#man...grog is a challenge to write

[demigoddessqueens]

Could you write something with vox machina being a lil handsy (if thats within your limits if not thats okay!!) with the reader once they have to go to some fancy ball and this is the first time they ever seen them all beautiful and dressed up? Therefore getting a lot of attention from other rich party goers and getting super jealous?

Oh yeah!! Absolutely! 😍

This would fit all of them, especially Percy 🤣

It did not go unnoticed by you how tight the grip was getting. Eyes were glancing in your direction, but then that fear glossed over for a quick second. It amused you that they were protective of you but there was nothing to fret about.

“Dear, we’re honored guests here. We shouldn’t scare the rest of them away.”

Percy - even Orthax wouldn’t dare to be caught with Percy right now! Glaring thousand yard stare and a tight grip around your waist, this man dares another soul to try and flirt with you

Keyleth - you knew there was more than meets the eye with her. Someone looks too long for her liking, and they’re met with a frowning pout from the Druid

Pike - no hesitation in throwing words if someone gazes too long, along with leading you by the hand to grab more champagne

Vex’ahlia - she’s got both arms around your shoulder(s). If her piercing gaze wasn’t enough, then her equally sharp words were.

Vax’ildan - that stern gaze follows the other person as he holds your arm/hand/waist, but completely melts away if you give him a little kiss

Scanlan - elaborately insults someone (whether they were looking or not), and either grabs tightly onto your hand or leg if it’s revealing

Grog - you may not feel uncomfortable but he sure does! Pulls you close to him while challenging the said onlooker to a stare down

[zhongster]

So, hi again :)

Since getting all caught up with VM, I've had this idea rotting in my brain for about...two weeks now? Am I late to the game, certainly. But better late than never, amiright?

Anyways, here's the idea.

So, everyone knows Percy's "power levels" (referring to your other stories where our sexy gunslinger had no choice but to let a few "monsters" fly). This leads to them, of course, noticing the more tell-tale signs of Percy holding them back.

Cut to another time their celebrating their victories. They notice said tell-tale signs. And because they're Vox Machina, they all LOVE to fuck with each other. So, of course, a contest ensues as each male member tries to coax Percy into joining. I mean, he has to release them at SOME POINT anyways, what's the harm?

However, only one person succeeds on breaking down Percy's walls and it's not his wife...it's his brother in law.

Enjoy :)

(I'd like to mention that at this point in my life, I now have quite the unhealthy attachment to Percival De Rolo. He basically lives rent free in my brain along with the twins)

THIS IS KINK CONTENT, DNI IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT

This prompt. Has been torturing my throughout my entire midterm week bc I haven’t had time to write it so I’ve just been sitting here THINKING ABOUT IT 😫

Also same Percy’s completely taken over my mind.

It all started with Grog.

Because let’s be honest, it always starts with Grog.

Vox Machina had only just completed another successful mission when, with a squeal of delight, Grog happened upon a cask of ale that had been squirreled away in the bag of holding some time ago. This particular ale was of a higher quality than the group was used to so naturally, this called for something of a celebration. ‘For a job well done’ Scanlan had declared before immediately proceeding to regale the group with a particularly sensual rendition of “When the Bald Man Cries.”

Approximately an hour and half a cask later the group came to realize that the particular brand of ale they had been drinking was extremely carbonated when Grog unleashed an almighty belch that echoed off the walls of Greyskull Keep. This wasn’t particularly unusual for Grog who was fairly prone to varying degrees of gaseousness, but upon Grog’s release the rest of the group began to grow wise to the fact that their own stomachs were feeling far more bloated than they were used to after a night of drinking.

With a quick smirk, Scanlan immediately pressed into his slightly over-full stomach and released a pretty sizable belch of his own in what was clearly a challenge. With that the group found themselves engaging in a rather uncouth competition to see who could belch the loudest.

Percival, unsurprisingly, was the only male member of the group that steadfastly refused to participate despite the fact that he was indeed slightly bloated from the ale.

Keyleth took notice of this and drunkenly threw her arm around her self-proclaimed best friend and slurred “Come on Percy join in!”

Percy glanced across the group to his wife in a sort of silent plea for help but was only met with a wry smirk and a “It really is rather fun darling.”

Percy only sighed and waved the conversation away stating “No, no I’m fine thank you.”

What Percy didn’t see, however, was the mischievous smirk exchanged between the half-elven twins over his head.

Some minutes later Vax ever-so-slightly shifted closer to Percy’s stiff figure from his spot to the man’s left. If the slight bloat of Vax’s own stomach was anything to go off of, Percy likely also had some air trapped inside of him.

As the rest of the group resumed their increasingly obnoxious competition Vax subtly placed his arm around Percy’s shoulders. Percy, used to Vax’s casual touchy nature, didn’t pay any mind to it and continued observing the group with a slight veneer of disapproval.

Vax’s plan was going off without a hitch.

After a few moments, Vax slid his hand down to Percy’s back and gently began to rub up and down his spine. The effect was instantaneous, Percy immediately raised a fist up to his lips and seemed to swallow something down before looking back to the group.

Good, he hadn’t realized that Vax was working an angle yet.

Percy winced, conveying his growing internal discomfort and attempted to shift away from Vax’s hand. Vax, however, was not one to be deterred and instead began to rub more intense circles into Percy’s back with his thumbs.

This time Percy’s chest hitched and his fist flew up to cover his mouth once more. His cheeks puffed out rather violently but he did manage to swallow the air back down. Vax had to give it to him, his resolve to conserve his dignity was definitely admirable.

Once Percy seemed to get himself back under control Vax leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Just let it out Percival.”

Percy whipped around to face his half-elven brother in law with a look of shock and betrayal, seeming to understand that Vax had been intentionally trying to rile up the gas in his stomach this whole time. He opened his mouth to say something but Vax, like a shark who’s smelled blood, took the opportunity to bring his hand down in the middle of Percy’s back in one hard pat.

This seemed to be the final straw for Percy. He buckled in on himself, folding in half to hide his face in his lap as all the air in his stomach forced its way up his throat and out of his now open mouth. The belch was so long that he had plenty of time to realize what was happening before it had even ended.

By the time the cruel noise finally died off the entire group had gone silent and Percy was absolutely terrified to look up. When he finally did, he found the entire group staring at him with varying degrees of shock on their faces.

He swallowed and voiced a meek “excuse me.”

The group remained silent for a few more moments before Scanlan broke the silence stating “Well I guess we know who wins.”

With that, the group burst into raucous laughter and Vax administered a congratulatory slap to Percy’s back. “Way to go Percival,” Vax shouted “out-belching the Goliath!”

Percy just grumbled incoherently and turned away to release a rather deep closed-mouth belch over his right shoulder. Vax cackled and, in his still-drunken state, yelled “And he’s still not done ladies and gentlemen!”

Keyleth gave a half serious pout as she pulled Percy away from Vax and into her so his head was resting on her shoulder. “Leave him aloneeeeee” she whined.

Percy elected to sustain this position in Keyleth’s shoulder as he now found the alcohol beginning to blur his vision and he found himself growing very tired.

Vax reached over and shook Percy’s shoulder in a teasing sort of way. “Aww I’m sorry Freddie I was just messing with you.”

Percy swatted the rogue’s hand away in a half-hearted gesture of annoyance but despite that, he couldn’t keep the amused smile from creeping onto his face.

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: Next of Kin

Fandom: Critical Role Characters: Grog Strongjaw & Kaylie Shorthalt Rating: T Word Count: 1,709 Summary: A missing scene from episode 84: Grog goes looking for Kaylie, or, a goliath and a gnome walk into a bar. Also on: AO3 Notes: For Critical Role Relationship Week.

It's not the longest day of Grog's life. It's just damn close.

He doesn't ponder what-ifs much. If a thing is done, it's done—behind him, forgotten. At least, that's how it was. Things have been changing, slowly, so slowly that he—keen though he is—hasn't noticed, so even after drinking with Pike and Kerr and Percy, even after seeing with his own eyes that Scanlan sleeps peacefully, he can't just shake it all off and go to sleep. Something needles him, at the back of his mind, an itch he can't reach.

Kaylie. Through the haze of drink and barely-sidestepped grief, he thinks, Where is Kaylie?

Scanlan wouldn't want her to be by herself. In a town completely unfamiliar to her, wrestling with feelings that Grog can't even imagine, probably. Though his step wavers a bit, he veers wide of the room waiting for him and heads off through the castle.

"Hey," he barks—probably a little too loud—at the first guard he comes across in the foyer, who startles and clatters in his armor, immediately bringing his sword and shield to the read. Dragons, Grog has observed, make people jumpy. "Have you seen a gnome? She has…she looks…" He tries to organize his thoughts. "You know Scanlan?"

The guard, probably deciding that he isn't a dragon, lowers the sword a little. "We don't see many gnomes around here," he says, his voice questioning.

"Look." Grog makes an effort to keep his voice a bit quieter. "You probably don't know, but I'm Grand Poobah de…Something…of All of This and That, and it's very important for me to know if you've seen a gnome that looks like Scanlan. Female. Short brown hair."

He seems nervous now, fidgety. The shield comes down a little more. "My friend William, he just started his watch maybe half an hour ago? Said something about a gnome girl down in the tavern before he came up. Said she was challenging all manner of folk to a brawl. Seemed like no one was taking her up on it. I thought he was just spinning yarn, but—"

"The great house of All of This and That thanks you," Grog says, and pushes past the bemused guard, out into the cool night air of Whitestone.

He takes a few wrong turns on the way there. Despite the sobering effect of Whitestone's chill, the drink sticks, and beneath it, exhaustion pulls even at his hearty bones. He finds his way eventually, though, and pushes the door to the place open.

There's not much left, and most of them have dropped like flies, half-sprawled over tables here and there. An old man nurses his drink in the corner, muttering, and the barkeep turns a page in his book, but besides him, the only person still upright is Kaylie: perched on a barstool, hunched over her drink, brown hair all ruffled up around her head.

The barkeep looks up, and his eyes widen. Grog doesn't know him, but it's clear he knows Grog. It's still weird, all these regular civilized people brightening up at the sight of him. His herd and all that is a long time past, but he still expects fear before gratitude.

"Strongjaw!" The barkeep starts bustling around in his cabinets. "I've got whatever you want, sir, on the house."

Kaylie doesn't even turn around. She snorts, hunching further over her drink. "Sir," she tells the mug, like it's a joke, and snickers. The barkeep shoots her a disapproving look.

"Ale," Grog says, weaving around the tables and passed-out patrons. "Whatever you've got." He hauls himself onto the stool beside Kaylie's, giving her mug a sideways look. "And one for my friend, here."

"Ah—I think she's had enough—"

"You heard the man!" Kaylie says, in a boisterous voice that doesn't even slur, even though she's probably been drinking for hours, now. She's an actor, this one, just like Scanlan. Grog can't help but like her.

Still with that look like he's been sniffing an outhouse, the barkeep pours them both generous mugs of ale and retreats down to the other end of the bar with his book, scowling.

Kaylie takes a deep swig and lets out a gusty exhale afterward. "So? What do you want?"

Grog thinks. He's been doing an awful lot of that, lately. Everything used to be so clear. Bad people crossed him, or his friends, and he'd mess them up. Mostly left everything else up to the thinkers, followed their lead. But he feels—not dimly, but strongly—that this is something he's better suited for than any of them.

"I know something," he says, "about family that hurts you."

She squints up at him, her small mouth twisted into a scowl. "Do you, now? I suppose you think forgiveness is in order, no matter what happened before, just because he died helping save the world?"

"No."

"Well, I think that—" She stops short, as if the word has only just hit her. Her frown softens a little. "No? What do you mean, no?"

"No is no. Straightforward. You aren't that drunk."

She blinks. If she wasn't as good an actor, he thinks she'd have smiled.

"Well then, big man. Since that's not what you think, what do you think?"

Grog takes a long drink of his ale. "Scanlan's one of my best friends."

"Yeah, I heard you earlier. Touching stuff." She doesn't look like it touched her. She's got that hard, flinty look in her eyes again.

"I think he's a good person," Grog says, just to put it out there. In case it helps. "I mean, who else goes after dragons? You've got to be good, right, to do that? I guess I wouldn't know about being good," he adds, in a mutter. "I'm a fucking goliath."

She snorts, taking a pull of her ale. The mug's too big in her small hands.

"But he did it," he goes on. "Still. That doesn't make up for everything else. I know it doesn't. He knows it doesn't. Listen, my herd left me for dead when I was young. Even if it'd turned out that Kevdak killed all the dragons and gave all the treasure back to the people it belonged to, I still wouldn't have wanted anything to do with him. Still would've wanted to kill him."

Her features ease a little more. He's not looking at her, not straight-on, but he gets a glimpse of her face when he lifts his mug to his mouth. She's listening, at least.

"He's alive," Grog says. "That's not much, when he's done what he did to you. But he did a good thing, and he's alive."

"He promised." Her voice is still hard, but quieter. "The only thing I ever asked for from him. Stay alive. He couldn't even fucking do that."

"Yeah." Grog turns his mug. "I know."

They sit in silence for a moment, drinking their ale in turns.

"So what, big man," Kaylie says. She sounds tired now, not so hard. When she's not posturing, which he thinks is probably always, she just seems like a kid. A sad, tired kid. "What's your wisdom? What's your advice?"

"Don't have any. Just my opinion."

She makes a hurry-up motion with her hand, the gesture wobbling.

"He's trying." He thinks of the body, the cold of it. "You deserve…you deserve better. You shouldn't have to endure it while he keeps fucking up. But he's going to. This is new to him. New to you, too. If you want to be in his life…if you want him to be in yours…then it's going to hurt before it gets better. But he's trying. I've seen it. If it makes any difference to you, he's different. He wanted to come back to you. And Vox Machina is here. To help him fix it when he fucks up. Like today."

Grog drains his ale. Mouth feels awfully dry after a speech like that.

"I came, didn't I?" Her face has gone slack, the tension draining out. "Even after all he's done to me, I came."

He nods. In silence, the barkeep comes over to refill both their mugs, and just as quietly backs away, as if afraid now to intrude. Grog thinks he looks a little apologetic, even. Good. Kid deserves a lot of apologies.

"He's exactly what I thought he would be." She doesn't drink, just stares into the murky liquid. "And he's also nothing like I thought he would be. I just…keep hoping. For something. I don't know what."

"So stay," he says. "And find out. Or leave, and make your own family."

She glances up at him, eyes searching. If she's looking for answers, it's the wrong face to turn to. He only has commiseration, understanding. That'll have to do.

"So that's why you're with these people." A furrow forms between her brows. "What, they never disappoint you? Hurt you?"

"Nah, they do. But they try to fix it." He shrugs his massive shoulders. "Better than before."

There's no drinking in this silence. She seems to mull it over, a good long while—or maybe the ale has sufficiently clouded her mind at last.

"Well," she says, finally. "I guess that's something."

He clears his throat. "Thank you," he tells her. "For coming. For helping. He's my family, too. I know you're a tough bard, only in it for yourself, and all that, but…thanks anyway."

She laughs—so loud and bright and abrupt that the barkeep startles and drops his book, and the drunk back in the corner falls off his chair with a loud thump. "Don't get sappy," she says, even though the glint in her eyes looks more like a tear than flint. "Hey, what do those knuckles of yours do, anyway?"

He glances down at them, and—for the second time that day—pulls them off. "Want to find out?"

In retrospect, maybe not one of his smarter ideas. Vex is upset with him about pulling from their funds to pay for the damages, and the barkeep looks on him with exasperation every time he passes through the tavern for the next month.

But it's for family. Grog would do just about anything for family.

[ashleyinwondrland]

Where is my Bridgerton/regency era Vox Machina fanfiction?

It is time for the ladies, whom have never met, to be presented to society and in front of Queen Allura who will decide who is the Diamond of the season. And for the suitors to find their future brides.

Vex’ahlia and Vax’ildan are the “bastards” of Lord Vessar but because he has given them his name, they are expected to up hold it and become parts of high society. That includes marriage. While Vex wants no part of it, if she is going to be forced into this she is at least going to make sure she has the best options. Which means being the Diamond of the season.

Vax has no desire to appease his father, or inherit the family holdings. But has the only son with two sisters he loves, he knows he must eventually settle down. And he refuses to settle for anything less than true love. He thinks it may be impossible until he sees her.

Keyleth has always done what she could to make her family proud, to her best abilities. She isn’t the perfect wife for a lord, she talks too much, is clumsy and hates the attention that comes with nobility. But she knows she must find the best match, for her family as she is the only child. She doesn’t see love being in the cards for her.

And the biggest news of the season, Duke Percival De Rolo is finally looking for a wife. After losing most of his family in a tragedy all except his sister Cassandra who is a couple years off from marriage, Percy locked himself away to commit to his studies. Now he has finally decided to take a wife, for the family legacy in Whitestone. He doesn’t think much will come of it, until he meets a woman who challenges him at every turn.

Also making her debut is Pike, a petite lady who doesn’t take the whole thing very serious. She is more than happy to live out her days with her best friend and grandfather’s ward Grog, just having fun. Grog, a man who stands above all the rest, only agreed to it all so he can make sure Pike doesn’t end up with anyone undeserving. Which is everyone in his mind.

Then there is the original rake, Scanlan. Who’s reputation has made him fairly unwelcome, especially to those who have daughters.

Edit: oh Vex and Percy will end up being a marriage of convenience at first. They like each other enough, she gets a grand title and he gets someone that will care for Whitestone as he does. And then of course they fall in love but with either admit it? Of course not!

And during the stay in Emon, Percy is staying at the Ashari house because his family and hers goes way back. The two are good friends and when someone comments about it being improper for him to stay at the same home as Keyleth he basically threatens them if they try to disparage his friend’s reputation again.

Vax falls hard and fast for Keyleth, and tries every way to woo her. Keyleth, while her feelings grow for him, knows she has to marry for her family’s status and that having feelings involved will only make it more complicated. She sees marriage as a job, not something out of love, much like Percy does. She also has another suitor Kashaw Vesh trying to win her hand, though against her better judgement she can’t take her eyes off Vax.

AND PIKE IS LADY SARENRAE ! Aka lady whistledown lmao

EDIT: 

https://ashleyinwondrland.tumblr.com/post/681373237310029824/i-wrote-more-of-the-bridgerton-vox-machina-ideaof

EDIT 2:

https://ashleyinwondrland.tumblr.com/post/682603174768623616/just-another-vox-machina-bridgertonregancy

A Perc’ahlia and Vaxleth excerpt

I enjoy the drabbles, I should do more of them

[glossolali]

TLOVM Ep 12 Twitch Watch Party Summary

- There will be no consequences to Grog taking Sylas's blood sword, nothing at all haha

- It's SO GOOD UGH (Vax and Keyleth dying scene)

- Can you make sure your mouth and nose is covered by the mask? (lol about Percy's plague mask)

- What if they started kissing??? (Percy and Delilah... uh ok :D)

- Taliesin: To me, it's always a sad upset crying face behind the mask .... aw :-(

- They laugh at Delilah being dragged around by Scanlan's hand lol

- This is why it's so good to work in animation, you get to make freaky dream sequences of Percy's personal hell

- The demon gives Percy extra power, that's why his gun doesn't run out of bullets even though we've been having a hard time counting shots all throughout the 11 episodes otherwise

- Orthax's sound design and all the ups and downs in Matt's voice are so good, props to the sound designers

- Taliesin loves every single shot of this so much (Orthax and Percy scenes)

- (Watching the intense Percy and Cass and Delilah scenes very intently)

- (Everyone's cheering/laughing about Delilah being killed oop)

- Taliesin: I will never forgive you Sam, for throwing Pepperbox in the acid, Sam: Well, I was right

- The shiny shirtless guy Scanlan hits on is Phil Bourrassa, who is the incredible character designer, he said "no you don't understand I want to fuck Scanlan so bad, put me in there!" (LMAO)

- Everyone says "awww" like a LOT during the Vaxleth rejection and a lot of the Kiki scenes in general

- Beau was in the chamber at that point if Keyleth had died in this arc (WHAT OMG - Beau in VM would have been SO WEIRD i hate it aaaa)

- Matt: A-ok, would you like me to point you somewhere? (in the stupid suntree voice LOL)

- Emon is so beautiful! Nothing could ever go wrong, it will stay protected forever! *clown emoji*

- Oh, what are those in the distance? An eclipse! Several eclipses! Really expensive sky writing! Weird gender reveal party!

Q&A

Q: When is season 2 coming? Will you tell us when you know? Do you know? Do YOU know?

A: We have no idea (Taliesin says no no no no, Matt fake cries) Q: Tell us about Percy's guns and how the idea of him inventing guns came about.

A: I was having a bad year and processing some trauma and thinking about death, I wrote a manuscript while thinking about a man who invented the first gun, like what would drive someone to invent the first gun? Also was listening to Black Rider by Tom Waits, which is about a man who sells his soul to the devil for bullets that never miss, except for one bullet that only the devil knows where it will go - so a mix of things. This is a thing and I've never tried it before, but Matt let me get weird (Matt: never thought about firearms in a fantasy setting, we were playing Pathfinder and there was a gunslinger class, but this is one thing I'd be interested - unique challenges and consequences to creating guns for the character, it worked!)

Q: What is going through Delilah's head as Percy is plotting his revenge and how to tear her to pieces?

A: She had just lost her love, I think at that point she had just given up and was just like "Kill me and put me out of my misery" but she made sure to say the meanest things possible before she left to speed it up

Q: Final battle is Percy and his demon Orthax against VM, walk us through how you chose for his inner demon to be the penultimate threat of the season.

A: In the campaign it was more of a traditional battle, we just hit him until his health was at zero cause that's how the game works. But this is animation so we get to delve into more mind-fucky stuff. We don't want to just have the good guys go after the bad guys, it's more complex than that. The whole season was about Percy's revenge, and what was going through Percy's mind, so we got to go in Percy's/Taliesin's mind. We never gave too much and we never gave anything away too quickly, it turned out amazing!

Q: Orthax Percy design!

A: We were debating eye shape and other elements, and Phil went on explorations of what Percy would look like if he got taken over completely. We just let him off the chain, and it was fucking cool but not quite right for Vox Machina. It's really Final Fantasy! But it's funny because the campaign we were in at the time (Mighty Nein) this would be very appropriate - there were red eyes there too.

Q: Uhhhh.. that cliffhanger??? What's up with those dragons?

A: You mean just the innocent winged creatures in the migrational pattern? (they all make bird noises lol) I'm sure it's totally innocent. Keen eyed viewers may have noticed an earlier battle this season that may cause some ramifications now. It MIGHT have something to do dragons, you'll have to wait and see.

Q: Anything you regret not being able to fit in to the first season?

A: Maybe a bit more of the Briarwoods backstory, but nothing we regret. Most of the key moments made it into the show, we needed to constantly move and shift things around to make sure that it stays fresh, and just because we left something out doesn't mean we won't include it in future seasons.

Q: Favorite scene to voice record?

Grey: Delilah's bloody death gurgles

Taliesin: The Orthax mask bit when I first got to get into the deep voice in episode 3. I love yelling at y'all, I loved every moment of it

Sam: Enjoyed recording for the music, for Scanlan's songs, cause I did that at midnight when the kids were asleep and the house was silent (everyone sings 'Beads of Love', Travis: MOM he's doing the thing again!!!)

Travis: "I would like to rage", Mary Elizabeth (Voice Acting Director) was like "Is that all you got? Do it again" So Travis really went for it next time, Mary Elizabeth is an amazing conductor - and the twins, hearing them sink into the heart of the two characters, Laura and Liam always level set for us and we just rise to it, they don't get a lot of praise, but they're the acting heart of the show (me: THEY BRING IT TO YOU EVERY CAMPAIGN!!!!! i love those two)

Matt: The earlier subtle couple stuff with Delilah like the domestic stuff.. we make breakfast, we kill a few people, like at the dinner party, that comfortable confidence when they're both arm in arm with other people around - something delicious about it!

Matt: We did it Critters, you made it happen and we hope you're as proud of this as we are, because you did this, it's incredible - YOU DID THIS! IT'S YOUR FAULT! All the artists and designers, y'all did the damn thing! And again to Sam and Travis for carrying this show on their backs! (APPLAUSE AND PARTY POPPERS WEEEEE)

That's it for Season 1! Good night Critters!

[mimble-sparklepudding]

Pop quiz: list a dozen OCs that Mimble would like to hang out with or get to know better, and why!

(PS: you're great)

Amon of @spotofmummery. Mimble could bring some Allagan bits and pieces for Amon to examine, but ideally he is hoping to find him a restorable Node to fix up and nurture back to full functionality. In exchange Mimble would like to learn more about the late Allagan Empire, both out of historical interest and because he suspects that Amon's knowledge of voidsent might be useful for his future endeavours. Also they could compare hats.

Inxli of @pinxli. Whilst I suspect there would be a certain amount of (mostly) good-natured bickering, Mimble would recognise Inxli as a potential ally in a number of areas, including his research into the War of the Magi and dealing with Voidsent. Mimble would offer to share his experiences with the Void and his fight with Bitoso, the architect of the Tonberry Curse.

They would probably make a good team in combat, especially with Reckless providing covering fire/backing music. Mimble's healing would allow Inxli to be even more reckless, so to speak.

Mimble would bring him a white chocolate cake with pink icing as a gift, along with sweets for his children (dried fishballs in Eenix's case).

Faiolan of @mirageofthecrystal. Whilst Faiolan is a very very serious military man, and consequently might find Mimble slightly too frivolous, they do have a surprising amount in common. They would probably reminisce about the ending of the Dragonsong War and the War for Ala Mhigan Liberation.

Hopefully Faiolan would connect with Mimble's shared experiences in those conflicts and recognise and respect his proven track record in warfare. He might also be interested in hearing about the final fight with Zenos.

Mimble would try to make Faiolan laugh, or at least smirk despite himself. He would bring him some of the most expensive, fragrant, pipeweed that he could find in the Silver Bazaar of Ul'dah, along with some of the cheapest, strongest, grog that he could source from the Rogue's Guild of Limsa Lominsa.

Fennie of @scholarlostintime. Mimble is very interested in Fennie's experiences of travelling through timelines, as that isn't something he's managed himself. What he would do with this ability, if he ever learned more about it, isn't completely clear, but he'd almost certainly be very responsible about it. Probably.

He is also keen to learn more about Fennie's research into The Echo, although they probably ought to keep off the subject of Hydaelyn, due to their differing levels of deference towards her.

As a someone related, however complicatedly, to Alphinaud, Mimble would also feel an amount of uncle-like pride in Fennie's achievements. He would enjoy spoiling Fennie's children with presents and making them laugh with silly jokes. He would bring Fennie some enchanted inks and some expensive Hingan paper for writing his notes upon.

Destiney of @cadrenebula. Mimble started his journey as an adventurer in the forests of The Black Shroud and would be pleased to know that, despite being on maternity leave, Destiney continues to help and heal the citizens of the forest. They also have a shared love of sweets and tea and would probably enjoy both, whilst talking about the challenges of healing companions who will not move out of damaging area effects.

Mimble would bring a bone for Tucker and either some clothes or baby toys for her little one, as well as a large bag of sweets for Destiney and him to share.

Naru of @blucifermain. Mimble would find Naru a very intriguing person to get to know and would be interested in, tactfully, learning more about her experiences with primordial light and its combat applications...for research purposes only of course.

They would discuss their various adventures and Mimble would provide a sympathetic ear for Naru's accounts of love and loss with Elidibus, even though his experiences of the former heart of Zodiark are somewhat different to hers.

He would bring her a gift of something black and expensive, that he crafted himself. Perhaps a jet black flower decoration for her hair or a pair of practical, but luxurious, long black leather gloves.

Satien of @nyarumi-nyan. Mimble would be keen to help the over-serious young miqo'te to relax, so would probably make him lots of tea and give him some good-natured advice on taking time out to rest and recuperate (resting and relaxing are areas in which Mimble is particularly skilled).

He would discuss the challenges of keeping a disparate group of individuals together and the never ending tasks of mediation, guidance and generally providing the social glue which holds different personalities together as neatly as possible. Unity and friendship between different people is something Mimble feels strongly about and he and Satien could probably share their experiences of this tricky area.

Mimble would bring some of his most relaxing tea, chamomile or valerian perhaps, and a tin of lavender biscuits.

Aki of @healersadjust. Mimble would be careful that his sense of humour did not inadvertently offend the fiery young miqo'te, so would endeavour to keep his jokes to safe subjects (such as Estinien).

He would talk to Aki about books and reading and ask her about her favourites. He would gently encourage her to try writing a poem or a letter for someone she cares about, but without necessarily making her feel that it was his idea. They would chat over tea about a range of topics, never going deeper than Aki was comfortable with, since Mimble would wish to make her feel at ease in his company.

He would bring her a book of fantastical Hingan legends, purchased in the night market of Kugane and bound in sumptuous Yanxian tigerskin leather.

Yume of @firelightmuse. Mimble would consider Yume to be exceptionally cultivated and knowledgeable, and would ply her with tea and delicate matcha biscuits, in order to learn more about Hingan history and culture beyond the walls of Kugane (diplomatically of course, he wouldn't want to bring up traumatic memories).

They would discuss poetry and literature and Mimble would ask very nicely if he could read some of Yume's poems, but would accept it if she wished to keep these private. He would try to make her giggle by making up silly poems about Graha and the other Scions.

He would bring Yume a bunch of Nymeia lilies and something for baby Hikari, perhaps something warm in soft wool, to help keep her cosy in chilly Sharlayan.

Kwas of @kskellington / @peddlestox-shinyrocks. Mimble would be very conscious of the need not to alarm Kwas and would carefully consider how to go about making friends without her becoming scared.

He would purchase something she had crafted, perhaps a music box, not the most expensive one, wishing to keep things low-key, but he would pay the price she was asking. He would avoid making too many conversational demands upon Kwas, but would ask about her crafting and talk a little about his crafted items, perhaps asking her advice in general terms about materials and techniques.

He would bring her a peach tart which he had made himself, on the pretext of asking her to try it and give her opinion of his cooking. He would leave her to finish it later (if she liked it), but would be careful not to call it a present.

Saeta of @saeta. Mimble would enjoy gossiping with Saeta over tea and slices of rich cheesecake, naturally with a sweet dark purple sauce made from forest fruits to go with it. They would talk about herbalism and botany and, albeit slightly in code, they would discuss white magic and the history of the Shroud.

Mimble would enjoy reconnecting with the day to day life of Gridania and learning the latest rumours. In return he would give Saeta advice on herbal remedies and mixing the techniques of conjury and herbalism to achieve better results.

He would bring Saeta some bubble chocolate and a silk scarf purchased in the Doman Enclave, decorated with vividly lifelike peacocks in shimmering greens and purples.

Francel of @aroseyetbloomedwrites. Mimble is a great admirer of Francel and they worked closely together on the restoration of Ishgard and the design and building of the Empyrean.

Mimble would encourage Francel to take a day off. He would attempt to persuade the young noble to allow himself to be whisked off to The Bismarck in Limsa Lominsa for a sumptuous lunch, followed by some people watching in Costa Del Sol, with some iced cocktails and exotic fruits. They would talk about anything and everything, as long as it wasn't related to Francel's "job" and Mimble would make him laugh with naughty jokes and unflattering impressions of Count Charlemend de Durendaire.

Mimble would give Francel the gift of a Crystarium Wall Chronometer, as a tribute to his efforts to build a better city and as evidence that his is a challenge that others have shared and overcome.

It's a shame I'm limited to only a dozen, as Mimble is very gregarious and would like to spend time with a number of other characters as well. Particularly @loldragoon-ffxiv (although I semi-cheated and mentally counted seeing Fennie as including seeing Feldspar), @furys-mercy, @eljaofthecrookedgrin, @aurelia-polyps, @the-littlest-kojin, @bough-waker, @captainkurosolaire, @avettabendrot, @kittieology, @loloug, @phoebe-of-ivalice, @talion-graves, @umbralaether, @professorbunbun, @valeria-cress, @yloiseconeillants, @bloodsworn-marshal and @zuraoftheblack

If you would like my ideas about how Mimble might spend time with one of your OCs let me know and I should be happy to add some more.

[tigodormi]

Daily Writing Challenge - Day 5 "Music/Savage"

Music:

Bootay Bay consisted of an interesting and unique sort of clientele. The Tavern in specific put these individuals in the spotlight after a few grogs and ales. Accompanied by music from the shanty, the atmosphere was inviting and chaos-inducing. It was the kind of place that drew Captain Tiggs Mondeley.

Adjusting the brim of her hat, she stepped over a drunken denizen. His expression peaceful despite the beating he had just received from another drunken bystander. One might label this sort of place as a savage jungle, but to her, it was home. It was also a place of recruitment for her ship, the Dragon's Eel.

Instinctively, she side-stepped a pair of men engaged in a fight as they slid across a table and shattered the glass bottles on top. Promising, she mused as she watched the fight play out. After all, it took a certain level of brawn to handle a ship and be a capable pirate.

Though cunning was very hard to find in the bar as she took her seat and observed. Her smirk was ever apparent as she raised a hand and beckoned the bar wench over. A single gold coin was tossed onto the serving tray as she spoke. "Bring me something with a bite," she says to the Goblin as they nodded their head and scurried across the floor to avoid being trampled.

Although the Captain had her crew, she didn't bring them with her this evening. Perhaps she enjoyed the solitude of venturing off on her own. A shout rang out from across the room as another brawl broke out over a maiden who had been kissed by a drunken lovesick man. The conflict was far nastier than the other fights as fists were lobbed profusely at the offender.

When the goblin had returned, Captain Tiggs took the mug and drew it to her lips for a satisfying quench. A rueful look washed over her features as she set the mug down. The idea of creating more disorder came about as she began to whisper a soft incantation. Gray and black particles of sand swept to her fingertips as she watched the fights start to move in slow motion and then eventually stop. The actions of the individuals in the area were all frozen as if time had simply stopped.

Standing up from her seat, she went about to filch some extra coin from her hapless patrons. And then she made a point to pants several of the drunks and place their flintlocks upon her belt. Ruffling through some of their bags, she collected newfound treasure maps, trinkets, and keys to mess with before making her way onto the stairs.

"As always, Bootay Bay - thanks for all the loot~" She casually quips and leaves the establishment. Upon her exit, all the patrons would suddenly be able to move. And the outrage of her meddling could be heard from below. Such a devious little way to make her name known~

@daily-writing-challenge

[cranesofibycus]

My character recently acquired a Bag of Holding after I'd been wanting one forever and I'm STOKED. I'm a real support class and my character is a Cleric so I love helping people so every time someone asks me to hold something in the bag I'm like YESSSS! I'm gonna put a whole bunch of random stuff in it, Grog style. Also my group is all English/Language majors and we had to pause for like ten minutes to figure out what tf '64 cubic feet' actually meant lmao, it was just that confused lady meme x5

Oh man, yeah. As a group of people who’ve never used the imperial system in their lives this has also been a little challenging for my group. And I’m glad you’re enjoying being the hoarder of the group. Our bard is a little unhappy with that task. He finally, after 10 sessions of owning the bag of holding, had the brilliant thought that it might be time to keep an extra sheet to write down what’s in the bag instead of scribbling on every inch of his character sheet. 

Also: support classes are best classes and that’s that on that!

[ithika]

To celebrate being back on my bullshit* I wrote a one-shot** about Arthur Morgan

                        ✘  A Moment's Peace

Arthur Morgan hisses softly as he knocks back his shot of whiskey, the glass clunking dully as he slaps it back down onto the scarred wooden bar in this smoky Saint Denis dive. ‘Nasty swill,’ he thinks through grit teeth, gesturing with a lazy finger for the barman to pour him another.

It had been a long day, and even bad grog was better than the prospect of turning in for the night with nothing to take the edge off. Perhaps later on he’d wander down and see a show, like he and Mary had done together when they were young, long ago. He swirls his second drink in its cup, watching the amber liquid leave slow-moving trails up the walls of the glass as it turned. Maybe he wouldn’t go to the theatre, after all. No point in chasing ghosts.

The cup pauses at his lips when a shadow - barely perceptible through the grimy trail-dust that coated it - passes the dive’s singular window. This would be unremarkable, but for the irritated snort of his stoic Ardennes, Nero, hitched outside. An unflappable horse, Nero was rarely bothered by anything - except, he didn’t like folk much as weren’t Arthur, especially if they got too close. Especially if they had guns.

Listening with all his will, Arthur places the whiskey, untouched, back on the bar. His right hand makes its way to his hip, where his Schofield is holstered. As he pulls it free, flipping open the barrel to ensure it was fully loaded, the barman sees him. “Aw, hell.”

Hearing the bitter remark, Arthur glances at the moustachioed feller out of the corner of his eye - most of his attention still devoted to the door. The barman, eyes darting between the big man still seated at the bar and the entryway, drops the glass he’d been wiping with a rag and backs away, pressing himself into the shadows.

Yep. It was really one of them days.

Arthur vaults over the bar, spilling his undrunk whiskey over his hand and the floor, just as the bounty hunters - two at least - slam through the rickety saloon doors.

“Arthur Morgan?” A rough voice, full of challenge, sounds into the quiet room. Arthur sighs, pulling his sidearm, a well-worn cattleman, free from its holster and bracing himself against the cupboards behind the bar, pistols raised and ready. “We’re here to arrest you on behalf of the state of Ne--” the man’s gravelly pronouncement is interrupted by the sound of breaking glass and the slamming of a door - the flight of the barman, no doubt- and Arthur curses under his breath. Which state?

The outlaw tenses, raising his guns a little higher as he shifts his weight the better to move from his position. “Which state?” Arthur barks the question, ears straining for both the answer and the sound of his hunters’ movements.

“What? Why--” The bounty hunter is taken by surprise a moment, before seeming to collect himself. Arthur can hear his careful footsteps as he makes his way further into the saloon, spurs jingling softly on every step. “That ain’t much of your concern, partner. Come out with your hands up. Don’t give us no trouble, now.”

There is another man, creeping in after the first; Arthur can just make out the sound of another muffled set of footfalls. The outlaw cocks one pistol, then the other. “Well,” he sighs, watching shadowy reflections move across the dusty bottles on display behind the bar. “That’s true. But it’d be a shame t’ kill you fellers if you ain’t lookin’ t’ do the same t’ me.”

                                                                         Read the rest on AO3

* I have recently been acquainted with the expression “back on (one’s) bullshit” and fuck it speaks to me

**many shots, it’s a shoot out fic, ohohohoho

How tae fuck does one write accents? I’m tryin’.

I feel pretty rusty with my writing, but it felt good to get this down. Action is fun but also hard, so yeehaw.

[thomasstalsworth]

Write a drabble about Tom and the Spirit of Vengeance being caught in a storm on it's usual trade route.

The dice fell.

Each man had thrown a single, six-sided die onto the squat table. A run of cards and other gambling accoutrements were strewn about, offering an appropriate backdrop. Indeed, there were also a pair of wood-hewn mugs atop the table. It was surely not water that filled them.

Both dies had come up two. There was a momentary silence as the implications of the results were acknowledged between the pair of men. The surrounding crowd loosed a low murmur like children who had heard one was to be brought to the schoolmaster. A second of silence passed.

The younger of the two men lurched forward first. His sudden rising threw the table, leaving the furnishing laid on its end. A confetti of cards, dice, coin and grog was thrown up into the air. The older man sidestepped the fist offered his way, ducking his elbows in. The young man was off-balance, and it was easy work to catch him. With his elbows ducked in, the elder sent a fist less than foot forward to crack the younger in the jaw. The crowd exploded into hoots, cheers, and the thudding of feet against the ship’s flooring.

“... And that, m’dear sailor, is why y’don’t challenge yer’ Admiral to a bout a’ Ratchet Round n’ Down. Ne’er there’ll be another man on th’sea what can match me in it. -- Ain’t that th’way of it, you salt-soaked rots?!” Thomas exclaimed, turning to the rest of the assembled crew.

They responded with a shouting and clapping -- albeit many clapped with one hand, the other holding their ration of grog. Thomas helped the younger sailor up, his palm moving to ease a twirling of pale mist to the young man’s bruised jaw. Mistweaving was starting to come in handy more and more for the Admiral.

“I’m gonna snake you on it someday, I’ll promise you that,” the sailor spoke.

One finger jut free of Thomas’ fat fist, wagging in tease, “Y’can sure try, boy-o.”

A rattling of boots followed from above-deck before Thomas could prod the poor sailor anymore. A man in a brocaded coat rushed from the stairwell. There was a humming of fright to his hand, clutching a spyglass. A murmur of confusion ran through the crew, their earlier jubilation forgotten. Thomas stepped forward, raising a hand to quiet the whispers and address the lookout.

“What’n is it, Themmley? Y’look glad t’be wearing brown breeches.” A lilt of humor took his tone. If there was one thing the Admiral was keen to, it was using comedy to ease a troubled crew. The sea was a beast that took more than it gave, most often. Better to make a laugh of it than to twist up with melancholy or fever.

Themm, the lookout, spoke after a moment to swallow, “There’s a fog afrontin’ us, sir. She’s stretching across the whole of the horizon. Florence measures we can’t split past it without coming far a-course from our route.”

A puckering came to Thomas’ lips, considering the implication. He clapped his hands and stepped to the stairs. As he hiked the groaning wood, he called back, “We’ll have t’finish our gaming later, folks. Seems a storm is on the water.”

As he came above to the main deck, the crew apparent looked to him. Thomas sat a thumb on his fat belt buckle, the other suddenly out in gesture to the ship and crew. “Well what th’fuck are you all staring at? All hands on deck!”

Far to the bow of the Spirit of Vengeance was, indeed, an occluding fog. Though the hour was not quite evening, the rising fog provided a darkness that betrayed the time of day. It curled and stretched across the horizon, unfurling to form a foul sheet along their path of travel. Thomas set his teeth in his maw, moving to the captain’s wheel. Florence was correct. There would be no way to avoid it without slamming course and going far off route. Only one path to take -- through the darkness.

Thomas twisted his mouth, nostrils flaring. A foul scent came on the wind.

Along every deck, the crew was moving at full speed. Their work was both nimble and straining. By some divine favor, they had the wind. Spitting from aft, they came into the breach of the fog at full-sail. Every man and woman were on their station, clutching tight to the block and rigging to maintain. Thomas tread a finger into his coat pocket, the masterful blue and black garment unbuttoned over his breastplate. Within the pocket, he produced a gnarled twist of tobacco. It was like a knotted sausage, and he tore off a length of it to sit between his teeth. A voice came ringing down from the crow’s nest.

“Storm -- HO!”

The man was not wrong -- not entirely.

The moment the bow of the frigate made it through the fog, it became clear what was going on. Though occluded from outside -- and indeed, line of sight was low within -- there was enough to see. Indeed, more importantly -- to smell. The fog reeked like sulphur. It was no sea-borne weather, conjured by the sun and the water. The whole of the air reeked of acrid fumes, the stench of scorched wood and powder.

At Thomas’ side, already drawing and loading his pistols, Florence spoke, “It can never be easy, can it?” The Admiral turned to his favored captain, mouth still suckling on the length of tobacco. His jaw came wide, “Naw, never can be. That’s what makes it so damn’t fun.”

With one hand resting on the wheel of the sheep, Thomas took in a breath. The caustic air clung to his throat, mingling with the sour-sweet taste of tobacco along his tongue. With a full set of lungs, he bellowed to the crew from his place at the quarterdeck.

“All hands on rope! Deck teams, trim the courses! We need full-sails s’long as we can keep ‘em! Lookout, run yer’ tarp! Stow th’glass! --”

The remainder of his orders were halted in his throat. As the sailed forward, coming hard through the sulfurous fog, the source of the pungency was made apparent. Within the midst of the ‘fog’ was a pair of dueling ships, cutting the waters broadside from each other. Though perhaps ‘dueling’ was too fine a word for what was going on. It was a burning, bloody slaughter that sat wholly on one side. And the Spirit of Vengeance was headed right into the middle of it.

Whatever commands were to be given were, summarily, altered in that instant. Thomas sucked in a hard breath and roared again.

“Hands on bracing stations! Hands on bracing stations, Light damn’t! Hard to starboard! Hard to starboard! Bring in the jibs! Call it down! Call it down!”

Through the rising cacophony along the waters, the crew obeyed. Florence holstered his now-loaded pistols, turning with a stoic expression to Thomas, “Check sails, Admiral.”

Indeed, Thomas did. With a twist of his spyglass he called up a closer image of the ensuing naval battle ahead of them. While his mind was still cemented firmly on getting away from it, he could not deny what he was seeing. The spyglass clapped shut, and Thomas turned to Florence with a similarly jaw-locked expression.

“Flaming anchor on a gilded field.”

Florence nodded his head, the muscles in his jaw flexing in tension as he responded.

“The Wreckage.”

Thomas raised one hand to scrub at his face. His tongue acted the same to his front teeth, the flexing of muscles giving some momentary calm to him. As his mouth opened to respond to Florence, to give some direction or order, the voices came calling down from the bow of the ship, one after another like a bucket-team.

“Jib of jibs, stays are tight!”

“Spindle jib, stays are tight!”

“Flying jib, stays are tight!”

“Outer jibs, stays --”

The final voice was cut off by a sudden lurch. The ship twisted and groaned, moving hard against the crash of water. Enough force was applied to lift the frigate up, nearly breaching the keel. Every man and woman held hard, though the rigging suffered for their desperate clinging. Once the vessel righted, crashing hard into the thundering ocean, the main deck was soaking wet. An explosion had rocked the waters ahead.

The ships ahead were getting closer and closer. Thomas grit his teeth.

Even from a distance, the firestorm was clear. One of the vessels was clearly merchant-class, bearing a tri-masted rigging made for ease of use. She was fat in the rear, bloated with a holding of space to allow for cargo. The other vessel was another beast entirely.

It was trim, and settled with a woven style of hull to offer greater security against cannon-fire. Three jibs were rigged from the foremast -- more than enough control for the size of the vessel. By the contour of her hull, she was clearly made for speed. A swift craft, with a siding built to take the broadsides of a warship. Yet the beast lacked a wide battery of gunwales herself. No, no this creature seemed fit for boarding and raiding. None would be so keen to crew but pirates.

And indeed, she was rife with the nautical raiders. From the masts flew a gilded flag that shimmered in the fire light, set with an anchor aflame to center. A fearful sight, even without the knowledge of who captained her.

Sailors, men and women of the seas, are by nature mythological and superstitious creatures. The ocean and her many blessings are accompanied by just as many curses. Real or imagined, they soak the lands of Azeroth with tidings and fables to match any tomb or mountain. Amongst such are the Brethren Lords. A fanciful title -- indeed one they themselves likely cultivated or crafted -- but fitting for what they were spoken to be.

A loose conglomerate fleet of the most enterprising and vicious pirate captains. Their numbers fluctuated with the times, as pirates were often put to stake, sword, and rope by the militaries and mercenaries of Azeroth. Yet they seemed to favor the number nine. Perhaps for the mythology of it, the story-telling. All the same, they each captained a flagship.

The ship before the Spirit of Vengeance, wrought in finery of sail and alight with pyromancy, bearing a gilded flag set with a flaming anchor -- that was the flagship of the Brethren Lord Abbidas Bonnet. So far and murderous a man as ever could be born of the Eastern Kingdoms.

Thomas saddled his feet at shoulder-length apart. With a risen chest, he called out once more to his crew as they took in the same sight he did. There was a fear in the air, a riling of men and women that could have shaken the decks as much as the ocean did. Yet, their Admiral put his fat tongue to work.

“Yer’ eyes ain’t wrong, boys an’ girls! I need yer’ heads clear, and yer’ hands slaked with ropes! Those are th’sails of Mad Abby! He don’t loot, nor pillage. He burns th’ships he finds anger toward, an’ damns them t’live below the waves!”

Florence tilted his brow toward Thomas, offering a look that was purely questioning. Though the captain was a stoic man, he still could understand the fear that came with sighting such a notorious pirate along the waters. Florence looked to Thomas as if to ask, ‘How does is that comforting?’

Without even looking -- or perhaps even noticing -- Florence’s gaze, Thomas roared again at his fearful crew. The men and women all offered their Admiral a moment’s glance, freeing them from their appointed tasks along the vessel to see him cry out.

“Do ya’ll plan t’die today?!”

There was not even a moment’s pause before they roared back.

“No, sir!”

A smile split Thomas from ear to ear, soured with pride.

“That’s very good t’hear! Now let’s bring this sonuvabitch aroun’ an’ about! I need bracing stations, you beautiful cunts! We’re no good leeward to them pirates!”

At his command, they hurled themselves to the straining work. Every man and woman with a strong back and fat arms went to the braces, drawing them to starboard. Even above the groaning of wood as the masts turned, the sound of the combat ahead was clear. It was no contest. The pirates set the merchant vessel to the flame. Each man, it seemed, was a pyromancer in their own right. From blackened fingers, fire flew in chaotic pattern.

The fat rear of the merchant ship creaked and groaned. It was only a few more minutes until the windows suddenly shattered, sent outward by a gout of flame. Whatever melee was ongoing within, all were taken by the fire.

The Spirit of Vengeance came hard to starboard, moving away from the broadside-melee of the two vessels. The frigate’s new course gave a wide berth -- or as wide as could be offered on such short order. A sailing vessel of such size and import was not moved swiftly, especially not with their new cannons and attendant munitions. Yet they made the curve, coming alongside the blazing merchant vessel as they took sail and wind. Thomas had ordered them through the fog, and such they were to do.

Yet as they came alongside the merchant ship, all ablaze and soaked in the blood of her now-dead crew, the pirates aboard sneered and screamed like madmen. Seemingly out of living merchantmen to slaughter, they turned their eye to the passing frigate. Each pirate brandished their blades and spat a roaring cry. By some foul comradery, they all cried out in unison and hurled a pyroclastic display upward. It seemed they were happily lost to their lust, and keen to send such destructive fervor to the passing vessel. However …

Florence was no fool. A stern and stoic man of even temper, he had quickly become Thomas’ favored captain for all tasks that he himself could not take to. If it ever came to contest, Florence was surely Thomas’ second-in-command for the Anchor Trading Company’s fleet. In accordance with such evenness of temperament, Florence had made the wise decision to open the gunwales on the port side of the Spirit of Vengeance.

As the frigate passed the pirates, the sight of open gunwales stalled their bloodthirst. Perhaps, if only momentarily. But that moment was enough to sail past with hull intact. The curl of the water beneath the frigate was slick with gore and the charred remains of the merchant ship. Despite the violent leavings, the waters buoyed Thomas’ vessel all the same.

As they passed the blazing -- and now swiftly sinking -- merchant ship, Thomas came to the port of the quarterdeck. With both hands steadied on the railing of his frigate, he peered across the gap of water. Smoke colored his view, leaving a hazy picture of what lay beyond. But it parted, if only for a moment. The fog behind the merchant’s boat came aside as well, giving a brief glimpse of the sunset beyond.

Against the backdrop of the golden, liquid sunlight was a man. Hanging from the mizzenmast’s rigging, a ginger-haired man was lit by fire. His features were scarred, but flush and thriving on life. A curled moustache and a spit of hair at the chin accompanied his wide, unblinking eyes. In his hand, nearly limp from the arm that hung away from the mizzenmast, was a masterful kriegsmesser. He and Thomas locked eyes for a lingering moment.

The Spirit of Vengeance pressed on, coming away from the blazing corpse of the pirate ship’s prey. Within another twenty minutes, they were free of the sulphurous fog. The dwindling sunset greeted them, offering a clear sky with which to regain their heading.

A bitter sensation ran into Thomas’ gut as he looked back toward the smoke. Could he have done anything to help? Would it have mattered? He shook his head. It was no use seeking hindsight. They had to sail forward, make their route as it was charted. The next Alliance vessel they spied would hear of the Wreckage and her work. Perhaps they could do something about it.

[matchstickforyourmuse]

A fantasy prompt for 'green' plz?

Certainly! What a delightful request!(Only now, going back up to add this little response, do I realize that you asked for ‘a prompt’, and not a million. Oops.)I hope you like these. They’re a bit wordy- I got carried away. But they’re prompts nonetheless! If you would like some shorter, more to-the-point prompts without as much context-content, or whatever you want to call the lengthy bits of writing, pray tell! Or, if you just want more/less of one kind of prompt (more dialogue, less setting, etc.), or if you just want more prompts in general, I’d be happy to write you up a dozen more.

________

- - -‘Blood of Tree’, they called it. A swirling mass in a jar that bowed and dipped and swayed to some silent waltz, luminescent with some brilliant, strange force. It gushed about in oozy rivulets one moment, and then kept aloft the next in a foggy murmur of a cloud, and then it would sit on the bottom of the glass in shattered fractals, jagged and wickedly sharp. I always thought the name was silly. It deserved its own name. It didn’t need to be compared to anything. Heck, it couldn’t be compared to anything.

- - -“They aren’t pixies,” the troll whispered. Fear fluttered over his eyes like some maddened moth. “Just keep your trap shut, and we’ll get out of this alive.” And it was then that I saw one of the shrieking creatures. Wee claws curling around the stone corner, a hissing warble, followed by another mind-stabbing scream. Verdant scales and the coiled muscles of an adder, lanced through with voidish black, the intensity matched only by their eyes. Oh, the eyes….

- - -The dull thrum that came from the marsh was deafening for some, but a lullaby to others. I used to tell my kids that it was the tupelo trees singing. That, if they listened closely enough, they could hear the crickets and the frogs harmonizing to try to brighten their sepulchral melody, but to no avail. They mourned for the slow world, the one full of moss and jewelish dragonflies and sweet dreams. The one that had been replaced with smoke and spilled business and the bustle of aching feet. I told them that they just didn’t understand the change. And I told them that that was okay. Because none of us did, really. We just didn’t talk about it quite as often nor quite as loudly as they did.

- - -The elf’s sigh was explanation enough. But he clarified anyways. “Here, they can’t get us.” I looked around at the mismatched tables and chairs. The threadbare rugs mixed with the plush carpets and the faux-fur bathmats that had been shoved under stools so they wouldn’t scratch up the floors. The walls, covered in paintings and claw scores and hand-drawn pictures and toddler scribbles and one or two scorch marks from when they still had stoves. And then I looked at the people. Despite the circumstances, they were smiling. Despite what was out there, they looked…. They looked happy. Even the kids weren’t crying, despite the bandages being wrapped around their wounds, despite the acrid smell of the old candles. These…. These people. They were far from home. And, heck, they were with other species that, on any other given day, they probably would’ve been trying to rip the heads off of. But no. It was calm. And it was…. It was good. “Here,” he continued, with a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “we can heal.”

- - - “The creature will be the death of me,” the Lady sighed, delicately placing her elbow unto the table so she could properly lean her chin upon it. “He’s a genie, m'Lady,” a servant reminded, her voice choked with giggles. “He can’t kill.”They both turned their heads to the gaudy spirit, festooned in a garb of eye-straining greens and polished emeralds and parrot-feathers, his cape whirling as he turned on his heel to accept yet another noble’s quail-eating challenge. (They both had to duck to avoid being clobbered with his stein of ale.)“I know. I just wish I could kill him.” She cocked an eyebrow as she watched the grease and ginger-sauce in his beard simply whuhff away the moment it drizzled down. “He knows perfectly well what I wished for. But he’s just finding one loophole after another. I have half a mind to dismiss him.”“You wouldn’t…! I mean…. With all due respect, m'Lady! The genie is… an animal, surely. Riddled with crudity and a vile tongue. But what he’s brought to the courts surely outweighs the burden, m'Lady?”

- - -“You’re telling me you’ve never heard of Dragon’s Grog?” The vampire grinned, leaning against the wall as plumes of smoke lazed upwards to meet the haze of the city air. The neon sign above us flicked colorful shadows over his face. “Man, that’s not right. It’s perfect for everything. A night on the town. Weddings. Funerals. Parties. Any day that ends in a Y.” Somewhere in the distance, a Quik-O-Rail buzzed on its tracks. A single vwooiiiiif, and it was gone. He flashed his fangs once more before he slipped his headphones from around his neck up and over his ears. It seemed as though I could hear the blare of his electric, upbeat jam before he even hit ‘play’.

- - -“I’ll always remember the story of when the sea switched places with the moorlands,” my grandmother hummed, wiping her knife on the edge of the tablecloth. “Back when the pheasants and the rabbits slipped through the heather like fingers through hair. The breeze would tussle the grasses, and the flowers would dance reels with the mighty winds.” As she said this, she flipped the fish over and began cleaning the other side. I winced at the stench. “But sometimes, it was still. Absolutely, perfectly still. No rippling, no swaying, no nothing. Just… solace. Butterflies playing their strange little games, and sunbeams embracing the Earth. Birdsong was the only thing that broke the silence.”I smiled, and looked out the window. A chuckle escaped. The fields were roiling again, moving up and down as they swelled with the force of the Earth-tide. Even within the safety of the house, I could hear rocks grinding and turf ripping and mending itself back together, mounds of soil cascading and ebbing away until they were replaced with the dusky emerald of the surface-moor. Rabbits and pheasants running on that? And silence? It was a surreal notion. Now she was probably going to say that fish, somehow, swam on the ocean. I laughed again.

- - - It was more of a slime, now. Probably. She didn’t dare turn on the light, for the fear that it would bear some semblance to the moon… What a silly thought. Was she going mad? It didn’t work like that, it didn’t-…. No. No, there was no risking anything. She dipped the glass stirring-rod in the sludge again. Fizzing. Popping. But no shattering. Good, good. She picked up the flask, and squinted hard- had she used too much silver? It was more metallic than anything. It was supposed to be green. Venom-green. That’s what… That’s what it was supposed to be. Darn it all, she didn’t have the time for this! How late was it? She couldn’t just remake the whole bloody thing! A cure was a cure. It wasn’t art. It wasn’t supposed to be pretty. It was just supposed to work. This was it. This was what she had been waiting for. The consequences of impurity be cursed! Oh, Lycaon almighty! THIS WAS IT! Slamming her fist on the cold table, she threw her head back, and began to drink.

- - - The butterfly was made of pale, thin pieces of interlocked jade. Stiff wings clinked against one another as it fluttered clumsily about the office. But then freaking Steven just had to see it. Without missing a beat, he grabbed his miniature stapler, and lobbed it over his cubicle’s wall, hitting his target dead-on. Upon impact, the insect shattered, and a fine, glittering dust arose, only to be sucked up by the ceiling vents. “You’re a jerk,” someone cried from halfway across the room.

- - -The dinghy lurched upwards again. We could hear the cringe-worthy scrapes of her spines on the bottom of our boat, each moment annunciated by a sharp whump as one ended and the other started. Unbroken scales began rising to one side, and then the other… a terrible, sickening shade of seafoam that reminded me a little bit too much of home. “It’s been too long.” My old voice took a chance to appear before I could catch it.“You heard our call. You heard it thrice. And only now, seven years adrift, do you come to our aid.” Whatever the meaning behind the distorted shrieks that issued from the spray there was, I did not listen. I was far too gone to have cared. “Leave. Your excuses harbor nothing.”

- - - “What part of ‘He’s sleeping’ don’t you understand?” The little dryad looked up at her with a tearful snort. “You can’t… For goodness’ sakes. You can’t wake up a non-magical tree. It’s nothing to cry about. He’s not dead, he’s not ignoring you. He’s just sleeping.” Apparently, the explanation didn’t do much in terms of making things better. The creature rubbed vigorously at her eyes with a downturned wrist before leaping forward to wrap her short arms (the best she could) around the slender trunk of the birch tree. The racking sobs came a moment later. The woman sighed. “For the love of…. Just stop, okay? You’re being ridiculous.”

- - -The air was close here. Stitches of silence had been sewn into his tongue, and he dared not disturb the resting realm. The pines, as vigilant as ever, kissed the clouds with their crowns- or, rather, the other way around. He could not see their end. He could, however, see the clouds. The height of their trunks seemed to rival the length of a giant’s sprint. (The only that kept him from believing that he had fallen to the stature of a dormouse was the trace amount of ferns that crouched about the heaps of root. And even then….) After another mile had passed, the man sat down, swept his cloak about his legs, and slumped against his satchel. The daylight had taken a rather unexpected leave. With a twitch of his lips, he felt agog as he turned his eyes above. The man’s breath came slow and swift all at once. This was what he came for. To see this.The slate clouds had gone, replaced by a great, coarse mass of charcoal brown. It fell and rose in time, before it began away, the Earth trembling as it made for the horizon. Ever-so-slowly, day returned, slipping around the belly of the beast like water over a bowl. Less than ten feet away, the bone-shaking step of an ebony hoof fell. (It had to be twice as large as any inn he’d ever seen.) Of all of his years, this marked only the second time that he had seen one of the elk of the Foraoise Mhór.

~

[my-dear-hammy]

The Calm and the Storm:Pirate AU

Masterpost

Chapter One: Take it Neat

AN

WELCOME TO ANOTHER HAMILTON FANFICTION PROUDLY PRESENTED BY MY-DEAR-HAMMY!!!! I hope you enjoy it!!!

This is a multiple ship fic. There are several different ones in play, including but not limited to: Jamilton, Hamburr, hamlaf, mariliza,lams,jeffmads, just to name a few. Hamilton is a fuck boy so 

This is also going to probably be my smuttiest fic I’ll ever write. I’m so going to hell.

Okay, let's lay some ground rules. 

Smut warnings begin and end with:®®®

*** Usually mean either a time skip or a change in character focus or something similar. I use them to break up the writing.

Words encased in * * mean actual character quote from history.

And this ~~~ separates dreams and flashbacks and shit. Everyone got it? Cool.

Thank you to those who actually provided impute and suggested ships and characters and whatnot. It's very much appreciated.

Let's get this ship moving, eh?

Since it's pre revolution, all Americans are still considered English.

----

Warnings: battle, blood, death, drinking

----

Swords slashing, gunsmoke hanging heavy in the air. Breathe it in. Jefferson leveled his pistol and fired, a puff of smoke stained whatever's left of his onrusher's face, which isn't very much. Sidestep, whirl and block the blade that's aimed for his back. The man who'd gone for his back looked up at him and paled. That was dishonorable and he knew it, never go for the back of a man. Jefferson cut him down with no mercy. A different pistol in hand and another man collapsing across the deck. The man that had been defending against the now dead man's sword glanced over, grinned in thanks, and launched at their next target.

The deck was slick with the spilled life blood of fallen men. Probably all good men who worked an honest living back home. At least, they did until the war began. Didn't matter now, they're life was over at the end of Jefferson's sword.

The blue clad men shrunk back as they realized resistance was futile. Arms dropped to the deck and hands raised in surrender and Jefferson's crew stopped their slaughtering.

Jefferson stalked forward, "Where's your Captain?" he asked loudly.

"Here," a man stepped forward and Jefferson could immediately place him as Captain by the uniform, blue coat that hung to the knees decorated by all sorts of flashy French gold and emblems. It was buttoned so Jefferson couldn't see what he wore beneath.

"Captain," Jefferson greeted, nodding his head slightly.

"Johann de Kalb," the Captain supplied.

"Thomas Jefferson. Captain Johann de Kalb, you and your crew are now a prisoner of the British Royal Navy and your ship is his King's property." Jefferson went to leave but halted when Kalb called after him.

"Attendez(Wait)"

Jefferson turned slightly to look over his shoulder at the man. "Speak then."

"Je souhaite vous défier à un duel(I wish to challenge you to a duel)."

Jefferson turned to face him fully. "The terms?"

"Si je gagne, nous allons libres sans entrave. Si vous gagnez, notre destin vous incombe(If I win, we go free without hindrance. If you win, our destiny is yours)."

Jefferson scoffed. "I've already won. Why would I duel you?"

"Parce que vous êtes un homme honorable(Because you are an honorable man)."

Goddamnit. Why did everything use the honor card on him? "Very well, I accept your terms. Stand, as the challenged, swords will be the weapons. Draw, good sir."

The Frenchman, Kalb, drew his sword, twirled it with skill precision before launching at Jefferson, throwing every duel protocol out the window. "Die you British scum!" he screamed. Jefferson easily sidestepped the sloppy attack, stuck out his foot and Kalb went tumbling to the floor and froze when the tip of Jefferson's sword poked at his neck.

"If you kill me, the Marquis de Lafayette will hunt you down, slit your throat, and leave your ship nothing more than a burning blaze," Kalb spat.

"Ah, so he does speak English. Well, Captain, get used to it, it's going to be the only thing you here for many years to come. Throw him in the brig." Jefferson turned his back and walked away.

Kalb leaped to his feet and launched at Jefferson's back only to be brutally cut down. "I may be honorable, but you sir, are not," Jefferson said as the French Captain sank to the deck, Jefferson not even turning to face him.

Kalb laughed darkly. "The Marquis is coming for you Jefferson. He's coming."

"Long live the King," Jefferson replied.

***

"Well done men!" Jefferson shouted, back aboard his own ship. "Tonight, we break open the rum caskets and celebrate! Tomorrow, we continue our course!"

The men cheered and started hefting out the rum. "Madison," Jefferson said to the man standing to his right.

"Captain?"

"How long do you bet it'll be before they break into song?"

"Ten seconds."

"I'll bet five," Jefferson said, watching his crew.

Right on cue, five seconds later, the crew broke out into song.

Ben Backstay was our bosun, A very merry boy. For no one half so merrily, Could pipe all hands ahoy. And when unto his summons, We did not well attend. No lad than he more merrily, Could handle the rope's end.

Could handle the rope's end, Could handle the rope's end.

Chip chow cherry chow, Faldee riddle iddle ow. Chip chow cherry chow, Faldee radle day.

Madison flipped a couple of coins over to Jefferson who was grinning broadly, leaning against the helm with his own bottle of wine to chug from.

While sailin' once our Captain, Who was a jolly dog. Served out to all the company, A double whack of grog. Ben Backstay he got tipsy, All to his heart's content. And he being half seas over boys, Right overboard he went.

Right overboard he went, Right overboard he went.

This time Jefferson joined in on the chip chows. Singing is good for the naval crew, it's encouraged. It distracts the mind and keeps sailors sane while they work hard. If a crew doesn't sing, something's wrong.

A shark was on the starboard bow, And sharks no man can stand. For they to grapple everythin', Just like them sharks on land. We heavin' out some tacklin', To give his life some hope. But as the shark bit off his head, He couldn't see the rope.

He couldn't see the rope. He couldn't see the rope.

Jefferson laughed and elbowed Madison to join in. Madison grimaced at the thought and just laughed as Jefferson and the rest of the crew sang through the chip chows again.

Without a head his ghost appeared, All on the briny lake, He piped all hands ahoy and cried, Lads warnin' by me take. By drinkin' grog I lost me life, And you my fate could meet. So never mix your rum, my lads, But always take it neat.

But always take it neat, But always take it neat.

Jefferson fell silent and watched his crew with contentedness as they finished up the last chorus of chip chows and launch into the next song. This was the best life had to offer.

----

AN

The shanty is posted below if you want to actually hear what it sounds like.

https://youtu.be/mO1j6xx2HhQ

*Whispers* I have some major plans for a couple of future shanties/songs to pay attention to what's being used and whatnot.(this one's not important)

How was the first chapter????

Next chapter, the infamous Hamilton.

I swear, I keep forgetting to tag, Y’all requested to be tagged in everything so I’m tagging you here too. @hamilton-angst @unabashedinternetruins  @purpledramallamas

[jotawakening-blog]

6 Septober, 5A 169: A Fistful of Coins

Another hot, desert day.  With the morning, I leave my quarters at the guesthouse and keep up the search for Ali Morrisane’s nephew, this time in the southern part of town.  My first stop is actually a kebab shop off the main square, where I stop by for breakfast.  The shopkeeper prides himself on the spiciness of his kebabs and persuades me to try one of his really spicy ones, the ones he’s apparently got a corner on the market on.  As far as I can tell, there’s nothing actually different about the spicy kebab except for the sauce the guy uses, but that sauce is basically liquid fire!  With a bit of gagging, frantic drinking from my waterskin, and cursing myself for a fool, I eventually manage to down my breakfast and move on.

North-west of the main square, there’s a single house up on a hill, which might be worth checking out.  I trek up to it, and find that it’s owned by an old, old woman, cackling to herself beside a bubbling cauldron.  Now, I’m no expert in the local culture, but up north a woman like that would probably be a witch!  A brief conversation with her confirms this to be the case, but she’s not the talkative sort, and asks me not to disturb her potion making, else she’ll turn me into a frog.  Okay, I get the hint!  (Side note: even she is named Ali— short, in this case, for Alice.  The challenge of finding Ali Morrisane’s nephew seems to grow more daunting with every person I talk to!)

Leaving the hag’s house, I go down the hill and head to the Asp and Snake, the pub on the far side of the main square, in the hopes that I’ll be able to get some information over there.  The pub is surprisingly well-stocked, and even seems to sell exotic liquors and pure rot-gut like pirate grog.  I strike up a conversation with the bartender: he’s helpful enough, though he won’t talk about the gangs because both sides in the feud are paying customers and he has no wish to rock the boat.  When I ask about Ali Morrisane’s cousin Ali, however, the conversation runs aground, because as it turns out the vast majority of the townsfolk seem to be named Ali!  After some frustrating back-and-forth, it turns out he doesn’t know anything about the specific Ali I’m looking for, which is a downer.  So, to end the conversation on a positive note, I ask about the name of the pub: isn’t an asp a type of snake?  The bartender explains that it’s a great name: if he were to change it, it would be just another business called Ali’s, and that would get very confusing!  Um, he has a point.

Sitting in a corner of the pub is an older drunk guy (wow, a bit early to be drinking so heavily, eh?) who overheard my conversation with the bartender and offers me a deal: if I buy him a drink, he will tell me about the strange occurrences that have been happening in town lately.  That sounds like exactly what I need, so I throw aside qualms of encouraging the guy’s drinking problem and buy him a beer.  The man opens up briefly, telling me he knows whom I’m looking for and where he’s located, but requests another beer before he’ll continue.  I do so, wondering meanwhile whether extreme drunkenness will completely undermine the veracity of the information he has to provide.  This time, I get as far as specifying that what I care about is Ali Junior’s whereabouts, at which point the guy clams up and asks for yet another drink.  Gritting my teeth, I buy him one and finally, after some threats to wring a beer from his body and squeeze it out into a tankard for him to drink, I learn pretty much the same thing the street urchin told me for free: Ali Junior has gotten himself into a fix with one or both of the gangs and disappeared as of last week.  Okay, great, that’s super useful.  Thanks for nothing, old drunkard.

I leave the bar in frustration and head into the southern area of town.  The first place I stop by over that way is Ali’s camel store, whose owner tells me it is his mission to sell discounted riding camels to the common man.  Since I’m not in the market for a camel, I turn the conversation toward politics and the question of the gangs.  Ali the camel seller is quite voluble on the subject, cursing the gangs for a pest on the town and lamenting that, Pollnivneach lying just outside the influence of both Al-Kharid and Menaphos, there is no higher authority to kick the bandits out.  With some prodding, I get the camel seller to share with me his solution for dealing with the menace: he would like to see a truce brokered between the gangs, perhaps via a mutual exchange of token gifts.  If that fails, perhaps the gangs could be subverted from within.  Finally, I ask whether the camel seller knows anything about Ali Junior, but run into the same screen of confusion caused by seemingly everyone in town being named Ali.  Figuring he might have some more to say if I’m interested in his camels, I ask him whether he’s got any stock on sale.  Unfortunately not, he says: the two out back are already sold, but he should have new stock coming in soon.  So much for that idea, then…

Nothing to do but to keep going and see whether I can find out anything in the south of town.  The sights there are much the same as up north, with a few exceptions.  First of all, the bandits who have taken over this part of town are snazzy, not scruffy, with ornate purple-and-gold regalia.  However, they’re just as uncommunicative as their northern fellows.  Besides them, there’s a snake charmer practicing his craft over by the Asp and Snake (where else?), who’s too absorbed in what he’s doing to talk to me, and a Menaphite scholar who’s engrossed in his research and also too busy to talk.

Finally, on the outskirts of town is the purple-and-gold pavilion of the Menaphite gang leadership’s.  Since I haven’t been able to find out anything about Ali Junior’s whereabouts from the townsfolk, it looks like I have no choice but to deal with the gangsters.  And that means talking to the one in charge, or as close as I can get, meaning Ali ‘the Operator’.  I run across the leader outside the tent, minding his business.  He’s surprisingly willing to talk to me, but blames any trouble that’s been going on in town on the desert bandits.  When I tell him I’m aware of his own group’s misdeeds, as well, he tells me that may be so, but the Menaphites do the whole stealing and killing thing so much more effectively than the desert rubes, and besides, it’s they who started!  I ask him to explain, and he reveals that the current feud started when the desert bandits stole a camel from the Menaphites, a grave offence around these parts.  Aha!  So I ask whether he would agree to peace with the desert bandits if they gave back a camel of equal value.  The Menaphite captain tells me he would, but the desert bandits would never agree to such a deal, not least because they’re so bad at banditry that they can’t afford even a crappy camel, much less a top-of-the-line one.  Lastly, about Ali Junior, he has nothing to say.  Perhaps he’s too worked up thinking about the competition.

So, that’s the Menaphites’ side of the story… what do the desert bandits have to say?  I try in vain to look for their leader in the north of town, so I try the opposite tactic: picking on the weakest and most cowardly of them I can find and getting him to spill the beans.  A crossbow in the face is all it takes, and none of his friends bother to help out.  I ask him about the origins of the feud between his gang and the Menaphites, and he says it goes back generations, decades before the mayor of Pollnivneach called them in to deal with their nemeses.  They, too, allege that their rivals stole a camel from them, and they as well would be happy to stop fighting if I brought them a worthy camel.  Huh— I guess I’m not finding anything out until I get each gang a camel.

Logically, my next stop is the camel seller’s shop off market square.  True, he doesn’t have any camels for sale right now, but he did mention new stock, so I ask him about that, and he gives me the details.  It would seem that he’s got two camels due in from the finest stable in Al-Kharid, both very fine beasts, one named Sandy and the other Lumps.  I cut off his sales pitch when he starts going into way too much detail about their qualities, and ask how much the beasts are.  The merchant objects to such a crass approach, telling me one cannot put a value on life like that (I’m sure he’s just trying to get me to name a price more than the camels are worth…); I counter with an offer of 500 coins.  This turns out to be a fair price, and the merchant writes me out receipt for the two camels, so that I can pick them up when they come in.  Of course, my plan is to give one receipt each to each gang and see if that won’t make them stop feuding.  So far, it seems to be working like a charm!

Thinking I’ve solved things neatly, I take one receipt to the desert bandit I spoke with earlier, and tell him the Menaphites have offered his gang a fine camel in exchange for peace.  The guard, thinking the Menaphites have completely folded, scoffs at this offer, and tells me to tell his rivals that if the Menaphites are so scared, they should offer ten camels, not just one.  Damn it, why do I even bother!?

It’s the same story with the Menaphites: Ali the Operator, when confronted with this ‘proof’ of the desert bandits’ cowardice, likewise demands an outsize number of camels in exchange for peace.  Just when I think I’ve failed, however, he offers me a deal.  Reasoning that the desert bandits are weak, and therefore in a position to be toppled, he offers to hire me to drive them out of town.  Ah, now I’m getting somewhere.  I agree to the offer, figuring if all else fails I’ll have at least given one gang their just deserts.   Unfortunately, Ali the Operator doesn’t trust me yet, and demands that I go through probation before he can entrust me with the key role in his master-plan.  The task seems simple: I am to pick the pockets of three villagers.  Right, I’ve done that before, shouldn’t be an issue at all!

So I go down to the market square and limber up my fingers for reaching into pockets.  The first villager whom I try to relieve of money proves an easy mark, but there my luck ends.  The vast majority of the town’s residents, having spent years in the crossfire of the Menaphites and the desert bandits, are too situationally aware for me to steal from them.  After trying and failing a good number of times, I decide I need to consult with an expert, and so go back to Ali the Operator to ask for advice.

One would think that he would have fired me right on the spot, but no: he’s perfectly willing to make allowances for an outsider who doesn’t know the finer points of thieving in this tough town.  He suggests that I try using a distraction to create a moment of inattention in which I can pick another pocket.  The most obvious distraction is one that I didn’t even plan: a cat sauntering in with a postbag in his teeth and a postman’s cap on his head!  As sure as I am that this will shock the natives, though, it appears that the cat is a regular courier, carrying post between Menaphos and Al-Kharid.  Weird!!

So I need some other distraction.  Simplest, I decide, is best, so I pay one of the local street urchins a few coins to insult a passing villager and use that chance to slip in and out of the guy’s pockets.  The gambit works, but it’s one of those strategies that only works once: the instructions I gave the urchin were too obvious in the execution, and the villagers all know something is up.  So, it’s back to Ali the Operator for more advice.  This time, he says, I should dispense with all the niceties and use a bit of brute force.  To let me know what he means, he gives me a stout oaken club.  Oh dear, this is getting more and more ethically dubious as I proceed, but the life of Ali Morrisane’s cousin may be at stake, so I brush off my qualms and steel myself for what I’m about to do.

Specifically: I go down to the market square and hide behind the big cactus near the mayor’s house, which grants me a good degree of concealment from the crowd.  Then, when a villager comes by, I reach out and thwack him on the head, conking him out.  While he’s out cold, I rifle through his pockets and return with news of my success to Ali the Operator.

Ali is quick to dispel any illusions that my three successful pickpockets are the only trial I shall have to pass.  No, there’s another task as well: I need to prove myself as a burglar, and that means robbing the mayor’s villa for the mayor’s wife’s jewels: the only thing really worth stealing in this town.  Ali has a bit of advice for me before throwing me to the wolves: I should stake out the place before committing to anything and I should probably have some disguise.  Oh, and he’s considerate enough to give me the key to the front door, too!

About the disguise: I’ll need something that will blend right in with the townsfolk: my armour is far too conspicuous.  Suddenly, inspiration strikes: wasn’t the guy at the market stall selling typical Kharidian headdresses and fake beards?  If I combined the two, I could look like an old Kharidian man to anyone who doesn’t bother to examine me too closely!  I go up to the store, buy the disguise, put it on, then head down to the mayor’s mansion for the stakeout.  On the way there, I realise that my gloves aren’t right for the job: they’re too rigid, and taking them off would leave fingerprints.  It’s an annoyance, but I think I’ll have to go back to Shantay Pass for some simple leather gloves— and use the opportunity to take out some money, too, because I’m likely to need it and have barely any on me.

Having gone there and back again, I go back to the mayor’s mansion and, determining that the coast is clear, slip inside.  The place isn’t that ornate, and is in fact quite sparsely furnished, which makes the search easier.  I first check the mayor’s study, going through his desk, but all I find there that may be of interest is a brief note describing a well-known mathematical sequence.  The upstairs part is a bit more well-appointed, but the decor interests me little.  Instead, I search the nooks and crannies of the room for the jewels.  Underneath the bed, I find another jotted reference to the same mathematical sequence, which makes me think something is up with it.  My search for the jewels, however, seems fruitless, until, that is, I look behind a painting hung on the wall and discover a small safe!  It’s locked with a combination lock, so I dial in the sequence described by the two notes I found and note with satisfaction the click the safe makes as it opens!  Inside are the mayor’s wife’s jewels, all right: I take them with me and go back with them to Ali the Operator.

Ali is surprised to see me back so soon, and expresses his doubts that I actually cracked the safe myself, without any help.  So I tell him about all the hints the mayor left behind, and he has a laugh at the mayor’s foolishness.  Once he’s done chuckling, he gives me my final task.  He tells me there’s a traitor within his gang, and he wants me to root them out.  I ask Ali why he’s chosen me for this task— after all, we’ve only known each other for a day— so Ali explains that he trusts me on this, precisely because I don’t have all the baggage that comes with a life of crime.

I begin the investigation by asking some of the gang members about there being a traitor in the gang, and whether they could specify the traitor’s identity.  The gang members give me a name straight away: Traitorous Ali, who is such a backstabbing double-dealer that he would betray his own mother— twice— for barely any payment at all!  I return with this information to Ali the Operator, and after a moment’s thought, seems totally convinced that this is the traitor he’s looking for.  So, he tasks me with killing him quietly, without raising a fuss.  Well, after the horrible things he put his mother up to, I’d say he kind of deserves it.

I go around town looking for Traitorous Ali, but he’s neither among the Menaphites nor with the bandits.  At the bar, however, I get lucky: he was drinking there just a short while ago, and even left his beer on the table!  Aha— if I had some way of poisoning the beer, that would do the trick!  But I don’t have any poison on me— blast and blast again!  Perhaps someone in town might, though: how about the witch?

I go up to Ali the Hag’s house, and find to my surprise that she’s more than happy to help me get rid of someone, when that someone is Traitorous Ali, at least: looks like he double-crossed her as well, sometime in the past!  The witch concurs with me that poisoning is the way to do it, but requests that I bring her the ingredients for the poison, since she doesn’t have any with her.  The main ingredient, she tells me, is snake venom.  Now, since I have no idea how you extract venom from a snake, she asks me to bring her a whole, live snake with fangs in its head.  The snake-charmer’s pet won’t do, she says: it’s about as dangerous as a rubber knife!

That may be so, but perhaps the snake-charmer could tell me how to charm a more dangerous snake?  I go down to the bar, where he continues to practice, and grab his attention by throwing a few coins his way.  I ask him whether he can let me try charming a snake; he grunts, hands me a spare basket and snake-charming flute, and tells me to go away.  Okay, now I need to figure out how to use this thing.  But it’s getting late: I think I’ll spend tomorrow practicing, and see what that gets me.