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missparker · 5 years ago

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this is so stupid but sharon raydor and brenda leigh johnson... as witches

Sharon gets consumed with Brenda Leigh Johnson right away, almost the moment she’s hired. The beautiful blonde coming in from Atlanta PD, the woman who has the force up in arms. A Deputy Chief. Outrageous. Sharon doesn’t want to meet her, doesn’t want to get to know her, doesn’t want to be in the same room as her. Sharon has dated half a dozen beautiful blonde women who have broken her heart. She doesn’t need it.

She casts a spell to ward off Deputy Chief Johnson, nothing strong, just a deterrent. A gentle nudge in the other direction. It works for about a year until Sharon sees her coming down the hallway toward her, talking to Lieutenant Provenza. Sharon ducks into the ladies room, locks herself in a stall.

She re-casts the spell into a crystal so she can keep it in her pocket. To make it stronger.

That works too. About eleven months later, she sees Chief Johnson in the main lobby and before Sharon can even think about whether or not to try to dodge her, Chief Johnson stops rather abruptly and turns around, heading back for the main entrance.

Sharon pats her pocket, feels the crystal inside. But Chief Johnson does something strange. She looks over her shoulder, which isn’t supposed to happen. She scans the room, her gaze settles on Sharon who is standing there stupidly, staring back.

Maybe nine months later, Sharon comes to work, toting her purse and her briefcase and her lunch bag. One of her team says, “Oh, Captain Raydor-”

And Sharon says, “Wait, hang on, let me just set this stuff down!”

Only to enter her office to find Brenda Leigh Johnson waiting for her, perched against the edge of her desk.

“Deputy Chief Johnson is here,” she hears weakly from behind her.

“Captain Raydor,” Chief Johnson says. “I know what you are.”

Sharon just drops her things all by her door and kicks it closed behind her.

“What?” she says. She doesn’t like playing stupid, but there’s no way Chief Johnson should even be able to stand in her office without feeling a significant level of discomfort, panic, an urgent desire to leave. Sharon reflexively pats her pocket for the crystal, which is there but maybe the potency has drained or-

Chief Johnson sees her touch her pocket. Her eyes zero right in, she glares up at Sharon’s face.

“Castin’ spells on fellow officers just shouldn’t be legal!” Chief Johnson says.

Sharon feels her jaw drop, is at a total loss for words.

“I kept wondering how it was that we’d never crossed paths, Captain, how the only two female department heads had never been even acquainted but every time I ever tried to have the thought… something… pulled me away and I… “ She huffs. “You’re very good, anyway. Took me a long time to realize.”

“Chief, I’m sure I don’t-”

“Don’t double down on your bad manners and lie to me now,” she says, crossing her arms.

Sharon sighs. Nods. “Fine.”

“I can’t believe you would hate my hiring so much that you’d go to these lengths, these unethical lengths to keep me away from you. Women need to be allies, especially in this line of work and-”

“I didn’t do it because-” Sharon cuts in. “I mean to say, your hiring was surprising but that wasn’t why I did it.”

Chief Johnson looks her over. Sharon has a chance to see that she has something clutched in her hand, a little satchel of herbs. No doubt something to break Sharon’s wards, just enough that she could weasel into the room.

“Then why?” Chief Johnson demands.

“I…” Sharon falters here. Tries to change the subject. “Word on the street is that you have an almost supernatural ability to read people, to catch them in a lie. That’s your gift, yes? Where your power lies?”

“Captain, I asked you a question,” she says.

“It’s just… that you’re… my type,” Sharon admits, looking up at the ceiling. If her talents really do manifest in finding the truth, there’s simply no point in lying. Still, it’s embarrassing.

“Oh,” she says.

“Blondes are… not good for me,” Sharon admits. “Now, you have your answer. Please give me the courtesy of never speaking to me or looking at me again.”

When Sharon does finally force herself to look back Chief Johnson, she’s staring back at Sharon with a sort of gentle, heavy lidded gaze that sends warning signals screaming in her brain. But then she seems to snap out of it, says only, “Okay.”

And breezes out of Sharon’s office.

At least now they have an understanding. Sharon can leave the crystal at home, break the ward, burn the runes. The sheer humiliation radiating off of her will be enough to keep the beautiful Deputy Chief at bay.

oooo

Sharon rides the elevator and it opens to the wrong floor, the doors parting to reveal Major Crimes, not Internal Affairs. Strange. She must have pushed the wrong button.

A few days later, Sharon leaves her office to use the restroom and for some reason uses the one on floor nine. She walks past the restroom to take an elevator to another floor to use an identical restroom and has no earthly idea why.

A week later she finds herself standing in the Major Crimes bullpen and can’t remember why she’s there.

And there’s Deputy Chief Johnson, standing in her office with her hands on her hips, watching Sharon through the glass walls. She looks smug.

Sharon should go in there and give Chief Johnson a piece of her mind, and she would, too, if it wouldn’t be so deeply hypocritical of her to do so. So instead, she flees.

That same night, she’s driving home from work and parks instead in front of a small bungalow in a strange part of town on an unfamiliar street.

It occurs to Sharon now that Chief Johnson is a much stronger witch. That Sharon’s craft is a genetic gift, passed down from mother to daughter, but it’s been diluted with time and disuse, that really she only dabbles in what she’s naturally good at. Easy spells, uncomplicated wards. Domestic magic. She’s great at making her plants thrive and her coffee stir itself and keeping dust bunnies out from under her bed.

But Brenda Leigh Johnson is a witch. A sorceress. She has real power and she’s using it now to summon Sharon and Sharon doesn’t even know how she’d begin to resist the thrall she’s under.

The front door opens before Sharon even has a chance to ring the bell. All that blonde hair is down, curls cascading temptingly. Chief Johnson has on a pretty sundress with thin straps and bare feet and she’s nearly crackling with power.

“You want to know somethin’ funny?” she says. “You’re my type, too.”

Sharon lets out a little whimper.

#the closer #brenda x sharon #prompts #fic life #i wrote this SO MANY TIMES #SO MANY versions #i loved this prompt so much and i want to write it one million times

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that-yandere-life · 5 years ago

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Can you do another Yandere!Pietro Maximoff? If you want something spooky, maybe have it take place sometime after AoU when everyone thinks Pietro is dead. However, (possibly during a Halloween bash?) he sneaks up on the reader and kidnaps them. No sadistic intentions, he just desperately wants them to love him (similar to your "I'd bleed for your affections" Pietro post). But the reader is still spooked about his rise from the dead and doesn't want to accept him nor his yandere tendecies.

This was the first Halloween since you had all lost Pietro, and to be honest you didn’t really feel like dressing up or partying.

However Wanda asked you to for her, and since she was your best friend in the entire world you didn’t want to let her down.

Sighing as you looked in the mirror as seeing your disheveled appearance first hand was somewhat disappointing.

Taking a long hot shower you felt yourself cry a little for everything the team has had to deal with recently.

There wasn’t a day that had gone by that this wasn’t your routine, wondering if it will ever get better.

After drying and styling your hair the way you wanted it, you knew it was time to figure out what costume you were going to wear.

You couldn’t handle a scary costume right now, you felt far too vulnerable in the state you were in for that.

So you opted for a cute basic sexy cat costume, drawing on whiskers and a nose with an old eyeliner pencil.

Sure it was what uncreative people typically chose for a drunken night out at the bar, but it was all you could muster with the little amount of energy you held.

Slipping on a pair of fishnet stockings under a black bodysuit that didn’t hug too tightly to your form you figured it was the best you were going to do.

A few short moments later right after you applied your signature red lip, you heard a knock at your door.

Opening it, there stood Wanda with a bittersweet smile on her face, clearly trying to keep herself together while secretly falling apart.

Returning the smile you grab your clutch and shut the door behind you, but not before complimenting her on her cute devilish demon costume.

Walking into the thralls of people already partying you both head straight for the bar to get a well needed drink.

The hired bartender behind it wearing a sort of Phantom of the Opera type costume, his dark hair slicked back, a suit with a long cape trailing behind him.

The only difference was his mask covered the entirety of his face rather than just half of it.

Ordering your drinks you were a little nervous when the man didn’t even utter a word in acknowledgement other than simply nodding at your request.

All nerves dissipated however as he handed you both your freshly made drinks, taking a sip letting the burn of the alcohol awaken your senses.

Thanking them you both take off to the dancefloor, pretending for the time being that you were both actually happy.

A few dances and drinks later you were feeling a little sick to your stomach so you left Wanda to use the restroom for a moment.

Once you were out in the hallway alone you suddenly felt your world spinning, rapidly turning into a blur.

As your eyes came back into focus you realized that you were definitely not still in the tower, you were somewhere else entirely unfamiliar.

Realizing you were being held up by someone you couldn’t believe your eyes when you looked back upon Pietro’s still very alive face, his hair dyed black to achieve his undercover ensemble.

Gasping you forced yourself from his grasp stumbling away in shock and maybe a little bit of horror.

“Pietro? Am I dreaming? Did I pass out?”

Anything your brain could make up to make sense of what was happening, you muttered out more towards yourself than him.

“No Princesa, I am really here. I know you don’t understand, so let me explain, I had to fake my death so that we could be together. My sister didn’t want me to date you, or be with you. But somewhere along the way I fell in love with you, and I couldn’t let anything hold us back from each other.”

Shaking your head repeatedly you didn’t want to believe his words, sure you liked him before he was killed in battle.

Sure you could have even seen yourself dating him before, but not like this.

“Your sister has mourned you, I HAVE MOURNED YOU! Now she has lost me too, don’t you think that she deserves to know the truth? God Pietro this was so selfish of you, you know how she has lost everything in her life. How could you do this?”

“I did it for love Draga, I would do it again if it meant we could be together. We will be together, nothing can keep us apart anymore… not even death.”

[Thank you so much for this idea! I hope you enjoy it, and that I did it justice! I am seriously thinking about doing a part two of this if people want it!

#yandere marvel #marvel yandere #pietro maximoff x reader #yandere pietro maximoff #Anonymous

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mst3kproject · 5 years ago

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802: The Leech Woman – Part III

I’ve devoted a review to the terrible characters in The Leech Woman and another to its nasty misogynistic ‘message’, what’s left? As it turns out, plenty. The next layer down in our Leech Woman Tira Misu of badness has several ingredients that just wouldn’t fit with the themes of either of the previous installments.

The script frequently feels a need to explain what’s happening on screen, which is sometimes helpful but equally often kind of insulting, since characters are telling us things we can clearly see for ourselves. A Nando dude has his face pushed into a pot of misty stuff and is then dragged stumbling over to the sacrificial block, and David declares “he’s drugged!” as if we wouldn’t be able to tell. Moments later, the man’s pineal gland is carved out – this does require some narration, since the visuals aren’t self-explanatory, but the “he’s adding the pineal hormone to the Naipi” a moment later really doesn’t need to be there.

The intense use of stock footage is also a form of this. We know that the characters are going to Africa, and we see them hiring a guide and tramping through a jungly-looking set, only to also be shown reams of animal stock footage that has basically nothing to do with the story. The only time it has any bearing on the plot is with the leopard that supposedly follows June. The rest is padding, there to emphasize (as Crow observes) that we are definitely in Africa, as if the audience couldn’t already tell.

A few bits in this part of the movie are shot outside, pretty clearly in California rather than anywhere near Africa. Others are obviously in ‘jungle’ studio sets, and you can really feel how closed-in and artificial these spaces are, especially when contrasted with the wide-open savannahs and broad skies in the stock footage. I guess I can say in the movie’s favour that it looks more jungle-ish than Jungle Moon Men did, but there are places in Canada that look more jungle-ish than that, so it’s not really saying very much.

The most egregious use of stock footage in The Leech Woman is in the Nando village, where we see some shots of people dancing in Real Africa before cutting back to extras in Hollywood Africa. The two sets of footage look nothing alike. The people in the documentary shots are dancing in a practiced, purposeful fashion. The ones in the stuff filmed for The Leech Woman are just kind of flailing and bouncing. The juxtaposition is kind of like splicing shots of trained ballroom dancers in with video of the junior prom and pretending it was all part of the same scene. This extends to the costumes, with the ‘real’ dancers wearing elaborate ceremonial beadwork and the actors in crummy kilts and geographically inappropriate tiger skins. The latter still look nothing like the shower curtain Malla’s wearing when she reappears. The only costume that had effort put into it is that ridiculous tusk headdress the high priest wears.

The Nando themselves are a plot device, rather than a people. They are Privy To Wisdom the White Man Hath Forgotten, but they’re also very much superstitious savages, with their regular human sacrifices and habit of killing anybody who tries to talk to them. None of them have lines and except for Malla and the high priest they are basically indistinguishable from each other – this keeps us from feeling sorry for them when their village gets blown up. The only ones we see up very close are Malla, whom we will soon learn is planning to kill the heroes, and the priest, whose face is hidden. They are dehumanized and, with their job of introducing June to the Cure for Old done, they are dismissed.

That would be pretty standard for a fifties jungle movie, but there’s one rather out-of-place bit that seems to be there just as gratuitous racism. When David goes back for the dynamite, under the pretense of giving Malla a necklace, one of his guards takes a moment to steal some of June’s other jewelry from the luggage. Why? What value does it have to these people who live in the middle of nowhere and don’t appear to trade with the outside world? The event never has any impact on the plot, even though June later uses jewelry to entice her victims… come to think of it, why did she have that stuff with her on a safari anyway? If this isn’t just a throwaway moment of lol, black people are thieves, it seems to just be a little reminder that the Nando cannot be trusted and that we shouldn’t worry about David blowing them up. Doesn’t quite work when he also steals their stuff on the way out, does it?

And of course, the ending sucks. Rather than facing any sort of consequences for her crimes, June simply throws herself out the window, leaving Sally dead in the closet and Neil and the police wondering what the hell just happened. The withered corpse we see under the window is obviously a mannequin, and doesn’t even look like June. And as with far too many movies of this vintage, there is no denouement. We don’t know if Neil ever understands that June and ‘Terri’ were the same person, or why Sally was killed. We don’t see him realize what he’s lost by allowing himself to be dragged around by the dick. The movie just ends. They couldn’t have spent two minutes on that instead of on random animal footage?

After going through all the many ways in which The Leech Woman is a terrible and frequently offensive movie, how it hates men, women, black people, white people, and anybody stupid enough to watch it, I guess it needs to be asked: why do I enjoy it so much? I think partly it is because it’s so non-denominationally misanthropic – it hates everybody, and while it saves special venom for unattractive women, nobody else comes off well, either. Another, as previously mentioned, is how it doesn’t bother to have any ‘good’ characters. The protagonist of the movie, as in the person through whose eyes we watch it and whose arc we follow, is June – and she’s an insane, selfish murderess!

I do tend to like movies that focus on a villain’s journey. There’s Lady Frankenstein, for example, in which Tanya Frankenstein carries the whole movie despite the fact that she’s evil to the core, and in the end is destroyed by her own creature as he realizes that he, like everything else around her, is just a tool she’s using to further her own sense of self-importance. There’s the similarly-titled Countess Dracula, which is what you might get if you imagine a version of The Leech Woman that actually tries to convince you Neil is the hero but still doesn’t have him actually do anything. And there are Hammer’s Frankenstein movies, which are all about Peter Cushing’s Victor Frankenstein with the inconsequential ‘heroes’ simply revolving around him.

Why are these characters so much more interesting than the heroes who are trying to defeat them? I think it has to do with the fact that these villains are proactive – they are taking steps to go out and get what they want. Victor Frankenstein wants to prove his latest theory, June wants to watch men fall at her feet when she smiles at them, and they both believe the means justify the ends. The ‘good guys’ of the movie, on the other hand, are merely reacting to the evil plot they’ve discovered. In light of that, it’s also interesting to ask why it’s so often women who take center stage in this kind of movie: as well as June, I’ve mentioned two examples in the previous paragraph, with Tanya Frankenstein and Countess Elizabeth. This is probably because women in movies of this era are not supposed to be proactive in getting what they want, or even to have wants at all besides to kiss the guy at the end.

This type of movie also suggests that evil, being intrinsically selfish, will ultimately destroy itself. The good characters, where they exist, are victims or completely irrelevant – the closest things The Leech Woman has to ‘good guys’ are Neil and the detective, the former being helplessly in June’s thrall and the latter not even showing up until the movie’s almost over and then having his job done for him by her suicide. Since these characters don’t try to do anything about their situations (Neil doesn’t even realize he’s in one), they’re not at all interesting, and the villains command the movie all the more. This would lead one to think that the ‘message’ of the movie is the same as the one I pulled out of Outlaw, that bad things will just go away if you wait long enough.

In some cases that’s probably true (it’s going to work for the Earth – us humans will kill ourselves off soon and the rest of the biosphere can get back to business), but The Leech Woman also serves to emphasize that letting evil destroy itself will cause far more damage than if somebody tackled the problem before it got that far. If Neil had actually cared that ‘Terri’ was destroying his relationship with Sally and tried to leave her, he might have saved himself a lot of trouble. In fact, what would have happened then? Would June have gone off to find another victim, or would she have become more aggressive in her pursuit of him in particular? Would he have maybe cottoned on to what was happening and come back to save her next boyfriend from suffering a terrible fate? Oh, hey, look – I just wrote a better movie in three sentences, again.

I think that’s about as much Leech Woman as I can take. See you next week – I don’t actually have that many more of these to do, do I? Thank you all for hanging in there with me. We’re on the home stretch now!

#mst3k #reviews #the leech woman #tw: suicide #boy are we in africa!#60s

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arcanaivette · 6 years ago

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Lucio Ramblings

With the impending promise of new routes (I am so thirsty for Muriel holy hell), I have been giving a lot of thought to Lucio’s Route.

Now, I know a LOT of the fandom love him (who doesn't love to hate THAT BITCH). And hell, I am A SUCKER for The Villain gets Redeemed romance tropes. But I have some...concerns.

SPOILERS and criticisms below, I will try not be harsh, just pointing things out I am curious to see how it will be handled. I am not attempting to start discourse, just sending some thoughts out into the void for friendly discussion if anyone wants.

So having played through the main three’s routes, and reading Muriel’s and Lucio’s Tales (I’ve unfortunately not been terribly lucky with the new Heart Hunter post cards T-T), I am really not sure how the devs are going to write Lucio’s romance without excusing away some REALLY LEGITIMATELY terrible things Lucio has done.

Again, don’t get me wrong; I love Lucio’s character, and I’m actually really curious and excited to see what they do, but there’s a few things I’m not sure how they’re going to get around and I really hope they get handled well so I can actually love this beautiful asshole.

1. Lucio straight up committed patricide.

And subsequently attempted to commit matricide as well. And not even in any sort of “honorable” way according to his clan’s traditions. He made a deal with a DEMON in order to WEAKEN them enough so he could easily kill them and FEED THE DEMON THEIR HEARTS! And as a result, since he did not give the demon what was promised, has been trailing this horrific plague of beetles behind him, not seeming to care what it does to the people it effects. We don’t know much more about his parents save for what we see in his very short tale, so they both could’ve been horrifically evil people deserving of that sort of death, but as of right now Lucio comes out of this backstory looking cowardly AND sleazy as hell.

2. Lucio was a marauder and a mercenary.

After he flees his failed attempt at usurping his mother, we know (vaguely, I think the Wiki talks more about it than the game itself? I’d love more!) he struck out as a sword for hire/marauder of the surrounding areas. Not that mercenaries are BAD, persay, but they are...well, mercenary. They don’t exactly fight for a single cause, good or bad. They fight for themselves, sometimes at the expense of innocent people. Hell, in Asra’s route, we know he used the plague of beetles following in his wake as a means to try and extort goods from helpless villagers. In other words, Lucio learned NOTHING from his failed coup, and instead continues to run from his horrible mistake, leaving destruction in his path.

3. The state of Vesuvia is crumbling.

In the current timeline, the city looks to be recovering very slowly from the wake of the plague 3 years prior, which according to Julian and Nadia, killed people by the HUNDREDS. Whole sections of the city were left to fall apart and rot. Not to mention, with Nadia being in her coma like sleep, the Courtiers pretty much ignored their duties to the city and left it to rot. However, even before that, Lucio is noted, especially in Julian’s route, for not being particularly proactive in the city’s upkeep or the well being of its lower class citizens. In Nadia’s route, it comes to light he pretty much expected her pick up the entire weight of the city’s issues and problems while he could sit back and party. Hell, Lucio didn’t even REALLY seem to start worrying about the Red Plague till HE contracted it, then becoming desperate for a way to stave off his impending death. Maybe Lucio wasn’t a tyrant, but at best he was a neglectful and selfish ruler, resulting in problems and consequences still felt long after his “death”.

4. Lucio manipulated, tricked and coerced to keep people in his control.

This one is probably the one that, for me at least, will be the hardest to overlook. Lucio, much like the Devil, uses people’s connections to loved ones as a means to control them and keep them obedient. He tricks Asra’s parents and imprisons them, leaving them at the hands of the Devil and subsequently forcing them to abandon young Asra, thinking they were saving him in doing so. He uses Asra and Muriel’s friendship to indebt both of them to him, threatening the safety of the other while not telling the former they were also in his thrall. More will no doubt be revealed in Muriel’s route, but judging by how angry and terrified Muriel seems of all things Lucio, and how much Asra LOATHES him, they were both no doubt asked to do awful things in Lucio’s employ, thinking they were doing it for the other (Asra even confesses to you that you would never believe the many awful things he’d done under Lucio’s rule). Nadia, when she first met Lucio, was still young and desperate to prove she wasn’t just the baby of her sisters. It’s pretty vague, but I wouldn’t put it past him to have used that desperation to be independent as a means to manipulate her into being his wife, probably telling her of the wonderful opportunities she’d have to use her intelligence and skills to improve the many issues plaguing Vesuvia.

All I’m saying is, Luciois problematic. EXTREMELY problematic. All the characters have their flaws, they need them to be relatable and show growth. But Lucio has the sort of issues that are REALLY difficult to forgive even for the best of characters. I’m not saying it’s IMPOSSIBLE, but it’s gonna take some really interesting circumstances for me to see him as redeemable, and I for one hope to see it done well.

I’m confident in the devs, of course. The writing in this game is amazingly solid, especially for a visual novel. And, frankly, as much of a shit as he is, I REALLY like Lucio, a lot. So I really want to see what they do with all of these things.

If I got anything wrong, or missed something, but all means, reply! I’d love to start a discussion on this!

#the arcana #count lucio #lucio ramblings #Long post #Sorry this is so rambly #Just been thinking a lot about it and wonder what others think

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paladin-andric · 6 years ago

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Blackheart, Chapter 31: A Final Respite

It had been quite some time. Deep in the heart of the Citadel, things had changed considerably.

A while ago, the survivors had evacuated to the countryside. Before they did so, Basilrin was sent to bring word of the situation to the surrounding lands, in hopes of summoning the forces needed to push to the Blackheart.

The portal was said to be in the very center of the city. To get there, all they needed to do was take the main road. Only problem was the demons. Their corrupted thralls swarmed the main streets en-masse. It was why they had spent their time creeping down alleyways and side streets.

Soon...soon, the time for skulking would come to an end. Soon, the army would begin their assault.

Alexander ran the blade of his sword over a whetstone, looking it over carefully. He had forgone wearing his armor, seeing as it had been a few days since Basilrin’s return.

It was quite the wonder, seeing not only his return, but the arrival of the Lady Protector herself, Gira. The Black Dragon, as she was called, arguably the most important figure in all of Geralthin. She had been there for the entirety of its history, after all.

She and Basilrin had assured them that the army was indeed on its way. Already a few of those towns and villages nearby had arrived, a few guards and citizens armed with the bare essentials now joining them in the Citadel.

It was a good start, but they had to await the mass of royal forces before they could dare start their push.

Gira was another one. Now they had three dragons. That was three beasts of legend to rain destruction on their foes. Alexander could only imagine how marvelous that kind of support would be for the army.

All in all, things were looking quite hopeful. With a force like this assembled, pushing through the city really seemed more than a mere pipe dream.

All they had to do was cause a gap, if only for a moment, in the demons’ defenses. Then Alexander could slip through, enter the Blackheart, and destroy whatever artifact was anchoring the portal to their world.

“Hey.”

The knight turned to see Wurie walking up to him. The wolfman took a seat on the ground beside the knight, flashing him a nervous smile.

“Hey captain. What’s the matter?”

Wurie looked off into the distance as Alexander continued sharpening his blade. “I just...can hardly believe it, you know? That we’re so close.”

“It won’t be long now,” the knight answered.

“It’s been quite the journey.”

Alexander smiled. “Yeah. I think we’ve all learned things from this.”

“Really? I feel like you’ve been the one teaching ME here, sir knight!”

The man shook his head and sighed. “You should know better than that, Wurie.”

The wolfman frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Captain, when I first came here...I must admit that I didn’t feel the same way about you and the others then I do now.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well...I was raised surrounded by other humans. Not once had I even laid eyes upon another species, aside from Stilich, the doctor.”

“Stilich?”

“One of the shellbacks,” Alexander admitted, “Father hired him to take care of us...but that was the extent of my knowledge. He was one of a kind as far as I was concerned. When I joined the army, I was deployed at the northern border. There, was my first experience with the wolves...with your people, Wurie.”

The captain grimaced. “Not, uh...not a good impression,” he whispered, his voice reflecting pain.

“That’s an understatement. I thought your people were animals, barbarians, monsters...I had a similar view for many of the peoples of Geralthin. In truth, the edict didn’t rattle me as much as it probably should have...it meeting Sigvin to change my mind about a “universal evil”. Even then I thought he was the exception, but now...I see I was quite mistaken.”

“Sigvin?” Wurie’s brows furrowed. “Alexander, you said...Sigvin?”

“Yeah. We commissioned him as pathfinder, during one of our expeditions into tribal territory. We chatted at the camp. Told me all sorts of stories about him and his people. Really helped me understand the wolfmen more than I did.”

Wurie’s eyes were a near sliver now.

“What? What’s with that funny look?”

“Alexander...was...was Sigvin a bard?”

The knight was caught off guard by that one. “He...mentioned he wanted to become one...how on earth did you know that? Wurie, have you met him?”

The captain gave Alexander a serious look. “...follow me.”

He paused only to put his whetstone away and sheathe his sword before he hurried after Wurie. The implications behind this left only one possibility…

Turning past another group of tents, Wurie called out to a figure facing a firepit. “Sigvin!”

The person turned around, sitting on a small wooden stump. In a rather puffy, fanciful striped and dyed suit, was a familiar face. Sure, the clothes, quilled hat, and lute was a far cry to the rags he was wearing all those years ago, but Alexander recognized him all the same.

“Sigvin...you’ve got a friend here.”

The unarmored knight stepped forward, eyes widening. It wasn’t just a shared name. It was him. It was really him.

“Sigvin…?”

The wolfman bard frowned. “Err, I’m sorry. You might be…?”

“It’s me, remember?! It’s Alexander! From the war up north? The Pureclaws!”

The bard’s face scrunched up as he tried to recall those memories. In a moment, his eyes shot open. “A-Alexander?!”

“Yeah! It’s me!”

The wolfman jumped up excitedly and put his lute down. “Hoo boy...Alexander! How have you been, friend?!”

The knight laughed as Sigvin grabbed and shook his hand wildly. “Ah, you know! Pretty busy. How the hell did you end up all the way down here?!”

“I TOLD you I was gonna move to Geralthin! I even went to college! All was going according to plan when, uh...this all happened.”

“Right...you were kicked off with the rest of the exiled.”

“Mmhm. I must say, I saw you here before, but I never imagined the man under the armor would be you!”

Alexander shrugged. “Well, here I am regardless! God I can’t believe we’ve been so close all this time!”

“I’ve been...unable to be of much help,” Sigvin admitted with a sheepish smile. “I, uh...I’ve been hiding back here. Thinking, mostly.”

“Well, why didn’t you leave with the other citizens?”

“Because he wants to help!” Wurie said with a grin, “Isn’t that right, Sigvin?”

“Yessir!”

The knight tapped his foot, looking worried. “Ah, but...what are you planning on doing, than? Not joining the front line, I’d hope!”

“Oh goodness no. I’ve never been a warrior, you know that! I AM a bard, though. My music does more than you might expect. I hope to rally and inspire the real warriors when we attack!”

“You really have become what you’ve always wanted, huh?”

“That’s right!” Sigvin said with a grin, “My dreams are...well, they WERE coming true...but hopefully! Hopefully, after all this, I can finally get back on track!”

Wurie nodded. “You will. We’ll see to that, won’t we, Alexander!”

“Yes...we will. I must say Wurie, it’s good to see you looking up like this. You, uh...weren’t in high spirits, the last few times we spoke.”

“What can you do?” the captain asked with a shrug. “I’ve been seeing and hearing some awful things. It takes its toll, but...it’s almost over. We’re so close. If there’s a time to believe, it’s right now.”

Alexander smiled. Despite everything, even the most mournful seemed full of hope now.

“Hope is a powerful thing to have. We’ll see this through Wurie, I swear.”

The trio sat around the firepit, Alexander looking back at Sigvin. “So...got any songs planned for all of this?”

The bard smiled. “Ah, well I’ve got a few popular tunes, but generally I let the music take me where it goes.” His smile quickly turned into a frown. “I do have...one song in the works though. An...ode to your friend, Alexander. The red dragon. Hopefully, my song will travel across the land once this is over, and all will sing of his sacrifice. I figured such an individual deserves nothing less.”

Alexander’s face scrunched up. “Ah. I see...I’m sure he’d be proud.”

Sigvin nodded sadly. “Yeah. I think he would.”

…

“Hey…”

The holy man didn’t look up as he continued reflecting over the words of the scripture. “Yes?”

“I, uh...I’m going to go with them, you know!”

Andric frowned. The paladin opened his eyes and turned his gaze to Senci, visage firm.

“I would strongly advise against that.”

The kobold looked hurt by that. “Oh, come on, master! They’re counting on me to help them!”

“And I’m counting on you to make it through this in one piece.”

“I’ll make it through just fine! I can do it, you know I can! I was trained by the best, after all.”

“Senci…”

“I’ve make it this far, haven’t I?!”

Andric turned around, shifting from kneeling into a sitting position. The pair were inside a tent, taking stock of their inventory and preparing for the final battle.

“I just don’t want anything to happen. I heard about your little stint in the medical tent, you know.”

“But master-”

“What if that happens again?”

“Master Andric…”

“You nearly died, Senci! I cannot abide by this! If I were to let you leave my sight, you could-”

Something snapped inside of Senci, if only for a moment. For the first time since he could remember, he snapped at his mentor.

“I’m not a damned child anymore!”

Andric’s brows raised at the kobold’s shrill yell. He couldn’t remember the man ever being stricken silent like this, but these were exceptional circumstances.

The young warrior felt immense shame and regret almost immediately. He could feel the heat well up in his face and fear creep over him as he looked at his stunned father figure.

“I...I’m sorry…”

The paladin grimaced as he looked the other warrior over. The small lizard shifted uncomfortably, head lowered and eyes full of guilt. Like he was about to be lectured.

Andric sighed. “It’s...fine. I understand. I know this is important to you. I just...I came all this way to make sure you were alright, you know? If something happened, I…”

The man’s lips pursed. “...I don’t know what I’d do. Over a decade, Senci. For twelve years, I’ve been making sure you were okay. For twelve years, schooling and training you...”

“I...I know,” Senci said quietly, “B-but, master...you...you have to let me try! I’m a grown up now!”

Andric shot the kobold a guilty grin and scratched his beard. “Well, actually, you’re still a year away from being an adult at the moment…”

“T-that’s close enough!” Senci insisted. “Listen...I...I’m thankful for everything, really, I am. I’m so lucky I have you to train me...but eventually, you have to put that training to the test! Master...you must let me loose on our enemies! You’ve prepared me for this moment, and I must follow through now! I can’t be useless in this battle, I can’t let everyone down! I HAVE to help!”

Andric frowned and closed his eyes, reflecting on the kobold’s words. Eventually, he opened his eyes and moved forward, wrapping his arms around the young warrior.

“Senci...I know. I know I can’t stop you from doing this...and I understand how much this means to you. You can go.”

Smiling with wide eyes, Senci returned the hug, Andric patting him on the shoulder.

“I won’t let you down. I promise.”

“The only way you could do that, Senci, is if you didn’t come back...so make sure you do, alright?”

Senci grinned wide. “Yes sir!”

…

Razorwing pulled back on his bow, getting a feel for the tension. He sat on the ground beside the tent he had been staying in, his supplies laid out around him.

After this brief test of his bowstring, it seemed like all was in order. He had brought a few extra with him just in case it snapped, but there didn’t seem to be many issues. He’d been using this one for about a year, but he was very fussy about maintenance, so everything still worked as intended.

“Is that the great hero Razorwing, playing around with an unloaded bow?”

The bird turned his head towards the source. Of course, there was no mistaking that voice, despite the additional cheer it seemed to be carrying today.

“You work with crossbows. You know full well the need to test and maintain.”

The human sat down beside him. Despite the mask, his eyes made his amusement clear.

“Obviously. I’m messing with you, dope.”

The koutu shot him a cocky grin. “You sure? You know, if you don’t know about weapon upkeep, I could teach you.”

“Yeah yeah, alright, ya dumb bird.” A light punch to the shoulder made the hero chuckle.

Paul took out one of his own crossbows and looked it over. It was a fair bit smaller than the ones the armies used, seeing as this was made with the ability to hold and fire with one hand. Still, it had enough force behind it, and the bolts were large enough to still be deadly. The downside was that without the heft of the larger models, punching through armor proved...problematic.

Not that this was generally a problem for Paul. As a bounty hunter, he generally worked to end combat before it began. He’d become a good enough shot and a quiet enough sneak to hit targets in their weak spots, while they were unexpecting.

“Hard to believe it’s almost over huh?” the human mused.

“Yes...quite remarkable. We’ve come quite a far way, we have.” Razorwing put his bow down and grabbed his quiver, beginning to examine his arrows.

“It’s been rough. The close scrapes, the demons...listening to you blabber on about nonsense,” Paul said with a laugh.

“Oh? You got pretty mad when I stopped ‘blabbering’ though, didn’t you?”

The bounty hunter looked away as the koutu grinned like mad. “Well...you know how it is...the silence in this hellhole is maddening. Any voice is a relief...no matter how dumb what they’re saying is.”

The archer raised a brow. “Oh ho! I see! So what you’re saying is I’m just a voice to you, huh? Just a distraction? Just something any other person could have been?”

“T-that’s not what I meant!”

The hero put a winged arm around the human’s shoulders. Shooting him a grin, he leaned in. “Don’t worry! I’m just...what was it you said? ‘Messing with you, dope’?”

Paul groaned, which drew another laugh from Razorwing.

“Seriously, though. You and I, friend...we’ll go far, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean by that?” with the birdman’s wing still wrapped around him, he looked over questioningly.

“You remember how well we worked in the streets. How long we spent without the luxury of a team, or any support. Just the two of us, against the demons. The scouting we did for each other...we make a perfect duo, don’t you think?”

Paul looked away, sighing. “We, uh...you’re right, but...I don’t know.”

“Aw, come on, pal! No one can beat a team like us!”

“I know,” Paul admitted, “We make an excellent team. Still...I don’t know if I’ll...be doing this in the future.”

Razorwing frowned. “Huh? What’s...what’s that mean?”

“Look. You’re a famous hero. You fight monsters, and lead parades, and have songs sung of you...and I’m a shadow. No one besides you knows my identity. I stalk the shadows. I slit the throats of thieves and killers. I hide from the fame that comes with the work I do. I’ve built a reputation as an ender of lives...despite no one knowing who I am.”

The hero gave him a funny look. “You’re saying we’re incompatible?”

“Well, that’s one part of it-”

He was cut short by Razorwing squeezing him, tightening his arm’s grip around the man.

“Come on, Crux! We’ve been through enough to know that’s nonsense!”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Argh. You wanna let me breathe, bird?”

“Very well.” Razorwing let go of him, the pair sitting beside one another once more.

“Hah. Well, besides that...I have an identity to keep concealed. We were able to do that AND work together because, well...we’re in a fog-covered city cut off from the outside world. If we started working together once this is over...I fear your renown, and the attention you draw would...make my secret impossible to keep.”

It seemed to finally dawn on the hero, now. His gaze softened, turning into a saddened, wincing visage.

“Ah. I...I see. You...we can’t...be friends anymore.”

There was a lengthy, uncomfortable pause. Both of them had their heads down, unable to look the other in the eye.

Paul’s voice caught Razorwing off guard.

“You know...you’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

The archer blinked, eye widening. “Paul…?”

“I, uh...I made an effort to keep my distance from everyone...just so something like this wouldn’t happen.”

The human looked over at Razorwing. The koutu’s head hung low, looking defeated.

“I...there must be something we can do…”

Paul crossed his arms, his weapons checking long forgotten. “Is there...some place you go to all the time? I don’t know if I could leave a paper trail to keep in touch, but if we happened to be around the same places…”

Razorwing smirked. “I’m all over the place. The parades and plays and, well, you know.”

“Of course.”

“Well, my estate’s always open to you. Hey, maybe you could come over sometime and meet Eignach!” “Eignach…?”

The koutu looked surprised. “Oh, I didn’t tell you? We’re...together.” There was a short pause before Razorwing continued hurriedly. “Err, that’s uh, why I wanted to tell you, by the way, that I’m spoken for. I didn’t mean to...hit on you. I-I don’t drink, so, uhh...I wasn’t thinking clearly. My apologies.”

“Don’t worry about it...lightweight.” Paul was grinning. The way the fabric around his mouth was stretching gave it away.

“Well EXCUSE me for practicing a bit of clean living!” the hero laughed and shook his head. “Well, at any rate, we’ve been together for...not too long. We were just friends at first. Poor fellow was expelled from the kingdom during the exile. He grew up in Geralthin. He may be one of my people in body, but culturally, he was a human. Our homeland was alien and frightening to him. I took him in, seeing as he lost his home and...the rest is history.”

“A bird frightened of his own flock…” Paul pulled out his dagger and inspected it for any nicks and scratches.

“I suppose! He’s adapted well, though. You know he was a fan of mine? He was absolutely starstruck when we met. Even fainted and everything!”

“Everyone has a hero to look up to, I guess. You happened to be his.”

“That’s right.”

Razorwing turned to look at the human, still running his hand along his dagger.

“Hey, Paul?”

“Yeah?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation. “Whatever happens out there...we’re a team, alright? I’ve got your back.”

Paul lowered his dagger, turning to look at the archer. His eyes ran over the other man, taking him in.

“And I’ve got yours.” He held a gloved hand out to the koutu, who took it without hesitation. The pair shook.

“Domnall...it’s been a pleasure. Let’s cast these beasts back to the deepest pits of hell.”

Razorwing radiated confidence as he sat up straight. “Hah! The armies of hell themselves will learn to fear our names!”

Paul nodded, a smirk etched in his mask. “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s you and I give em’ something to call hell...bird.”

…

“Looks like everything’s ready.”

“Just about.”

The man and woman were sitting inside a small tent, just the two of them and their supplies. The man was sitting idle, while the woman was chewing on a piece of jerky. He looked at her with a near unreadable expression.

“Hungry?” she asked in between bites. He shook his head.

“Not a fan of jerky?”

He shook his head again. “I don’t care what I eat, Leianna. I’m just not hungry right now.”

The cleric shrugged, still chewing. “Suit yourself.” Taking another bite, she looked off to the side in thought. “Man, all they’ve got left around here is cheese and jerky.”

“Not much else can last months without spoiling,” Lexius noted.

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Food’s food, and cheese and jerky are damn fine.”

Lexius sighed. The priest looked sullen and out of it. Leianna noticed this, and gave him a questioning look.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just...I wish I could have...been of more use.”

“How so?”

The man held his hands out. “I...I was poor support on the field. I’m an awful combatant. I spent half my time here bedridden. I failed to come prepared. I...I even...Leianna, if I had been with you when we split into two groups...perhaps Basilrin’s brother and Tourthun would be-”

“Hey. Monk boy.” Leianna gave him a firm glare, as if chastising him. “Listen to me, you fool. You came here of your own volition. You waltzed into a hellhole full of the darkest beings the world can offer with scrappy armor, a chipped iron blade and a tiny wooden shield. You never trained for combat. You healed a goddamned DRAGON, Lexius.”

He was about to respond, but Leianna put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. “You kicked ass out here. No one expected some guy from a church to make it this far, but here you are.”

The priest lowered his head and laughed. Leianna raised a brow. “Err...Lexius?”

“Heh...yeah, I guess you’re right. No use in feeling sorry for myself. I did what I could. That’s...all you can really do.”

“Hey, that’s the spirit!” Leianna grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Look, I’ve got plenty of things I wish I’d done differently too, but there’s no turning back the clock. You live with what you do, and you do the best you can.”

Lexius looked up at the cleric hopefully. “Sister Leianna...could you join me in prayer?”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” She shoved the rest of the jerky in her mouth, chewing loudly as she rushed to finish her meal.

Lexius took out his cross, from under his armor. The small, wooden symbol appeared hand-carved by him, if its quality was any indication.

Leianna wiped her mouth and took out her own, pulling it from a pouch. The handheld crosses were more good luck charms than anything, not blessed or magical in any way. It was a simple reminder of God, carried on each church member’s person to serve as a constant source of hope and faith.

Lexius bowed his head, cross clutched underneath his hand and held onto by both hands. Leianna followed the gesture.

“Through God and the intercession of Saint Martin, we stand firm against the work of the enemy,” Lexius said, his voice low and clear.

“We thought we may have died and been sent to the underworld for our transgressions, for we are surrounded by grinning faces of demons,” Leianna continued. The pair continued to alternate between each line.

“Even in death, even in the underworld, despite our true odds, we will never waver. Such is the burden of the faithful.”

Lexius’ eyes were squeezed tight as he brought the prayer to a close. “Guide us now, for we do the bidding of the Lord, our God. Allow us to fulfill our duty, no matter the cost. No matter the cost…”

“Amen.”

Despite having reached the end, Lexius did not rise as Leianna had.

“No matter the cost…”

The cleric looked at the priest with a notable degree of concern. “Lexius…?”

“No matter the cost…”

…

“This catastrophe was man-made! I’ve seen it for myself!” Charles stood among a group of humans, the first few militiamen who had answered the call. Several of them, in their light uniforms of cloth and wielding simple weapons, leered at him in disdain.

Though Alexander and the others had been through enough with the magician to trust him, but as he had always been told, the common folk saw him as little more than a monstrous chimera.

“What the hell do you know?!” one of the levies shouted, eliciting cries of agreement throughout the crowd.

“I recovered documents from the college! One of the wizards said himself that he did it!”

“Oh yeah?! Where’s your proof?”

Charles frowned. “I gave them to my friend, the professor. He left with the rest of the citizens in the evacuation.”

“How awfully convenient,” one of the men mused. A few voice called out in agreement once more.

“Whatever!” the dragonoid cried, throwing his hands up, “I don’t care if you believe me or not! The truth will come out on its own!”

“Yeah right. I bet YOU did it!”

“M-me?!” Charles reeled back, “Why would I do that?!”

“It’s in your blood!” Cheers erupted through the crowd at those words, the magician clutching at his shoulders defensively.

“T-that’s not true. I make my own path...my origins do not determine my future…”

“Yeah, right! Say, if you’re one of them...I wonder if you’ve got any secrets you’re hiding…?”

A few men stepped forward, their stances clearly hostile. Their eyes glinted with malicious intent, and their grin were anything but friendly.

“W-what’s this?!” Charles shouted, shaken. He backed up, nervous about where this was going.

“Why are you wearing that?” one of the men asked, reaching out for his wizard hat. Though he grabbed it, Charles threw his arm away, clutching onto the hat possessively.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch my things! They aren’t yours!”

The man smirked. “Are you hiding something under there, beast?”

Their approach quickened, even as the dragonoid began backpedaling.

“L-leave me alone! Stop it!”

“Show us what you’re hiding!” Several shouts rang out through the Citadel. Some from the mob of soldiers, some from citizens around the camp that saw what was happening.

Charles, focused on the approaching men, failed to notice a rock behind him. His foot slipped as he tripped over it, falling to the ground on his back. He sat up, and just as it looked like the mob was about to descend on him…

“That’s ENOUGH!”

Blinking, the fallen dragonoid looked over to the source of the bellowing voice. Sure enough, the knight was stomping over, though not in his armor. Still, he had his sword on his hip, and looked suitably authoritative enough anyway. Behind him, a few others followed, most notably Wurie.

“Causing trouble, are we?”

The knight’s demeanor seemed to shake the mob of levies out of it, many quickly backing away from Charles.

“W-we were just-”

“Harassing the people you were sent to help? Yeah, I noticed. What’s next? Gonna mug a few of the wolves? Attack the birds?”

“No,” a single voice answered meekly. The knight scowled at the group.

“Which one of you imbeciles is in command here?” He demanded. A lone soldier answered.

“Captain Howard, sir. He’s outside.”

Alexander stepped forward and grabbed the man by the neck, pulling him close. The others gasped, but didn’t interfere.

“Tell your captain to get his men under control,” he growled, voice dripping with venomous hostility, “NOW.”

“Y-yessir,” he squeaked, stumbling backwards as Alexander released him.

“Crawl on out of here, all of you. You’re not welcome.”

As the group turned to leave back through the sewers, the knight called out one last time.

“If I catch you attacking any more citizens, you’ll be hanging from his majesty’s gallows for treason!”

As the group fled, Alexander turned to Charles, still sitting on the ground. He quickly extended a hand. “You all right?”

“I-I think so.” the magician grabbed the man’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet with a grunt.

“Ah...thank you, Alexander.”

“Don’t worry about it. The nerve…!”

Charles smiled as he dusted himself off. “I’m thankful to have friends in such affluent stations…”

The knight grimaced. “I don’t like throwing my weight around, but in these situations I hardly have a choice.”

“What in the world was that?” Wurie asked, “They were like...common rabble! Like the thugs whose fights I had to break up back in the day!”

“That’s what happens with the army,” Alexander noted. He frowned as he looked over to the exit, hands on his hips.

“These aren’t elite soldiers of the king. These aren’t contractors or professionals. These are levies, militia and common folk. They don’t have the discipline a lifer has. Force them to stay on duty without an enemy to fight, and eventually they’ll starting picking their own fights.”

Wurie tilted his head. “Sounds like you’ve dealt with this before.”

“Comes with the territory. Command enough armies and you know the best and worst of it inside and out.”

“Still...unacceptable,” muttered Wurie. He looked deeply wounded by the proceedings.

“Captain? You okay?”

The wolfman shook his head. “It’s...nothing. Just remembering the exile.”

“Similar treatment?”

“Very.”

Alexander crossed his arms. “Things are going to change around here. I don’t know how, but they will.”

Wurie smiled despite himself. “I...appreciate the optimism. I would say I don’t believe it but...I already said that about you saving our people. I fear I’d be eating my words yet again if I said such a thing!”

The knight shrugged, a small smile at the corner of his lips. “Guess we’ll just have to see, huh? So how about…”

A shadow taking up the entire middle of the camp cause him to trail off. While the twilight wasn’t much, it was noticeable now that it was gone.

He barely had a moment to look up before a green dragon dropped down the hole and into the Citadel. Basilrin.

“They are here! The king’s men are here!”

There was a lengthy silence as the crowd looked at one another. A few citizens walked over at the dragon’s call, including the others that had been journeying together with Alexander all this time.

Looking back, the knight gave them a nod. At last, the end was here. Alexander closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“It’s time.”

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slewfirst-blog · 6 years ago

Note

hc + family legacy

send me ‘ hc ‘ + a word and i’ll write a headcanon about it regarding my character.

THE BELMONT LEGACY ft. TREVOR BELMONT .

While I tend to follow the canon timeline, if there’s one thing I will always take away from the Netflixvania Adaptation is that Trevor Belmont is always the lone Belmont heir / survivor .

I felt it added a richness to his character and while a lot of his designs denote a very tough-as-hell person, rough around the edges - it benefits for him to be given in one story outside that time-line, a very, very, very rough past and I keep that, because we know little of his background save he was a noble like every Belmont generally, and that the Church hired him in their time of need to slay Dracula despite fearing his family’s powers. If anything, I can’t think of anything more brutal in that series than what was done to the Belmonts . It’s subtle and not talked of often but Trevor literally embodies it . It’s in how guarded he talks; how stoic and unreadable he appears; how quick he is to flinch at any measure of affection .

In the main time-line, and really every game / story the heart of Castlevania’s plot is there is a Belmont, the Belmont has the consecrated Vampire Killer, the only weapon that can defeat Dracula and kill holy god like beings / and all creatures of darkness - thus, making them the guardians of humanity. The Belmont scales the Vampire’s Castle. The Belmont destroys Dracula, and he’s revived as long as evil exists - and so the task is never finished. It’s a literal eternal war that makes the Belmonts invaluable and must be preserved.

So where does a young twelve year old Trevor Belmont fit in? As a child, he grew up on tales of Leon Belmont, how he faced the Grim Reaper himself and wounded him with the whip that was made from his true love.

It fascinated and filled him with awe.Surrounded by loving parents, harsh but strict, raised in the faith of his mother who still clung to the ‘real’ God and not the Church that excommunicated them - Trevor thrived as the oldest Belmont along with his baby sister, Helene - who did not have to bear the heavy mantle of destiny that fell upon Trevor should his Father, Auguste, fail or even Lisette, his Mother.

Both valid hunters in their own right. Tradition and honor were quickly ingrained in him at a young age - as was compassion for those that were less fortunate because back then they were upper class nobles with a castle and a hold - and lands, servants, etc . They were literally light embodied in people, from the old to the young, and as expected of Belmonts, unparalleled warriors - training their youngest Son with the Vampire Killer.

Trevor grew up on tales of how to kill vampires, how to slay ghouls, wicked faeries, all creatures which might haunt Romania, a home that was not even native to them - France was . He wore his crest proudly on his back; and took to training with a natural ease and quick-to-learn skill that made his Father especially proud, and someone he strove to emulate as much as he wanted to become a fraction of the man Leon Belmont was .

He wanted to become his own warrior, and at an early age his eerily adept talent was keen - from hunting and hawking; horse-riding; what scarce time he had for tutors, he was a very serious, but loving boy with a huge capacity of ingrained integrity and heroism - as you’d expect from his Lineage . He didn’t think his legacy was a burden, his family was called to safeguard the world from any evil; and that filled him with pride and purpose. He’d prank his sister, sneak a piece of bread from the table, trick a tutor once or twice, get the scolding of a lifetime; all the while even immobilizing his own Father at eleven with an especially quick and cunning move he’d make on the fly with sheer natural talent - establishing his later strategist skills on the battlefield and his mission and his sheer skill as a prowess. Granted he didn’t often sneak up on Auguste, but he did it enough that it had his Father grinning with pride and wonder at what his son would become.

( He’d never live to see it or his greatness. )

It was a place of light and goodness - a place Trevor eagerly awaited the day he’d be able to visit the Hold and learn even more, learn ways to protect the people on their lands, the people who hadn’t yet scorned them, in the early stages before the unthinkable and unspeakable happened.

And it did.

His family died suffocating either inside the Castle leaving him to be forced to see nieces and nephews own corpses, grandparents and uncles, aunts and cousins - but the majority were set on stakes, among them, his then seven year old sister Helene, along with his Father and Mother, who even in death were reaching out to each other with their flesh-tearing away hands. Most were not spared a suffocation - they died burning alive, like Lisa but multiplied by near twenties in numbers. They didn’t die, they were slaughtered, erased, culled, massacred.

And Trevor watched every second until every beloved face became a torn away skeleton that he couldn’t even bury because everything, everything he loved he had lost in a split of a second . At twelve, before Dracula ever planned his great war once more on humanity, Trevor’s world had already been eradicated - and in a sense, it was a complete massacre, even dying his family faced their murderers unflinchingly like Belmonts; fire in their eyes and no regret no remorse; no hatred for the people they had been put on the earth to save from any and all evil. The world’s saving light died that day - save for one, and most of him was as much of scattered ash as the family he couldn’t even honor in a monument.

Around his early twenties; Trevor struggles with an unwavering sense of purpose to hold to the light - despite holding bitterness just as much. He lives in a world where existing is a crime, and food often went without for days, as went sleep, as went comfort - as went kindness until literally forgot what it meant to be loved by others in any small goodness - every town spit at him, unaware that his was the Legacy of the very family that would deliver them from Dracula . He feels above all, that his parents, Uncles, Aunts, anyone but him should have survived - saying he has survivor’s guilt is an understatement and his pain can’t even be put into words, there isn’t a word for it.

He carries the legacy with desperate pride and purpose, and knows even more now, in agony, how even for all the hatred of the world he bears on his shoulders, he still bears a hateful world to save . He carries generations of good and honorable men and women who fought for light and salvation for all, not one race or creed, not any denomination or background or orientation . They fought because it was right - they fought because they had the power that made it critical for them to not stand idly by - because it is their duty to fight Dracula and the night, and anything else that stands in their way.

So for how broken Trevor truly is, how much he wishes he at times could close his eyes and see not burnt away faces but the smiling thrall of his family; the mayhem and the diligence - he can’t. He can’t go back. He can’t play with his dogs, his cats, his hawks. He can’t train with his Father or pray with his Mother, he can’t kiss his sister’s hair anymore, get his hair ruffled by his uncles and aunts, dote on his grandparents, kiss his cousins and carry newborn babies of his relatives offspring - all he can do is carry the mantle that has existed since Leon Belmont’s day - and carry on, even if the world never thanks him, it is still his duty as a Belmont, to carry out the task only they can fulfill. And so it’s with pride and restrained bitterness that Trevor continues on, only hiding his crest to gain information - but mostly bearing it proudly, in a wild sort of grief. A brokenness, a bottomless well of sorrow and pain that will never mend.

Somehow, the ingrained goodness he held as a child remains, mainly due to his relatives and parents, and so he isn’t a bitter, spit on corpses type of person - but a noble man, as they wanted of him - as confident as he is in his skills, his greatest fear likely is letting his entire clan down. Whether it’s failing to kill Dracula with the infamous Master Sword Vampire Killer or dishonoring their name, he would do anything secretly in his heart to ask his charred, not even bones left to remember them by family at the end of his quest:

‘Did I do us proud? Did you watch from heaven? Someone tell me I’ve done enough but no one is left to tell me anymore. ‘

Are you watching me? ‘ So for all they tried to do is break and emotionally kill Trevor, which, on a fair level they did, the legacy after the Belmont Massacre remains like a kindling fire in the surviving heir - and he can’t shake the cause or the calling, whether he wanted to drown in his pain or not, Trevor chooses to go forward, even if it’s visually limping from being half-buried with them.

He’ll carry them on forever, and instill that same light in the Belmonts who follow after him that take up the cause .

#gildedhusband #yeah they divide the belmont's into each dracula killing belmont's era #trevor being first is 'trevor's era'#first belmont leon is 'leon's era'#SAD SHIT BUT I HOPE U LIKED IT??? THANK U FOR SENDING ME THIS #I CRY ABOUT MY BELMONTS ERRYDAY #✞ ANALYSIS: The past is past; the future is yet unwritten; and he is far from being a finished legend; there are pages that must be told.#✞ANSWER: ‘Are you doing being sassy?’ ‘No.’#honestly it was the saddest thing in the show for me and i'll fight tbh

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secretlystephaniebrown · 7 years ago

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Letters To No One: 5/6

Summary: Lucretia writes letters that she can never send over the years.

Beginning

Also on Ao3

Lucretia pulls the Bulwark Staff out of the sea.

It whispers in her ear—promises of invincibility, of protection. It’s full of the magic of abjuration—it is the subtlest of the schools, lacking in flash and glamour in the way the others have.

She would never say it was harmless—none of the Relics could be called that. But she does think it’s… gentler, than the others. But in some ways, that makes it more insidious. It does not offer raw power, or wealth, or an army. In many ways, it speaks to the kindest of souls, or the timidest. It offers them defense, it offers them protection. And then, like all the Relics, it brings destruction.

She wraps her fingers around it, shoving aside her creation’s attempt to enthrall her. “None of that,” she says. She raises it into the air, and tries to call up the shield.

But it’s not strong enough, despite the power flowing through her veins. It only carries one-seventh of the light. It needs the full thing to do what she needs to do.

Abjuration is the school of protection—Magnus, she thinks, would have chosen it, had he taken to wizardry. In the past, she’d used her powers to protect her family.

Now, she will protect the entire plane.

She wraps mage armor around herself, bolstered by the staff. She closes her eyes and breathes.

She can do this.

Magnus,

Fisher misses you. They sing every day, playing with the wooden ducks. One of my recruits, a bard named Johann, is the only one who can calm them down, by playing music for them.

I don’t think Fisher understands why you haven’t come back. Or why Davenport is different. Their mind is so different than ours… I’ve tried to explain, I have. I’ve told him you’re happy. You’ve got a shop now, I hear. The Hammer and Tongs. It’s odd to hear you referred to as an apprentice, but I suppose you must re-learn all those years of skills.

-L

Every breath she takes hurts. The last game broke her ribs, and she has no spells that could heal her. Barry had, one cycle, followed Merle around, ad then joined a local temple, becoming a cleric, to help Merle with healing. Lucretia should have done the same; even though a life of faith is not for her. But healing spells would certainly be useful, right now.

She leans against a tree, wiping blood away from the corner of her mouth. She needs to get out of the Wilds, to a cleric or a temple or… something. She has to make it out of here, otherwise she’d have abandoned Cam for nothing. She will need to set up contingencies, when she gets back. Tie her wards to her death, so Barry can find Fisher. Leave a letter for Maureen to find, explaining, listing her friends’ locations, because only Lucretia can cast the barrier spell, so her plan goes to ashes if she dies.

She can’t do this again. At least not until she’s stronger. She’ll need to be more careful. Hire people to hunt the relics for her. And save Wonderland until last, because she can’t send anyone in there until they’re ready.

Magnus,

A rebellion? Really?

I don’t know why I’m surprised; I’ve seen you rail against injustice in far too many worlds. But I suppose I had hoped I’d managed to find you a place where you wouldn’t need to protect people.

Good luck Magnus. Fight well.

-L

Lucretia carves sigils and wards into the foundations of the base which will one day become the Moon Base. She is still an arcanist, despite her own wariness of those skills. She protects them from scrying, sets down powerful wards against teleportation, and everything else she can think of.

It takes weeks, expending her spellslots, until she’s satisfied. She crafts glass spheres to travel in and bracers. She makes a grand tank for Fisher and puts a glamour over the portrait of her family, which she hangs in her office.

When Maureen visits, she whistles, looking at the work that Lucretia has done.

“You’re a lot more powerful than you let on, aren’t you?”

Lucretia smooths down the elaborate folds of her robes. She wasn’t that powerful, not really; she had nothing on Lup or Barry or Taako or Davenport. She was good at what she did, but she was just an abjuration specialist. She was simply making a base that was meant to survive, to protect its inhabitants. She thinks that Magnus would have approved. “I survived this long, haven’t I?”

Maureen doesn’t quite realize how impressive that is. She could know—she’s the only person who could, inoculated as she is.

But Lucretia fears what Maureen would think of her—she disliked Lucretia leaving Cam in Wonderland already. Surely, she would leave if she knew what Lucretia did to her own family.

So Lucretia says nothing and listens to Maureen speaking about her plans for anti-gravity.

Magnus,

I sent one of my agents through Raven’s Roost. I promise, I don’t spy on you too often, but there was a rumor of the Oculus in the area.

I wonder what poor Robbie thought of me dropping my cup when he mentioned the marriage of one Magnus Burnsides to a woman named Julia.

A wife. I honestly don’t know what to say. Congratulations, I suppose. I wish I could have been there. But then again, I suppose you might wonder who that old lady was, standing on the edge of the crowd.

I wonder what kind of woman your Julia is; surely, she is wonderful, and I hope she makes you happy. I hope she makes you so, so happy. You’ve earned this, Magnus. Your happy ending.

-L

For Magnus’ wedding, she arranges for a beautiful rosewood tree to grow and then collapse near Raven’s Roost—a good tree for him to carve, she thinks. She’s seen the way that Magnus has gone out of his way to collect good wood for his work, in the past. And now, he is a carpenter. Not a wandering star-traveler, not a man who throws himself recklessly into the path of danger, knowing he’ll be back a year later.

He’s a carpenter and a husband, nothing more.

And he’s so, so happy.

Magnus,

I heard about Raven’s Roost

I heard about Julia

I heard

I’m sorry

Magnus,

I went to the grave today.

It was foolish and sentimental, maybe. Certainly, Maureen has been giving me strange looks all day. You were already gone, of course. I’ve heard you’re in Neverwinter, finding work as a sell-sword.

But I went to the grave.

It’s beautiful, Magnus. The flowers you carved are beautiful. I used a few spell slots to enchant them, to protect them against wear and weathering.

I’d promised myself not to interfere in your lives. But I don’t want you to be alone. Merle is also in Neverwinter now, preaching the word of Pan on the streets, and adventuring on the side. I should be able to arrange a job for the two of you.

It won’t be much, but it will be something.

-L

Magnus’ skill as a carpenter has only grown. The flowers he’s carved for his Julia’s grave are breathtaking. She touches the petals and appreciates the polish, the grain. She sketches them twice, once for her journal, once more for her letter to Magnus.

She sinks spells into the grave, into the flowers, into the headstone. No grave robber will disturb Julia Waxmen-Burnside’s grave. The weather will not wear down the stone or the flowers.

Magnus will blame himself for not being able to protect Julia. The least Lucretia can do is to protect the grave.

Maureen pours her a glass of wine when she gets back. “How many spellslots did you use?” She asks, her mouth a disapproving line. She knows better than to ask what Lucretia had been doing. She’d seen the look on Lucretia’s face when she’d left.

Lucretia sighs. “One of my old allies from the Relic Wars needed my help.”

“You erased yourself. They wouldn’t know who you are,” Maureen points out.

“That didn’t matter,” Lucretia drinks her wine, and watches as Davenport sits in a window, staring up at the stars with wonder in his eyes.

Magnus,

Somehow, you two found Taako. Of course you did. You always manage to amaze me.

Do be careful out there.

-L

Lucas tells her that Maureen is dead over the sending stone and Lucretia feels herself go cold.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Lucas,” she says automatically, bottling up her own grief. What does her grief matter, in the face of his loss? Never mind that she wants to demand how this could have happened, never mind that she wants to crack right down the middle like a stone. Could she have saved Maureen, if she’d been there?

She’s just lost the oldest friend she still has. The person who’s known her the longest.

She turns to Davenport, who looks sad at the loss. She hangs up the sending

Lucretia hugs him tightly, even though she knows it’s not him, not really, and she weeps.

Magnus,

I wish you could have been here to see this.

Fisher had a baby.

It’s beautiful, Magnus, they’re so beautiful.

And it might just be the solution to the dilemma that I’ve been facing.

Maybe I’ll see you soon.

-L

Lucretia watches Fisher and the baby swim in their tank.

“They’re beautiful,” Johann says.

Lucretia thinks about the cave full of Voidfish, and about Magnus leading her into that cave, and the pure joy he’d carried with him.

The baby is smaller than Junior had been, even then.

She touches the tank, and they both sing.

An ancient carved wooden duck sits at the bottom of the tank, waiting to be played with.

“They are,” she agrees.

Magnus,

I don’t know how to do this.

Did I make a mistake?

One of my people got their hands on the Philosopher’s Stone yesterday. They turned an entire forest to diamond. Boyland, Carey, and Killian put him down, but in the process, the stone was lost. One of my best Reclaimers, dead.

No one can resist the thrall of the Relics, it seems.

I’m running out of options. Barry hasn’t been seen in far too long, Lup is still in the wind, and Davenport is unable to go on missions. I need you. All of you.

I… I’m afraid I might have made a mistake.

If I inoculate you… you wouldn’t help me. You’d all made that clear. You won’t listen to me.

But I might not have a choice.

I miss you. All of you. I think Fisher misses you too—they’ve been throwing their ducks around the tank in a fit for a week now, singing loudly. Johann has no idea what to make of it.

I need to do this, Magnus. The Gaia Sash resurfaced last week, and a dozen people died in the resulting hurricane. It was lost at sea, but it will wash ashore somewhere. Our relics have caused nothing but death and destruction.

We once promised we wouldn’t sacrifice lives for a cheap victory, but look at the damage we have unleashed on this world! One of my projects for the Bureau has been to compile a list of those who have died either fighting for the artifacts or were killed by them. It’s… a very long list, Magnus. It’s less now that the wars have stopped, but every now and then, one of them comes back to haunt us. The Sash, the Stone, and the Oculus are the most common: The Bell is safely in Wonderland, you hid your Chalice well, the Gauntlet vanished with Lup, and well… my Staff remains with me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m enthralled by the staff I am determined to stop this. The shield will work. It must.

-L

Lucretia stands in front of her friends. Magnus looks so old, she thinks: he’s covered in scars, and he looks battered and aged. He’s no longer the fresh-faced boy with a black eye that she’s seen a thousand times.

Somehow, she realizes, staring at him in wonder, he’s aged in a way that goes beyond what a hundred years had managed to do.

He’s changed and that terrifies her.

She welcomes them to the Bureau of Balance, pretending it isn’t breaking her heart.

Magnus,

Seeing you in front of Fisher again…

I’m so sorry

Fisher won’t sing when I’m in the room anymore.

It is so good to have you here. You fight… differently. It’s like looking back in time, watching you all fight. I hadn’t quite realized how much of your skills you’d have lost. I’ll have to put off sending you to Wonderland, even if it is the only Relic that we know the exact location of.

Davenport has been in a strange mood lately. I wonder if he knows that something is about to happen…

-L

Lucretia hates their blank looks. She hates the way that she’s a stranger to them. It’s her own fault, she knows, but she hates it She wants to fall to her knees and weep.

They’re here, and they don’t know her, and the gaping hole in her heart screams in pain anew, all the worse for ten years of festering in isolation and their suffering.

She sets her expression to serene and dignified and shoves down her hurt. One last grand lie, one last great wrong to inflict upon her family, all in the name of saving the world.

Magnus,

You realize the dogs will literally run off the moon, right? Please stop trying to smuggle chihuahuas in your armor.

-L

She watches as they flourish, here at the Bureau. They torment Leon, they befriend Carey and Killian, they get drunk with Avi, and it makes her smile, in a way she can never let them see.

Magnus,

Carey showed me the duck you carved for Killian today. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe it.

No one else remembers the ducks, now. I gave those memories to Junior; I was afraid that Johann might make a connection. Fisher was furious at me for taking their ducks, but I gave them to Junior and told them this, which seemed to calm them down a little.

-L

Lucretia loves them all, she really does.

However, it seems that absence makes the heart forget the absolute scale of the chaos that her friends are capable of causing.

When Lucretia walks out of her office one morning to see that Magnus has set up a picket line with the demand of “dogs on the moon,” she nearly breaks down laughing.

Magnus,

No dogs on the moon.

-L

Lucretia learns that Magnus has taken a level in rogue.

She has to stop to think about that.

The end result has her burying her face in her desk as she realizes that Magnus Burnsides now knows how to pick locks.

If he ever remembers who she is, she will lose every prank war for the rest of her life.

Magnus,

Why are the three of you so determined to be mean to Angus? Honestly, he’s a bright, brilliant boy, and he looks up to all of you. I know you’re goofing, but he’s a child, no matter how brilliant he is. He looks up to you.

-L

Angus McDonald is an unexpected gift. He can fill in the holes in the narrative, put it all together and find locations and details that none of her seekers ever have put together.

He found them while being inoculated. His is a mind that Lucretia has never seen the likes of.

Lucretia smiles at him, and thanks him for the work he’s done.

Magnus,

I found a duck in Fisher’s tank today.

It took everything I had not to cry in front of Johann.

I’m glad the two of you are becoming close again—I should have known that you wouldn’t let that stop you. You never would. Your family is your family, no matter where you find them.

Maybe that’s why the three of you didn’t run when you met Barry in the lab. Maybe some part of you knew him, and even all my warnings couldn’t dissuade your instincts, honed over that century, to trust Barry Bluejeans.

Fisher is happier, now that you’re visiting more often. They’re playing with the duck like they used to. Johann says they’re singing more lately as well. I’m glad.

-L

Lucretia thinks that they’re ready.

Or, at least, as ready as they can ever be.

They’re running out of time: the Hunger’s been scouting and she’s been counting the days. The Animus Bell is the last one left, and she needs it to complete her spell, she needs it to solve all of this.

She thinks about Wonderland and goes cold.

She just hopes she’s prepared them enough for what’s next.

Magnus,

I take everything back, I should never have sent you to Wonderland

I should have gone myself

What have I done?

I shouldn’t even be writing this. The Bell is here. I can finish this.

But I owe you this much, Magnus.

Farewell old friend. I hope you find happiness on the Astral Plane.

-Lucretia

Magnus tells her about Cam, and it’s like something Lucretia hadn’t even realized was intact shatters.

She cries. She knew what she had done, but she had been sure he was long dead. It’s been ten years. Lich magic was clearly more powerful than she had realized, if they could keep him alive as a head. She puts her head in her hands and feels the tears fall down her face, hot and heavy and itchy and exhausting. She’d barely been able to manage a few short rests since the Hunger, and exhaustion is warring at her.

“I’m leaving,” Magnus tells her, once she’s done crying for a man she has no right to mourn.

Lucretia’s fingers tighten in her robes. She doesn’t let her hurt show on her face. Magnus is the only one of the IPRE crew still on the moon. She’s known he wouldn’t stay, not forever, but it still hurts.

“Where to?” She asks. “Raven’s Roost?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m... it’s time to go home. Put new flowers on Julia’s grave. I’m sure the ones I carved for her are gone by now.”

“They should be fine,” Lucretia says, before realizing her slip.

Magnus stares at her.

Lucretia shifts in her seat, carefully unclenching her fingers from her robe so she can fold them on her desk. “After I… heard, I went down to Raven’s Roost to investigate. I saw them and… I enchanted them.” Lucretia hates speaking out loud sometimes. Writing is so much simpler—she’s better than she used to be at speaking, after ten years running the Bureau, but she still isn’t comfortable with people the way Magnus is.

She keeps her letters to Magnus in a little wooden box, along with a handful of strange carvings she’s collected over the years. She takes them out of her desk and hands it to him. “I… I explain better in these.”

He leaves after that, but he comes back the next morning, enveloping her in a hug that smells of leather and wood polish.

“Thank you. For Julia.”

#Letters To No One #Lucretia #Magnus Burnsides #TAZ Fic #Steph Writes #TAZ: Balance #The Adventure Zone

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blue-mood-blue · 7 years ago

Note

That Magic Brian/Brian with an I post you reblogged got me thinking. What if there had been some other villain for Here there Be Gerblins or he was being controlled (possibly by Spider Bryan/Bryan with a y) and he was just this cool dude the trio immediately befriended? So I'd like your take on an AU where Magic Brian was just this cool dark elf coworker that the trio (particularly Taako) befriended before Killian even considered bringing them in for recruitment please.

This is an interesting scenario... why was Magic Brian after the gauntlet? Did he ever give a particular reason, besides the general idea of wanting power? (Indulge me as I take some liberties with this character.)

It’s been months since he joined the Bureau, and none of them have anything to show for it. Not a single relic has been recovered and Brian knows he should be patient, he knows these things take a long time and people having been working towards this years before he joined, but he wants to do something. That’s why he’s living on the moon with his fiancee, right? He’s going to help save the world. He’s going to be a hero.

So when he overhears some information the seekers found about the gauntlet, his first thought is that this is his chance. Madame Director has a plan in place, expects a small group of potential employees to assist in its collection according to those same seekers, but none of that is necessary - she has him, and that’s all she needs. He’ll prove it.

Brian tries to kidnap a dwarf. It doesn’t go very well.

The plan falls apart almost as soon as he comes up with it - the bugbear won’t cooperate with him, he’s later than he should have been leaving the base because he had trouble getting Bryan into the pod, he gets hopelessly lost looking for the cave... one run of bad luck after the other. Brian has to wonder if the universe is conspiring against him as it looks more and more likely that the group of new hires will get to his gauntlet first, will take it from him right out from under --

Brian hesitates. He wonders how far the thrall of a relic can extend, remembers the stories about the wars. He thinks about Carey and Killian back on the base, he thinks about Brad, he thinks about the fact that he didn’t tell anyone what he was planning. He feels sick. If they’re looking for him...

He changes the direction and looks for the group instead. They’re... fun. Brian likes them, especially Taako who he talks to for most of the first day of the trip. It eases something itching at the back of his brain. When Killian finds them, she looks relieved but gives Brian a glare that promises a beat-down the minute they get back to the base for scaring her.

They watch Phandalin burn. They get back to the base and Brad is waiting, Brad is hugging him before he can explain or apologize, Brad is crying.

Brian isn’t allowed off of the base after that, but he can hardly bring himself to care. He doesn’t trust himself around the relics and he doesn’t like to think of what might have happened if he’d gotten to that gauntlet first; instead he trains with the new reclaimers, and he’s so proud of them. They’re stronger every day, more confident, more open. He and Taako break out into wizard duels all the time on the quad. “You have so much potential,” Brian tells him once, breathless and excited, because he can feel some kind of hidden power in Taako’s magic. Taako shrugs off the praise.

Magnus treats Bryan like an enormous dog, and Bryan loves the attention. Brian shows him how to feed the spider and walk him, and it’s nice to have someone around who doesn’t run away screaming at the sight of his pet. Brad still won’t get within ten feet of Bryan.

Merle keeps trying to convert him. Brian laughs it off because worshipping Pan would deviate severely from his whole “spider aesthetic,” he has a little bit of a theme going here, Merle, but Merle also gives good advice. Well-disguised good advice, like when he offered to marry Brian and Brad anytime and reminded him they really didn’t need to wait for the relics to be found to start their life together.

Suddenly the Bureau is successful, collecting relics at an unprecedented rate, and Brian is surprised that he... doesn’t wish it was him instead, out there being the hero. It’s not about that. He and Carey and Killian and Brad and Avi and Johann and the rest are part of this, too, and that’s enough. It’s enough to crash into the reclaimers’ room with the rest of the group carrying copious amounts of alcohol to celebrate.

And when the apocalypse descends and he fights alongside his friends, he’s still so proud of them.

#taz #the adventure zone #i was not... expecting this to get so long #i was not expecting to like magic brian this much #but i kinda see it like this - the thrall is intense #he was just close enough to feel it #and the fact that he was looking for the relic made its call louder #in canon he was deep under the thrall by the time they found him #ANYWAY #THIS GOT LONG #HOPE YOU LIKE IT #i don't even know how to tag that ship #yorukoyamirai

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unfolded73 · 7 years ago

Text

This Graceful Path (4/19)

Summary: Emma has just moved in with Mary Margaret and started working as a deputy in the Storybrooke sheriff’s department when she meets Killian Jones, the town’s introverted harbormaster. When a prominent Storybrooke resident is found murdered, Emma tries to juggle solving the case with new friendships, parenthood, and romance. A Season 1 Cursed!Killian AU.

Rating: Explicit per CSBB guidelines (violence, sex); more of an M on unfolded73’s scale. The sex, when we get there, is not extremely graphic in nature. Same with the violence.

Content Warning: This fic contains two major character deaths, one canon and one not. (You’re already past them.)

Total word count: ~ 75,000

Acknowledgements: Thank you to @j-philly-b for betaing this monstrosity. Thank you to @caprelloidea for all of the read-throughs and cheerleading; not sure I could have written it without your excitement early on. Thank you to @teruel-a-witch for the original prompt on tumblr which sparked this fic. Thank you to @pompeiiablaze for the wonderful art which accompanies Chapter 3 and also will accompany later chapters. Thanks to the CSBB mods (@sambethe in particular, who had to look at my check-ins) for your support and for enduring my neuroses.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 – AO3 Link

Chapter 4

She hadn’t had anything to wear to a funeral.

Mary Margaret had only had one black dress in her closet (she wasn’t really the type to wear black), so Emma had gone to one of Storybrooke’s clothing shops and bought the only vaguely appropriate things she could find on such short notice: an itchy blouse which she kind of loathed, and a black blazer that didn’t really even fit her, that she had to cuff the sleeves of so that they didn’t engulf her hands.

After Graham’s burial, she and Mary Margaret returned to the apartment, collapsing onto the sofa.

“This sucks.”

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret agreed, taking her hand. They sat in silence together.

“Did I tell you what Dr. Whale said about his heart?”

“That he had a congenital heart condition? Yeah, you told me.”

Emma turned to face Mary Margaret. “That must be why he had that weird idea that his heart had been taken out of his chest, right? He must have been feeling that something was wrong with his heart. Why didn’t I insist he go to the hospital? Maybe they could have caught it and saved him—”

“You did the best you could, Emma; no one could have done any better. When someone is in denial that they’re sick, there’s not much you can do.” Mary Margaret gave Emma’s hand a comforting squeeze.

“Do you know the first thing I thought while I waited for the ambulance that night?” Emma said. “I thought that somehow Regina was responsible. He’d been so convinced for a moment that Regina had stolen his heart; like literally stolen it, and then they had this big fight and he dumped her, and that whole night was so weird that I started to have this paranoid fantasy that somehow Regina had killed him.”

“But she didn’t, Emma. He was just unwell.”

“I know.”

“Although… I mean, I know you can’t talk about the investigation of Mr. Gold’s death, but do you think Regina…”

Emma grimaced. “I thought of that. Not that I had any reason to think she killed him, other than that she’s an evil witch. But Henry was with her that night; there’s no way she could have been out murdering someone in the woods without him knowing. Besides, I don’t think she would have had the strength for that kind of stabbing. It was… vicious.”

“And Graham? I mean, if he wasn’t in his right mind, if he was under Regina’s thrall somehow…”

“You’re suggesting Graham killed Gold?” Emma let go of Mary Margaret’s hand and shifted on the sofa, sitting forward. “What possible reason would he have—”

“None, of course, but he found the body, and if he was mentally unstable like you described—”

Emma shook her head. “He was sick, and it was making him confused. That’s a long way from murdering someone. Besides, whoever did kill Gold would have gotten blood on their clothes, and I think I would have noticed if Graham had been covered in blood when I met him that night at the crime scene.”

“True.” Mary Margaret gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be trying to be an armchair detective.”

“Please, I need all the help I can get. I took this job to help Graham hand out parking tickets and, I don’t know, deal with Leroy for being drunk and disorderly. Instead, I get a murder investigation? I don’t know the first thing about investigating a murder. I’m this close to googling ‘how to investigate a murder’.”

Mary Margaret patted her arm. “You’re clever, so I’m sure you’ll figure something out. In the meantime, you should at least take it easy the rest of today.”

“No, I can’t, I’ve gotta do something, I can’t just sit around. All I do is think about the way he collapsed in front of me.” She stood up, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to block out the sickening crack of Graham’s head connecting with the sidewalk. “It gonna be such a huge job now; I can see why Graham wanted to hire a deputy.”

“You could hire your own deputy.”

Emma rubbed her eyes, exhaustion pressing behind them. “Yeah, I might do that if I can figure out who I can trust in this town.” She glanced at her roommate. “Do you want to be a sheriff’s deputy?”

Mary Margaret laughed. “I think I’ll pass. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to start interviewing people, establishing who had motive, who doesn’t have an alibi for the night that Gold was killed. And, much as I hate it, I guess I should start with Regina’s prime suspect.”

~*~

Killian sat across from her at the metal table in the interrogation room, looking around at the walls and at the big one-way mirror over her shoulder (not that anyone was on the other side — it was only her here now). Emma didn’t want to admit that this was the first time she’d been in this room as well. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, hoping she looked more at ease than she felt.

“I’m sorry to have to call you in here, Mr. Jones. I’m doing all of these interviews in front of a camera,” she said, gesturing at the video camera she had set up, “for your protection as well as to keep a record of your answers.”

“Not sure why you’re choosing to interview me, but all right.”

She smiled tightly. “I’m working to establish who knew Gold, how they knew him, if they saw him the day he died, things like that.”

“I knew him,” he said, holding up his index finger, “I saw him monthly when he came by my office to pick up the docking fees I collect,” — he held up a second finger — “and I think I may have seen him coming out of his pawn shop a week or two ago.” Finger number three. “Can I go now?” He leaned back in a lackadaisical pose, but his eyes told a different story. He was nervous. But then again, who wouldn’t be nervous in his position, being interviewed by law enforcement about a murder?

“Can we back up a second?” She pointed at the video camera again. “Can you state your name and occupation for the record?”

He sat up and put his hands in his lap almost primly, which made Emma feel like he was making fun of her. “Killian Jones, harbormaster, Storybrooke, Maine.”

“Thanks. Now you say you handed over the docking fees to Mr. Gold? Not to the mayor’s office?”

He shrugged. “Mr. Gold owned everything in this town, I’m sure you’ve been here long enough to learn that.”

“And that includes the harbor?”

“Aye, I suppose it does.”

That seemed odd to her, that a town’s harbor would be privately owned, but she let it go. “How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Gold?” Emma asked.

“I didn’t have a relationship with him. He showed up, I handed over a bag with money in it. We barely exchanged a half dozen words each time. That’s it.”

“There was never a time you didn’t have the money or had some dispute with him about the amount? Anything like that?”

“No.” He frowned at her. “Why would you ask that?”

“Word is that there was bad blood between the two of you. I’m trying to figure out why that was.”

“There wasn’t,” he said, his jaw clenching. “Why would anyone say there was? I’m telling you, I barely knew the guy.”

Emma watched him carefully. He seemed to be telling the truth but hiding something from her at the same time. Regina may have had her own reasons for pointing the finger at Killian, she knew that, but there was something that made Emma want to keep questioning him. She decided to change tactics.

“How did you lose your hand?” she asked, glancing down at his prosthesis where it now rested on the table.

“Sailing accident.”

“When?”

“A long time ago, lass. Long before I came to Maine.”

“And how long have you lived in Storybrooke?”

His eyes drifted up and over her shoulder like he was trying to look through the one-way mirror.

“Killian?”

He shook himself, wiping his hand over his face. “Yes?”

“How long have you lived in Storybrooke?”

“Several years.”

She was sick to death of the vague answers she got from people in this town. “How many years?”

“What does it matter?” His jaw clenched again.

“It matters if you don’t want to answer a simple question for some reason.” She huffed in frustration and decided to veer to another topic. “Do you ever walk in the woods? For a hike, maybe?”

“No.”

There, she thought. That was a lie. She could almost always tell when someone was lying if she was paying close attention, and that had definitely been a lie.

“So you weren’t in the woods last Tuesday night?”

“No.”

Another lie. “Where were you? Between, say, three p.m. and ten p.m. on Tuesday?”

“My office and then my apartment,” he answered. She could feel the jiggle of his knee bouncing under the table, and a fine sheen of sweat had appeared on his upper lip.

“Did anyone see you in your office?”

“Not really.”

“What about after that? What time did you go to your apartment?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Five o’clock or thereabouts.”

“Do you drive or walk from your office to your home?”

“It’s barely a quarter of a mile. I walk. I don’t own a car.”

“Did you see anyone on the walk?”

“No.”

“What about in your apartment building. Did you see any neighbors? Any friends stop by?”

“No.”

“Call anyone on the phone? Use your computer? Watch Netflix? Play a video game?”

He threw up his hand in frustration. “No, but why does it matter?”

“Because if you were logged into some kind of account like that, it would help establish your alibi.”

“Why do I need an alibi for the stabbing of a man I barely knew?”

Emma’s heartbeat accelerated, and she tried her best to school her expression into neutral territory. “How did you know it was a stabbing?”

“I read it in the paper,” he said, his fingers drumming on the table.

“We didn’t release that it was a stabbing, Mr. Jones.”

“Well, I heard it somewhere! I don’t know!” He was very agitated now, spots of color high on his cheeks, sweat on his forehead. Had Regina been right? Had she caught the killer already?

“Where did you hear it, then?” It was possible that the information had gotten out via Dr. Whale or one of the paramedics who had handled the body, but if so she should be able to trace it back to them.

“I don’t remember!” Killian shouted. He seemed to fold in on himself, his face getting suddenly pale. “Saw the Crocodile. Know him anywhere,” he muttered.

“The what?” First wolves, now crocodiles?

“A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.” His eyes were unfocused, almost like he had forgotten she was sitting in front of him. It reminded her eerily of the way Graham had behaved when he was convinced his heart was missing.

“Mr. Jones,” she said in a loud, clear voice. His eyes seemed to swim back to her from a long way away. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” she murmured, softening her tone. “I’m pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me. Now, I’m asking again. Were you in the woods on Tuesday?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“I went for a walk, like you said. And I saw…”

She waited several seconds before prodding him. “Saw what?”

“I saw the Crocodile.”

“What’s the crocodile?”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “I saw Mr. Gold. He was already dead. I swear to you, I didn’t harm him.”

Emma studied him. That appeared to be the truth. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t feeling well, and I ran. And later I thought… Honestly, I thought I imagined it.”

“Do you know what time it was when you saw Gold?”

He shook his head. “Maybe around four o’clock? I don’t know for sure.”

“So you were out for a walk in all of those miles and miles of woods, and you happened to come across a dead body that was a half mile off the hiking trail?” Just as Graham had happened to come across it, chasing after some wolf. How busy were those woods that day?

“I guess so,” he answered. “Miss Swan, I swear it, I didn’t kill anyone. Why would I?”

Emma narrowed her eyes. Again, he seemed to be telling the truth, but the circumstances were certainly suspicious. “I’m going to need to search your office and your apartment. If you’re really innocent, then you won’t have anything to hide, right?”

Nothing in his demeanor indicated any fear at that prospect. Still, she wanted to do it now, before he had a chance to get rid of any evidence. “I assume you walked here to the station?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She stood up from her chair. “Then you won’t mind riding with me. Come on.”

Leaving him for a moment in the main part of the station, she stopped by the supply closet to pick up the bag of evidence kits she’d tossed back in there the night of the murder. She scanned the shelves again. The other thing she’d learned (because as it turned out, googling ‘how to investigate a murder’ had been really pretty useful) was that luminol would have come in handy for looking for blood traces, even blood that had been pretty thoroughly cleaned up, but the sheriff’s department of Storybrooke didn’t seem to have any. She’d ordered some, but fat lot of good that did her now.

The car ride over to the harbor was quiet. Killian unlocked the harbormaster’s office for her, gesturing and giving her a shallow bow to indicate she should precede him into the office.

His office was really just a small room that was part of a building where it looked like boats could be brought in and repaired. It was neat and organized, with a shelf full of logbooks behind a simple metal desk. The desk itself was dominated by a large radio which she assumed was used to communicate with ships out on the water. Other than that, the only other things she saw were a pen cup, a stapler, and a travel coffee mug.

“Where do you keep the money you were talking about?”

He thumbed through his key ring and unlocked a desk drawer, showing her the blue vinyl zipper bag. In it was a mixture of cash and checks, with the pink copies of some old fashioned carbon-copy receipts. She spied a receipt book on the shelf and pulled it down to see that it was filled with matching originals, filled out in what must have been Killian’s neat penmanship.

She looked around a little longer, but there was really nothing else to see. There were no personal items: no pictures, no cards, no nothing. It was a depressingly spartan place to spend time.

“Okay, let’s go on to your apartment, then.”

After another short, silent car ride, they got out at a small duplex building near the beach.

“Who lives on the other side?” she asked as he unlocked his door.

“Guy by the name of Billy; he works down at the auto repair place in town.” Once again, he politely ushered her through the door. “Good neighbor; he’s quiet as a mouse.”

“That’s lucky,” she said, looking around his small living space. Like the office, it was tidy and spare. He had a small kitchen that was open to the living area, and then a short hallway that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom. From his main window, she could see the ocean. “Does it cost a lot to live down here by the beach?”

He shrugged. “It’s a little more, but the apartment is tiny so it balances out. I like being near the water; I find it calming.”

“Fan of boats, are you?” The only decoration in the room was a framed charcoal drawing of a tall sailing vessel, the sails unfurled and full as it was tossed about on a choppy sea.

“Ships,” he corrected. “And yes.”

She headed back toward the bedroom. Other than a discarded t-shirt on the floor, it too was clean. A few books were stacked on the bedside table, and the bed was neatly made. There was a laundry hamper half-filled with clothes, and she pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of her bag and put them on before starting to sift through it. Killian watched her. “Was Gold your landlord?” she asked.

He nodded, looking uncomfortable. “Sure, like everyone else in town. Wasn’t he yours?”

Emma stopped, thinking about that. “I guess; I just moved in a couple of weeks ago. I give my share of the money to my roommate and she takes care of paying the rent. Did you ever have any kind of contact with him about the rent, or this apartment?”

Killian shook his head. “I rented it through the broker in town, and I mail my rent to a post office box. There have been a few maintenance issues, but I take care of them myself.”

Emma looked at each item of clothing, blushing faintly at the fact that she was rifling through a strange man’s underwear. She dropped each item on the floor as she examined it.

“May I ask why the fascination with my unmentionables?” Killian asked, a small smirk on his face.

“It’s not your… unmentionables in particular,” she said as she dropped a pair of dark blue boxer briefs. “I’m checking for blood on any of your clothes.”

“You think my master plan was to murder Gold, and then put the bloody evidence in my laundry hamper?”

“I don’t know; people have done stupider things.” She looked in each drawer, rifling the clothes, remembering the fact that Whale had written ‘short sword or dagger’ on the medical examiner’s report. Same story with the bathroom, the closet, the kitchen. She even checked the air vents and stomped around looking for a loose floorboard. No luck. If he’d hidden a sword somewhere, it wasn’t in his apartment.

“So, do I pass inspection?” he asked as her search wound down. “And more importantly, can I offer you a drink?” He held up a bottle of brown rum and a short glass, grinning at her in a way that she was sure most women found charming.

“I’m on duty,” she said with an eye roll, running her gloved hand along the back of the ship picture frame.

“After what happened to Sheriff Humbert, you must be working long hours. Surely you can knock off a little early today, having so thoroughly pumped me for information.” His tongue darted out and ran along his bottom lip.

“Gross,” she said, making another circuit of the apartment. “I don’t drink with murder suspects; it’s kind of a hard and fast rule of mine.”

“Surely I’m not still a suspect anymore; you’ve found nothing to implicate me.” He hooked his thumb in his belt, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Whatever had come over him during the interrogation, he seemed perfectly fine now.

She raised an eyebrow at him. Admittedly, the drink was tempting, as was the man. Which was exactly why she shouldn’t get anywhere near either. “Don’t get too cocky; I haven’t ruled you out.”

~*~

The Thanksgiving holiday intervened to take Emma’s mind off the murder case for a few days, leaving her free to fret over the fact that she was spending the holiday without Henry. She imagined him shut up inside that big house with no one but Regina for company for four days, imagined the two of them at either end of a giant table laden down with a huge Thanksgiving feast, eating silently. Emma at least had the boundless optimism and perfectly roasted turkey of Mary Margaret, and as she sat sipping from a glass of port and nibbling on a piece of store-bought pecan pie, she had to admit that this may have been her best Thanksgiving dinner ever.

On Monday she was finally able to see Henry again, resuming their semi-regular afternoon meetups at Granny’s after the end of his school day, before Regina expected him home.

“Did you have a good Thanksgiving?” she asked.

Henry shrugged. “It was okay. Mom let me stay up late and watch a movie, so that was cool.”

Emma felt a stab of jealousy in her gut. She wanted to be the one to let him stay up late, it occurred to her suddenly. She wanted to be able to sit with him and watch a movie. She wanted to be the one he meant when he said ‘mom.’

Henry was fiddling with the sugar dispenser, and he knocked it over, spilling sugar onto the table. Emma sighed, sweeping the sugar up and into her saucer.

“Sorry,” Henry said.

“No worries.”

The door to the diner rattled and she glanced up, seeing Killian Jones walking in. It was a bitterly cold day outside, but he only wore his simple leather jacket.

When he spotted her, his face lit up with a smile and he walked over to their booth. “Hello, Swan. Hello, Henry.”

Awfully friendly for someone I interrogated last week, she thought. And also—

“Wait,” she said. “You two know each other?”

Killian looked slightly sheepish. “Aye, I met Master Mills last summer. We don’t have an open library here in town, so with his mother’s— er, the mayor’s permission, I lent him some books.”

She did remember the set of bookshelves in his apartment that had been packed with books. She’d looked behind every one in her search for a murder weapon.

“Also, Killian taught me to tie some knots. He’s going to teach me to sail when I get bigger.”

“Is he now?” Emma looked back and forth between the two of them. “And Regina’s okay with this?”

Now it was Henry’s turn to look sheepish. “There’s no point in asking her until I have to,” he said.

“I would never take the lad out on the water without your and Mayor Mills’ permission, of course,” Killian hastened to add. “It’s just an idea I had since Henry seemed interested.”

Emma appreciated his inclusion of her in the decision-making process, but she really didn’t have any standing to offer permission as to whether Henry should take sailing lessons or not.

“Your order’s up, Killian,” Ruby called.

“Good afternoon to you both,” he said before leaving them to go pay at the register.

“What do you think of Killian?” Emma asked when he was out of earshot.

“Why, are you going to go out with him?” Henry asked.

“What? No!” She felt her cheeks flush. “He’s a little strange, that’s all.”

“I think he’s nice. He’s one of the few adults around here that talks to me like I’m a person.”

Emma turned around in her booth and watched him leave the diner.

“He’s Captain Hook, I think. I mean, he’s not in the storybook so I don’t know for sure, but that’s my best guess,” Henry said.

Emma swung back around and stared at him. “Killian is Captain Hook? Why, because of his hand?”

“Yeah.”

“He doesn’t have a hook, you know. Just a prosthetic hand,” she pointed out.

“Well, yeah, but that’s because of the curse.”

“Wouldn’t that make him the bad guy? You said he was nice.”

“I don’t know, I always thought Peter Pan was kind of creepy. Maybe the bad guy in Neverland isn’t who you think it is.”

~*~

“I can’t help but notice that Killian Jones is still walking around, free as a bird,” Regina announced as she marched into the sheriff’s station. The two of them hadn’t spoken since Graham’s death almost two weeks ago. Emma wondered if Regina had cared enough for him to even grieve.

Sighing, she put her pen down. “If you’re referring to the investigation into Gold’s death, I did question him. I also searched his office and his apartment. There was no evidence that he had anything to do with the murder, so of course, he was free to go at the end of it.”

Regina’s mouth pinched, highlighting a thin scar perpendicular to her severe lipstick line. “Not good enough.”

“He didn’t even seem to know Gold that well; he certainly didn’t have any kind of dark feud with him like you implied.”

“He’s lying,” Regina said through clenched teeth.

“I don’t think he is.” Emma thought about Killian’s initial lie that he’d been in the woods and seen the body, but she elected not to share that with Regina. That alone didn’t make him guilty. And when he flat out said he hadn’t killed Gold, she got no sense from him that that was untrue.

“You aren’t the sheriff, you know,” Regina said. “There will be a new election, and the townspeople get to select a new sheriff to succeed Graham. If you think that’s going to be you, an outsider with a criminal history, then you’re in for a rude awakening. Good day, Miss Swan.” With that, she stalked back out of the station.

Chapter 5

#csbb #cs ff #captain swan ff #this graceful path fic #cs s1 au #my fic

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zakdesignprojects-blog · 5 years ago

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As part of our flat mag, my group decided to have interviews with rpg characters. It was my job to create and draw them and write the interviews. Two were used in the flat mag, n four weren’t

Kalanar Laemore - high elf cleric

What's your journey been like? Any interesting or memorable quests? In hindsight, I've been on a ton of fun journeys. But my life has never been normal so they've all been weird as shit too. Have you ever willingly let yourself become a vampire thrall just to enter a place only undead can go? No, because that's not a thing normal people do. It's not even a thing weird people with a kink do. Gods, my life is a mess, isn't it? No wonder I'm a depressed alcoholic.

You were a vampire's thrall? For how long? How did you get in that situation to begin with? My life's weird, okay? I teamed up with a bunch of vampires to investigate a cult, and everything lead to a portal to a realm only spirits or the undead can go. Compared to my lovely blood-drinking companions, I still had a heartbeat, so I was kinda stuck. I couldn't just sit out, the three vampires are all mages, and I'm a warrior and a healer. Unbalanced teams get nowhere in the adventuring-into-Hell business, I've learned. And it was either become a temporary thrall, or become a vampire. The second option was a no-go considering I've got a slight case of lycanthropy. So, thrall it was.

You're a werewolf? How did that happen? Weird shit is attracted to me I guess. I thought I was part of a merry band of mercenaries until they offered me to join their higher ups, who also happen to be a werewolf psuedo-cult. I can never go anywhere fun anymore. I mean, I could've said no, but the guy I liked was there and I wanted to be cool. Which is easy to say until you choke on werewolf blood and pass out, then wake up naked in the woods with an awful headache and a weird taste in your mouth. Though don't get me wrong, it's not a choice I regret. Gives me a great opening for a whole new world of jokes. And I met my best friend through it, so werewolves are fine in my book.

Seems that you managed to get quite lucky in life, don't you think? Ha, uh, wouldn't say that. Not to get all therapy session here, but I had a shit upbringing. Angst-y backstory and whatnot, you've heard one, you've heard them all. Sure, things got better when I set out on my own, but calling me lucky? Lucky people don't accidentally get into a drinking contest with a god, then get so piss drunk they marry a bird-witch. That's the worst walk of shame in the world. But... I dunno, maybe I am lucky? Got some good friends, a nice little house, a husband, a dog. I could easily be a dead body on the side of the road with only four gold pieces on me, so I mean, comparatively I'm doing better.

Odd outlook. Do you always respond with jokes and anecdotes? Oh absolutely. Someone's gotta be the funny bitch in the party, may as well be Mr. Coping Mechanism here. I can also stand around and look handsome. Oh, and I suppose I'm a healer too, huh? But that's the last point on my resume. Being funny and handsome are the first two, they're the most important facts about me that people need to know if they wanna hire me. Too many adventuring parties are out there being ugly and unfunny, and I won't stand for it anymore.

#Semester 2 #assignment #flat mag

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veirasurana · 7 years ago

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Finally finished a Minerva drabble (thanks stomach ache? I guess?) about why Minerva left her homeland. Enjoy!

Minerva knew a thing or two about running.

Julian had expressed the same sentiment when she ran from Nadia's castle and found him, though he had no idea how much she knew. Running had defined her. Oft it was characterized as a craven act, that only the truest coward joyfully executes when it is convenient. Such short sighted definitions made her bristle. Perhaps Julian berated himself for running, but Minerva only saw what could have been if he hadn't, and therefore, running was never a negative to her.

It was survival.

She sat in the guest bedroom, the seat she was in the highest of luxury, though she paid no mind to it. Although she had never been this rich, the familiarity of high end bedrooms and servants put her ill at ease, even the clothing made her nervous. She missed her fancy black dresses that she made herself, if only for the colour they sported. She worried of dropping something on Nadia's choice of wear and ruining it. She had the previous ones, and it made her stomach twist.

She sipped at the wine she had requested before she settled in for the night. Stop paying too much attention to these things, she thought to herself. It will only make you sick.

She hadn't been sick since she was sixteen.

Her thoughts delved deep into her mind, and she could not stop the memories from dancing over her eyes. Her familiar Calcifer wiggled his ears in concern, crawling over to her clumsily like an ungraceful bat would. He licked her hand. She smiled at the tiny bat, scratching the top of his head. He could always sense when her thoughts drifted to a bad place. She loved him for it.

She closed her eyes and sighed, just getting it over with. It was going to be a long night anyway.

-------

The sixteen year old girl checked her mirror three times before she even considered going to mother. She had to be spotless, put together perfectly. She had already angered her today, so she would be extra critical if she wanted to smooth things over with an apology. She chose her best jewelry, fixed her hair into an elegant braided bob, and scoured her green, fur lined dress for any spots of dirt. Just like the last time, there was nothing. She took a deep breath. Time to go.

She walked through the hallways glowing with light quickly, but not too quickly, lest she shine terribly from sweat. She greeted the servants politely as she passed, and the guards even more warmly. The guards were her favourite people in this house. They let her sneak out every night so that she could visit her friends, especially Madam Viveka, and they never breathed a word to her mother. Her face lit up when she passed by the head of the guard, sir Konstantin, who had always been so kind to her as a child, who comforted her on her bad days. He was much older than the rest of the guard, with white hair and a sharp white beard. Even as a child, his hair had been that colour.

He smiled at her. "<I am not used to seeing you about the estate at this hour. Only when the sun has gone down.>"

"<I'm looking for mother,>" Minerva said, "<have you seen her?>"

His smile vanished. "<She is in the rec room with your father. Are you in trouble?>"

"<N-no. I'm simply apologizing for earlier.>"

"<You did nothing wrong. You only mixed up the common words 'cat' and 'bat.' They sound too similar, the language is confusing. Not like ours.>"

Minerva shrugged. "<If I had mixed those words up with someone from those countries, I'd make mother a laughing stock.>"

"<Minovshka,>" sir Konstantin sighed, "<you are never going to be an embarrassment. And you don't need to apologize for silly things.>"

She smiled warmly when he called her that. This country's version of her name, if her father hadn't named her. A popular name that came from his own country, apparently. She started for the rec room. "<I'll be okay,>" she said as she waved to him. "<I promise.>"

But as she continued down the hall, her lips thinned and her heart beat faster. She wasn't sure how mother would react today. It was always a certain level of disappointment, and whether anger mixed in with it depended on the day. She hoped she wouldn't get sick this week. That would definitely make her angry.

Outside the rec door, Minerva leaned against the wall and wiped down her dress once more to triple make sure it was acceptable. She heard the voices of her parents, her mother speaking quickly and the most, while her father added his own comment in between when he had the chance. She heard her name spoken and her ears burned. What were they talking about? She leaned into the door to hear them better.

"<-wit's end. I don't know how I can get her to simply be better. Goodness, you would think after all these lessons she would finally understand it.>"

"< I don't know->"

"<Of course you don't know, that's why I'm always the one teaching her. Gods, what I'd do to hire one of those mind witches, maybe then she'd finally do what she needs to.>"

A terrible twitch shot through Minerva's body. Witches of legend that could worm their way into your very being and control you from the inside out. There were stories of witches pretending to be advisers while they completely took over kings and queens, ruling a country by proxy. Witches that took over entire armies for their own. They were said to be the best serial killers without killing, monsters in the night that are never seen or heard because they use others to do everything. There was no escape from their thrall, their slavery. That was what mother wanted.

"<Oh, don't give me that look. I was joking. It isn't as if they exist.>"

It isn't as if they exist. "<But if they did...>" Minerva whispered blankly. She moved, somehow, away from that door, down the hall despite her legs wanting to give out. Her stomach twisted painfully, and she fought hard not to throw up, if she did there was no going back-

She covered her mouth, muffling a scream that so desperately wanted to come out. She made it to her room, ignoring all the looks the servants gave her as she passed, and barred the door with her desk. She had studied magic as was demanded of her by mother. She wanted to burn it all, every last book, every last remnant of this horrid art. It was all proof that her mother didn't love her enough to want her own agency.

In her heart, she knew all along. But she had hoped -dreamed- that it wasn't so, that one day, she would realize what she was doing and change. But that was a child's fantasy.

And now, she was no child.

She packed bags. Filled them with her jewels, clothes, sentimental things. She stayed for one more night, telling mother she was sick, which was received with nothing but coldness and anger. She said her goodbyes to the guard, especially sir Konstantin. He cried big tears when she told him her plan, but hugged her anyway, saying he'd miss her. She snuck out of her room, commanding that no one enter her sickroom. She went to her favourite place, to madam Viveka.

"<Minovshka,>" Viveka exclaimed brightly. "<This is a surprise! I never see you before dark.>"

Viveka's hair now had streaks of grey, her loveliness as vibrant as it always was. She wore a feathered gown of fiery red, her eyes winged with the same red. Her hair was done up in an impossibly luxurious hairclip that shone with gold and white stone. There was no one Minerva wanted to be more than her. And now she had to say goodbye. Never again would she hear her sing, watch her dance, marvel at her grace and confidence. She threw her arms around her, tears in her eyes and trembling.

Viveka petted her hair gently. "<Oh, my girl, what has that woman done to you now?>"

Minerva blurted it all out, slowly, her tears not stopping. "<I have to leave, madam,>" she sobbed, "<this is goodbye.>"

She waited for her to say not to go, but Viveka instead held her teary face in her hands, smiling. "<You must do what you need to, darling. I will never forget you. You will always be my girl.>" She took her hair out of the beautiful hairclip, handing it to her. "<Always.>"

That night, Minerva burned her room. She watched the flames consume her window from below, wearing a dark cloak that hid her face. And she revelled in the freedom.

------

Years later

She held the tiny bat as if he were made of glass.

Asra chuckled. "Familiars are not that fragile, you know. You won't hurt him."

"And you say this magical bond...." she began, "it's unbreakable? Until you die?"

He smiled. "It's unconditional."

His eyes widened and lips parted in surprise as tears welled up in her eyes. He had never seen her cry. "I had no idea," she laughed, "that magic could be so wonderful."

#minerva calrassi #the arcana #my drabbles

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imspardagus · 6 years ago

Text

In Bruges

Last week I went cycling in Bruges. For two-and-a-half hours, in a procession of mainly older men following an exuberant guide, I pedalled along main streets and backstreets; and I was mostly terrified.

I should make it very clear – I owe it to the City and people of Bruges to do so – that there was no objective reason for my terror. Bruges has the title of most cycle friendly city in, well, Belgium at least, and, while that may not seem the greatest accolade, it is fully deserved.

Bruges is a small, compact city, but it is still a city and its inhabitants could be forgiven for displaying the self-protecting want of empathy that most city-dwellers wear like an enveloping cloak. But somehow, even in the face of staggering hordes of tourists, they have managed on the whole to keep their humanity and their humour.

And this has spilled out to embrace their use of road space. The general tendency elsewhere is for pedestrians to hate those on wheels and for those on wheels to hate those on foot while equally loathing each other, creating a ballet of aggression performed on every street. Somehow, when we get into the driving seat of a vehicle our ability to recognise and respect our fellow human beings gets switched off. We become warriors and our vehicles are our armour. Somehow, when we climb onto the saddle of a push bike or a motorbike, anyone standing or walking is a stupid obstacle and anyone in a vehicle is a crazed thug. Our two wheels mark us out as evolutionarily superior. Somehow, when we are on foot and see a person at the wheel of a car or astride a bike we see an enemy, an alien and a threat.

But not in Bruges. Our guide told us that in Bruges drivers of vehicles give way to cyclists and cyclists and pedestrians treat each other with respect. “Oh yeah?” I murmured to myself, cynically. But in the time that followed I had only proof that it was true. Vehicles drove at sensible speeds and not only looked out for cyclists but stopped and slowed and waited for them. No horns, no menacing revving, no cutting up, not a single instance of impatience, just acceptance of their equal right to be on the road.

And perhaps because of it, most cyclists stuck to the road, leaving the narrow pavements to pedestrians. But where foot-travellers and bikers coincided, there too was a mutual respect. Those on foot made room. Bikers didn’t career savagely through crowds. The pinging of bells was simply a polite warning and not an angry demand to get out of the way.

It seemed natural, unforced. Not an imposition but just the way people had decided things were to be. And I could not help but be aware of it, coming from an equally small English town where the highways are a battleground, where lycra louts race through pedestrian subways scattering all before them and shouting abuse at those who cannot move quickly enough, where motorists drive through red lights at pelican crossings, and up pedestrian precincts rather than walk 20 metres to hand over their gifts to charity shops and lorries routinely block footways while their drivers unload and where pedestrians, in thrall to their smartphones, wander, heads down, expecting everyone else to get out of their way.

I wondered what it would take to change our mindset to emulate theirs. What would we have to excise and lay aside, what would we have to discover in ourselves and bring to the fore? There is nothing special about being Belgian that makes one an inherently less selfish, more emotionally intelligent version of humanity. It must just be something about the way we have been brought up, the way we have been told the world works.

And I wondered how much else in our lives would be improved if we could change the way we think about each other from the competitive and combative to considerate and respectful.

Why had I been terrified? It was already building inside me before I got on the Eurostar. It had been fermenting in my gut over breakfast. When we arrived at the hire shop, I was engaged in a battle with my anxiety that was screaming at me, pleading with me to back out, make excuses, walk away. My anxiety, ever inventive, had created a vision, an expectation that I was going to die, or at least be maimed. As I took my bike and mounted, for the first time in 10 years, my hands were shaking and sweat was soaking my shirt. As I did a few practice runs, my concentration was so fierce that I was getting cramp in my arms and I could barely turn the handlebars. I wanted more than anything to give up. I didn’t. I fixed my attention on my companions, each one in his 70s or 80s and decided not to “let them down”. I am glad I did.

After only a short while, my hands were red raw from gripping the handlebar. Each time I had to take one off to signal, I became so tense that I wobbled violently. I was close to tears, quietly shouting my terror and my wish to stop. Then I remembered what I had told my children. You have to use the right part of your brain. When you get anxious, your conscious brain tries to take control. That is the worst thing it can do because it was not built for control but as an interface with the world. It gets in the way, eats up valuable processing time. And it is aided and abetted by the adrenalin flooding through you, knocking out your fine motor skills in favour of clunky fight or flight ones whose inability to serve the purpose only fuels the anxiety in a rising spiral of alarm. “Switch off, Luke. Use the Force.” Sort of. And with that epiphany, I turned to talking my outward-facing mind into letting go, letting my brain do its job. And slowly it eased and I became, if not accomplished, at least competent.

And I wonder if that is what we all need to do, in a different but parallel way. Aggression is a deeply embedded response to fear. But it is only one possible response. Selfishness is a response to insecurity. But it is only one possible response. We have others standing by, ready to be chosen. We get stuck with the choices that we have made before, choices that we have seen others make. We get stuck because each time we make that choice it gets confirmed by our brains as the go-to option. We do not have to learn to be kind. It is there waiting to be chosen. We do not have to learn to respect others. It is always an option. We only need to learn to make them our go-to choice.

In Bruges, on the streets of a small but beautiful city, that is what seems to have happened.

#Bruges #cycling #respect #mindfulness

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zacknano17 · 7 years ago

Text

Day 1: words 1 - 2541

In which, the THB didn’t do the thing and have to do a different thing instead.

The Director rises from her chair, and there is a small, almost relieved smile on her face.

“I can't believe you've done it again,” she says. Her staff in hand, she steps down from the dais and summons a guard. “I can't believe you've done this.”

“Success is what you get when you hire the best!” Magnus responds, puffing out his chest comically. Taako smacks him in the knees with his staff.

The Director carefully keeps the smile on her face.

Moments later, the guard she had summoned appears, wheeling out the heavy lead ball that would safely house the Relic until she could channel its energy into her staff. He opens the top, and Taako -- of course it's Taako again -- begins searching through his bag. He dips the handle of his staff within the bag and hooks it on something.

The Director keeps herself from leaning forward in anticipation. The Relic has not been used, so she has no idea which it is. She hopes quietly that it is the Bell, and that Wonderland has been reduced to a memory, but she...suspects it is not. The Chalice has been off her radar for a while, and if it was being used, it would be nigh impossible to find again; finding it would be fantastic.

Instead, hooked on the umbrella's handle is a flashy diamond tiara.

“What is that?” she asks.

“A Grand Relic?” Taako suggests.

“No,” she says. She presses two fingers to her temple. “No -- that is not a Relic, that is a piece of jewelry. Where is the Relic? Tell me you found the Relic.”

“Did it get destroyed on the train?” Magnus asks.

“What were we even lookin' for?” Merle puts in. “Do we know?”

“Um.” Taako takes his backpack and empties it on the floor. Out comes tumbling a variety of expensive looking things. A silver necklace. A bunch of silverware. A few rings. A huge (probably fake) diamond. A piece of green fabric that the Director mistakes for the sash for just a moment. An old bronze compass.

“What the fuck, Taako? Is this everything that was in the crypt safe?” Magnus asks.

“Well, we were about to send the train crashing into Wankins' garden, and nothing talked to me like the glove did, so I thought, you know, maybe I ought to take everything, just in case,” Taako explains. “And, see? I was right, wasn't I?”

“Horse shit!” Merle interjects. “You were gonna sell all this stuff!”

Taako shrugs. “After I was sure it wasn't a relic, yes.”

“Hold on. None of this is a Relic,” the Director says. She is feeling a little faint. “Are you -- are you sure no one else got into the safe before you did?”

“Wankins did, but he fell off the train and died,” Magnus explains. “Other than him, it was just us.”

“What about that nosy brat with the big glasses?” Merle asks.

“No, he was with us in there, but he didn't take anything,” Magnus says. “Shame he wasn't able to get his grandpa's silverware set back, huh, Taako?”

“You stole a little boy's silverware,” the Director says.

“I gave him some of it back,” Taako protests.

“You stole a little boy's silverware.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds a whole lot worse than it is. I mean, he was in there, and he did leave it behind. It'd all be destroyed if it wasn't for me.”

The Director sighs, deeply. “Never mind that. Tell me about this -- this Wankins who fell out of the train. He had access to the safe before you did, right?” She dismisses the guard, who wheels the big lead ball back out of the room.

“He had this fantastic bowtie,” Merle explains helpfully.

“Great. Wonderful. Can you tell me anything useful about him?”

The Director learns about the Rockport Limited's former wizard attendant Jenkins, both useful things and not. Magnus and Merle are eager to talk. Taako interjects once in a while, but he is more concerned about methodically retrieving each and every item that has tumbled from his bag. It was strange -- he had always been something of a klepto, but this was a bit much, even for him. He had always been tempered by...ah.

She had known that it would be painful to bring these three back into her life. But she is still surprised by the intensity of that hurt once in a while.

She decides she will personally retrieve the body of Jenkins. No need to expose anyone else to the thrall of whatever Relic may or may not have been there, and she hasn't been down planet side in a while.

“So, are we gettin' paid or what?” Merle asks, cutting into her rumination.

“What,” she replies. “You didn't retrieve a Relic. You only get bonuses when you retrieve a Relic.”

“But we solved the train murder puzzle,” Magnus protests.

“And you did a very good job, and I am so very proud of you,” the Director replies dryly. “No relic, no payment.”

Taako hefts his bag over his shoulder.

“Looks like Taako is the only one gettin' paid today, homies.”

The Director never does find Jenkins' body.

But her Seekers do find the Gaia Sash and the Philosopher's Stone, and her Reclaimers are reassigned as Taako, Magnus, and Merle take over the entire department, as she had always known they would.

Four pieces of the Light of Creation have been reassembled within her staff. She allows the Reclaimers some time to themselves after the incident with the Miller base -- Merle in particular deserves some medical leave. But she can't rest for long. The Hunger has already honed in on the pieces of the Light she has retrieved.

It's just a matter of time, now.

It's early spring, and, in spite of not having any real Bureau missions to speak of, Taako has been surprisingly busy. Between Angus' magic lessons and the training regimen the Director has them on, he has barely had any real Taako time for his own studies (and his own personal grooming, and pampering, etc.). He hasn't even been down to shop in Neverwinter in actual weeks.

When he finally has a day off, he is completely prepared to use it. He dresses in an extremely flattering skirt and legging combo, complete with semi-practical boots for all the walking he is going to have to do, a HOT BOY t-shirt partially covered by a jacket, and the gaudiest jewelry he owns. He would look like an absolute dream, except that he hadn't had time to touch up his roots lately.

The Miller lab had been off putting with the color pink, that much is for certain. Being that it is one of Taako's favorite colors, though, meant he had had to reclaim it. He'd been doing a bleach blond for a while, so it wasn't hard to add fuchsia tips. Not only does it look fantastic with his current outfit, but it also looks fantastic just in general.

Except the roots. He'll get those touched up today, maybe. It's nice having a steady paycheck. He doesn't mind bleaching his hair on his own, it's just nicer when other people do it for you.

For now, he'll just accessorize with a hat. He normally leaves the wide brimmed wizard hat for work, but it'll work for his outfit today. He uses a Prestidigitation spell to match it to his outfit and then checks himself out in the full length mirror.

Fabulous.

He wonders if he can bribe Magnus to come with him and carry his packages. He might have to make more macarons, but it would be worth it.

Just as he comes out into the large living space the three of them share, where Magnus and Merle are playing some boring card game, a familiar voice comes over the loud speaker installed within.

“Would the Reclaimers Burnsides, Highchurch, and Taako come to the Director's Office, please,” Davenport's voice says.

“Noooooo,” Taako says despairingly. “Nooooo. It's my day off! My day off!”

“And you were gonna use it for...a fashion show?” Magnus wonders, tossing his cards down as he stands up and stretches.

“I was going shopping,” Taako whines. “I was going to get my roots touched up!”

“Your roots?” Merle asks.

“They do look pretty terrible,” Magnus says, helpfully.

“Because I've got no time to fix them,” Taako replies. “I got plans forever. Taako's planner is booked for months.”

“Bullshit. You slept in until four in the afternoon on your day off last week,” Merle points out.

“Because I had plans to sleep! Fuck you!”

The Director is not resting on her dais as she normally would be, but rather speaking quietly with Davenport, when they enter her meeting room. She straightens up when she sees them, nodding to Davenport, who heads on out of the room.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” she says, nodding to each one of them in turn. “I have just received news from one of our Seekers that another Relic's location has been discovered.”

“Great!” Magnus responds.

“Hope this one ain't about to turn the world into crystals too,” Merle says.

“And I hope it doesn't take long to retrieve it, because it's my day off,” Taako insists.

“No crystallization, Merle,” the Director says. “We already did that schtick, and it would be boring if we did it twice. Taako, I'm sorry, but your debut on Faerun's Next Top Model will have to wait another week or so. There are more important matters at hand here.”

Taako sniffs derisively.

“Oh, he can't be top model yet, Director,” Magnus puts in, and there is a devious smile playing on his lips. “His roots look terrible.”

“That's why I was going to get them touched up!” Taako screeches. “Fuck! One of us ought to -- to have some culture! To not look like a bumbling buffoon!”

“Too bad you didn't get your hair did, then,” Merle snickers. “We're just three ogres now.”

“Can we please talk about this Relic?” the Director asks. She sounds tired.

The boys quiet down as much as they ever do, and she leads them back to the dais. “We have a Seeker called Clark Richards stationed in the city of Waterdeep, and he has found what appears to be the Relic known as the Oculus,” she explains. “It -- it has the ability to turn anything you create with illusion magic into something real. Something tangible.”

“But that sounds great,” Magnus puts in.

“Have to agree with the big guy there,” Taako admits.

“It's really great, until you use it to conjure an illusory army, or some sort of illusory dragon -- ”

“Still sounds great,” Taako says.

“Or an illusory black hole that then destroys the world.” The Director is beginning to sound annoyed.

“Not seein' a downside,” Merle says.

“But we can -- can't we use that good?” Magnus asks. “As long as we use its power responsibly...”

“You'd better keep that shit in check,” The Director says tightly. “The Relics cannot be used for good. Their power overwhelms and inevitably leads only to evil. This sort of thinking -- it will only drain you. It will tear you apart from your friends, will...Magnus. This power is consuming. Do you understand?”

The mood in the room has changed. The expression on Magnus' face is more serious now. “Yeah, I get it. I just thought -- well, you guys know more about that magic bullshit than me anyway,” he says, shrugging.

“Don't forget what you saw happen to Gundren and the Raven,” she warns. “The Oculus is no different.”

No more really needed to be said on that front.

“The Oculus appears to be in the hands of a woman named Rebekah Joiner.” The Director paces back toward her throne as she speaks. “She's using it to -- well, we're not exactly sure, because it sounds a little...strange. But she is a wedding planner by trade, and it seems as though she's been using a Grand Relic in order to give people their dream weddings.”

There's a silence. And then Taako pipes up: “How awful.”

“We -- Taako, we literally just had a conversation about -- about how quickly these situations turn bad,” the Director points out, her frown deepening. “Perhaps she hasn't had it for very long, or she is using it in ways we don't know of yet, but -- ”

“I get it, I get it,” Taako assures her.

“Anyway. Being that she's very good at what she does, your usual method of Relic collection isn't going to work,” she goes on. “She owns a legitimate business in the heart of a busy city, so you won't be able to just fight your way in. We'd like to...minimize civilian casualties. Besides that, Rebekah has considerable means and, if she thinks you're after her, she will probably just go underground, along with the Oculus.”

“Um, I had to break it to ya, Director, but we're not great at the stealth bits,” Merle remarks.

“I'm a level 2 rogue now!” Magnus puts in.

“Great, dipshit, it's a level 10 mission,” Taako grouses.

“Maybe you could apply for jobs at her legitimate place of business,” the Director says, tired. “I'm quite aware that undercover work isn't exactly your strong suit either, but, I don't know, maybe this time we'll get lucky.”

“Ooh, a long con, huh? I'm down,” Taako says. “But I definitely should have touched up my roots if you want me out on a job interview. Just sayin'.”

“Do I have to pretend I'm Leeman Kessler again?” Merle asks.

“No,” responds the rest of the room, in unison.

“Listen, your method of infiltration is entirely up to you three,” the Director says. “I don't care. Just don't let her get away from you, and don't use the Oculus. Avi has instructions as to where to send you. This is a longer mission, so you'll have an hour to pack up some of your things -- yes, Taako, one single hour -- and then you'll need to be on your way.”

“Can you touch up your roots in an hour?” Merle asks Taako, as they leave.

“No.”

The ride to the forested area outside Waterdeep is uneventful, and Taako stares out the window as the giant cannon ball slowly skids to a stop. He hasn't been out this direction in a long while. Not since he performed for Sizzle It Up With Taako here, all those years ago. It had been a big show, lots of people showing up to see him. It's far from Glamor Springs, but it's usually safest just to avoid places he's been.

It hasn't been a problem so far, not since he had joined the Bureau of Balance. But he's always on edge, never knowing quite when that might change. It's safer that way.

Magnus and Merle have no idea what he's done. That's safer too.

Taako regards his three pieces of luggage and the soft, grassy terrain they would have to cross to get into the city. They're a fair distance away from the main road. He had not thought this through.

#tying the nano

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mst3kproject · 6 years ago

Photo

423: Bride of the Monster

My favourite part of this episode is the ‘Favourites from Hired!’ skit Joel and the bots do in between the short and the movie. It’s so perfect in its parody of musicals, and the songs are better than almost any of the music featured in MST3K’s movies. When I got my current job, back in 2012, I actually extemporized a career-appropriate version of I Just Got Hired to sing on the way home.

I enjoy the movie, too, though. The ‘Old Willows Place’ is a house by a lake in the middle of some very spooky woods, with a reputation for being a home to monsters – which include the hulking Lobo and the gargantuan octopus that lives in the lake. The monsters, however, are just the appetizer: mad Dr. Vornoff has built an evil laboratory in the basement and is trying to create a race of giants by experimenting on random passers-by. So far all his attempts have been failures, but enough rumor about this has leaked out to get the attention of zealous reporter Janet Lawton. She heads out to the Old Willows Place to see for herself, only to be captured by Vornoff and Lobo. Is Janet doomed to become Vornoff’s first successful giant?

This movie is famously cheap, to the point where it becomes kind of charming. The walls of Vornoff’s laboratory are plywood painted with big dark squares to try to look like stone. When the monster octopus isn’t footage shot through the side of an aquarium, it’s a few immobile rubber tentacles off a prop from the 1948 movie Wake of the Red Witch (it is not true that Wood stole the octopus, by the way – Tim Burton appears to have made that up). Vornoff growing to gigantic size is represented by him raising his arms into the air, and later by the stuntman wearing platform heels. A scene with ‘quicksand’ is just actor Tony McCoy standing in a hole in the ground.

Also rather entertaining is the fact that while nobody in the movie is very good, they all look like they’re having a great time. Loretta King relishes every word of her dialogue and Harvey B. Dunn as the police chief seems to enjoy the banter scenes and the interactions with his little parrot – I wonder if it were Dunn’s real-life pet. Bela Lugosi as Vornoff chews the scenery with evident enjoyment and a surprising amount of dignity for such a silly film.

The plot mostly resembles a coherent story, and the cast’s actual dedication is enough to move Bride of the Monster past ‘bad’ and into ‘so bad it’s good’. What really interests me about it, though, is the question of whose movie it actually is. There’s only one character who can properly be said to have an arc, to start off as one thing and evolve into another. It’s not Janet or Dick, our apparent heroes, nor is it Dr. Vornoff – it’s actually Lobo!

Lobo begins the movie as Vornoff’s unquestioning servant, doing his master’s dirty work and being beaten into submission when he refuses – which isn’t often. We’re meant to believe he’s mentally handicapped, but he’s smarter than he lets on, and something about Janet (or perhaps her furry hat) awakens some rebellion in him. At the climax he takes charge of his own destiny, saving Janet from Vornoff’s clutches and strapping Vornoff into his own machine. He has become somebody capable of standing up for himself against his abuser, only for the very instrument of his revenge – the giant-making machine – to turn against him!

Think about it: who else is gonna be the hero of this movie? Not Janet – once she reaches the Old Willows Place, Vornoff places her in his hypnotic thrall and she’s incapable of doing anything useful until Lobo unties her. Not Dick – he’s chained up while Vornoff prepares to experiment on Janet and can’t get out until she’s free to undo his shackles! Then he tries to fight Lobo, gets his ass kicked and his shirt mostly torn off, and just lies on the floor during the climax. Certainly not the chief of police – his bird shows more initiative than he does! It’s Lobo all the way! He oughtta team up with Eulabelle from The Horror of Party Beach. There’s a pair of unappreciated heroes who could totally save the world!

On the other hand, Lobo also gets a death suitable for the villain of this movie! Like any halfway-respectable mad scientist, Lobo is killed by his own creation, the giant Dr. Vornoff! It’s a bit of an open question what Lobo thought the embiggening machine would do to Vornoff… he clearly fears it’ll kill Janet, since he takes the trouble to rescue her from it, and it’s likely he puts Vornoff into it hoping to see him fried. Why he didn’t just break the man’s neck or feed him to the octopus, as he did with Dr. Strowski, I don’t know. Perhaps he’s merely falling back on his training, although there are clearly some higher thought processes at work, since he must have learned to operate Dr. Vornoff’s machine by watching, and since this is evidently something he hasn’t done before he must have made a conscious decision to do it.

Vornoff is in turn killed by his creation, the monster octopus. Such is the fate of all who Tamper in God’s Domain.

Another argument that this is actually Lobo’s movie is that he might be the monster referenced in the title. Janet is clearly the bride, since she’s wearing a wedding dress at the climax – though the movie never tells us why, and the last guy Vornoff experimented on appeared to just have a sheet over him. It’s true that Vornoff tells the two hunters Lobo is not the legendary Lake Marsh Monster, and implies that it is actually the giant octopus – but nobody comes near marrying the octopus. Instead, it’s Lobo who appears to consider Janet a potential bride, and rescues her in the hope of winning her heart. Then again, perhaps Vornoff is the monster. He carries Janet off, probably intending to rebuild his laboratory and make her his giant bride, and his acts throughout the movie certainly qualify as monstrous.

I know, I know. It’s an Ed Wood movie. I’m thinking too hard.

Unique in Ed Wood's filmography, Bride of the Monster is rather mysterious about its message. I’ve observed before that Wood wanted to make important movies, movies that would teach people to be better human beings, and usually this ‘moral’ is pretty obvious. The Sinister Urge is about the horrors of pornography, Jail Bait and The Violent Years are about being involved with your children’s lives, and Plan Nine from Outer Space is about the arms race, as the aliens are determined to destroy us before we can discover the ultimate weapon. What the heck is Bride of the Monster about?

Perhaps it, too, is about humanity’s warlike tendencies: Dr. Vornoff’s home country wants to use his work to rule the world, while Vornoff, like Dr. Zorka of The Phantom Creeps, would rather rule the world himself. The final line, the infamous he tampered in God’s domain, suggest that the theme is scientific over-reach, which is also echoed in Plan Nine – Vornoff discovered something man wasn’t mean to know and it destroyed him, just as the Solarmanite is likely to do to all humanity in the other movie. But there’s also yet a third theme from Wood’s other works that creeps in here, and that’s the uselessness of the police.

I’m not sure if this is something Wood actually thought about, like he did his other themes, but it is a motif that runs through multiple films: the police don’t try very hard and are, ultimately, irrelevant. It was true in Plan Nine, as well as in Jail Bait and The Sinister Urge – policemen are fairly major characters without doing anything much to further the plot. This seems to be at the forefront of Bride of the Monster even more than the other films, as we get to know at least three of the cops fairly well and one of them, Dick, has an intimate connection with the actual plot in that he’s engaged to Janet.

As well as Dick, who tries to be a hero and fails, spectacularly, over and over, we get to know two other policemen: Kelton is eager to please but incompetent and cowardly, and Captain Robbins is far more interested in playing with his pet bird than with solving crimes. They’re all spectators for the climax, while Lobo does interesting things and giant Vornoff fights his octopus. Did Wood have some kind of grudge against the constabulary? Or was all this just a side effect of bad writing and attempts to add character?

Finally, Bride of the Monster is particular fun for MSTies because it’s so full of opportunities to play The Movies Are All Coming Together. If you feel like it, for example, you can wonder if Tor Johnson is playing the same Lobo as in The Unearthly – perhaps he came to, escaped the fire, and went to go work for Dr. Conway! Heck, maybe he’s also the same character as in The Beast of Yucca Flats… maybe he got his scars from that nuclear test, and is able to work Vornoff’s machinery because somewhere in there is some vestige of Joseph Javorski, Noted Scientist!

You can also ponder whether this might be a sequel to The Corpse Vanishes. In both movies, Bela Lugosi plays an evil scientist who keeps deformed henchmen and works alone in an isolated house… in The Corpse Vanishes he was interested in young brides and hormone secretions. Maybe in Bride of the Monster he dresses Janet up in a wedding gown because he’s used to working on young brides, and any attempt to turn people into giants would probably involve human growth hormone.

Wood did make a sequel of sorts to Bride of the Monster, called Night of the Ghouls – I’ll have to find that and watch it as an Episode that Never Was. I will not, however, be reviewing Plan Nine. So many other internet reviewers have done so that I doubt I have anything new to say about it, and besides, I honestly don’t think MST3K would ever have featured it. As supposedly ‘the worst movie ever made’ (though we MSTies have seen way worse), it was simply too obvious.

#mst3k #reviews #bride of the monster #ed wood #50s

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