#lightning gambler

[dusterbishop]

have you come here to rescue me (all of this can be broken)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 2.7k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. thank you for all the kind comments and likes! i'm happy i could share this with such a talented fandom.

part one. || part two.

You and Gambit meet before, eh?

Many times

Mais, pleasure’s mine, chér. Gambit’s never forgotten a beautiful woman

You draw your next card at random, and find yourself flat on your back, the back of your head still slick with the blood that pools beneath you. The hit from behind splintered your skull, but this body merely festers with a fading migraine. It is the closest you could get to avoiding death without skipping from this reality entirely. The pain has to keep you anchored, because you can’t count on Gambit to know what to do to keep you here.

Gambit, for his part, stares down at you. He looks like your Remy, which seems like such a strange thought to have. Of course he looks like Remy LeBeau. That is who he is in every lifetime. And yet it makes perfect sense that you halt upon this revelation for the very same reason.

Every Gambit is Remy LeBeau, and yet this one looks like Remy. He has the same strong jawline, the same furrow of his brow, the same black-rimmed red irises. He towers over you, the line of his shoulders set back and perplexed, at least until he crouches down to be closer to your level. Every movement is fluid, graceful. No sign of pain or hesitation. No snarl of distrust or blank expression of disinterest.

Found ya’, chér.

You would laugh if the back of your skull wasn’t just recently smashed in, new body or not. The daze of death’s lingering touch keeps you still as you stare back up at him. He had promised you would meet again, hadn’t he? In another lifetime, at least, he had. You are not the same body that he had been in love with, and yet some part of you can still smell the smoke in the air and feel the buzzing of kinetic lightning across your skin.

He is not your Remy. Not even if he’s looking at you with that same curious intensity. Gamblers could never refuse the call of the cards, and you have a stacked deck.

“Watch it, Cajun,” you tell him. Your voice is scratchy, grating the back of your throat. That explains the weariness in your joints, then. This version of your body is sick in some way. “I know how to wave a stick.”

A knowing laugh escapes him. “Oui, saw ya’ wit’ it. Don’ threaten Gambit wit’ a good time.”

Right, the flirting. Of all the swamp-dwelling boys you could have ended up entangled with, you just had to choose the one with that damned silver tongue. This version of Gambit is no different than the thousands of others you have witnessed in terms of that, at least. Perhaps thousands was even a conservative estimate. How many times have you crossed lives only to find a stranger wearing the face of the man you love?

God, you’re tired of it all. You don’t think you can handle another Gambit right now.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you sigh. “I’m not staying long.”

“S’il vous plait, you should.” He’s smiling, but you know that look in his eyes. Your gaze falls to the inner folds of his coat. You can barely make out the stitched lining where he keeps his cards, but you know that its there. He always had a habit of stitching the pockets in the same spot. Your Remy liked to command full control of the kitchen table to spread out his coat and ensure straight stitching. The cats liked it, too. You would come home to find them all clustered at the table, Remy idly scratching Oliver’s chin while he assessed his work, the other two boys stretched out languidly with them.

Gambit notices your attention, and his smile goes flat. “Where’ve you been my life, eh?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” you shoot back. The fatigue starts to settle deep in your bones. Maybe this body wasn’t sick when you borrowed it. Maybe this is just the effects of your time-skipping leeching over to another form. Your body feels like its burning a low-grade fever. “I don’t want to argue with you, Gambit.”

“Argue?” He looks almost offended at the mention of underlying tension. “Mon chér, you wound me. Dis is a civil conversation, non?”

“Don’t you get tired of talking?” You know he doesn’t. The two of you have spent so many hours sparring both in the danger room and verbally. He likes to make you take the backfoot in both fighting rings. At least, Remy did. This Gambit seems… off.

He almost seems familiar.

“Not when I’m talkin’ to you,” his smile edges with that coy charm. “Why don’ you tell Gambit about your travels?”

It feels like dunking your head beneath tumultuous ocean waves. Your gaze jolts to his eyes. His biggest tell had always been the way his pupils expand, consuming the ringed red of his irises. In some light, at some times, it almost looked as if he didn’t have irises at all. Just an all-consuming gaze of ink-black.

He looks that way, now, staring down at you. Black-eyed and smiling like a rogue, his elbows perched idly on the curve of his crouched knees, hands freely dangling between you. Unarmed, almost, if not for the weight of cards pressed against the cuff of his sleeves. That brand of stitching is new. Your Remy would have been absolutely delighted to see that sort of innovation as much as he would have groaned about not doing it himself.

“Ace up your sleeve,” you say instead. Your head is rattling with a desperate panic. How does he know that you can travel?

Gambit flicks his wrist, the air rushes, and a splayed set of cards stare back at you. Four of a kind. A handful of aces, in fact. Your Remy would be in absolute stitches over it.

“Some, oui,” he says. He looks just as pleased with himself. He always did like to be the smooth-talker. The air whirs with quiet trepidation, charging, turning metallic in the back of your mouth. One of his brows raises the same moment you half-raise your arm, reflecting the same suit of cards back to him. His fingers reluctantly slide closed on empty air.

“So do I,” you tell him. You hold steady when he goes to take them back from you and nearly yank your arm out of reach when his fingers close over your wrist instead. He’s wearing his gloves, but even the slight warmth of his skin pressed against yours makes your mouth go cotton-dry.

“Houdini,” he remarks.

“Not quite,” you whisper.

“Non,” he agrees. He studies your hand for a long moment. The cards are his, of course. You had shifted time just enough to reach across it and claim your prize. Nothing more than a parlor trick in the light of what you have done lately. What is a suit of cards in the face of endless, staggering realities? If you don’t like the way a restaurant cooks a dish, you can cross time until you find the same dish cooked to mind-numbing perfection. If you miss the city bus because it showed up three minutes early, you can change lifetimes to delay the driver by five minutes, the extra two minutes only for good measure.

If you lose one Remy LeBeau, why not venture out to find him again?

And again?

And again.

You know the answer, now. Maybe part of you always did, yes, but the answer is staring you in the face. You cannot ignore him any longer. You cannot skip timelines and pretend that there will never be a Remy like yours again. He was yours because he was not perfectly brought up as a child and ended up with some nine-to-five office job and a three-bedroom home with a white picket fence. That Remy does not have an interest in a strange paradox such as yourself. Neither does the Remy LeBeau that ends up being a schoolteacher, or a stay at home dad, or a volunteer at an animal shelter.

Your Remy was imperfect, and that was why he was the only version of himself that you could love.

This version of Remy LeBeau is still holding onto you. His grip is firm, but not bruising. He’s holding you fast to keep you with him, not to hurt you. You’re too tired to attempt to escape. Every muscle in your body feels leaden and overworked. That’s the other answer demanding your attention, but you let the revelation slip from its leash and ignore it.

“I know what you are, chér .” His grip doesn’t change, but there’s a dangerous riptide swelling in his tone. “What you do.”

“Wayfarer,” you say. It feels flimsy to say it like this, laying flat on your back, Gambit poised gracefully beside you. Remy had been rather nonplussed with the title when you first told him about it. Non, mon coeur, you are Wildcard. Not even Gambit knows your next move.  

“You travel, d’accord?” With the hand still holding you fast, he rubs the calloused pad of his thumb against the rapid flutter of your pulse. It’s nearly enough to make you flicker out of time itself, consequences be damned. His next words are a wistful purr. “You can leave.”

You aren’t sure why the surprise that lances through you hurts so much. Of course, he isn’t your Remy. You know this. He may smile and banter and touch you as kindly as Remy does — as he did, past tense, it’s all beyond your grasp now — but that does not make you something for him to cherish.

It does, however, make you something to use.

“I am always here,” you start, settling into this waltz slowly. This was the other part of your existence that used to confuse Remy. Some part of you hardly understood it, either. You don’t know how every part of a jet plane or automobile works either, though, so it doesn’t phase you much anymore. You had tried to explain it with the T.V. analogy, like your other versions were playing on different screens even if you aren’t tuned in, but that only served to confuse him more. He did enjoy your choice of explanation in some way, at least, by fully indulging in references from his favorite T.V. shows. The conversation had derailed into you hitting him with a pillow, and then you had both unraveled into a different sort of banter.

Not that Remy ever let you get the last word, though. Tuning the channel, he had said seriously, as you had writhed beneath his touch in a breathless rush. Smart-mouthed, smooth-talking swamp boy.

“Some part of me stays here. A variant,” you continue. Gambit waits, those slivered-red irises trained intently on your expressions. How strange to have him staring at you with such suspicion. You could never lie well to Remy LeBeau no matter the version you stumbled across. You could hold back, yes, but he would always know anyway. You have learned to stop hiding from him. It is inevitable that you will admit your life to him in some way, either by choice or by necessity.

“I am here,” you say. “Like I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Paris, reading the morning newspaper, playing the crossword. I can see the empty grid in my head. I know the clues.”

There’s a familiar furrow in Gambit’s brow. You’re suddenly glad he’s holding your hand before you end up surrendering to the urge to reach out and smooth it away. Not your Remy. A touch from you is not the sort he hungers for.

“Paris, eh?” He presses his thumb to your pulse. You wonder if he feels the leap in your heart beat at the touch. “Wha’s got you wandering da Void, then?”

“I didn’t choose to be here,” you admit. “I got… reset, I guess. My mind went to the next version of my body available.”

“Reset sounds awfully dire, I t’ink.” He gives you a pointed look. “Wha’s got you?”

For one long, awful moment, you almost tell him the terrible truth. You almost tell him that you went looking for a version of him that was familiar enough to soothe the gaping hole in your heart. That you found a Gambit that was witty and kind despite his shitty upbringing, one that liked to make you laugh and could keep up with the practice drills you still put yourself through. A Gambit that wasn’t afraid that you would one day vanish and be replaced by some version of yourself that he didn’t love.

You want to tell him that you found a Gambit that you had wanted to keep safe, and he was shot in the back trying to do the same for you. You tore yourself apart to take down the men that did it to him. You died with him and you still woke up within one breath and the next. You had to wake up and hear his voice, except this is not the Gambit that died because of you, this version does not know what he holds onto so tightly.

You want to tell him that three other versions of Remy LeBeau died just as terribly, and you just keep spinning the roulette wheel, and you just keep living.

“That version of me died,” you say. “Shot in the stomach.”

He’s looking at you as if he has never seen such a phenomenon. You suppose, technically, he hasn’t. He used to be one of the lucky ones that didn’t know you even existed. There goes that winner’s streak.

“Do’ya have t'die to… reset?”

You think about lying again. God, you wish you could. “Not always.”

He raises a brow at that, but you don’t offer to elaborate. Instead, you let the cards in your hand release from this reality with a soft whir of energy. Your head feels stuffed with cotton, or perhaps rocks. Maybe this is your mind finally burying itself alive in rebellion of your time-skipping antics.

“Tell ya what, chér.” His fingers loosen their grip on your wrist only to tangle with your own, intertwining your hands. Your breath catches. It’s the only split-second warning you have before he hauls you up to your feet, one hand entangled with yours, the other supporting the small of your back to keep you balanced. You have to shut your eyes against the vertigo that thunders in your head.

“Don’t die,” he continues. “Paris ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, hein? No reason to go dere.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” you grit out. You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Your free hand grips onto the lapel of Gambit’s coat hard enough for your fingers to grow stiff. His hand on your back is a solid, anchoring weight. It supports you more than you would like. Relying on him could be a dangerous game.

Still, your power is a raw, aching nerve burning through your veins. You couldn’t switch without tearing yourself apart, not as exhausted as you are. Considering that this Gambit hasn’t driven a knife into your back, either literal or figurative, it’s easier not to resist when he makes a soft hum and sweeps you into a bridal carry. You keep your eyes closed, and try to ignore the burn at the back of them. A part of you waits for his sound of pain, the impact of bullets thudding into his back. Another part wonders if he will be vaporized from existence by the TVA, just a second before your hands meet.

The third, quieter part of your mind just thinks: Remy.

Gambit, the fourth ace in your suit, doesn’t do any of those things. He adjusts your weight, testing to see if you will squirm out of his grasp, then he begins to walk. He’s strangely quiet. It’s almost a relief in the wake of your draining, familiar conversation. How many times will you have to reintroduce yourself to a Gambit? What could you possibly offer this fate-curious, battle-wary version of the man you love? It’s the sort of question that makes you reconsider your choice to stay.

Stay with a Gambit with ulterior motives, or move on to another life with no guarantee of who will meet you there? Well. When you put it like that, there’s no other option at all.

And, as if he can read your mind, Gambit begins to explain.

[dxppercxdxver]

tagged by @zelds-spellman!! shuffle your on repeat playlist and list the first 10 songs that play, tag 10 people (i do not even Know ten people)

'boy division' - my chemical romance (YEAHHHHH)

'AMBULANCE' - my chemical romance (even bigger YEAHHHHHHHH)

'chicken on a raft' - pyrates!

'dinosaur laser fight' - ninja sex party

'literal assassin's creed 4: black flag trailer' - toby turner (i am so sorry.)

'i own a car' - ninja sex party

'priest' - william crighton

'jackrabbit' - san fermin

'the last day of summer' - the lightning thief musical cast

'the gambler' - kenny rogers (from the nts kidnapped soundtrack <3)

oughhhh music <3

tagging: @firstmatedville, @natdrinkstea, @chiropteracupola, @sailorpants, @considerablecolors, @wilhelmina-murray-harker, @haijinks, and @fix-fax-fuckyou :3

[ringleaderising]

[Rafflesia, Gambler, Wager, Vespidae]

"Don't get me wrong, darling- you were always destined to lose- the house has a... deal. Now, what was it you wagered? 'My left wing if I don't win this hand?'"

Mother's Embrace almost sounds like someone made it up to fuck with you. A sprawling, massive casino built in the twinned skulls of what certainly appear to be Aberration heads propped against one another in the heart of Plague territory, It is a glittering, bone-white jewel among the sprawling, living flesh of the land it rests in. Welcoming and grand, Mother's Embrace offers leisure to those weary from travel and everyday life in Plague- games of chance run by capable, charming dealers- and state-of-the-art 'digital tables' imported from Lightning, you'll find anything and everything you need for a night of relaxation- or debauchery- within its walls.

Owned by a nocturne woman called only by her former dancer name, 'Rafflesia'- and staffed by many capable hands (though young Wager and his friend Vespidae who now serve the roulette tables and blackjack respectively are certainly the most ostentatious) Mother's Embrace appeared not long after a Collapse many years ago, thanks to opportunistic investors, and Rafflesia's odd knack for simply having things happen to her benefit.

The mortal lover of Gambler, it's no surprise she's inescapably lucky- their blessing has always been one of opportunity and odds after all, and it is within their skulls the casino now lies- and for the sake of their resurrection that Rafflesia now operates a den of sin intended to strip visitors of anything they might be fool enough to bet at a table.

Plague through and through, Mother's Embrace draws no lines for what you can offer up on a wager, be it your money, your belongings- or even magic siphoned from one's body, or a whole limb for just one more spin- the Matron of the Twin Skulls will gladly let you offer whatever comes to mind- just be prepared to pay up, when you inevitably lose.

It takes a lot of meat to raise a God after all.

[jjkeremika]

AoT Fic / Oneshot Master List

~~welcome to jjkeremika~~

hi! i’m mako. welcome to my obsession. i write fics/headcanons/oneshots/imagines/drabbles/whatevertheyarecalled/ihonestlydontknow; mostly smutty/nsfw heheh.

currently i write about: eren x mikasa; AoT x reader; eren x reader; reiner x reader; levi x reader; armin x reader; but im open to others (mostly fem!reader, some gender neutral)

please click the underlined for the link to the work (tumblr; ao3); master list updated periodically; all fics created on this master list are written by jjkeremika (me); all of my works are connected under the tag jjkeremika; interactions with and/or thoughts on works are appreciated <3

assume smut/nsfw/mdni themes unless noted otherwise with *

hope you enjoy!

p.s… (per requests….worth asking, also worth noting i prefer and try to stick to character personalities and reasonable headcanons; if i can’t picture them saying/doing it i might not explore it…. fluffy/smutty accepted… not a “dead dove dne” friendly space…)

Eremika:

fucking in a sauna (It is hot (with you; love you))

mikasa gets sick (Stay pt1, pt2)*

Moments (Express Divine Devotion)*

mikasa sneaks out (Moonlight)

eren has a vision (Just like i dreamt it)

eren eats mikasa out (Tasty)

eren and mikasa secretly meet (secret)

eren calls jean while fucking mikasa (Big Time)

eren overhears mikasa (loud in my life and in my dreams)

mikasa tutors eren (my tutor pt1; pt2)

eren’s mikasa’s professor (drop my class so i can pick you up pt1; pt2)

another eren professor pt1 (thanks for coming professor pt1)*; pt2 (to be posted soon)

eren’s scout commander, mikasa’s a new recruit pt1 (think i need someone older)*; pt2 (posted soon)

mikasa shows eren how she had sex with jean (just show me)

eren’s a spy/assassin and mikasa’s his target’s daughter (to my poison: my god you’re intoxicating)*

like an actual eremika fanfic (when lightning strikes the heart (pts 00-02)) (* thus far)

roadtrip (pt1; pt2)

mikasa’s mother is sick (lavender)*

eren’s a baker

Formula One au (Ferrari driver! Eren; Ferrari Mechanic! Mikasa)

reverend’s daughter mikasa (in sin, we delight)

AoT x reader:

Rough intimacy (Eren, Mikasa, Hange, Levi, Reiner, Jean)

Soft intimacy (Connie, Erwin, Bertoldt, Armin, Zeke)

Favorite places (Eren, Armin, Jean, Reiner, Erwin, Levi, Bertoldt, Connie, Zeke)

Date nights (Here to Forever; Eren, Armin, Jean, Reiner, Erwin, Zeke, Porco, Historia)

Hit on you in class (Eren, Jean, Reiner, Armin, Porco, Levi, Connie, Erwin) *

Another rough intimacy (Reiner, Jean, Eren, Erwin, Levi)

Favorite positions (Eren, Reiner, Levi, Porco, Erwin)

crushes on you (Reiner, Eren, Levi, Porco, Jean)*

walk in on you touching yourself (Eren, Jean, Armin, Levi, Erwin, Colt)

fluffy moments (Eren, Reiner, Levi, Erwin)*

confess love for you (Eren, Reiner, Porco, Zeke, Armin, Bertoldt, Levi, Erwin)(mostly * except eren)

vices (eren, levi, reiner, armin, zeke, jean)

pervy pussy eaters (eren, levi, reiner, armin)

asking you on a valentines date*

what they don’t know (eren, erwin, levi, connie)

excited and exhausted (erwin, sasha, armin, hange, levi)

Eren x reader:

Games

dangerous missions*

ha(u)nted soldier*

Betting Games (pt2)

Reiner x reader:

Shower together

Levi x reader:

peanut butter kisses

goofy (pt1; pt2; pt3; pt4)

Armin x reader:

campgrounds and fairs (tbp)

love gambler (tbp)

It came to me one day:

eren and armin talking in a bar (701)

[tiger-in-the-flightdeck]

🎃 Trick! Pet-names 🎃

(I'm going to play it safe and assume you mean for ColdFlash)

A sugary sweet ficlet for you!

Read on below, or on AO3

What'd You Call Me?

It had started entirely by accident. 

Barry had been half asleep in line at Jitters when he bumped -very literally- into Leonard who was looking just as tired as him. 

After they finished mopping up spilled coffee from the floor around Barry’s feet and bought replacement drinks, it would have been more awkward for one of them to bolt, with the eyes of other patrons on them. So they pulled up chairs at a table against the back wall and tried to make small talk and pretend that Len hadn’t stolen over six million dollars in diamonds just the night before. 

Barry watched Len take a sip of his tea, make a face, then frown down at it in disappointment. He was to the counter and back before Len noticed he was gone. “Honey?” 

“Yes, Sweetheart?” Len replied, then blinked in surprise at himself. 

Lips pursed, Barry tried not to grin. 

Failed. 

Tried not to laugh. 

Failed. 

It was infectious and soon Len was snickering into his cup, shaking his head. “It wasn’t that funny,” he insisted even as his shoulders shook with near silent laughter. He took the packet of honey to drizzle into his tea and bumped Barry’s knee under the table in thanks. 

Their conversation was relaxed and genuine from there. 

After that, it became a habit. A joke between them that the Rogues and other heroes didn’t understand or find nearly as funny as the pair of them did. 

Len calling Barry his Darling as he aimed the Cold Gun at his feet -he’d long since stopped aiming at his chest- and freezing him in place to make an escape. 

Barry crooning Snow Prince as he slapped cuffs on Len’s wrists, knowing that they would be slipped long before the police finally made an appearance to drag him into custody. 

Angel, when they stood shoulder to shoulder against a common foe who would reel back in confusion when the ‘angel’ in question would attack with a ruthlessness that Flash never would. 

Baby, when Barry came to Len for help with an undercover mission into the criminal world, this murmured just above earshot as Len kept a protective arm around Barry’s waist and glared down anyone foolish enough to get too close to him until the job was done and he got him safely back home, his virtue and conscience untarnished. 

Shining Knight, after Len stepped between Barry and Oliver who was shouting him down for stooping so low as to work with a criminal. The bruised knuckles from Queen’s teeth were worth it when Barry had given him the title as he pressed ice to them and held his hand a bit longer than necessary. 

Lightning Bug, named through breathless laughter while leaning back on the grimy wall of a barside alley in a rough part of town after Barry won his fifth hand of poker of the night and been accused of stealing before he could sweep his winnings into the growing pile on their side of the table. The fight had ended after just a handful of minutes when Len broke a pool cue over a drunk gambler’s head and they made their escape out the emergency exit. The heated look in Barry’s eyes was worth more than his cut of the pot for teaching him how to palm cards. 

My Love, whispered against each other’s lips in the dark of a hotel room in Keystone where they found themselves, not Cold or Flash, just Len and Barry, with their lives as enemies locked on the other side of the door and held at bay until morning. 

My Love, mumbled sleepily under fresh bed linens as sunlight streamed in through the blinds to remind them it was time to start the day. 

My Love, quick, casual, accompanied by a peck on the cheek before one vanished in the flash to make it to work on time and the other got started on the breakfast dishes. 

My Love, against the back of a neck after a long day, gentle, sweet, and knowing that it will be the same tomorrow and next week and next year and from now on. 

[megamuscle885-blog]

God I fucking forgot how absolutely insane Dumai's Wells is.

Imagine being a Shaido Aiel. You've got barely any honour, but fuck the other Aiel. You're conquering shit with the rest of your clan. Sure you don't have a clan chief after some gambler cut off his head, and the most influential wise one of your clan can't channel and hasn't been to Rhuidean, but that's fine. Nobody has the right to tell you that you have no honour or pride. They don't understand. You are the only true Aiel. The only ones who haven't sold themselves to a wetlander king.

And now we get to take the so-called Car'a'carn for ourselves. We just need to take him from the Aei Sedai. The wise ones can handle them.

Then the fucking grass explodes into wolves, arrows punch into your backs from 300 paces, a huge cavalry charge slams into your flanks and fresh lightning and fire suddenly surround you, people's skulls just explode like ripe melons or burst into flames with zero impact at all. This was supposed to be easy. Some mad bearded fucker is hacking through you all with an axe, and a tinker of all things is swinging a sword at you. Then the chest at the center of the copse of trees explodes violently. A woman is screaming her soul out at the epicenter. The Dragon Reborn is free. Then the man to your left is split in half by a string of light that widens into a doorway, and out of that doorway steps a man who turns your whole body into shredded meat as soon as he looks at you.

You don't even have time to scream in pain.

[whencyclopedia]

Ûñtsaiyĭ', the Gambler

Ûñtsaiyĭ', the Gambler is a legend of the Cherokee nation, known as a Wonder Story, which features supernatural characters, sometimes interacting with mortals, sometimes with each other. In Ûñtsaiyĭ', the Gambler, all the characters are supernatural entities representing natural phenomena such as thunder and lightning.

Ball Play Dance

George Catlin (Public Domain)

The story features the common Native American motif of the young boy's journey from youth to maturity and the challenges he must overcome. Unlike other wonder stories – including The Man Who Married the Thunder's Sister – there are no mortals in Ûñtsaiyĭ', the Gambler and the action of the piece follows one of the sons of Thunder on his quest for healing and, ultimately, wholeness.

At the center of the tale is Ûñtsaiyĭ', the gambler, a trickster figure similar to those in the legends of other Native peoples of North America, including the Wihio tales of the Cheyenne, Iktomi tales of the Sioux, and the Nih'a'ca tales of the Arapaho, among many others. In this story, the trickster Ûñtsaiyĭ' serves to convey the cultural value of honoring one's promise in agreements and paying what one owes, no matter how great the price.

Ûñtsaiyĭ' (also known as E'tsaiyi or Tsaihi) exemplifies the character of the gambler who lives by his wits but finds his luck run out when he bets against the son of the Thunder. The game they play may be stickball (known as Anetso to the Eastern Cherokee nation) or could be chunkey, the game which, according to Cherokee lore, Ûñtsaiyĭ' invented.

As with all the works of Native American literature, there are multiple levels of meaning to Ûñtsaiyĭ', the Gambler and many possible interpretations. The story was popular among the Cherokee in the past and continues to be shared in their communities in the present day.

Text

The following is taken from Myths of the Cherokee (1900) by James Mooney, republished by Dover Publications, 2014.

Thunder lives in the west, or a little to the south of west, near the place where the sun goes down behind the water. In the old times he sometimes made a journey to the east, and once after he had come back from one of these journeys a child was born in the east who, the people said, was his son. As the boy grew up it was found that he had scrofula sores all over his body, so one day his mother said to him, "Your father, Thunder, is a great doctor. He lives far in the west, but if you can find him, he can cure you."

So the boy set out to find his father and be cured. He traveled long toward the west, asking of everyone he met where Thunder lived, until at last they began to tell him that it was only a little way ahead. He went on and came to Ûñtiguhĭ', on Tennessee, where lived Ûñtsaiyĭ' "Brass." Now Ûñtsaiyĭ' was a great gambler and made his living that way. It was he who invented the gatayûstĭ game that we play with a stone wheel and a stick. He lived on the south side of the river, and everybody who came that way he challenged to play against him. The large flat rock, with the lines and grooves where they used to roll the wheel, is still there, with the wheels themselves and the stick turned to stone. He won almost every time, because he was so tricky, so that he had his house filled with all kinds of fine things. Sometimes he would lose, and then he would bet all that he had, even to his own life, but the winner got nothing for his trouble, for Ûñtsaiyĭ' knew how to take on different shapes, so that he always got away.

As soon as Ûñtsaiyĭ' saw him he asked him to stop and play a while, but the boy said he was looking for his father, Thunder, and had no time to wait. "Well," said Ûñtsaiyĭ', "he lives in the next house; you can hear him grumbling over there all the time"—he meant the Thunder— "so we may as well have a game or two before you go on." The boy said he had nothing to bet. "That's all right," said the gambler, "we'll play for your pretty spots." He said this to make the boy angry so that he would play, but still the boy said he must go first and find his father and would come back afterwards.

He went on, and soon the news came to Thunder that a boy was looking for him who claimed to be his son. Said Thunder, "I have traveled in many lands and have many children. Bring him here and we shall soon know." So, they brought in the boy, and Thunder showed him a seat and told him to sit down. Under the blanket on the seat were long, sharp thorns of the honey locust, with the points all sticking up, but when the boy sat down, they did not hurt him, and then Thunder knew that it was his son. He asked the boy why he had come. "I have sores all over my body, and my mother told me you were my father and a great doctor, and if I came here, you would cure me." "Yes," said his father, "I am a great doctor, and I'll soon fix you."

There was a large pot in the corner, and he told his wife to fill it with water and put it over the fire. When it was boiling, he put in some roots, then took the boy and put him in with them. He let it boil a long time until one would have thought that the flesh was boiled from the poor boy's bones, and then told his wife to take the pot and throw it into the river, boy and all. She did as she was told, and threw it into the water, and ever since there is an eddy there that we call Ûñ'tiguhĭ', "Pot-in-the-water." A service tree and a calico bush grew on the bank above. A great cloud of steam came up and made streaks and blotches on their bark, and it has been so to this day. When the steam cleared away, she looked over and saw the boy clinging to the roots of the service tree where they hung down into the water, but now his skin was all clean. She helped him up the bank, and they went back to the house. On the way she told him, "When we go in, your father will put a new dress on you, but when he opens his box and tells you to pick out your ornaments be sure to take them from the bottom. Then he will send for his other sons to play ball against you. There is a honey-locust tree in front of the house, and as soon as you begin to get tired strike at that and your father will stop the play, because he does not want to lose the tree."

When they went into the house, the old man was pleased to see the boy looking so clean, and said, "I knew I could soon cure those spots. Now we must dress you." He brought out a fine suit of buckskin, with belt and headdress, and had the boy put them on. Then he opened a box and said, "Now pick out your necklace and bracelets." The boy looked, and the box was full of all kinds of snakes gliding over each other with their heads up. He was not afraid, but remembered what the woman had told him, and plunged his hand to the bottom and drew out a great rattlesnake and put it around his neck for a necklace. He put down his hand again four times and drew up four copperheads and twisted them around his wrists and ankles. Then his father gave him a war club and said, "Now you must play a ball game with your two elder brothers. They live beyond here in the Darkening land, and I have sent for them." He said a ball game, but he meant that the boy must fight for his life. The young men came, and they were both older and stronger than the boy, but he was not afraid and fought against them. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed at every stroke, for they were the young Thunders, and the boy himself was Lightning. At last, he was tired from defending himself alone against two, and pretended to aim a blow at the honey-locust tree. Then his father stopped the fight, because he was afraid the lightning would split the tree, and he saw that the boy was brave and strong.

The boy told his father how Ûñtsaiyĭ' had dared him to play and had even offered to play for the spots on his skin. "Yes," said Thunder, "he is a great gambler and makes his living that way, but I will see that you win." He brought a small cymling gourd with a hole bored through the neck and tied it on the boy's wrist. Inside the gourd there was a string of beads, and one end hung out from a hole in the top, but there was no end to the string inside. "Now," said his father, "go back the way you came, and as soon as he sees you, he will want to play for the beads. He is very hard to beat, but this time he will lose every game. When he cries out for a drink, you will know he is getting discouraged, and then strike the rock with your war club and water will come, so that you can play on without stopping. At last, he will bet his life, and lose. Then send at once for your brothers to kill him, or he will get away, he is so tricky."

The boy took the gourd and his war club and started east along the road by which he had come. As soon as Ûñtsaiyĭ' saw him he called to him, and when he saw the gourd with the bead string hanging out, he wanted to play for it. The boy drew out the string, but there seemed to be no end to it, and he kept on pulling until enough had come out to make a circle all around the playground. "I will play one game for this much against your stake," said the boy, "and when that is over, we can have another game."

They began the game with the wheel and stick and the boy won. Ûñtsaiyĭ' did not know what to think of it, but he put up another stake and called for a second game. The boy won again, and so they played on until noon, when Ûñtsaiyĭ' had lost nearly everything he had and was about discouraged. It was very hot, and he said, "I am thirsty," and wanted to stop long enough to get a drink. "No," said the boy, and struck the rock with his club so that water came out, and they had a drink. They played on until Ûñtsaiyĭ' had lost all his buckskins and beaded work, his eagle feathers, and ornaments, and at last offered to bet his wife. They played and the boy won her. Then Ûñtsaiyĭ' was desperate and offered to stake his life. "If I win, I kill you, but if you win you may kill me." They played and the boy won.

"Let me go and tell my wife," said Ûñtsaiyĭ', "so that she will receive her new husband, and then you may kill me." He went into the house, but it had two doors, and although the boy waited long Ûñtsaiyĭ' did not come back. When at last he went to look for him he found that the gambler had gone out the back way and was nearly out of sight going east.

The boy ran to his father's house and got his brothers to help him. They brought their dog—the Horned Green Beetle—and hurried after the gambler. He ran fast and was soon out of sight, and they followed as fast as they could. After a while they met an old woman making pottery and asked her if she had seen Ûñtsaiyĭ' and she said she had not. "He came this way," said the brothers. "Then he must have passed in the night," said the old woman, "for I have been here all day." They were about to take another road when the Beetle, which had been circling about in the air above the old woman, made a dart at her and struck her on the forehead, and it rang like brass—ûñtsaiyĭ'! Then they knew it was Brass and sprang at him, but he jumped up in his right shape and was off, running so fast that he was soon out of sight again. The Beetle had struck so hard that some of the brass rubbed off, and we can see it on the beetle's forehead yet.

They followed and came to an old man sitting by the trail, carving a stone pipe. They asked him if he had seen Brass pass that way and he said no, but again the Beetle—which could know Brass under any shape—struck him on the forehead so that it rang like metal, and the gambler jumped up in his right form and was off again before they could hold him. He ran east until he came to the great water; then he ran north until he came to the edge of the world and had to turn again to the west. He took every shape to throw them off the track, but the Green Beetle always knew him, and the brothers pressed him so hard that at last he could go no more, and they caught him just as he reached the edge of the great water where the sun goes down.

They tied his hands and feet with a grapevine and drove a long stake through his breast and planted it far out in the deep water. They set two crows on the end of the pole to guard it and called the place Kâgûñ'yĭ, "Crow place." But Brass never died, and cannot die, until the end of the world, but lies there always with his face up. Sometimes he struggles under the water to get free, and sometimes the beavers, who are his friends, come and gnaw at the grapevine to release him. Then the pole shakes and the crows at the top cry Ka! Ka! Ka! and scare the beavers away.

Continue reading...

[saphira-artandoc]

C3 swap AU

Dorian Storm

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This contains spoiler up to E115!!

If you wonder what the swap AU is, I recommend checking it out right here!

This one is dedicated to @theplatinumcritter and @czpeterp. Both helped me a lot in the creation process of Dorian two years ago. Look how far we’ve come!

Title: Sir Dorian Storm, Lost Muse of the Fair Winds

Age :27

Class: Bard (College of Glamour, Feylost)

EXU - Start of C3

Dorian’s earliest childhood memory is from the Feywild. He didn’t know his name or how he came to the Ligaments Manor, just a simple melody in the back of his mind and a wooden flute by his side. The hag living inside, Morrigan The Fatestitcher, took care of him like he was her grandson. She gave him his name, Dorian, which would later evolve into Dorian Storm due to innate magical ability to summon lightning.

He left the Ligaments Manor at 26, not only to discover the world of Exandria, but also to deliver a parcel to Birdie Calloway. A few weeks into his travel, he would meet Orym and Fearne, camping not too far away from Emon. The trio would them meet up with Dariax, Opal and Fy’ra Rai. After the lost of the memory of the previous week, the group, now missing a Fy’ra, would party at the Everdawn. They would later find the Circlet of Barbed Vision, which would create tension within the group to know what to do with it.

In 843 P.D., he joined Orym and Fearne to Jrusar, Marquet, to find Oshad Breshio, a survivor of an assassination similar to what happened in Zephrah six years ago. He would meet the other members that would later become Bells Hells while fighting animated furniture.

Before the ball, Bells Hells would investigate the case of missing people near the Starlight Theatre. It’s where he would meet Cyrus Wyvernwind, who believed Dorian is his younger brother due to the striking resemblance to his father.

After managing to smuggle Cyrus away from the ball, Dorian took the ultimate decision to leave Marquet with him, as both men could be arrested for the bounty on Cyrus’ head. He believed Cyrus could be the missing link to his fussy childhood memories. He gave to Fearne the little parcel containing the weave lens and left, gaining a matching Sending stone connected to Orym.

Back with the Crown Keepers, he would spend some time in various places on Tal’Dorei, including Kymal. It’s where the group would meet their latest member, Morrighan Ferus. After a successful heist, the Crown Keepers would leave the city, and Opal would become somber.

Dorian would come back with Bells Hells after the disbanding of the Crown Keepers and the death of Cyrus. He would follow them back to their adventure to stop Ludinus Da’leth to release Predathos and travel to Ruidus with all of them and the Mighty Nein.

While not confirmed as partners, he has been shown reciprocating Orym’s feelings.

The masquerade ball

At the ball, Dorian gladly took the role of a royal from one of the Feywild court, trying to renew ties with the Material Plane. He embellished Bertrand’s gambler’s rapier to look like an ornamental sword that he named Typhonus.

He introduced himself as Lord Apollo Indigo Sonore Amaadon V of the Court of Lady Morrigan of the Feywild. He took inspiration from the De Rolo to create his name, since he believed having that many would make him feel legit.

He also named his entourage as Corpernicus (Orym), Lady Fearne Calloway of the Air Ashari and Maud (Imogen)

After the ball however, his stress got the best of him and tried to come up with different names for his troupe, including:

Sir Copernicus of the Seven winds, right hand of the Lord;

Lady Fearne Calloway of the Air Ashari, Druidesse of the Moon;

Lady Maude of the Timberwoods, Handmaiden of the Lady;

And Lady Irene of the Timberwoods, supernova of the skies and keeper of the moons, which was his third attempt for Imogen’s name that she quickly shut down for using the same first letters as her real name.

After fighting Opal

Dorian had been gifted with the winged boots Cyrus used to wear a day before the fight with Opal happened. Cyrus believed that Dorian would have a better use of them than he would. He also let himself grow a goatee to see what it would look like, to which Cyrus had said that he “looked like our father”. When Cyrus died, memories of his time as Brontë Secondsun Wyverwind flooded back and Dorian began to question his whole identity. The light breeze flowing his air around would drop, grounding him with the weight of what happened.

When he left Dariax at a tavern with his lute, he travelled alone to Zephrah, hoping to speak to the Voice of the Tempest. She let him stay as long as he needed and lend him some spare Ashari clothes she could find that fit him.

At the mention of his friends returning to Exandria from their mission on Ruidus, he asked Keyleth to travel back to them with her. He kept the Ashari clothes until he could change into is battle ready outfit.

Vasselheim - Lost Muse of the Fair Winds

He wears his hair in a bun, with a few hair pieces framing his face.

His jewelry is now golden in colours, accepting his role as the only son of the Wyverwind family.

He still wears the mithral shirt, but also a sleeveless top to prepare for battles. He painted his mandolin to match his outfit.

The shoulder piece is that of a butterfly, a symbol deeply tied to Dorian. The belt is also different from his canon variant, this time being based of dragon wings overlapping one another.

He was also able to summon Coriolis, a fable mount of the Wyvernwind thanks to the melody he knew someone hummed to him, which was his mother.

He would receive on loan Gambocleft, the vortex blade from Zeru Wyvernwind, his father. He gave Bertrand’s gambler rapier in exchange.

Pull of the Planes

During their travel to seek out the Qoniira Tetrarchy, Dorian felt the pull towards the forest where he knew a gate to the Feywild stood, the same one his nana made him walk through. Near the gate, his body would began to change, but not as drastically as Fearne’s did. His forearms and arms would change to a pale sky blue colours, almost white near his fingers, becoming translucent. He would float a couple inches off the ground, his hair gently flowing around. The markings on his body would also glow brightly through his clothes, giving him an ethereal air to him. This ability would later be seen in Zephrah and used as his Unbreakable Majesty, not needing to be close to the Feywild or the Air Plane to channel it.

Mirror Dorian

Mirror Dorian, also known as MirDor by the Crown keepers, is a doppelgänger charged to sabotage the Fatestitcher’s plan to aid Birdie Calloway with the telescope she helped build with Ira. He is taller, have longer arms and legs than Dorian and wears and curious outfit created from bits and pieces of his Feywild attire with elements he doesn’t recognize. He has long hair reaching his knees, the tip of it translucent with what appear to be spiderwebs mix with it. He wears the Circle of Barbed Vision, oily substance trailing down from where it’s stuck to his head. MirDor’s job is to prick at Dorian’s insecurities about his upbringing, hinting that the Circlet will finally give the power and strength necessary to take back what was stolen from him by all means necessary. At Dorian’s refusal, MirDor would proceed to attack the Crown Keepers, turning Orym against the group and forcing his hidden lycanthropy to fight. Even defeated, he would still haunts Dorian and unfortunately for him, had been right about a few things relating to his past.

Summer cloak - Winter cloak

Dorian has two different cloaks he can wear during summer and winter in Exandria.

Both are inspired by real butterfly: the summer cloak is based of a common blue butterfly and the winter one is based of a bluish spring moth.

He would also lend the cloak to his friend if they are cold, either during their journey or while he’s on watch while camping outside.

Relationships

The Crown Keepers: Dorian’s first adventuring party and friends he made in Exandria. He would do anything to protect them, even going as far as destroying the world for them. When Opal decided to wear the Circlet of Barbed Vision, Dorian grew anxious of her well-being, knowing the Spider Queen could make of her a puppet. His anxiety had been proven when Opal was forced to fight the group, indirectly killing Cyrus in the process. He bears no anger toward his her, only to the goddess.

Fearne Calloway: She is Dorian’s partner in crimes. Both of them would work together to commit small bits of thievery, at the grand dismay of Orym. She, Dorian and Orym will often share a room together, with Dorian being the middle spoon. She was the one who suggested that they could save up their money and only get one room for the three of them depending on the price, to which Dorian agreed to followed by Orym. She’s one of his closest friend and was delighted to know she enjoyed her time at the Ligament Manor. He left her the weave lens, feeling like she had more chance to meet up with Birdie than he would.

Orym of the Air Ashari: Dorian’s love interest. Orym grew worried Dorian would leave him after biting his arm during the fight at the gate to the Feywild. This fight made them promise to not let Dorian go a dark path and for Orym to not turn into a feral werewolf. Dorian did feel like he broke his part of the bargain after learning Orym attacked his group on two separate occasions, even injuring himself in the process. They kept each other updated on their own different groups via the stones when they could. Orym was also the first person in Exandria that gave him a real flower via druidcraft, to prepare him for the musical showdown whit Annie. Dorian only knew how to create magical ones to glamour up, so he was delighted and kept the flower as long as he could. When Orym confessed his feelings for Dorian the night before their mission to stop Ludinus, Dorian was relieved to be reciprocated and only wished he could hold Orym for the night. The morning after, waiting for the signal to start their mission, Orym took Dorian aside and asked if he could kiss him, since he didn’t know if they would ever have the chance to do it again. If they survive what’s to come, they would both discuss what their future would be.

Bertrand Bell: While Dorian only knew the older gentleman for 2 days, he had grew fond of him and his skills using a rapier. Bertrand had wished to teach him some neat tricks he’d learned but that quickly ended when he was killed by Duggar. Dorian was angry for what happened and promised Bertrand he’d write a song about him. He would later avenge him by killing Duggar.

Bells Hells: Dorian’s second adventuring party. They are known to be quite chaotic to some extend, but they all got each other’s back. They helped Dorian at rescuing Cyrus during the ball and he’s forever grateful of them. He relish all the stories they share with him of their adventure while he was away.

Morrigan Calloway, the Fatestitcher: Morrigan is Dorian’s guardian. He sees her as his own grandmother, knowing they aren’t related by blood. She was the one who gave him his name and let him go to his adventure on Exandria if he could also deliver the parcel to Birdie along the way. She calls him her little songbird, due to the fact he was humming and singing a lot in his youth. She gave him the lure he travelled with, saying it belonged to an amazing bard long faded to time. She promised him he could always come back to her and she would gladly take him back. While growing up, Dorian knew to not wander too close of the chamber containing The Loom. It’s only with Bells Hells that he realized what it did. Even after learning of his past, he still loves his grandmother.

Cyrus Wyvernwind: Dorian’s estranged older brother and the fall guy of a theft he didn’t commit. When Bells Hells went to see the Hubbat Corsair, he was surprised to see a man resembling his father. He would start following the group, hoping to get a moment to talk with Dorian. When they travelled together back to Tal’Dorei, Cyrus told Dorian bits and pieces of his childhood, how he used to have a little brother and how one day he just forgot everyone at the Squalls, including himself. He was never seen again, being told Brontë fell ill and his ailment killed him. He also mentioned that the day his little brother lost his memory, strange powers awakened in him. This is why he left the Silken Squalls a few month ago, trying to understand his powers and searching where his brother was, as he never believed his parents.

The Wyverwinds: Dorian had no memory of his blood family until the death of his brother, Cyrus. The reason why is because their parents made a deal with the Fatestitcher to ensure the Silken Squalls would be stronger and survive whatever will happen following the apogee solstice set for 843 P.D. The result of such protection made Dorian forget his life as Brontë, even if his family try to make him remember, and Cyrus possessed Feywild magic that he couldn’t control. The reason why is according to Morrigan, Cyrus’ power could be the protection they requested, if he masters it correctly. Dorian however would be a memory of the past and be no use to them, he would be best left with the hag.

Now to our current time in this universe, Dorian understands their decision was made due to fear of losing their loved one’s and he truly believes there was no ill intentions to it. However, he said they shouldn’t have lied to Cyrus and the rest of the Squalls about his predicaments., seeing how the Wyvernwind are not left with a son that is supposed to be dead. Zeru agreed, acknowledging their mistakes. When asked if he’d like to meet his mother and the Silken Squalls one day Dorian agreed, but he knows it won’t be soon.

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Whew, he’s finally done. I swear I thought I would have been able to show him last week but turns out instruments takes time to create, including the cloaks. For now, Dorian has more outfit variant than the rest of the Hells.

Major thanks again to @theplatinumcritter to help co-write Dorian’s story and to @czpeterp for coming up with the idea of a sunset peak-a-boo hair for Dorian, since I didn’t know where this motif would go on our lovely bard.

Also fun fact: when deciding who should be next in line I used a spinning wheel generator and it picked Orym bsbdsjsbdghjdhs

He should be done by next week, but again he can still make me work overtime like Dorian did so, again don’t quote me on that!

[tkdb-hell]

My one week break has turned into a two week one. A lovely friend of mine has encouraged me to do so to prevent what would probably be my inevitable burn out.

Sorry for the dry desert that is my long form AO3 content right now.

I still Love writing though, so I've done a little thing as a treat to myself. I've been having fun figuring out who exactly my OC, Zero is as a person and a ghoul. Here's a writing exercise I did with him while on a work call that just Would Not End.

Featuring @silly-string-guitar and @coastalwatch

OC CONTENT! If you're not interested in that, just skip this post ♡

Lightning

Does lightning strike twice?

Zero wasn’t sure. That question had been rattling around his head ever since Vagastrom’s finest, Seiya, sent him a message that was particularly suggestive. The kind of message that made Zero’s heart race and his mind wander into places he probably shouldn’t let it.

They’d been flirting off and on for a while now—mostly online, where it felt safer. It was the kind of banter that danced on the edge of plausibly deniable. Innuendos wrapped in casual phrasing, innocuous comments that carried implications so heavy you’d have to be blind to miss them. And every time, Zero would grin at his screen like an idiot before firing back his own quip, praying he didn’t come off too eager.

It was exciting. Fun, even. One of the few things that made life at Darkwick bearable lately. Right up there with his unlikely friendship with Jo Waker from Frostheim.

Jo Waker. A firecracker in a house of ice, that one.

She wasn’t just his friend; she was his champion, his co-conspirator, and the one person at Darkwick who seemed to genuinely get him. It had been Jo who’d called him out—blunt as ever—for being too much of a coward to say what he wanted to Seiya. She hadn’t just encouraged him; she’d practically shoved the two of them together like a kid forcing mismatched Ken dolls to hold hands. And, against all odds, it had worked.

Seiya seemed to like him. At least a little. Maybe not in the deep, mushy, heart-on-sleeve way Zero found himself leaning toward in quiet moments. But the flirting, the smiles, the way Seiya’s voice softened when they spoke—it felt like something. Something real.

But Zero knew better than to get carried away.

He’d been here before. He’d had a good thing once with a guy from Frostheim—a talented gambler who didn’t mind letting Zero sneak into the common room to play the piano, even after hours. It had been sweet while it lasted. Until it wasn’t.

Every time, without fail, Zero’s Stigma had been the wrench in the gears. Probability manipulation sounded cool on paper, but in practice, it was a recipe for chaos. A frustrating date that went completely off the rails. An argument sparked by a stray thought he hadn’t meant to say out loud. A perfectly good moment turned into a disaster by an unseen chain reaction he couldn’t control.

So here he was, lying in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of his dorm room. The distant din of the Sinostra casino drifted up through the walls, a familiar hum he’d long since learned to tune out. It settled into his ears like prescriptive tinnitus, a constant reminder of where he was and why he was there.

Could he keep it together long enough to be someone Seiya might actually want? Could he hold his tongue, manage his impulses, and keep his damn Stigma in check?

Or would the terrible dance of chaos and misfortune play again, ruining one of the best things he’d had in years?

Does lightning strike twice?

Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. And Zero found himself hoping—really hoping—that it wouldn’t.

[razorblade180]

Trying the Odds

Caelus:110 tickets! What are the odds we fuck this up royally!?

Stelle:Do you want actual numbers? I’m still of the opinion this idea is dumb. We are in desperate need of lightning allies. We skipped Kafka, you’re ignoring Jing Yuan, and Acheron is right around the corner; yet here we are trying to invite the unhinged psychopath!?

E1 Qingque:Don’t listen to her! Life is about risk!

E5 Sampo: Life is about surprises!

Hanya:We are on both. Why are you two so passionate about this?

Stelle:We have to win a 50/50 at 0 pity as well. This could go terribly w-

Caelus:Do you remember last time when I supported you?

Last time

Stelle:*hitting the floor* Just this once! Let me be selfish! Let me get bring Blade here please!!!!! I know it’s a risk but I don’t care!

xxxxx

Stelle:…*looks left*

Blade:*resting*

Stelle:I will let you win this one, but I’m not comforting you if you end up crying.

Caelus:I won’t cry. Besides with reckless odds like these, I’m positive Sparkle will appreciate the madness. *feeds tickets*

Stelle:That’s not exactly how that works.

Ticket Shines

Stelle:H-How many was that?

Caelus:40 tickets.

Stelle:You can’t keep getting away with this. There’s actually no way.

Qingque: They say 99% of gamblers quit right before they make it big.

Sparkle: *skips out* And I for one applaud the one percent!

Stelle:Well then…I guess I’m the fool today. Alls well that ends well I suppose.

Sparkle:Oh? Who says we’re done? Now the real fun begins! I sense a kindred spirit that yearns for the thrill of risky plays.

Qingque:…All I ask for is E4. I will be nice.

Stelle:Caelus.

Caelus:I’m thinking.

Stelle:CAELUS!

Jing Yuan, distantly: AT LEAST CHANGE BANNERS!!! DON’T LET HER TRICK YOU.

xxxxxx

Sparkle:Aww and I thought I had you.

Caelus:I’m reckless, not stupid.

E6 Sampo:Bravo!

E4 Hanya: Well played

E4 Qingque:VICTORY!!!

Stelle:Maybe my problem is I don’t gamble hard enough?

Blade:I’m positive it isn’t.

[toastandjamie]

I reread The Dragon Reborn again because Mat and Perrin are both absolutely Peak in that book- and hey hi I wanna talk about Juilin really quickly because usually I’m so infinitely distracted by my own joy and excitement over Mat’s fireworks that I never really paid Juilin much attention however this time around I really paid attention to his dialogue.

I’ll write something more cohesive and detailed later but after Mar blew a hole in the wall Juilin asks Mat what he did and specifically asks if Mat called lightning. Following that up by softly asking if he’s joined up with a man who can channel. So, Juilin assuming Mat channeled is a pretty logical assumption to make, and upon further reflection most of the defenders probably also assumed the explosion had been the work of a channeler. Juilin making that assumption isn’t particularly interesting in itself but the way he approaches it with Mat is really interesting. Juilin is a Tairen, and culturally Tairen’s distrust channeling just as a general rule and that’s not even getting into all the issues with men as channelers; yet Juilin doesn’t react especially negatively towards the possibility that Mat was a channeler, a little nervous and cautious, but he overall accepts it as just one more thing on the list to keep in mind. Between breaking into the stone and attacking defenders Juilin has pretty much accepted the fact that he’s breaking every rule tonight, so why not a man who can channel right? It would track with those girls he knows being taken by Aes Sedai. Some channelers on the run from the white tower most likely. Of course Mat isn’t a channeler, and the explosion was just fireworks, but Juilin’s acceptance of the possibility of working with a man who can channel is a really impressive sign of his sense of duty. He feels an obligation to help the girls after betraying them even if it means attacking defenders and high lords, even if it means throwing his lot in with a gambler who channels Saidine. Luckily for Juilin Mat was just your average run of the mill Ta’veren gambler and having an in with the Dragon Reborn’s friends keeps you out of prison quite well.

[ultimateplaylistmaker]

Oh wow I actually managed to write something for @dr-rarepair-week-blog

Soulmates Au, Celeste/Makoto, Soulmates have both the name and first words spoken on one wrist each.

Common Greetings

Makoto could barely concentrate through the introductions, mechanically introducing himself to each person he approached. He knew he was stalling, saving the one he most dreaded and most wanted to talk to for last. Words itched on his wrist, the words that bonded him to his soulmate, 

"Things just keep getting curiouser, and curiouser." The girl in black had said at his introduction, perfectly matching the words on his wrist. The girl who was almost certainly Taeko Yasuhiro, the girl he had wondered his whole life about. 

Did she know? Her face was cool as ice, with no single twitch, a perfect poker face. It was just his luck that the panic of all that was happening had made him use such a plain and average greeting. Surely she had to know either way, though? He had said his name. It would match the name on her other wrist even without him saying something completely recognizable.

Still, if she knew, she really did give nothing away about it. A perfect porcelain yet blank expression stared at him, as if daring him to even think himself able to approach her.

He didn't want Ishimaru to yell at him again for wasting time, though, so he steadied his nerves and walked over to her.

"I do not think we have been introduced, my name is Celestia Ludenberg." She said with a small smile, eyes that had before seemed regal boring into him with an intensity. If daring him to contradict her.

 Feeling caught off foot at the unexpected name, Makoto could only stumble out, "Celestia...Luden....huh?" 

It was true that the threads online had called her that, but he thought it was just an alias. Was he wrong? Was this all just a coincidence? He couldn't be sure; her sleeves puffed around the wrist, making it impossible to glimpse. 

Best to not be caught staring at a woman's wrists, though, that could end poorly.

Her smile turned icier after a beat of thought, tilting her head in a way that made his heart beat faster," Ludenberg. It is my name. But I would prefer for you to call me Celeste. "

Even with her eyes closed in an icy smile, he still felt like he was being challenged. She was a gambler that was for sure. He hadn't been entirely sure; with how tight-lipped and stoic the girl in purple had been, he almost thought her to be the gambler if it weren't for the lack of gothic clothing. Now, though, there could be no doubt.

A part of him wanted to curl away from her like a housecat, but from how his wrists practically itched in her presence. He knew he'd have to assert himself, to play her game.

" Um, you are Japanese right? "He cautiously asked, feeling himself stand up straight to look her in the eye. 

Her eyes opened like a flash of lightning, not quite looking at him, but still managing to seem like she was trying to pry every little detail out of his soul, then judge it unworthy.

" Of course, "Her voice was tight, controlled, and almost natural. He was surprised he could even pick up the slight tension hidden so well. "Why do you ask?"

It felt rude to pry further, like he should just leave this alone if he valued his life, but... If this was his soulmate, he needed to be able to stand strong to her. Soulmates were equal, after all; he had to be able to not bow away from her eyes. 

So, with more confidence than he felt, he asked," If you don't mind...could you tell me your real name? "

Her eyes looked his dead in the eye, silent, before she let out a cold chuckle like she was a queen trying to decide whether to behead one who had slightly inconvenienced her. "I don't know what you're talking about, Celestia Ludenberg is my real name."

Her gaze grew even more intense, leaning slightly closer to him. It took all his effort not to dart his eyes away, uneased by the amount of eye contact. 

"But as I mentioned, I would much rather you call me Celeste."

It was clear that she wouldn't budge, polite in a way that seemed more forceful than a rude dismissal would. However, he knew she had caught her attention from how her eyes never left him. Even if it felt like a mouse catching the attention of a panther. 

"I look forward to getting to know you better." She said, clearly dismissing him even as her eyes stayed on his. The hand on her chin as she chuckled, subtly flashing the metal accessory on her finger. He felt a shiver go down his spine at the clear threat. Could someone so menacing really be his soulmate? 

He wanted to keep pushing, but then Togami spoke, and he found himself losing his chance. Still, even as attention turned away, he could still feel her eyes burrowing into the back of his head.

——

Celeste was no fool; she had seen the recognition in the droll boy's eyes when she first spoke. Makoto Naegi, a common trash name with a common trash greeting meant for a common trash girl. She wasn't Taeko anymore, though; she was more, something greater who had no need for someone so common or basic. 

Still, he had managed to surprise her a little; few would make eye contact with her like that, and even fewer would challenge her words so brazenly. So perhaps he wasn't a completely worthless tool. No F rank like she had wondered he would be. Even if Taeko had certainly been F rank, he was at least a C rank, maybe even B if if he kept this up.

She let out another small chuckle; even if he was the soulmate of a girl long dead, perhaps she could still find at least a bit of entertainment from him. He'd make a decent footman in the future, perhaps, at the very least.

[thebrickinbrick]

Passing Gleams

In the chaos of sentiments and passions which defend a barricade, there is a little of everything; there is bravery, there is youth, honor, enthusiasm, the ideal, conviction, the rage of the gambler, and, above all, intermittences of hope.

One of these intermittences, one of these vague quivers of hope suddenly traversed the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie at the moment when it was least expected.

“Listen,” suddenly cried Enjolras, who was still on the watch, “it seems to me that Paris is waking up.”

It is certain that, on the morning of the 6th of June, the insurrection broke out afresh for an hour or two, to a certain extent. The obstinacy of the alarm peal of Saint-Merry reanimated some fancies. Barricades were begun in the Rue du Poirier and the Rue des Gravilliers. In front of the Porte Saint-Martin, a young man, armed with a rifle, attacked alone a squadron of cavalry. In plain sight, on the open boulevard, he placed one knee on the ground, shouldered his weapon, fired, killed the commander of the squadron, and turned away, saying: “There’s another who will do us no more harm.”

He was put to the sword. In the Rue Saint-Denis, a woman fired on the National Guard from behind a lowered blind. The slats of the blind could be seen to tremble at every shot. A child fourteen years of age was arrested in the Rue de la Cossonerie, with his pockets full of cartridges. Many posts were attacked. At the entrance to the Rue Bertin-Poirée, a very lively and utterly unexpected fusillade welcomed a regiment of cuirrassiers, at whose head marched Marshal General Cavaignac de Barague. In the Rue Planche-Mibray, they threw old pieces of pottery and household utensils down on the soldiers from the roofs; a bad sign; and when this matter was reported to Marshal Soult, Napoleon’s old lieutenant grew thoughtful, as he recalled Suchet’s saying at Saragossa: “We are lost when the old women empty their pots de chambre on our heads.”

These general symptoms which presented themselves at the moment when it was thought that the uprising had been rendered local, this fever of wrath, these sparks which flew hither and thither above those deep masses of combustibles which are called the faubourgs of Paris,—all this, taken together, disturbed the military chiefs. They made haste to stamp out these beginnings of conflagration.

They delayed the attack on the barricades Maubuée, de la Chanvrerie and Saint-Merry until these sparks had been extinguished, in order that they might have to deal with the barricades only and be able to finish them at one blow. Columns were thrown into the streets where there was fermentation, sweeping the large, sounding the small, right and left, now slowly and cautiously, now at full charge. The troops broke in the doors of houses whence shots had been fired; at the same time, manœuvres by the cavalry dispersed the groups on the boulevards. This repression was not effected without some commotion, and without that tumultuous uproar peculiar to collisions between the army and the people. This was what Enjolras had caught in the intervals of the cannonade and the musketry.

Moreover, he had seen wounded men passing the end of the street in litters, and he said to Courfeyrac:—“Those wounded do not come from us.”

Their hope did not last long; the gleam was quickly eclipsed. In less than half an hour, what was in the air vanished, it was a flash of lightning unaccompanied by thunder, and the insurgents felt that sort of leaden cope, which the indifference of the people casts over obstinate and deserted men, fall over them once more.

The general movement, which seemed to have assumed a vague outline, had miscarried; and the attention of the minister of war and the strategy of the generals could now be concentrated on the three or four barricades which still remained standing.

The sun was mounting above the horizon.

An insurgent hailed Enjolras.

“We are hungry here. Are we really going to die like this, without anything to eat?”

Enjolras, who was still leaning on his elbows at his embrasure, made an affirmative sign with his head, but without taking his eyes from the end of the street.

[winged-self-indulgence]

So this was an idea I had for the TS winter event but lord knows if I'll actually finish it because this is much longer than I thought it would be. I just think it would be funny for my Unnamed MC Theya to try cooking and be utterly distracted by the cast.

Part 1, Part 2

It began, as most winter tales do, with someone dead.

Or at least Theya thought they might be dead. Her dark eyes squinted at the small, rectangular card upon which the image of a crumbling citadel in the process of being devastated by golden lightning shimmered across the surface. In her mind’s eye she saw flashes of ruin, pain, and a body lying hapless in the middle of some backwater alley. The gash in its neck bled sluggishly, dying the cobblestones scarlet with blood.

A blink and the image vanished, replaced by the dim yet familiar corner of the Wet Wick that Theya used for her sessions. If Leander had an issue with her commandeering one of the couches, he’d never brought it up and neither had the bartender. Theya wasn’t naïve enough to think that meant anything. Nothing in this crumbling world came for free, so Theya ensured that her little sideshow business brought in coin.

For only a few coppers, Lowtown denizens came to have their fortunes read by Leander’s newest guest – the travelling oracle. If the cards fell in their favour then surely that warranted a drink. If not, well then it wouldn’t hurt to drown your sorrows in a few casks of ale.

Theya wasn’t sure how she felt about being branded Leander’s anything, but she couldn’t deny the benefits. Or the thud-thud-thudding of her heart when the mage slung an arm around her shoulders with a sort of easy affection that left her starving for more.

“Well?” A gruff voice startled Theya back to the present. Across from the woman sat her most recent client, fingers clasped tightly together in an almost prayerful pose while his eyes darted around the room like buzzing flies.

This was Jeremiah’s first reading of the evening, but certainly not of the day. Here was a man with a penchant for playing card games and an even bigger penchant for losing at them – even when the game was fortune itself. He seemed to think that if he came back often enough, somehow the deck would twist in his favour. As if tarot was a lottery and all you had to do was keep playing in order to draw the right card.

Theya could have told him that wasn’t how tarot reading worked, but the pouch of copper and silver pieces sat heavy on her hip.

“Oh, misfortune dogs your steps!” Drawing up the mask of the all-seeing divine oracle, Theya gasped dramatically and lifted the card high, keeping the image out of sight for the moment. Jeremiah’s back stiffened in a hunched curve. “You’re running from someone, but they draw near every day. No matter what you do, they will find you.”

The sound he let out reminded Theya of a dog keening in the gutter, a high-pitched whine that ended in a low sob. “Oh, sweet All-Mother,” he buried his face in his hands. “Is it Alfons? I promised him the money, but–! It’s these gamblers, they’re all liars! Cheats! It’s not possible to win as many times as they have! It’s not fair!”

Theya pressed her lips together. Considered telling Jeremiah that he was just as much as a gambler, liar, and cheat as anyone else in the Amaryllis District. That she’d seen his sister hawking terracotta wares on the bridge. Paused to note the family resemblance, and hum sympathetically when the woman began complaining about her older brother who she’d caught her brother stealing handfuls from her coinbox. When she’d gotten a better lock for the crate, he’d started stealing some of her sculptures and then her work tools.

Pity warred with disdain. Tiring of the man’s spiraling emotions, Theya pretended to catch sight of another card. “Your fate is sealed, I fear,” she hummed. “Unless…”

A puppet on a string, Jeremiah sat bolt upright. Nearly leaped across the short table to grab for her hands. “Unless? Unless what?!”

“Ah, I’m afraid the vision is faint,” Theya sighed dramatically, letting her shoulders slump. “I will have to channel the cards again.”

The implication could not have been clearer, but Jeremiah pretended to be ignorant until Theya’s eyes began to wander around the room for another client. Then he scowled and began searching his person for another copper coin.

A few seconds passed. Then a minute. Theya arched an eyebrow as the man’s face reddened by degrees. “If you do not have the coin, you do not have to get a reading. Not knowing the future is not necessary to live a good life.”

“So says Leander’s pet seer,” Jeremiah scoffed at her, and the disdain won out. Giving up on patting himself down, the man ducked under the table and emerged with a small burlap sack. It bulged oddly, but didn’t jingle the way a purse would. “What about this?”

“Is it coin?” Theya asked, almost rhetorically.

“Better,” he replied with a sort of uncomfortable desperation that told her he was lying, yet also pricked at what remained of her heart.

Sighing, the woman pulled the pouch closer and opened it to reveal… “Pitangas?”

Small orange fruit gleamed from the sack’s interior like jewels. The glow of a sunset caught on plump skin, and catching the candlelight. Theya was usually good at hiding her expressions, but she couldn’t help being caught off guard.

“Got it from one of the trading caravans this morning,” Jeremiah bragged. “The guard was too busy making eyes at one of the courtesans to pay attention to me.”

“Hm.” Theya retied the bag and rose to her feet. Gathering up the cards, she turned to fix Jeremiah with a stern glare before he could complain. “On your way home, steer clear of the alleyways and the bridge. Hide somewhere public, a brothel maybe. A place with eyes and ears and many doors. Goodnight.”

The evening was in full swing, the Wick’s crowds swelled with the late hour and the wintry chill. The usual odour of human bodies was alleviated by the subtle aroma of soup – something spiced and herbaceous to ward off the cold and soothe the senses.

Theya heard Leander before she saw him. The man had a voice that drew attention. Deep, but not booming. Effusive but not overbearing. He held court amongst a group of Bloodhounds, regaling them with some story that seemed to require a lot of arm movements.

The firelight reflected off him like a theater spotlight, outlining him in a way that marked him as somehow separate from his rapt audience. Theya hadn’t meant to catch his attention, but that was difficult with Leander. Upon spotting her, he bade his entourage goodbye and made his way over to her side – his long strides easily devouring two of hers.

“There she is,” Leander’s voice washed over her. “My favourite oracle. Everything alright?”

“Fine. Same as usual,” Theya hummed, pushing her dark hair off her face. The knee-length locks were useful for looking the part, for adding an air of mysticism, but the long strands got in the way. “I even gave an early winter gift in return for some fruit.”

Leander’s lips tilted up in a smile, amusement and confusion swirling in the fathomless green, until she opened the bag and showed him its contents.

“Surinam cherries?” His brow furrowed though the smile never left his face. “You didn’t tell me you liked them. I would have gotten you some if I’d known.”

That was another thing about Leander that Theya didn’t understand. The constant wish to do things for her. For seemingly no reason. Nothing in life came for free. Ever since escaping the cult, Theya had learned that lesson far too many times. Leander himself had told her to be wary of things that seemed too good to be true. Yet here he was dogging her steps with gifts and offers and more.

It was suspicious. It was intriguing. It was intoxicating.

“Well, now you know,” she pulled out a round, pumpkin-shaped cherry and popped it into her mouth. It burst between her teeth, sour and sweet.

“Now I do,” he murmured, agreeing. His voice washed over her again. Warm, but not burning. Well, not unless you were Theya and responded to open affection like it was a trap. It was a trap. It had to be. But at least it came with free accommodations and access to a kitchen.

[jadegretz]

Lili: Highborn Heroine by Jade Gretz

The humid Monaco night air hung heavy with the scent of jasmine and something far more sinister – fear. Lili, her sapphire eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and apprehension, surveyed the opulent casino floor from a hidden balcony. Below, a sea of well-heeled gamblers swirled around roulette tables and slot machines, oblivious to the darkness crawling beneath the gilded surface.

Lili wasn't here to gamble. She was here for vengeance. The Mishima Zaibatsu, a name synonymous with corporate brutality, had infiltrated her family's prestigious De Rochefort Enterprises, using their vast resources to siphon funds and sow discord.

But the Mishima muscle wasn't Lili's real concern tonight. Her target was a shadow lurking amongst the shadows – Kazuya Mishima's puppet master, the enigmatic Heihachi.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement in a secluded corner of the casino caught her eye. A lone figure, clad in a crimson gi, stood silhouetted against the flashing lights. King, the hulking luchador wrestler who had inexplicably offered his aid, gave a barely perceptible nod of confirmation.

This unlikely alliance had sprung from desperation. King, ostracized from the King of Iron Fist Tournament circuit after a particularly brutal match, had his own bone to pick with the Mishimas. He saw in the De Rocheforts a chance to strike back and Lili, a kindred spirit fueled by a thirst for justice.

A prearranged signal, a single white rose tossed onto the roulette wheel, sent the casino floor into chaos. Patrons shrieked as armed men in Mishima black flooded the room, their faces emotionless masks of obedience.

Lili, a whirlwind of pink and fury, descended from the balcony. Her staff, imbued with the De Rochefort family fighting style, became a blur of elegant brutality. Skirts swirling, she disarmed guards with lightning-fast strikes, her movements as graceful as a deadly ballet.

King, a hulking wall of muscle and righteous fury, charged into the fray. His jaguar mask, usually menacing, seemed almost comical amidst the chaos, yet his every move exuded a deadly efficiency. With a thu …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[howlingday]

Wight Fright

A new villain has entered the fray! And this one is more dangerous than anyone else Ruby Rose, aka The Red Rose, has ever faced before! Worse yet, this deranged foe maintains a secret identity by eluding capture every time he's defeated! Just who is he...?

--------------------------------------------------

Roman: Look, buddy, I dunno who you are-

Wight: Of course you don't! That's the point of the mask! And here I thought you were the genius criminal mastermind...

Wight: Or you were, CRIME KING. So step down before I start sharing secrets!

Roman: You clearly don't know who you're dealing with. Neo? Take out the trash.

Neo: (Smirks)

Wight: Oh... Tsk, tsk, tsk... Afraid to get your hands dirty, Roman~?

Neo: (Leaps at him)

Wight: (Catches her, Tosses her out window)

Roman: Alright... So what do you want?

Wight: So the whole destroying you and taking over your position as the leader of the criminal underworld wasn't obvious enough? Well, darn...

Ruby: Excuse me! Is this an all-access hole or do I have to make my own entrance?

Wight: Oh, goodie~! Our hero has arrived~! Just in time to watch me wipe out her greatest foe... Or, well, second greatest foe.

Ruby: Aw, did this henchman turn on you, Roman~?

Roman: I don't know who this idiot is... Not yet, anyways, but I'll find out soon enough.

Ruby: Well, until then, I'm gonna pretend he's one of your goons, anyways. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Wight: Hellooo~! I'm standing right here~! Really, you're both SO rude!

Ruby: Oh, right, I'm so sorry! You're here to make Roman Torchwick's life miserable and I still haven't said thank you! I guess my only excuse is that YOU'RE HOLDING INNOCENT PEOPLE HOSTAGE. It's really confusing to my little, flower brain.

Wight: Hm... Yes, this is quite the dilemma... But perhaps the Wight Fright can offer a solution? Join me, and together, WE CAN RULE ALL OF VALE!

Ruby: Like, the city or the whole kingdom? Ah... Nah. Sorry. I make it a personal rule of mine to not team up with anyone dressed in all white. That, and completely unhinged.

Wight: Oh, well... It's your loss... OF LIFE~! (Throws bombs)

--------------------------------------------------

Wight: (Tapping away on his scroll device) With guards all wrapped up, kept tight and close, I hurt, or help, my dear, little rose~!

Wight: I'm in a rhyming mood this episode~!

--------------------------------------------------

Wight: See, I'm not like those other buffoons playing supervillain. They all think they can distract the flying flower, instead of doing what REALLY needs to be done.

Ilia: But... But I don't wanna mess with Rose! She helped my best friend!

Wight: Oh, don't worry! You'll get over that little qualm soon enough! Unless, of course, you want to keep wearing rubber boots and gloves for the rest of your life~?

Ilia: (Throws lightning)

Wight: (Catches with yellow dust) Oh, please! Your unique molecular change intrigues me, and I'm tempted to make this change permanent just so I can learn how this happened! You're a gambler, aren't you? Would you bet on duration or frustration~?!

Ilia: ...

Wight: There's a good girl~! But don't worry! You'll get your life back... AS SOON AS YOU FRY UP THE RED ROSE. Oh, and do try to keep this a secret. I like to give anonymously~!

--------------------------------------------------

Ruby: You can't hide from me, Wight Fright. Because I know who you are behind that mask!

Wight: We all wear masks, Red Rose. But which one is your true self? Your face or what you wear over your face?

Ruby: I know you're Jacques Schnee!

Wight: HAHAHAHAHA~! AM I~?!

Ruby: (Wraps cape around him)

Wight: Ooh, nice molecular netting~! (Phases out) NOW TRY MINE~!

Ruby: (Caught in net, Can't escape)

Wight: So what do you think of my Phantom Fisher~?! HAHAHAHA~! Now for a little scientific experiment~! What breaks first; my Phantom Fisher OR YOUR BONES~?

--------------------------------------------------

Wight: What's the matter, Rosey~? Feeling off your game?!

Ruby: Nah, my game's good, Witty! I'm just trying to figure out the rules!

Wight: Rule one; Rose gets PLUCKED~!

Ruby: Rule two; Ignore rule one!

Ruby: Rule three; Bring The Wight Fright INTO THE LIGHT! (Rips mask off)

--------------------------------------------------

Whitley: (Looks out window, Gasps)

Jacques: (Flying around as Wight Fright)

Whitley: (Turns) Dad?

Jacques: Son, that's clearly an imposter.

Whitley: ...Right. Right, of course. Except for one thing... I heard you apologize to The Red Rose last night.

Whitley: Jacques Schnee NEVER apologizes! (Throws vase)

Emerald: (Illusion drops, Sneers) I didn't sign up for this.