Ghosts was ancient, had been called that even by the sorcerers ages ago.  He should have been a great warrior with an axe or a sword, or a wizened old man that could command the magic of life and death.

What took shape in the circle before them was a child.  He was tiny; his proportions were twig-thin; his eyes were wide and confused; his hands fidgeted awkwardly with each other.

And were those glow-in-the-dark planet pajamas?

The ritual had failed.  Every one of them was certain of it - and yet, the last thing to materialize was the crown, smoldering into existence out of thin air; it lowered itself onto the boy's head, and he winced as if its weight had struck him.

It was impossible.  It had to be impossible.

He was looking at them then, his gaze darting between them as if he expected any one of them to lunge at him.  Finally, he ventured: "Where am I?"  Even his voice was small.

One of the summoners stepped forward, no less surprised than the rest of them but at least less put-off by it.  All this time, and the lord of the dead was just a boy?  Or was this some sort of trickery. . . ?  Ghosts could put on a different appearance, surely - to disguise their true power, no doubt.  The boy certainly didn't look like a king.

But the crown couldn't lie, could it?

The summoner was appraising the boy, staring long and hard and slowly circling around him; he shied away, feeling like something akin to a zoo animal or prize on display.  He tried again, with less hesitation this time: "Who are you people?"

The summoner stood back at last.  "We are the last of your loyal servants, Your Unholy Majesty.  It's been - ah, quite a long time."

The boy was glancing between them again, seemingly unsure how to take the news.  Surely, he must be aware how many centuries had passed, and how the prone the living were to forget.  He asked, after some deliberation: "How long?"

Was he unaware of the times?  Had some catastrophe befallen him, preoccupied him for so long - or, worse, stolen away his power?  It was that power, or even a taste of it, that the summoners were wishing for.  The leader pressed in, studying the boy's face, watching his eyes dart nervously about; if he had been weakened, that was certainly an excuse for his appearance.

"A thousand years," said the summoner, "I - we - can only imagine what must have happened in that time. . . "

But the child shook his head.  "No, that's - that can't be right, there's some kind of mistake - "

"No mistake.  You are the Lord of Ghosts, aren't you?"

"Yes," said the boy, before he could stop himself, and one hand flew up to his mouth as if he'd just cursed.  Under the influence of the summoning, he couldn't lie; in the old stories, he could all but circumvent that caveat in any number of clever or misleading ways.

Had he forgotten?  Or was he just playing at weakness?  He seemed to want to hide in the guise of a living human - his chest rose and fell to mimic breath, and the flush of his cheeks when upset was an uncannily lively pink.  Why pretend, the summoner wondered, for that was clearly what he was doing.

He was the king of ghosts, no matter if he tried to hide it or not.

The boy shifted uneasily on his feet.  "Who are you, really?  What do you want?"

"We are your eternally devoted servants," said the summoner, "Your wish is our command."

"Well, I want to go home," said the boy, now quite sure that he didn't like any part of this, but the summoner just smiled.

Then the smile turned to soft laughter and the laughter turned sour.  “My Lord,” said the summoner, as the others leaned in just a little closer, “It’s been a thousand years.  We won’t lose you again.  Trust us: you are home.”

[mxvladdy]

Hello! I love your writing and I may have a prompt, if it strikes your fancy. I'm aware it might not be entirely lore-friendly a request, but I love relationship shenanigans in Obey Me, so I got to ask: how do you think Luci, Diavolo, Satan and Beel would help their anxious SO adjust when MC begins demonstrating mad prowess in witchcraft right after they first spend the night together? Sex, power and pacts seem to go hand-in-hand in related media, but no one really planned for it in their case!

Awww thankie and sorry for the long wait! I’m glad you like my writing! I hope you like this! It gave me big thirst lmaooo

Lucifer

Mmmm you smell of him in the morning. He positively oozes from your every pore. Rich and spicy, like amber and freshly turned earth.

Good. Let it be known to all that you were claimed. Thoroughly.

He put his daily routine on hold for you this morning. He was weak to your pouting.

He’ll stay in bed for a little bit to indulge you. But duty calls and work waits for no demon

Neither of you really pay attention to how hard you are clinging to him when he tries to extract himself to get dressed

You both just kind of chalk it up to neither of you want to part

The day goes on as usual for him, meetings, paperwork, meetings, punishing Mammon, meetings

But the whole time something was nagging at him. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. He just felt like he forgot something important

But that’s impossible-

The wall explodes out behind him cutting Lucifer off mid-sentence. The rubble and great ball of flames miss him and Diavolo by mere inches only because of the latter’s quick reflexes. “Are you alright my friend?” Diavolo asks golden eyes alight with surprise. Lucifer could feel the prince’s defensive magic prickling his skin in response to the pungent magic wafting out of the hole.

“Of course-” Lucifer steps back, straightening his jacket’s lapels, the near-miss ruffles his feathers. Both men step closer to the hole. His hackles raise.  The power emanating from the crater was far too familiar. Someone dares to use his magical signatures without permission.  Snarling into the abyss he marches forward. He ignores Diavolo’s calls to wait and strides through the hole. His wings flare up from his back along with his temper. He walks through each wave of magic that washes over him. With each destroyed wall he steps through more and more of his demonic form comes forth till he is more beast than man. Strolling through the final hole he stops. His red eyes sweep across the scene in front of him. As the seconds' tick by his mood morphs from rage to shock, then to a sense of blinding pride.  

“Well-” He crosses his arms and smirks. He turns his gaze to the epicenter of the damage.

“Luci, I am so so sorry.” You mutter aghast behind your fingers. “I-I don’t know what happened.” You were never the best student in any of the practical classes. The teachers made exceptions for you and your lack of magical prowess. In this class, the teacher always paired you up with Solomon or Luke so they could help you prepare the necessary spells and runes. But you felt so different today, stronger and sharper. Damn near unstoppable even. Just the thought of someone else doing your work made something deep inside you seethe. You didn’t need help, you’ve seen and heard the incantations a thousand times before- it wouldn’t hurt to try…Well, let’s rephrase that, it didn’t hurt you to try.

The classroom was totaled. Dust, rubble, and burning pages all float around you like a post-apocalyptic snowstorm. Soot from your uncontrolled spell blacked your clothes and skin, next to you Solomon stands rigid in shock white brows disappearing into his hairline. Quietly you lick your thumb and forefinger and put out the small blue flame singeing his bangs. “Thanks.” He spits out around a mouthful of ash and grit.

Lucifer coughs to draw all eyes back to him. He takes inventory of the room, making sure all the other students scattered about were still breathing. Satisfied he beckons to you with a finger. “Come.” You jump into motion, scrambling up and over the rubble to grab his outstretched hand.

“Lucifer.” He cuts you off.

“Not here,” He smiles warmly rubbing at some soot staining the tip of your nose. “Come let’s get you cleaned up.”

_____________

“Should I be worried?” You ask, stepping out of Lucifer’s private showers wrapped in one of his sinfully soft towels. “I’m not going to blow stuff up on a whim now, right?” You plop down on his bedroom’s couch. Lucifer hums noncommittally by his liquor cabinet.

“I doubt it. How do you feel?” He takes a seat beside you handing you a glass and grabbing your legs to drape them over his. You take a swig from the glass, the heat of the liquor getting rid of the lingering shock from class. How did you feel?

Your bones hum with some unknown energy and there was a fire coursing through your veins. “I feel like I could take on the world. Like I dominate half of the Devildom.” Lucifer’s smile was nothing short of smug.

“Good.” He sips his drink.

“Good?” You lean forward expectantly.

Lucifer strokes your cheek coming in to inhale your fresh scent. The commingling of his and your own was beyond arousing. “There is more than one way to seal and strengthen a pact, my beloved.” He pulls you into a chastened kiss, feeling your cheeks heat with a dawning realization of what he meant. “You have now given yourself to me in both body and soul. The- bonus perks were inevitable.” He parts from you, reaching for his glass.

“Will it go away?” You honestly didn’t know if you could handle any more curveballs down here.

Lucifer laughs swirling the dredges of his drink before downing it in one go. “Ideally no- but over time if it isn’t reinforced it will weaken and disappear on its own.”

“Reinforced?” The heat of your drink seems to dip lower down your body. Your demon scoffs giving you a knowing look.

He drags you onto his lap. “Are you truly satisfied with just a night with me αγαπούλα μου?” A gloved finger tugs at the hem of your towel. “If I had my way I would keep you full and drunk on my power for all eternity.” He captures you in a searing kiss draping you over the cushions of his couch, his eyes turning predatory. “Do not worry about the side effects.” He purrs caging you in. “We have all the time in the world to get you accustomed to them.”

Diavolo

He knew. This bitch knew before he ever got you in his bed-chamber. Just think of the entertainment value~

So when he sweeps you up into his quarters for the night day weekend, he just forgets to mention it to you

He is curious about how his magic will affect a human of celestial descent. Will it show up all at once? Or over a long period of time? He hopes that your blood doesn’t cancel out his claim on you

He watches you like a hawk for a while- and nothing…

Hmm. Perhaps it just didn’t take the first time? No matter, try-try-try again as the saying goes. He certainly doesn’t see you complaining

But as the week passes he slowly puts it on his backburner as his work begins to pile up again

You on the other hand are having a time. One day you are fine and dandy and the next you can read and write in languages you’ve never even heard of.

Then you started seeing some frankly crazy shit. Had the ghost at the house always been this active?

The last straw for you was accidentally freezing half of the house’s rose garden with a sneeze. To say you are panicked is an understatement

Frazzled you run to the only mage you could (kinda) trust

“It’s not funny!” You hiss frantically staring bewildered at your friend. Your look of panic just makes him laugh harder. “Stop seriously Solomon! Gods, what did I do?” You scrub at your face hard. If you made yet another freaking pact with a demon you were going to lose it. Seven idiots were enough for several lifetimes.

Solomon howls at this, drawing curious and rude looks from the surrounding tables of the tea house. You swat at his shoulder hissing like a cat. “Sorry- sorry” He hiccups. “Your turn of phrase was just so fitting.” He collects himself by taking a sip of his tea. “Tell me, what have you been doing of late?” He smirks around the rim of his cup.

You squint at him not getting it. His keen eyes drift down to land on the garden of purple and blue bruises littering your neck. You slap a hand over your hickeys. He smiles leaning over conspiratorially. “What’s it like to sleep with a God? The perks are amazing no?”  

You shook your head. “I-what perks?”

“Oh~ Loverboy didn’t warn you of certain side-effects?” The mage leans back in his chair. He was going to have a great time today. ___________

Unbelievable. You march up the walkway to the palace, your mind absolutely reeling. Did he know about this? Of course, he did-how could he not! Did he just forget? No- Diavolo was many things, smart, cunning, conniving, but never forgetful. You knew him well and knew he had to be on the lookout for “side effects” as Solomon put it.

Fine, two can play at this game.

“Ah! Mio Giglio! How are you?” Dia glances up from his mountainous amount of paperwork when you throw open his office door. He rises in one fluid motion to scoop you up in a tight hug. Now that you know what to look for, you hone into the way he holds you. His large hands run down your back and sides possessively, he clings to you rubbing his bulking frame on you like a cat marking you. He leans in close to rub the bridge of his strong nose up and down your clavicle and neck. You feel his hot breath on your skin when he exhales. How had you not noticed this?

“Good, and you?” You smile into the fabric of his shirt. Carefully you wrap your arms around his solid waist. You hug him lightly so as to not give away your little surprise.

“Better with you here.” He chuckles stepping back to return to his desk. You follow closely behind waiting for the perfect time to strike. “What have you been up to?” He asks innocently, going to sit back down. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

You hum nonchalantly coming up behind him to rub at his tense shoulders. “Nothing much.” He nods closing his eyes as your fingers dig into sore muscles. “Usual school week, made some new friends...Went shopping with Asmo and Luke this morning. Bought you some treats, hidden from Barbatos of course.” You drop a quick peck on his cheek. Diavolo smiles sinking lower into his chair. He hopped it was something with lemon or orange, they were in season now. Barbatos had been on the warpath with his sugar and carb intake of late. “Then I had tea with Solomon and he filled me in on some very interesting facts.” You kiss his hairline.

“Mmmm?”

You pull away from his warmth to come around to straddle his lap while he is distracted. He jerks at your sudden weight on his lap but relaxes almost immediately. He opens a golden eye, not even realizing he had closed them. Your demeanor shifts when his gaze is fully set on you, all sweet innocence gone. A cheshire grin spreads across your face. “Funny you should ask if I’m feeling ok. I have been feeling a bit off of late.”

Diavolo tenses. “Are you well?” He tries to reach for you, his arms coming off the armrests of his desk chair. You strike like a viper, your small hands wrap and lock around his thick wrists pinning them to the chair. His eyes bulge in shock. You watch coyly as his biceps bulge under his clothes. He tries to break free for a few minutes before settling back. “I see-”

Leaning in you brush your lips across his ears, heart racing with excitement. “You forgot to mention quite a few things, Dia.” The low purr he emits shakes both of you.

“My apologies.” He admits. “You know I love a good show. Shame I missed it.” He throws you a rogue smile. “Forgive me?”

You slide closer until you rested chest to chest, legs wrapping around his to pin him down further. His purr drops down an octave. Locking eyes with him you remove a hand from his wrist daring him to move. He doesn’t. You move slowly and deliberately resting your hand on his strong neck. His reaction was instantaneous. His pupils dilate, and the gold of his irises turn molten. You start to feel his magic seep out, you match it, giddy with excitement that you could. “Only if you work for it.” You smirk.

Diavolo nods readily, licking at his dry lips in anticipation. He was more than ready to atone.

Satan

He is a good noodle and has the decency to tell you what will happen beforehand

It’s only polite to give you a heads up before he breaks your headboard

You both are curious about how it will affect you. He at least is excited to teach you some practical magic

Plus the idea of you pranking Lucifer with magic? Sublime.

He smells it blossoming under your skin while you sleep.

It’s sharp and minty with a smoky finish. Then the power hits him like a brick to the face. He is in awe.

It’s like an electrifying feedback loop that just energizes and excites him and you feel it too. He’ll lose himself in you and your body again, hyped up on the headiness of it all.

Once he has *cough* cleared his head *cough* he takes you out to try out your newly found powers. He has so many things he wants to teach you.

Satan kneels beside you nodding his head in approval at your chalk markings. Your lines weren’t exactly steady, he could see how your hand shook as you copied his paperwork but you followed it dutifully. He finds your nervousness adorable as if he would let anything bad happen to you. At his go-ahead, you get to your feet. Turning your palms down towards your summoning circle you recite your spell and watch in amazement as your runes glow bright green underneath you. In a flash of blinding lights and smoke, you sense the pull of the creature emerging from your rune work. Delighted you look down at your handy work.

“Congratulations my darling, exceptionally done.” He grins proudly from his perch by his bookshelf.

You bend down and pick up the little critter. “What is it?” It looked like a blob of flan but firmer. Its squishy form shivers in your palm when you poked it. Its body giving way under your gentle poke. It was dark green but lightened to an electric green at its base. It was surprisingly warm.

You feel Satan coming up behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder. “It looks to be a lesser familiar, not bad for your first time summoning ever.” The jelly wiggles at his praise even though you couldn’t find any discernible features on its smooth little body. You turn it this way and that in your hand, even though it didn’t have eyes you could sense it was sizing you up to.

“What can it do?” You raise a brow at your companion. His arms circle your waist, his grin turning mischievous.

“Let's find out.”

________

Your lungs burn, each breath coming hard and sharp while you run. The sound of your pounding feet was swallowed up by the rush of foot traffic around you. Satan drags you behind him ushering you both around the throng of students. “Quickly!” He looks over his shoulder and flashes you a brilliant smile. “The further away from his office we are the less likely he could blame us.”

You laugh breathlessly along with him.

________

“What Belphie say?” You lean onto Satan’s shoulder to peek at his phone. The two of you sit, crowding in on each other's space underneath a desk in one of the unused classrooms.

“It’s glorious. Everything is covered. He says it looks like magic won’t remove it either!” He cackles showing you his screen. Belphie sent him a selfie. He is grinning devilishly from ear to ear throwing you both a peace sign through the screen. In the background, you could clearly see a very irate Lucifer. His face was red with fury and his clothes covered in green goo. His office was wrecked. Your little jelly did a number on it, you hadn’t expected it to expand as large as it did. Your familiar popping on the edge of Lucifer’s desk wasn’t intended either, but totally worth it. “Think you can summon another?” Satan asks, darkening his screen. You shake your head, whatever power you had earlier today had been drained after your little stunt.

Satan nods in understanding. “Shame- imagine what one of your jellies could do to Diavolo’s office.”

“Satan-”

He chuckles wrapping an arm around your back. He plants a loud kiss onto your forehead. “Alright-alright. Perhaps after a bit of a rest and recharge?”

You poke his leg playfully and laugh. “If you wanted to have sex again you could just ask.”  

He dips low and kisses you. “Well then- if you are up for another round of delinquency…”

Beelzebub

Sweet baby didn’t know-

Well, he knew about it. Lucifer had given everyone “the talk” about it a couple of millennia ago.

He never really thought about it before you because he didn’t sleep with humans often (Him so big, human so smol if he isn’t paying attention it could be...bad)

So when you drag him into your room he just doesn’t think about it. You are both so oblivious

He doesn’t think about the shift in your scent, your kisses were just as sweet as always. If there was a peppery aftertaste to your kiss he chalks it up to something you had for breakfast

He doesn’t think anything of it when you practically drag him from your bed to shower together before school

He doesn’t think about it when at lunch your appetite starts to rival his

He starts to think about it during P.E. when your dodge ball puts a demon down for the rest of class

He definitely notices when you pin him down to steal his sandwich during your picnic date

Now he’s freaking out, whether it's because you are showing inhuman strength or the fact that you stole his food who knows

You nab yet another one of his sandwiches and start munching away with a hum of happiness. “Hey, babe.” He rumbles beneath you. “You feeling alright?” He wraps his large hands around your waist. Your weight was warm and comfortable over his prone form. He had whisked you away for an afternoon picnic, something to spend more time with you alone. After last night he craved being around you more than anything. He had packed enough food for him in mind. But it looks like it wouldn’t be enough. Odd. Beel rests his head back on the thick blanket protecting you both from the slightly damp grass underneath.

“Hmm?” You swallow down a mouthful of ruben. “Yeah! Famished though.” You lean back on his strong hip and swipe your finger around your mouth to brush off some crumbs. You reach for the other half of his sandwich to devour but pauses when you catch Beel’s kicked puppy look. With a huff of amusement, you offer the other half to him letting him chomp down with a fanged smile in thanks.

He chews in silence, watching you pick up a bowl of fresh fruit. Hmmm… He runs his rough palms up and down your thighs and hips ignoring your squirming and giggles when he runs over the thin skin of your sides. He squeezes you lightly. Huh- Your muscles were firmer than this morning, now that he was looking closer he could see that your frame was a bit sturdier too. Still his perfectly lovable and squishy human but more solid around the edges. In a last-ditch effort to figure out what has changed, he reaches out for his pact mark.

He jerks forward, upsetting your position on his lap, causing you to tumble backward, fruit flying everywhere. “Beel!” You shriek. He shushes you, squeezing your cheeks between warm hands.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot?” You repeat. “What dessert? I’m pretty sure the fruit was part of it...but I mean. If you want grassy cantaloupe it’s all yours.” You eye the remains of the seasonal fruit laying around you and then at the basket. You were pretty sure you saw some pastries at the bottom of it too.

“We had sex.” He blurts out bluntly, and quite loudly.

Your face heats. “Yes, thank you for the reminder.” You push him off sitting up on your elbows. “Please, why don’t you yell it out for all the wildlife to hear too.”

Beelzebub shakes his head groaning. “No-I forgot to warn you about our pact.”

Ahh-oh. You eye him wearily. If he was stressing you were stressing, it wasn’t like him to get so bent out of shape. “Ok-is it, like bad?”  What were you going to die? That would be a big thing to just forget. “How about you fill me in big guy.” You listen enraptured while he jerkily explains how you have strengthened your bond exponentially without even realizing it. Magic, super strength, the appetite, all because you jumped his bones.

Nice.

It sounded so cool- but then overwhelming all at the same time. Was it permanent? What if you lost control and actually hurt someone for real.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it-I just. You felt so good.” He wilts. “I should have been more careful- this is the first time I’ve done this.”

“Beel-”

“I swear.” He bulldozes over you. “I didn’t mean to keep this from you.”

You cut him off, combing your fingers through his hair soothingly. “I believe you, Beel.” You smile reassuringly. “It’s not like it’s gonna hurt me...right?”  He thinks about it for a minute then grunts, shaking his head. You grin brighter stretching out your arms. “And I get some cool powers right?”

He nods again. “For a bit yes.”

You get up off the ground excitedly. “Right then! You’ll show me the ropes right? I’ve never done anything magical before!” You look at your palms as if fire or sparks were going to fly out of them. Beel rises to his feet too.

“You sure? I doubt I will be as good of a mentor as Lucifer or even Belphie.” He looks around the large grove of trees and sprawling grassy acreage around you both. You both were far away from the populated areas of the mountain pass and town. He could practice with you freely and without worrying about damaging anything important. “Not the date I promised, but if you really want me to show you some stuff…” He offers you a shy smile. He did have a few cool tricks he could show you. You nod already rolling up your sleeves. Well- if this was what you really wanted then he would be glad to show you.  

[radramblog]

Some thoughts on RotMG

Halo Infinite seems to be continuing its efforts to refuse to let me play it, so I suppose I’m going to have to talk about something else. Cringe, not based, etc.

Let’s instead talk about a different game that was a long hyperfixation, and yet one that I’m fairly certain I never actually got gud at. Let’s talk about Realm of the Mad God.

what the fuck, that’s not the title plage i remember, show me the fuckin real one

Realm of the Mad God (RotMG) is an MMORPG that arguably has more genres than the average rateyourmusic page, and but unlike those it actually manages to fit into most of them. Originally a jam game, it takes the form of a free-to-play top-down co-op retro roguelike bullet hell MMORPG, which is a long list of words that probably doesn’t make sense to a lot of people.

The most important part, though, is that it has the unique quality of being an MMO where everyone is on “hardcore mode”- as in, your character dies, they’re gone for good. No reverts, no saving graces (except for something we’ll get to), dead. However, like most roguelikes, you can carry some things through- unlock progress for the various classes, as well as an item reserve (in the Vault) and the game’s two main currencies. In fact, Fame (the “free” currency) is only added to an account on a character’s death, and is done so based on the exploits (and gear) of that particular character.

This may sound a little miserable, and in some ways it is, but there’s a lot done to make this mishmash work. For starters, the maximum level is a mere 20, and can be achieved in less than an hour- and a fresh 20 character, assuming they’ve picked up some half-decent equipment on the way (and they should), can compete with the mid-to-high tier bosses provided there’s a group around- and there will be, unless the server’s real dead. Most high-level characters are going to be doing three things- running around the highest level areas (the “godlands”), hunting the highest level bosses (the “event bosses”) or plundering the dungeons that those things spawn (as well as the “final boss”, the titular Oryx, or his bonus areas), all in search of the rarest loot (gimme them fuckin white bags baby) or the Stat potions that are the game’s pseudo-levelling system post-20.

I think what made me like RotMG the most was its use of bullet hell and roguelike mechanics to make an MMO where success is more based around player skill than time investment- a fresh 20 Rogue can solo a Skull Shrine just as well as any 8/8 Maxed, fully Petted out one, it’ll just take longer and be a bit riskier. The game does well to teach you how to play this weirdo combination too- though with that said, I do recall the Hobbit Mage, a level 1-3ish quest boss that is around to explicitly teach you that hugging enemies is bad with its slow ring of shots, had one of the highest kill counts among all the enemies in the game at some point.

I played RotMG through most of high school, from memory. And in that time, it really went through some ups and downs. I’m sure every long-running MMO’s history is full of twists and turns like this, but Realm is my only real experience with anything like it (it is literally the only MMO I’ve ever played, save like. Pokemon Crater?), so it all stands out to me.

(ah...the original website)

As an example, originally the game had an item called the Amulet of Resurrection. It was only purchasable with Fame, didn’t drop from enemies, and cost a lot- to the point where it was used as a form of currency alongside the usual variety of stat potions and incs (Wine Cellar Incantations, the item that unlocked Oryx’s bonus area/boss that dropped the highest tier weapons in the game). When equipped, however, it provided a modest stat buff- with the additional benefit of, on the character’s death, instead teleporting them back to the Nexus (the safe zone) and breaking the amulet in the process. These were huge, and basically essential on any heavily invested character- because, you know, it broke rule one of the game- death is permanent, but not with an Ammy.

Eventually, when the game changed ownership to a company named Kabam, they started making changes to better monetize this free game. One of the first things they realised, I suppose, was that high-level players weren’t really putting money into it- the premium currency was basically only for dungeon keys and cosmetic items before they came along, and one of the first things they did was add the ability to purchase actual high-tiered loot with said currency. But of course, high-tiered, invested players aren’t going to buy new loot if their characters can’t die!

So they got rid of them. The Amulet of Resurrection was replaced by the Amulet of Zombification, and while it had the same shitty stat buff, instead of saving your character from death, it would turn them into an enemy that would attack nearby players (I don’t think the dead characters stats/equips made any difference to the enemy). Instantly stocks plummeted (the Realm economy is so fascinating, I swear) and characters started actually hitting the floor…and all the players who were rich in loot and Ammys still didn’t, you know, buy anything, because they had all the loot they wanted in storage or on mule accounts or invested in Life pots. Oops.

All of that was written from memory, so details might be wrong. Actually, all of this was written from memory, because I haven’t played the game in a hot fucking second- though my brief re-entry into it…last? Year? Was probably some of the best time I had with it.

I could probably go on for a long time about this game’s storied history. How Pets completely snapped the game’s balance in two and basically forced monetization for top-tier success, or the waves of item duping and the fallout that had on the economy, not to mention the hackers. I think fundamentally the game is in a good place by now- the third owners, Deca, have actually put a lot of work into it, up to completely rebuilding the game from the ground up in Unity since Flash is dead (and it looks great). This is all stuff I played through, I sat through, I ground through, and I never was very good at it but I had a good time, so who cares.

There’s a lot of reasons to not like Realm of the Mad God. It’s a bullet hell game that used to have really bad lag, which is not something you want in permadeath. It’s kind of a money and time pit still if you want to be “optimal” (assuming Deca didn’t completely rework Pets, which I doubt), though I’d like to reiterate that that’s completely unnecessary. And its combination of genres is definitely not for everybody- if nothing else, I’ve seen the best and the worst of the community, and it’s a real fucking society they live in. But, it’s also really fun, and it would be remiss of me not to bring it up at some point, because it was a huge part of my teenage years. Plus, you know, free to play game.

[cat-esper]

Find the Word Tag

Thanks for the tag, @kaylinalexanderbooks!

My words are provide, surface, cream, and road

Tagging @sentfromwolves, @autumnalwalker, and @pb-dot and your words are dare, scream, fly, and follow.

This one's from Incantations of the Mad Mage book 3:

Provide

The path meandered among the garden and as they walked, the maid pointed out things, naming the flowers and the plants. There was a bench for resting and even a pond with brightly colored fish in it. The pond emptied into a small trickling stream which made its way around the garden and then returned to the opposite side of the pond, emptying back into it. She realized, looking around, that the palace closed them in on all sides and thought that if she could see the place from the sky, the palace must be shaped a bit like a big, square donut with the courtyard and its garden in the center. A colonnaded walkway wrapped around the garden, offering additional shade where it hugged the sides of the palace. "But other than when the Emperor comes here, anyone can visit the garden at any time?" Arna asked, peering into the pond. "Of course," the maid said. "Well, except for night. For you. Sorry." Arna waved away her comment. She'd already figured as much. What she wanted to know, she doubted she would find here. The courtyard was not at the back of the palace as she'd first thought upon looking out the windows. It was still encased within its walls and as such didn't provide much of an escape. Unless she could somehow scale the walls and get up onto the roof. She squinted up at it now, the sun obscuring its features. But one thing she could make out, there was a shape that broke up the level of the roof, a very particular shape. "Is there a person up there?" Arna shielded her eyes with her hand but it hardly helped. The maid followed her gaze. "Oh. Yes. There are guards on the roof." "Oh." So much for that plan.

And the rest of these are all from Records of the Spiral, book 1

Surface

This couldn't be real. He must have finally snapped. What other explanation was there? After the day he'd had? Rory trudged out of the surf, the wet sand sucking at his sneakers and leaving messy, misshapen footprints behind. His were the only ones so Crystal couldn't have been here before him. The strangest thing was that it almost felt like he'd been here before. Here on this beach, the sea and the horizon unending, like something from a dream. A starfish lay on the sand just beyond the tide line, its pink and pebbly skin covered in a fine layer of sand. He picked it up and it squirmed sluggishly, its little starfish limbs curling over his fingers. He hurled it out to sea and watched it sail through the air before plopping into the water with barely a disturbance. As he did, something in the air caught his eye, a strip of silver arcing overhead, as pale as the moon during the day and brighter. He followed it with his gaze, craning his neck to see straight up. The dream of two nights ago flashed into his head, the image of the sea spiraling up and up like a funky plastic straw. He'd completely forgotten about it until now, looking up at this spiraling thing but what was it? Everything came back to him. The sea. Flying high above it and skimming its surface, swooping up into the massive spiral in the sky. Everything, every sight and smell and feel, even the touch of the breeze, was the exact same. Rory raked his fingers through his hair. "Holy shit."

Cream

The little bell on the door chimed and Rory looked up to find the gang of his friends pouring in. He stood up, placing the magazine spine up on the counter. "What the hell are you guys doing here," he asked, but there wasn't any negativity to his tone. "Checkin' on you, man." Aden held out a fist and Rory bumped it with his own. "Just wanted to see the high life for myself, you know?" Rory rolled his eyes. "Whatever." "Joy ride," Rose explained. "Aden's dad let him borrow the car and he's determined to use up all the gas. Hey, you got popsicles?" "Yeah, in the cooler." Rory jerked his chin in the direction of the ice chest. "Sweet." "You get off soon?" Aden wanted to know. "No, not till three." "But you wouldn't know anything about work, would you, Aden?" Rose tossed over her shoulder. She had the chest freezer open and was meticulously examining the popsicle and ice cream selection. "Hey, I got no need for work just yet. Gotta hold onto my freedom while I can." Aden fished around in his pocket and dramatically slapped a few dollars onto the counter. "One ham and cheese sandwich, please. And a large coke. And potato chips." "Chips are in the snack aisle." Rory rang him up while the others scoured the snack aisle and gift shop, then got to work making the sandwich. As he did that, a few customers came in for the lunch hour and paid for gas and food. Since he was the only one there, he had to run back and forth between the register and the little kitchen in the back, oftentimes risking leaving things on the stove to ring people up. But he was practiced at it, nothing burned, and no one complained.

Road

Out in the country, this was the only road and theirs was the only car on it. Others would call it peaceful but Rory always thought it was too much. Or not enough. Not enough people or buildings or, well, anything. Just dust and grass and a few cows or horses. Occasionally a great big semi truck might pass them by and Crystal would signal for the driver to honk his horn, a low, blaring hnnnnnnn that broke the relative silence. As they got closer to home, a few ranch houses broke up the horizon but they weren't truly in Merrick, Wyoming until that feeling of utter isolation enveloped them like a fog. That's when they knew they were home. Right after the Isolation came Old Man Billington's house. His mailbox, which said Billington in words so faded you only knew what it said if you knew who lived there, stood in place of a "Welcome to Merrick" sign. There had never been and never would be a sign welcoming anyone to Merrick.

General taglist: @thatrandomlemononyourcounter1, @teacupsandstarlight

Records of the Spiral taglist: @awleeofficial , @desastreus

[otherwindow]

a typical mage character but they're played out like a modern hacker 

always seen and heard writing in a tome 

spells out absurdly long and confusing incantations to cast magic 

"hacking the system" / "reveal the arcane" 

holds every spellbook out sideways like an open laptop and it makes everybody mad

uses a floating quill as a magic mouse cursor to click and drag goblins into each other

unlike other mages, it takes a LOT to silence this one due to their “Wi-Fi” (Whispering Invocation For Incantations) followed by a magical dial-up connection sound

study is full of potion bottles coloured like this

[thesolitarystripe]

A Strange Meeting

I got ahead of myself in posting Tindyl’s reunion with her guild. Of course, she had a little persuading from an unlikely source.

Some days passed after Tindyl was reunited with her beloved; they went about making plans to continue in their duty to aid Oribos and the rest of the Shadowlands realms. It was a daunting task when done solely as a pair, but, if Tindyl wished it so—the warrior would be steadfast in his promises. Their siege upon Castle Nathria to end the tyranny of Sire Denathrius was plotted delicately and the birth of that mission would occur in the later hours of the day, when the sun hung low and shadows of the dismal trees that littered the courtyard before the castle, stretched thin upon the ground. Hours before, Tindyl kept busy within the markets of Oribos—crafting potions that might give them even the smallest advantage over their foes. She frequented the vendors often, especially with how often she managed to drop her vials and lose them among the hundreds of Alliance feet that tread through those halls.

“Preparing for a battle, young one?”

A voice came from behind the Archdruid, one she could not place to anyone she knew but in its delicate tone, there was an odd familiarity. Tindyl turn on her heel, having concluded her business with the local alchemist and affixed her eyes upon the one that spoke. Another night elf, one whose face was not known to her eyes. It was a female, with shoulder length golden hair, tied tightly up in a large bun upon the top of her head. Two flaming eyes blazed against hers, soft and pale like the color of the moon. The women held one another’s gaze in silence until the older Kaldorei spoke.

“That doesn’t seem like enough to support any army,” her voice was slow and thick, like expensive honey dripping down the side of a golden jar. The woman stepped forward and dared let a single finger poke beneath the leather flap of Tindyl’s satchel, where she had just placed her potions. “Perhaps and army of four,” she shrugged, glowing us flicking up to behold the bewildered expression on the druid’s face. Tindyl knew better than to disrespect her elders but pulled the leather pouch away hurriedly and slapped a palm over the top of it to dissuade the woman from attempting to touch her items again.

“There are many factions within the Alliance, some work in droves—others prefer to work alone.” Tindyl kept her voice steady and smoothed out her features to appear pleasant again.

“Do you prefer it?” One golden eyebrow rose even further up from where it laid across the woman’s brow. “Tindyl, isn’t it?” The female crossed one arm across her body, holding her elbow as her other hand waved upward and tapped a single finger against her lips.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Tindyl pointed out hesitantly, uneasy that this woman knew her name and yet she was sure she had never seen her here or anywhere else upon her travels.

“I assure you; we have been young druid but, please, don’t stray from the question.”

This woman spoke with authority and stood with an aura of arrogance swirling about her. Tindyl could feel the power emanating from her counterpart but dared not take a step back, though her legs urged her to. A mage, no doubt. Swift eyes took notice of the staff that hung from her back, fire lapping at the blade as if it were made of wood—a spell of sorts that made the metal burn and yet it spread nowhere else. Who was this woman?

“Perhaps there was a time I preferred the company of others, but those days have since passed.”

“You were a guild leader, no? Have you left your people? Strayed from the flock?”

“Excuse me?”

“A small but mighty guild, with just enough heroes to make miracles happen and save Azeroth. Archdruid Tindyl, the fearless leader with nearly no experience in battle when she signed the guild charter—yet she found those willing to follow and even better, succeeded. Is that not you?”

Tindyl paused, her mouth ajar as her breath evaded her. “No…well...not anymore—I’ve left, you’re correct.” Now, she did take a step back, her confidence dissolving as it had so many times over the last several months. She felt backed into a corner, the high rising walls of Oribos closing in on her as she admitted openly that she was only a shell of her former self; to a stranger nonetheless.

“Why?” These were the first words the mage asked that did not feel as if they were being pressed into Tindyl’s throat with the point of a dagger. They sounded, caring.

“It’s a long story,” was all she could think to say as that tiresome lump formed in her throat. She had been so easy to cry these recent days and it bothered her so.

Silence fell between them. Tindyl’s eyes fell to the floor, her hands still clutching her leather pouch as her shoulders fell along with her resolve to look composed. Heat spread like wildfire across her chin so suddenly, Tindyl thought perhaps the mage had whispered some incantation upon her but her senses told her that it was only the feeling of skin on skin that touched her face. The druid watched as pale fingers had grasped her face, lifting her eyes back up to meet the warm glowing embers that intimidated her so.

“A story that I know; I only hoped you would tell me.” The mage again seemed soft in the way she spoke now, holding Tindyl’s jaw tenderly.

“News travels quickly,” Tindyl sighed, knowing well that rumors and gossip were not below even a hero within the Alliance. Her business traveled from ear to ear and yet none had bothered to come to her for insight into what had caused her to leave her beloved guild.

“Unfortunately, so,” the mage sighed. “I know it is difficult, young one—to be different. There are many that would seek to harm you for that sole purpose. People, beings, do not think like you do. They are not within these ranks to save the world. As difficult as it is to understand, there are some only here for power, greed, and self-gain. They will allow nothing to stop them from obtaining that end goal even if it means defamation of someone else. Betrayal. Lies, deceit! For every good soul, there are the damned ones. They will seek out the light in you and destroy it.” Her fingers clenched Tindyl’s face almost painfully, pulling her in closer. “You cannot let them win.” This came as a whisper. It was not a threat but between those breathy words, Tindyl felt the challenge within them.

“Why.” It was Tindyl’s turn to inquire. Despite the minor ache in her jaw, she peered up at the mage, eyes glistening as she asked the very question that plagued her mind daily. At this, the mage’s hand loosened and for a moment the druid thought the mage was about to pull her in and embrace her.

“My dear, if you spend you days asking that question, you’ll go mad within these very walls. There are so many petty reasons that drive men to act—it will only hurt you to linger on it.”

“Why are people cruel! Why join a cause so noble if your aim is to harm! Why risk your life if you do not care for the living that surrounds you?” Tindyl yelled, the anger that she fought to keep locked away within her pouring out into the face of this intimate stranger. “I’ve lost so much,” her breath hitched, and she looked up to stop the flow of her tears but they rolled defiantly.

“You are not the first Kaldorei to experience cruelty of the world, dor’elah. Many of us have been wounded over the many years that our lives span—it is what you choose to do with that pain, that will forge you.”

“What if I’m tired,” Tindyl’s voice came weakly, embodying the very words she spoke.

“Tired of what?”

“Being wrong.”

“Who says that it is so?”

“I imagine, everyone.”

“Do not let your imagination speak for you. We live based on evidence and tangible truths—who has said you are wrong? The ones that have left? So be it, let them run along with their thoughts because they are exactly that, thoughts. Just because it exists does not make it truth.” Tindyl’s eyes fell back upon the face of her elder, her jaw still nestled in that all too hot palm.  “A hero would make nothing of themselves if they cared for what others thought of them, you would do best to learn that now at your age. I took was young when I learned that what others want, what they believe, will not always align with what is best for me. That does not make me wrong, does it?”

“No.”

“Then why does it make you wrong? Why have you allowed one treacherous man unravel you? Because his allies follow him blindly and hang off his promises like babes to a teat? Hold your head up Archdruid, remember who you are and where you come from. You were not born of weakness. Have your tears and be done with it. Fight for what you are and what you believe in. Dragons do not heed the opinions of the cattle that they eat.” Finally, she released her hold on Tindyl whose tears had suddenly dried. “So, what will you do then druid? Will you be undone by someone who holds less worth and integrity than an old haggard boot? Or will you rise upon the horizon like your precious Mother Moon?”

The mage took a single step backward as if to take her leave, her eyes hard upon the face of the youth before her; that edge to her voice returned in full. She eyed the druid up and down, taking one last look before she spoke plainly.

“Make your decision Archdruid and remember—” Her hand reached out, her index finger finding the hard ridge of Tindyl’s chin just enough to tilt it back upward. “Head up.”

The golden haired Kaldorei turned then and took her leave within a small part of other mages, their cloaks fluttered behind them, her companions deep in conversation. They were gone around the corner before Tindyl could speak.

“Min’da,” her eyes were fixed forward as the realization washed over her. She had never seen her mother, not in her cognizant years. Her father spoke so little of her and Tindyl never dared broach the subject. That familiarity, the way with which she spoke, the fire in her veins—Tindyl knew. The Druid jumped forward after the small party but as she rounded the wall and stood in the entrance of the hall, they were lost among the crowds. Laurel Moonwillow was a powerful fire mage who worked within the Alliance and even had ties within the Kirin Tor; she had left Tindyl and her father not long after Tindyl’s first birthday. Her appearance had changed from the few stories Bai’len had shared of her—once blue haired with eyes to match, cool toned skin and bright yellow eyes. The fire magic had changed her. That was no surprise, Tindyl’s father had harped on that for years and it was one of the main reasons he had wanted Tindyl to fight only with bow and sword. Even as a babe when her affinity for nature magic and druidism began to blossom—he baulked at the thought of his daughter becoming a user of any magic.

Tindyl’s mind raced with all that had happened. After searching the halls for any signs of her mother, she eventually gave up and retreated to the outer edges of Oribos again.

What will you do then druid?

Deep within her heart, Tindyl knew what she must do—but was her heart strong enough after all it had endured, was what worried her.

[dont-tempt-me-frodo]

Could I maybe suggest a prompt? It’s fine if not! Just I’ve seen a lot of fics (like 3 honestly) where Geralt and Jaskier are cursed to stay close to each other lest one or both are in unimaginable pain. That but they go visit Yennefer and find out the only way is to spend like an hour apart from on another, just major angst, like they’re both claimed to opposite sides of the room suffering and watching the other in pain :o Thanks!

oh my goodness I LOVE this. 

So this got quite long but I hope it does the prompt justice! I've also posted it on ao3 so you can read it there too!

"Let me check," Jaskier chirped and before Geralt could stop him, the Bard stuck his head up from the over-turned table they were crouched behind.

The Witcher grabbed a fistful of his doublet and yanked him back down.

"Yeah, I have assessed the situation and it's eh, not good," Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck.

"What part of a rampaging Mage did you think would be good?" Geralt growled, brow set in a deep scowl.

Jaskier shrugged, the slight quiver in his jaw muscles betraying his fear at their current predicament.

This wasn't how his day was supposed to go. When they had arrived in the small town, the townsfolk had asked him to deal with a Mage who, quote, "is a little bit intense and kind of creepy." Geralt had rolled his eyes and almost ignored the request but Jaskier had insisted they check it out, even if it came to nothing.

Geralt knew that the Bard was hoping to spend the night in the town rather than sleeping rough under the stars again for the fifth night in a row. Investigating the Mage would waste the time until nightfall and then they would have to stay in the tavern. Geralt had decided to indulge Jaskier. He had to admit, a straw mattress and scratchy sheets did sound like a nice change from roots sticking into your back and the cold that crept in with the dark.

They had found the Mage's tower easily enough. It stood on the outskirts of the town. Five storeys high, slate roof, thin windows, moss covered brickwork. Nestled amongst tall growing brambles and gorse. 

Geralt had intended to have a nice, calm conversation with the Mage, sort out whatever miss understanding had happened between them and the townsfolk then head back to the tavern for ale and a warm dinner.

That's how it was supposed to go.

Unfortunately for Geralt, the Mage seemed a little unhinged and was babbling on about the properties of a certain mushroom he had found by the river. The Witcher recognised it immediately as a Dracus Soria or, in the common tongue, Dragons Breath. 

The mushroom was small, perfectly round and a violent red colour. The gills underneath the cap were orange and the stalk a mustardy yellow. If ingested it burned down the gullet and practically melted the person from the inside out. There was the odd rumour that if treated correctly, the mushroom could cure all manner of aliments, but everyone who had tried had died horribly.

Geralt tried explaining this to the Mage but his warnings fell on deaf ears. When the Mage had wanted to feed his latest batch of findings to Jaskier, Geralt had put himself between him and the Bard with a menacing expression on his face that even a Mage would think twice before challenging him. 

Unfortunately for Geralt, the Mage had blasted him aside with a powerful spell and then when Jaskier ran from him, decided to eat the mushroom himself.

Now the Mage was dancing about his workshop in agonising pain, firing off spells and incantations in all directions, as he was driven mad by the mushroom’s effects. 

Geralt risked a peek around the side of the table they were using as a shield but quickly drew back again as a white jet of sparks narrowly missed his face.

He had two options. The first, wait the Mage out and let the mushroom kill him but at risk of his and Jaskier's probable deaths. The second, go and kill the Mage himself. 

He grunted, gritting his teeth together, amber glare on the Bard as he tried to form the best strategy.

"This isn't my fault," Jaskier huffed indignantly, guessing what the Witcher was thinking, "How was I supposed to know that this guy was batshit crazy."

Geralt ignored him, trying to tune his hearing onto the Mage to work out where he was. The sound of Jaskier's slightly sharp breathing, the pattering of his heart. The screaming of the Mage as he was burned from the inside. The crackle of magic whizzing through the air. The smashing of glass as vials and beakers were thrown about the room. The heavy shuffling of footsteps, directly on the other side of the table.

"Jaskier, when I say, push the table as hard as you can," he blinked at the Bard.

Jaskier nodded, placing his palms against the solid wood, a focus coming over him that was usually reserved for his composing. 

Geralt got in position, listening as the Mage hoped from foot to foot.

"Now!" he growled and slammed his hands into the table as hard as he could.

The table shunted forward with enough force to crash into the Mage and send him sprawling to the floor. Geralt sprang up from his crouching position, blade in hand, ready to strike the convulsing Mage before he did any more damage.

"Geralt!" Jaskier's warning came too late and a hot stream of magic hit Geralt square in the chest and threw him back against the wall.

He brushed off the frantic hands that were trying to roll him over and pushed himself gingerly to all fours.

Jaskier's blue eyes were wide with shock, his hands trembling slightly as they hovered over Geralt, ready to catch him if he collapsed.

Geralt sucked in a long breath. No broken bones as far as he could tell, and there were no obvious effects from the spell that hit him, so he decided that he was probably okay.

As he hauled himself to his feet, the room suddenly went quiet. The Mage spluttered one last breath before his twitching limbs finally stilled.

"Well that was a laugh," Jaskier said shakily, "Do you think the people will still pay us, even though he kind of offed himself?"

"Hm," was the only response he got from the Witcher. 

Geralt sheathed his sword again and cracked his knuckles. He glanced at the Bard with a warmth that had Jaskier smiling.

"Come on Bard," he stepped towards the door, "I need a drink."

As he went to pass through the doorway a sharp pain spiked through him, coming from deep in his core. It burned through his nerves and tensed up his limbs. At the same time, he heard Jaskier gasp. The Bard dropped to his knees, clutching his gut, face contorted in pain.

Geralt stumbled back, light pulsing behind his eyes, and as he grabbed the table for support, the pain ebbed. He snapped his attention to the Bard who seemed to be okay again, breathing hard, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"What-what was that?" Jaskier panted.

Geralt glanced at the dead Mage then sucked in a breath. He moved towards the door again and the same pain punched though him. Jaskier cried out, bent double so that his forehead was pressed against the flagstone.

The Witcher quickly stepped back again, and again the pain faded. He looked to the Bard who was shaking, then back at the Mage. Panic set in as he realised what was going on.

He made for the door again, wanting to be sure but halted abruptly as Jaskier wailed, "Geralt no, please."

"Fuck," Geralt growled.

***

Travel was difficult. Very difficult.

They couldn't be apart more than a metre without being crippled by excruciating pain. Whatever curse the Mage had hit Geralt with was strong and he knew that they would need a Mage's help to undo it.

The night before when they had made camp and fallen into their usual routines, they kept forgetting that they were restricted by distance and had struggled to remain calm with each other as they tried to avoid hurting each other. They had set up their bedrolls and fallen asleep in each other's arms but when Jaskier had rolled away in his sleep they were both woken by a jolt of agony that forced the breath from their lungs. Geralt had bundled Jaskier to him, wrapping him in his strong arms again to keep him close. After pressing a gentle kiss to Jaskier's temple and tucking the Bard tight to his chest, they had both finally drifted off again.

Geralt was a Witcher. He had a much higher pain threshold than most and even though each stab of pain was unbearable, he was definitely holding up better than Jaskier. He couldn't even imagine what this was like for the Bard. It must be like being ripped apart again and again and again. And Geralt didn't know what was worse. Watching Jaskier suffer or being helpless to stop it.

Jaskier was pale, the stench of fear tainting his usual flowery scent. Each time they accidentally moved too far away from each other, the pain brought the Bard to his knees, and he seemed to get weaker with each bout.

Their usual dynamic of Geralt astride his mare with Jaskier keeping pace beside was absolutely out of the question.

Jaskier was very quiet as he sat behind Geralt on Roach. His uncharacteristic silence unnerved Geralt. Worry fluttered in his gut.

"We are going to see Yennefer," the Witcher rumbled, "if anyone knows how to lift this curse, it's her."

"How long?" Jaskier's voice sounded raw.

"Hm?"

"How long until we reach her?" Jaskier shuffled slightly.

"About four days, as the crow flies," Geralt chewed his lower lip.

Jaskier didn't respond. He just let his head rest on Geralt's back, swaying with the motions of the horse underneath him.

"We're going to be okay," Geralt said after a stretch of quiet, "you hear me?"

Jaskier nodded weakly, keeping his face pressed against Geralt.

The days passed excruciatingly slowly. 

They tried to be very careful with how much distance was between them, sticking as close together as they possibly could. After a day went by without any pain, Jaskier perked up a bit, even humming softly as Roach took them through winding farmland and dense forests.

But then they were attacked by bandits.

Geralt heard them a second before they attacked and barely had time to rip his sword from its sheath as they descended. There were only four of them. Easy game for a Witcher, except-

Except he couldn't leave Jaskier's side and that put them both in very real danger. 

Still astride Roach, Geralt swung at them as best he could but it was awkward, sluggish, and he was pulled from Roach and slammed heavily to the ground.

Jaskier's scream ripped through the air as pain clamped Geralt to the spot. The Bard fell from the horse and was writhing about on the ground, screaming in agony.

This was the furthest apart they had been since being cursed and it felt like someone was pushing hot pokers into every part of Geralt's body. His vision flashed white, his ears rang. He couldn't breath. 

The bandits froze in shock, not quite sure what was happening but quickly realising that the Witcher and the Bard weren't able to defend themselves. They approached with confidence; blades held up ready to take an easy prize.

By some miracle, Geralt was able to lift his hand and cast Aard at the bandits. The telekinetic wave sent them flying. One bounced off a tree, the sound of his spine cracking drowned out by Jaskier. Another tumbled headfirst into a patch of thorns, yelping and clawing to get free. The third and fourth were lucky and were just thrown a ways down the road. They grabbed the one stuck with thorns and beat a hasty retreat.

Geralt crawled towards Jaskier. The pain slowly fading to a dull ache the closer he got until it finally stopped altogether. His skin prickling uncomfortably, he reached out to the Bard.

Jaskier's breath sobbed in his chest, tears streamed down his cheeks, and he was shuddering violently. Curled up on his side with his hands digging into the earth.

"Jaskier," Geralt rasped, placing a gentle hand on the Bard's shoulder.

Jaskier tensed under his touch but eventually slumped into the ground as Geralt stroked his arm soothingly.

The echoes of pain still rippling through his body, Geralt managed to get Jaskier to sit up and he pulled the Bard into his lap. He buried his nose in Jaskier's hair, arms cocooning him in warmth, and listened as Jaskier's breathing slowly evened out and the rabbit-quick thundering of his heart started to return to normal. 

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "Jask, I'm so sorry."

"What are you sorry for? It's not your fault," Jaskier sounded tired. No, more like exhausted.

Geralt felt the same weariness in his bones and he didn't know if had the strength to stand yet, so he stayed sat on the ground, cradling Jaskier, hating how there was nothing he could do to make this better.

On the evening of the fourth day they came to a bustling city. The streets were still full of vendors trying to sell their wares and the noise of a chattering crowd reached them before they even got to the city gates set into defensive walls.

The guards let them through with a nod and Geralt guided Roach carefully through the mob of people going about their daily lives. 

The smell of baking bread and brewing ale, churned up mud, and horse, incense and salted fish hit them in a heavy wave as they navigated the busy streets. They passed through the wooden houses of the suburbs and then the cobbled stone of the city centre.

Geralt hopped off Roach and helped Jaskier down. He brought her to a sheltered lean-to where several other horses were tethered and paid the horse master to look after her until they came back for her.

"Why is Yennefer here?" Jaskier asked, looking around him at the surroundings, "this isn't the kind of place she is usually attracted to."

Geralt laced his fingers with Jaskier's and brushed his lips against his knuckles.

"She had an opportunity to get information from a councilman or something. She's using his townhouse for her work," he grunted.

Hands still twined together, Geralt spoke quickly to a merchant then pulled Jaskier with him as he searched out the townhouse.

They were buffeted on all sides as they manoeuvred through the packed streets, clinging desperately to each other to avoid being separated.

Geralt halted by a grand looking house with a pillared entrance and slatted shutters over the windows. A plume of leafy plants grew in ceramic pots either side of the front door, a spray of green against the grey marble. Geralt knocked.

The oak door creaked as it swung open and Geralt led Jaskier inside. The door shut deftly behind them and the overpowering smell of sage and lavender chased away the scents of the street. 

They were standing in a small entrance hall with a staircase ahead of them and a door on the left and right. 

Geralt wrinkled his nose as a new scent hit him. Lilac and gooseberries. 

"Well, well, well," a female drawl sounded from the top of the stairs, "and I was beginning to think that this evening would be boring."

"Yennefer," Geralt dipped his head to her.

The Mage descended the staircase with such elegance it looked as if she were floating. She was dressed in a black and white dress and her raven black hair tumbled about her shoulders in soft waves. Her violet eyes sparkled in the light from the torches bracketed to the walls. 

"I would say that it's good to see you but you usually only come to me when you are in trouble," she smirked, gliding past and inviting them to follow her through the door on the left, "So, what's happened this time?"

The drawing room she brought them into was vast and airy, embellished with sculptures and art dotted along the panelled walls. 

"A curse," Geralt let his amber eyes flit about the room before resting on the Mage as she poured herself a glass of dark amber liquid from a decanter.

"Must be serious," she quirked an eyebrow at him, "the Bard hasn't said a word since coming through the door."

If Jaskier wasn't dead on his feet, he would have flushed. Instead, he looked at his boots miserably.

"It's bad Yen," Geralt's voice was tight. He knew what she was going to ask before the words fell from her mouth.

"Let me see," she tilted her head slightly.

Jaskier's head shot up, blue eyes wide.

"Geralt no, please," his voice broke on the last word and Geralt felt his heart shatter.

"To know what I'm working with, I have to see it," Yennefer swirled the contents of her glass absently.

"Just quick Jask, we'll do it quick," Geralt tried as Jaskier shook his head frantically.

Geralt caught the look in the Mage's eyes and gritted his teeth. Guilt flashed through him.

"I'm sorry," he took a few long strides from Jaskier then buckled with pain. the noise that escaped Jaskier was heart-wrenching but before he could crumple to the ground, Geralt was back by his side and pulling him into a hug.

Yennefer was quiet for a long time and the Witcher felt his unease grow with each silent second.

"Is... is there a way to-" he started after he couldn't bare it any longer.

"To break it? Yes. But you're not going to like it," she sighed and put her glass down on a side table.

Jaskier balked at her words, clinging to Geralt desperately, trying to draw comfort from him.

"To break this curse, you have to force yourselves to stay separated in the same room as each other for an hour," Yennefer bit her lower lip.

"What?" Jaskier sounded so broken and scared. Geralt's gut twisted painfully.

"It is the only way. One hour of excruciating pain and then free, of the rest of your lives never being able to leave each other's sides," she blinked slowly.

"There must be something else. Some other way," Geralt growled.

"You could always kill yourself," Yennefer curled her lip.

"Fuck," Geralt grunted.

The Witcher looked at the Bard. Jaskier's eyes were swimming with unshed tears and Geralt's heart panged in his chest. He brushed the pad of his thumb down Jaskier's cheek and the Bard leaned into his touch.

He hated this. He hated this with everything that he had. But he knew what they had to do. He couldn't spend the rest of his life tethered to Jaskier. Not like this. The idea of spending the rest of his life with the Bard was something the thought about a lot and it filled him with warmth and excitement but, what bound them together right now was dangerous and, if he was being selfish, impractical. He wouldn't be able to hunt monsters and Jaskier wouldn't be able to perform for the masses. They would just keep getting in each other's way and besides, separation in a relationship is healthy. But the thought of spending an hour in that amount of pain made him sick to the stomach. Not just that. Having to see Jaskier spending an hour in that amount of pain would probably break him. But he knew what they had to do.

"Jaskier," he said softly.

"I know Geralt. I know," the Bard choked.

Geralt pressed his lips to Jaskier's and Jaskier melted into his mouth. Geralt rested his forehead against the Bards, keeping him close, breathing the same hot air. 

"I love you," he mumbled.

"I love you too," Jaskier's voice was barely a whisper.

Geralt set his face in a determined expression then looked at the Mage.

"So how do we do this?" he growled.

Yennefer looked about her, "in here is fine. You just have to go as far away from each other as possible then stay there. It's uh, up to you if you distance slowly or just... go for it."

Jaskier paled, fear crossing his young face.

Geralt swallowed thickly. 

"Maybe slowly is better?" he glanced at Jaskier, "get used to the pain then push it further, get used to it then further?"

That made sense but Jaskier was still hesitant to agree to anything.

"The hour doesn't start until you are fully separated. So going slower increases the amount of time you're in pain," Yennefer swelled with sympathy.

Seeing the Bard and the Witcher so scared and vulnerable brought a very strange feeling to her chest and she tried to push it away.

"Quick then," Geralt rubbed his face with his hands, "fuck! I don't know."

Jaskier placed a trembling hand on his arm.

"Quick. Get it over with," he sounded sure.

Geralt nodded. His usually slow heart was thumping frantically in his chest.

They spent the next few minutes discussing how they were going to do it. It was agreed that Jaskier wouldn't make it to his side of the room by himself and Geralt was faster anyway. They decided that they were both going to stand at the far wall, then Geralt was going to sprint to the opposite wall. He was fairly sure he could keep it together long enough to reach it.

They stood side by side, breathing heavily, holding hands, building their courage.

Yennefer had assured them she would be on hand if anything went wrong and she perched herself on the side table, taking long drinks of the amber liquid in the glass.

"Okay, after three," Geralt glanced at Jaskier who nodded. He reluctantly let go of Jaskier's hand, a torrent of emotions swirling inside him.

Jaskier pressed himself hard against the wall.

"One," said Geralt, voice tight, settling in a stance to start running, "Two..."

On three he launched himself away from the wall. Jaskier's scream harmonised with his own and pain lanced through him, growing in intensity as he forced his legs to carry him. He threw himself at his destination, crumpling awkwardly on the landing and gritted his teeth together as wave after wave tore through him. 

It was unlike anything he had every felt before. The edges of his vision kept going dark. The dryness of his mouth quickly choking him as he growled. His muscles spasmed and ached. Sharp pain kept spiking through his organs. He willed himself to pass out, but the black wouldn't come.

He forced himself to look at Jaskier.

The Bard was in a heap on the floor, his whole body contorting and convulsing, the scream pulled from him only stopping when he had to take a breath.

Yennefer wasn't looking at either of them. She was very close to covering her ears with her hands to block out the noise. But she didn't. They needed to see her strong. If she wilted, what hope did either of them have?

As the minutes crawled past, Geralt kept waiting for his body to go numb, to get used to the pain and filter it out like background noise. But it just kept coming, finding new ways to hurt him in places he didn't know even existed.

Jaskier had stopped screaming but only because he physically couldn't anymore. 

The half-hour mark was signalled by Yennefer and Jaskier let out a long, distressed noise that broke Geralt's heart.

"I can't," he sobbed, "I can't do this. Please. Please don't make me do this. Please."

"Just hang on Jaskier," Yennefer was crouched over him, brushing his sweat soaked hair out of his eyes.

"Please," he wailed, "make it stop. Please. G-Geralt."

Geralt had to look away from him. He knew that if he caught those blue eyes he would break and abandon his wall to crawl to Jaskier's side. They were so close now. So close.

The Witcher sucked in sharp, shallow breaths as he clenched his jaw so hard, he was pretty sure he heard a tooth crack.

And then finally, finally after what seemed like an eternity, the pain was gone. 

Geralt howled with relief. His body felt strangely light. Slowly testing each limb, he pushed himself up off the floor and leaned against the wall.

Then he saw Jaskier and he wanted to scream even though he knew he couldn't.

The Bard was on his side, eyes glazed over, tears streaming down his face, his whole body shuddering with each shallow breath. Yennefer was by his head, muttering soothing words and light incantations to bring him back round.

Not trusting his legs to support him, Geralt used a chair to pull himself up then cautiously made his way over to Jaskier and Yennefer. He collapsed by her side and reached for his Bard.

"Jaskier," Geralt shook him gently.

"I'm not sure he can hear you," the Mage's voice sounded tight.

"What do you mean?" fear and panic tainted his tone.

"He's retreated so far back into himself I'm struggling to...to find him," she frowned.

Geralt took Jaskier's hands and realised that the Bard's fingertips were bloody from where he had clawed at the floor. Geralt choked back a sob. 

"I'm here Jaskier. Come back to me, please," the Witcher rasped, "it’s over. It's all over."

Jaskier blinked. Then his breathing stuttered. Then he groaned.

"Jaskier?" Geralt's voice was thick with emotion.

"Remind me to never get mixed up with Mages again," Jaskier's voice was reedy and barely audible. His gaze landed on Yennefer, "ah shit. Spoke too soon."

Geralt laughed. It was raspy and almost painful in his raw throat, but it resonated with giddy relief. 

Over the next few days they mostly just slept, tangled in each other's arms, in one of the lush bedrooms of the townhouse. Yennefer checked in on them every now and then but tried not to disturb them too much. They were both exhausted and needed time to recover which she had full faith that they would. She was a little worried about their mental states but that was something she could evaluate once they were stronger. 

On the morning of the fifth day Geralt was woken by the harsh sunlight spilling through the drapes hanging over the windows. He had been having a rather bad dream about a curse and unimaginable pain but then he remembered that it wasn't a dream, it had actually happened, and he was struck with exhaustion anew just thinking about it. It was strange. He usually didn't need to sleep. Quite often, meditation was enough to revive him but all he had done for however long it had been, was sleep. 

He became aware of the warmth in the bed next to him and he let himself smile as he looked at Jaskier sleeping peacefully. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The glow of the morning sun on his skin. He was utterly beautiful. It was hard to believe that not so long ago he had been drowning in terror and pain.

Geralt swallowed hard. The memories would haunt him forever and Gods only knew what lasting effects the trauma would have on Jaskier. 

He tried to force the thought away as he traced the side of Jaskier's face with a gentle finger. He ghosted over the Bard's soft lips and graced the curve of his jaw. 

Jaskier stirred slightly but didn't wake and Geralt hummed softly. 

Let him sleep, he thought to himself, and when he wakes, he won't have time to think about what happened because he'll be too busy being loved by me. Gods Geralt, when did you become such a sap? 

He smiled when Jaskier mumbled in his sleep.

Oh. When I fell in love. That's when.

And Geralt let himself sink back into pleasant black.

[spiltscribbles]

I Crave You And That is All

Notes: A reblog is worth a thousand stars 

.-

Sometimes I just look at Baz— At his gray eyes that go molten in the light and his ridiculous cheekbones that could literally cut right through glass and the precise shape to his cupids bow lips that I always want to kiss— and I can hardly believe that we’re actually  together, an item— that against all odds we’ve somehow stumbled into something like love. Something that makes my chest contract, and my stomach tumble itself into knots, and sometimes when Baz touches me— always so tenderly— it feels like their’s a thrill prickling up my spine, magic revived within me once more.

For instance, it feels that way right now, but just a thousand times more maddening.

Penelope’s spending the night at her parents place over the sprint holiday, bidding farewell by crowing a pointed, “Please let loose of the sexual tension before it suffocates us all,” to us, which makes it so Baz’s face goes utterly scarlet, and I can’t help but  sputter an indignant “Hop off!” before tossing her the bird. Penelope had only cast us one last smirk, always so very smug. But whatever, that doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that the moment the front door slammed shut, Baz and I scrambled towards one another like clashing tornados, hips rocking against hips in a frankly obscene motion, and  swapping kisses  with such fucking ferociousness  that I’m positively  sure there’ll be bruising around each of our  lips tomorrow, but I don’t care, just as long as I can finally tug off Baz’s shirt, and run greedy hands up and down his hard torso, and breathe him in deep, He always smells like sandalwood and blossoming fields and something indescribably incandescent, something distinctly his own.

“Crowley, I’ve missed you,” Baz chokes out between a gasp when I begin to nip at the hinge of his unfairly sharp jaw, the way that always gets him writhing.  I wouldn’t admit this in the light of day, but  my heart does a ridiculous swooping motion when I hear that, pressing Baz even closer like its all I have to give.

We’ve seen one another nearly every day since all of it— Since the Humdrum, and the Mage. After I became a fucking normal, no matter what Baz or Penny try to say otherwise. But I understand what Baz means with the feeling of having missed me, we’re always around a damn crowd of people, or Baz has to make it back to Watford before curfew, or what the fuck ever. It’s been too long— nearly a month— since I’ve been able to just hold him like this, to see that particular flush run down Baz’s chiseled features. Since I got to knot a hand in Baz’s thick mop of hair. Since I got to suck Baz’s plump bottom lip into my mouth and fucking bite, ears ringing with the splendid sound of Baz’s moan that comes out right then.

“It’s been so damn long.”

.-

We’re lying naked on the bed now, the tip of Baz’s finger tracing random designs against my bare skin, intermittently cut off by him peppering kisses along my freckles or moles.

“You are really good at that,” I tell him, breathless as I flip around so that we’re face to face again, so I can see the way Baz’s hair spills on the sheets with abandon, and the beautiful contrast of the bruises I left on his hips while I was pounding into him against his sides,  and how his eyes gaze at me with such raw wanting that it makes it so my insides sing with glee.

“You said that already Snow,” Baz goads with heavy breaths. Truthfully, I   wish he hadn’t called me by my surname, I much  rather hear the soft lilt to his voice curling around Simon instead, is thrilled on those nights when Baz really sheds himself of all the walls I know I  had a part in building up in the first place. The nights when Baz curves against me so gingerly, nights when he says that he loves me in such hushed breaths that skirt against my skin, ones  punctured with kisses against my collar bone. The nights when he calls me love, or even once darling when I had actually  had made him laugh with such mirth that the blue in Baz’s gray eyes shone so brightly that it punched the breath right out of me.

“Don’t be a prick Pitch,” I bristle, leaning  into the familiarity of it— of our bickering and banter, even it’s so much more now— when Baz’s my entire world.   

Lazily, I tug on a lock of his impossibly soft hair. For fuck’s sake not even Agatha’s was quite as silky. 

Baz’s smile goes diffident, as much of an apology as he’ll ever offer and as much as I  will ever except.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me instead, cups a hand around my cheek and kisses my lips with such  aching gentleness.

We stay like that for a while, with me lying naked atop him  and the both of us forever yearning for the other. But inevitably we have to pull apart for air, and of course Baz has to ruin the moment by joking about me using too much spit.

“I can’t believe my boyfriend’s such a damn tosser,” I pout moodily, collapsing besides him with my arms crossed against my chest, and I only feel better when I hear the dulcet sound of Baz’s laughter pouring out his lips when he throws his dark head back, humor painting him in brilliant lights.

“’s only a joke Snow, I rather like your primitive fashion,” Baz goads, snuggling closer to me and pressing a kiss to my cheek in penance.

“Oy, why don’t you make me a pot of tea then,” I snark moodily at a Baz who   is still positively beaming. Can’t help but laugh at my grimace.

“’S one in the morning.”

“I’m thirsty,” I pout.

“Then make your own bloody tea,” Baz huffs, rolling his eyes heavenwards but never really meaning it.  He still  never stops touching me, like he can’t get enough of it, like somehow this was Baz’s dream come true instead of the other way around— you know, super repressed dreams that I would’ve never admitted in the light of day.

“What can I say lover,” I preen, pecking the corner of his mouth knowing  full and well  that it makes Baz melt just slightly. “You wore me out.”

“You’re such a prick,” Baz retorts, lips curled and cheeks infused red.

“But?” I press with a cocked brow.

“But nothing Snow, you are a prick.” Baz charges.  I don’t say anything, only leer after  him, watching as the delectable sight of Baz’s naked form gets up, headed to the kitchen.

For the record, I definitely do not wince when Baz throws a spare pillow at my head. “Not a fucking show Snow.”

“I reckon I’ve got some spare notes if you felt unappreciated,” I call out in response, totally gleeful.

The glare Baz threw my way was downright menacing, but also very very hot. It’s unfair how he could pull that off, truly.

.-

I’m not sure when exactly I start to doze off, all that I notice is Baz— as quiet and graceful as ever— stealthily slipping back into the room some time later, setting the tea to the side and carding a ginger hand through my bronze curls. He’s so quiet about it, but I think I’ll always just be attuned to him, going alert whenever he so much even looks at me. Once I had  thunk it a survival technique, but now I know full and well how desperate I had been just to get Baz to look at me, to spare me some of his attention just for that infinitesimal moment of the day.

“Good night Habibi,” Baz tells me, just above a whisper, before pecking a barely there kiss to my forehead.

A feeling I can’t quite parse out— something splendid, something so warm and lovely— coils deep in my gut. 

Of course I  recognize the word, Habibi, an Arabic pet name that Natasha had constantly crooned to a pampered Baz, doting and delighted, when he was only a child— before all the madness that altered his world so completely.

I know without Baz ever having to say as much  that Baz only speaks the language on his especially bright days, usually sticks to incantations in English or French or Latin or Greek— I know that the Arabic reminds him too much of what he had, of what he lost. But occasionally, these small words would pour from his lips without his seeming to even realize it, and only ever when in regards to me. It’s something so fragile, so precious, that I never dare to  put any lyrics to it, just let it happen and try to show Baz how much it means to me in the silence that follows.

When Baz crawls back into bed with me, I do just that, cuddling closer and wrapping a protective arm around his torso and  kissing the sole dimple on his left shoulder. Baz relaxes into the embrace, and everything feels miraculous.