#nobody leaves the stadium until someone wins that is the law

[fluffypotatey]

yeah soccer/fútbol is cool and all but baseball is still better

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 7: Forget Everything You Know]

Hi y’all! I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all so much for reading and for showing me and my fics some love. You better believe that I see EVERY. SINGLE. reblog, comment, tag, and message, and they mean the absolute world to me! I know that a lot of content creators are frustrated and taking breaks right now, but rest assured you will not be able to get rid of me if even a SINGLE person looks forward to something I write. I’ll finish this fic (eventually), and I’ll finish the next one too (it already has a name!), and I won’t disappear or leave the Queen/BoRhap fandom at any point in the foreseeable future. Lots of love to you all, stay safe, and I hope you enjoy! 💜 💜 💜

Chapter summary: Y/N brings home some friends; Brian attempts an intervention; John draws a line; Roger gets an answer.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

“Smile, everyone!” Your dad peeks through the viewfinder of the Canon F-1 and beams. “One...two...three...say Queen!”

“Queen!” you all shout gleefully. The flash illuminates the dining room, and you blink away momentary blindness. The table materializes back into vision: lobsters, clams, haddock chowder, sourdough bread, fried oysters, pierogis with Vermont cheddar cheese, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes...and, of course, Boston cream pie for dessert.

“Ah, perfection,” your dad sighs contently. “Please continue, Mr. Mercury.”

“Mr. Mercury!” Brian whines, incredulous. “Like he’s got a bloody PhD or something!”

Freddie cracks a lobster claw. He hasn’t taken his sunglasses or wrist-full of clanging bangles off all afternoon. Your parents are profoundly confused by him, but welcoming nonetheless. “I’m a professor of lusciousness. Pay attention and you could learn something.”

Brian rolls his eyes and dunks a hunk of sourdough bread into his chowder.

“So,” Freddie tells your mother between bites of lobster dripping with drawn butter. “Our darling damsel in distress was in the clutches of that horrid, dodgy wanker when none other than our very own Roger Meddows Taylor—”

“You weren’t even there!” Brian protests. “I wasn’t even there! This is, what, a third-hand account?!”

“Eat your soup, peasant. Thank you. Anyway, our beloved Roger comes raging out of nowhere, red-faced, nostrils flaring, a terrifying sight to behold, grabs this guy by his hair and slams his despicable face directly into a marble column. Broken nose, cracked orbital socket, blood everywhere! It was magnificent. I’ve never been more proud.”

“Good for you!” your mother cheers, patting the back of Roger’s hand encouragingly. He smiles at her, warmly, radiantly, like the wildfire he’s always reminded you of. And you marvel at how every human on this earth is made of the same fundamental components—blood and muscles and vessels and nerves, hearts and enigmatic brain matter and ribs, vulnerable parts, armored parts, all webbed together like nature’s own organic circuit board—and yet the marks they leave on you can feel so different: burns, scars, bruises, shadows, imprints that are deep enough to brush bone and never fade.

“Mom, the guy could have died!”

“Did he?” she asks innocently.

“Nope,” Roger says.

“Well then, Mr. Taylor here is a hero in my book.”

“Mr. Taylor!” Brian groans.

“I was petrified he would turn out to be the son of an executive or producer or something and the band would be ruined,” you say. “Fortunately he was just someone’s annoying frat brother from college who already had a reputation for being a sleazebag. So, we were in luck.”

“You were in luck that Mr. Taylor was there,” your mother points out, gazing at him dreamily. This delightful English boy is going to be my son-in-law and give me gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says.

“Yes, a literal superhero,” John says ruefully, sipping a Manhattan. Your dad has a passionate love for mixing cocktails, especially for guests who also happen to be rock stars.

“Mom. Don’t make his ego any bigger, please. I’m begging you.”

Roger snarls around a mouthful of Boston cream pie, sending your mom into a fit of giggles.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, dear.” She smooths your hair. “And that you have people to keep you safe all the way over there across the ocean, and that you’re happy.”

“Yes, your work environment is much improved, isn’t it?” Brian says. “That supervisor you had at the hospital was an absolute bear!”

Your dad strokes his short grey beard. “Well...” he admits. “That may have been my fault.”

Brian’s brow crinkles. “Really?”

Your mom turns to you. “You didn’t tell them?!”

“Oh, is there a scandalous backstory?” Freddie inquires, elated. “Do tell, darling!”  

“Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away—just kidding, it was here in Boston—my archnemesis Patricia and my dad dated.”

Roger drops his fork, appalled. “No!”

Freddie’s nose wrinkles in revulsion. “Why?!”

Your dad rocks back in his chair and laughs loudly, heartily. “She wasn’t always so cantankerous, if you can believe it. She was a sweet girl, wonderful even. But then I met my future wife, and...” He smirks guiltily. “What can I say? The heart wants what it wants!”

You nod along. “And I got the illustrious honor of being an outlet for the frustration stemming from Patricia’s lifelong unrequited love.”

“You saucy minx!” Freddie playfully lashes your mom’s shoulder with a cloth napkin. “Homewrecker!”

She chuckles, not the least bit offended. “People get together under all sorts of strange circumstances, and you know what? You can’t wreck a home if the home wasn’t already half-wrecked before you got there, that’s what I think.”

Roger raises his Patriot’s Punch. “I’ll drink to that.”

Brian clutches his New England Express, bewildered. “Are we...toasting to infidelity?”

“Oh, does that horrify you?” Rog asks sarcastically. Brian grimaces, but dutifully raises his glass.

“We’re toasting to love,” your dad clarifies. “However it comes, as long as it’s true.”

John holds his Manhattan aloft. “To love.”

Freddie clinks his Flying Elvis against the other beverages, including your parents’ wine glasses and your Cranberry Crush. “Cheers!” Then Fred glances at the clock and swiftly polishes off his slice of Boston cream pie.

“Can’t you all stay a little longer?” your mom pleads, collecting plates and gazing longingly at Roger. “This has been so much fun...”

“They have soundcheck at seven, Mom. We have to leave for the stadium soon.”

“Well, before you jet off to your next adventure, can I treat anyone to a long distance call?” your dad asks.

Brian perks up. “Really?!” You know there’s a ring in the future for Chrissie; not an expensive or extravagant ring (not that Chris would want that anyway), but a ring nonetheless. You know because Brian has taken you shopping to help him choose one.

“Of course! You can use the phone in my office. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all. I’m sure there are some lovely ladies back in jolly old England who would be over the moon to hear from you.”

“That would be very much appreciated!” Brian says. “And thank you so much, this has been such a treat, you have no idea how long it’s been since we had a proper homemade meal.”

“I had to rehabilitate the reputation of us Yankees, didn’t I? Now come on, Mr. May, I’ll show you to the office...”

“Mr. May...I like the sound of that!”

“Ten minutes, Bri!” Freddie calls, following them down the hallway. “Then it’s my turn...!”

You begin gathering up the empty glasses, but Roger promptly snatches them away. “No way, Boston babe. You go relax. I’ll help your mom.”

“I think she’s in love with you.”

He grins. “Do you have a secret stepdaddy fetish I could exploit?”

“Oh my god. Roger.”

He snickers and sweeps off into the kitchen. It’s only then that you realize John has disappeared. You check the kitchen, the living room, the hallway, the study, and finally the front porch; John is standing outside in the cold, smoking and watching the setting sun. The sky is threaded with cerulean, rust orange, lavender, indigo. You pull on your coat and go out to join him.

“We’ll make it to Florence one of these days,” you promise John, resting your arms on the wooden, white-painted porch railing. Your mother hung baskets of fresh flowers for the band’s visit, which swing lazily in the breeze. “Crank out a few more hits and we’ll get the record company to add it to the tour itinerary.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice.”

“Are you going to call Veronica?”

He shrugs, frowns, exhales a lungful of smoke into frigid New England air. “I don’t know if I should.”

“You don’t think she’d like that?” you ask, confounded.

“I think she might like it too much.”

“Ohhhhh.” You read his soft greyish eyes, which are faraway and somber, sad even. “I’m sorry, John. You know she’s wild about you.”

“I know it.” He takes a drag off his cigarette. “She’s the first person who ever was, actually. The first person who ever noticed me. Came up to me out of the blue at a disco and asked me to dance, me! So I said yes, like you do when you’re the guy nobody notices. And then I said yes again, and again, and again, until one day I realized...oh, this girl thinks we’re getting married. When the hell did that happen?”

“I noticed you,” you contest.  

John chuckles and nods. “You did,” he agrees. “Right away. Tried to win me over when I was too nervous to finish a sentence around you. But that was long after I’d met Veronica.”

“Well, you can’t break up with her tonight. On Valentine’s Day?! That would be traumatic.”

“Agreed.”

“We’ll have a few days in London between the American and Asian legs of the tour. You can think it over and decide what to do then. I’m happy to arrange the getaway taxi if that’s something that interests you.”

“Yeah.” Again, he peers out into the Western horizon, into rising stars.

“John?”

Now he looks to you. He’s a little too thoughtful, too low. There’s something you’re not seeing.

“...Is there somebody else?”

He doesn’t speak; he just stares at you with those velvety azure-grey eyes, drums his fingers against the railing, lets the ash from his cigarette crumble into the snow-dusted Blue Pacific Junipers.

Roger barrels through the front door and out onto the porch. “There you are, Deaks! I thought we were going to have to find a new bassist. Enlist Nurse Nightingale’s mum or something.”

John smirks and crushes the rest of his cigarette in your father’s ashtray. “I suspect you’d do just fine without me.”

“Oh no. No way. Not happening.”

“That’s kind of you,” John says, unconvinced.

“Here, I’ll prove it.” Rog holds out his calloused hand. “If you ever leave, I leave too. Come on, Deaks, shake on it. It’s official. It’s a pact. There’s no Queen without John Deacon.”

Reluctantly, trying not to show how pleased he is, John shakes. “Alright.”

Roger grins triumphantly. “Signed, sealed, delivered. You’re ours for life, baby.”

“Deaky, do you want the phone?!” Freddie yells from inside the house.

John sighs and exchanges a knowing glance with you. “I guess I should say hi.”

“Okay, but quickly!” Rog presses. “We gotta go!”

“So bossy...” John ducks inside; and Roger, though he’s not wearing anything over his pale pink button-up shirt—sufficiently sophisticated to impress your parents—comes to the porch railing to join you.

“You’re not staying out here, are you?” You eye his thin shirt worriedly, the goosebumps rising over his collarbones, his bare forearms where he rolled up his sleeves to help your mom wash the dishes.

He tosses you a mischievous wink. “I’ve got no one to call.”

Roger looks up at the hanging baskets of flowers, plucks out a cerise carnation, and offers it to you. You mean to say something witty, something sardonic, something that will make him laugh; but all your words vanish into cold February air. You take the carnation, smiling helplessly.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Roger whispers.

You just let me know if you ever change your mind, okay?

Okay.

He turns to go back inside the house.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

Then Roger pauses in the doorway. “You coming, Boston babe? I can’t have you catching pneumonia or something. I won’t know how to fix you.”

Oh, you realize, with horror and yet relief, all those grueling lies stripped away. It’s too late.

~~~~~~~~~~

You knock on the frame of the dressing room door. “Hi Bri!”

He glances over from where he sits in front of the mirror, rimming his eyes with inky liner. Soundcheck went swimmingly, and now Queen has thirty minutes until they need to be onstage. You can hear the disembodied reverberation of voices from the waiting crowd through the walls. “Hello, love. Come in.”

“Freddie said you needed to see me. Did you rip a sleeve or something? I brought my kit—”

“No, it’s not that.” He pats the chair beside him. The boys practically always get ready together before a show, but you suspect profoundly introverted Brian is experiencing one of his post-socialization crashes after dinner with your parents. Something about him is tired, very tired, almost drained to empty. “Join me.”

“Sure,” you say cautiously. You shove your medical kit onto the countertop and then reach to feel his forehead. “Are you feeling alright...?”

“I’m fine, love. I just have a favor to ask.”

“Anything.”

Brian sighs deeply, sets down the eyeliner, swivels his chair towards you. “I need you to promise me that you’re not going to start seeing Roger.”

You titter, deflecting, brushing Brian’s hair away from his troubled, angular face. “Well, as the official Queen touring nurse, I see him quite a lot.”

Brian catches your wrist. “I’m being serious.”

Now your brow knits into tight agitated lines. “I’m curious as to why you think that’s something you have a say in.”

“Bloody hell, I’m not trying to offend you—”

“Job well done.”

“Dear, please, listen to me—”

“Eight months,” you hiss through your teeth as you tear away from him. “For eight months I’ve listened and avoided and resisted and ignored and it’s not going away.”

“Oh, fuck,” Brian breathes in despair. “You love him.”

There are tears biting in the periphery of your vision; you don’t want them to be there, but they are. Your voice is hoarse and trembling. “Bri, please don’t.”

Brian shakes his head and motions with his hands frenetically, desperately, trying to make you understand. “Look, sometimes...sometimes the people we love, the people who own us, the people who fucking set us on fire...they’re not the people we end up with. And that’s not always a bad thing. It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.”

You gape at him, furious, stunned. “That’s just fantastic, Brian. You’re a true romantic. Jesus christ, does Chrissie know about this? Is that why you’re with her, because she’s, what...safe?!”

“No, that’s not fair, Chrissie’s great, she’s steady and supportive and she’ll make a wonderful mother one day, and my parents adore her—”

“Those aren’t reasons to marry someone, Brian!”

“They are!” He leaps to his feet. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! You have to think about these things, you have to be rational, you have to protect yourself—”

“Why the fuck do you care?” you flare bitterly.

“Because you saved my life.”

“Stop it, I didn’t.”

“You did, I truly believe that. And I want you to stay with the band. And I want you to be happy. But, dear, please, I’m begging you...this is not the way to do it.”

“I’m not going to go out to some pub and drag home a random guy who’s suitably passionless and predictable enough to be Brian-May-approved.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you to do—”

“Because you’re such an expert on relationships!” you shout, exasperated. “Planning to propose to Chris while you’re still secretly pining over some fling from New Orleans, fucking groupies and then having the nerve to mope around guilt-ridden the next morning as if anyone but you was responsible for that decision, and do I say anything about it?! Do I ever say a single fucking word about it to you, or Fred, or Roger, or your future wife, or anybody?! No, because it’s not my life!”

The dressing room door flies open and John storms inside. “What’s going on?!”

You cross your arms and stare at the floor. Brian’s wide green eyes flick to John, to you, back to John. If it was Freddie, Brian would tell him in a second, would try to enlist him in the effort, and it would probably work; but John is a different story. John won’t side with Brian over you, everybody knows that. And John has a talent for sharpening words into blades. “Um. Nothing.”  

“I could hear you in the hallway,” John says flatly. “Obviously it wasn’t nothing.”

Brian points to you. “Have you tried to talk her out of this? Maybe you should, maybe she’d listen.”

“It’s not my choice to make, just like it isn’t yours. Worry about your own body count. It seems to be growing exponentially these days.”

Brian scoffs. “Because you’d be so thrilled if she ended up with him, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” you demand.

Brian and John glare at each other from across the room. John raises his eyebrows, daring Bri to answer. Brian gnaws his lower lip, but doesn’t elaborate. The air is heavy, tense, electrified.  

“Don’t upset her again,” John says darkly.

Brian shows the white palms of his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

John waves for you to follow him. “Come on.” And he slams the door behind you as you both escape into the hallway.

“I’m sorry.” You chase away stray tears with the back of your hands. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to get anyone worked up right before the show...”

“Don’t worry about it. I treasure any excuse to harass Brian.”

You study him, seeking answers, seeking more than you know how to put into words. “Do you think I’m being stupid? If you do, you can tell me.”

“No,” John responds carefully. “I think you’re being hopeful. And I’d like to believe that stupidity and hopefulness are two very different things.”

You smile. “I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s very inaccurate.” He fluffs his hair with his fingertips. “Do you want to touch it before we go on stage?”

You feign demureness. “Hmm...”

“Oh come on. You know you want to. It’s extra voluminous right now, Roger shared some of his magical mousse or whatever. Something way too expensive. You should thoroughly berate him for it.”

You laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.” You comb your hands through his brunette hair, and John’s right; it’s extraordinarily full and soft, and smells like honeysuckles. “You always know how to get me smiling, don’t you?”

“You do insist that I have game. Though I remain skeptical.”

“Good luck tonight. Not that you need it.”

John’s rough thumb lifts your chin, then whisks away a tear you missed. “You’ll be watching, right?”

“I always am.” And that’s the truth; you haven’t missed a Queen show since you met them.

He beams, those gentle grey eyes incandescent. “Then we’ll have an ocean of luck.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Exactly twenty-four hours later, Queen is in New York City.

The thunderous bassline of the opening act shudders through the concrete walls. You’re staring yourself down in the bathroom mirror under harsh florescent lights, your palms gripping the cold rim of a white sink, your eyes shimmering with black and gold shadow, your lip gloss slick and crimson. There’s not a single thing left to do. You’re running out of time.

You breathe in, breathe out, snatch your purse off the floor, breeze out into the hallway.

You can hear the boys’ laughter even before you open the dressing room door. Inside, Brian is tuning his Red Special with his mantis-like legs propped up on the countertop, John is attempting to teach Freddie how to make popcorn in a microwave without setting anything on fire, Roger is scrutinizing his hair in the mirror and frowning as he rearranges it with a comb.  

“Hello, darling!” Freddie warbles. “Can I interest you in some delicious and expertly-prepared popcorn?” He opens the microwave, and smoke pours out. “Oh, you bitch!”

“I’ll pass, Freddie.” You glide to where Roger is sitting, knot your fingers through his blond hair, and tug his head back so you can kiss him. He tastes like mint gum and the ghost of smoke and reckless intemperance; he tastes like everything you’ve ever wanted. There are gasps, and surely dropped jaws as well; but you don’t have eyes for them. “Okay,” you tell Roger.

He stares up at you with huge, starry eyes, a dazed grin slowly lighting up his face. “You changed your mind.”

“Come find me after the show.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You move to wipe your blood-red gloss from his lips, but Roger stops you, knits his hand through yours, stands to meet you.

“Leave it,” he murmurs. “I want them to know.”  

“Want them to know...?”

His lips touch yours again, smiling and scorching and ravenous. “That I’m yours.”

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 24- Champions

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU and Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

Ecto belongs to @cooler-cactus-block

Not only have the hermits found out who the dark wizard is, but they’ve just won the Chimaera’s Championship. Things are finally going the right way for the hermits. 

But the celebration doesn’t last long. One more challenge lays ahead. 

_____________________________________________

Victors, heroes, enemies. Champions. In one single moment, the hermits were all that and more. From being an illegal guild of nobodies to a team of wizards that just won the Chimaera’s championship- it’s hard to believe. Standing before the stadium, finally able to see and be enveloped in the warm lights, the entire crowd cheering for team STAR. Not the hermits, that’s not who they are here. They’re still an illegal guild. But here? They’re just a team of random wizards. A team of random wizards that just won the Chimaera’s championship. 

The only way their mood could be soured was by having to hear that bastard Dolios’s voice. Which, unfortunately, is exactly what they hear echoing all around them. Congratulating them, capitulating his pride and joy to see new faces take home the Cup, the gold, and the glory. From behind, TFC can hear Zedaph growling under his breath. “Why can’t someone shut him up?” 

“This is outrageous!” Exactly on cue, Dolios is cut off by the voice of his own Council. Idelens stands, brushing out the golden tassel of her robes so that they’re perfectly placed. She is a beacon of perfection- even the angry creases in her face are situated just so to exemplify her emotions. “Magistrate Dolios, your wise leadership has gone too far! An illegitimate group of street rats, winning the Chimaera’s Championship? They are not even a guild!”

All around Idelens, the other councilmembers voice their own displeasure- except for Apatia, who seems to be too lazy to stand. “Magistrate Dolios, you have led our kingdom into an age of prosperity and strength unlike those ever seen before.” Gadai bows as he speaks to Dolios, earning a humble smile from the bearded leader. “But it was only through your laws to organize guilds and streamline all of Lairyon’s power that this age has been ushered! This...this horde of troublemakers is the exact opposite of the prideful guilds that have spent years training and preparing for this day! A team like this has no place among the Chimaera’s Championship, much less winning! The cup, the gold, the glory should go to a real guild like mine!’

“Do you realize how hard our guilds trained?” Sidero hisses, eyes boring through the hermits. “I’m gonna-”

The entire council goes silent the second Dolios raises a hand, his red sleeve falling in a cascade of gold trim and wine fabric. Glittering eyes close, his head shaking. Brown curls of hair, tied back in a well kept ponytail, dance across the blue capelet resting on the Magistrate’s shoulders. “This is not about gold, or glory, or guilds, my dear council friends. The Chimaera’s Championship is a show or unity, of joy, of creativity for Lairyon. It is something we all love, whether it is the common farmer or richest guildmaster. Virtues this team here proudly exemplifies, a team we should be proud to call victors.” Dolios turns his gaze, which sharpens as he lays eyes on the hermits. “Though they may not be a guild, but rather a conglomeration of independent wizards working together solely for this event, they are champions nonetheless.” 

Ren and Mumbo have to cover their ears at the raucous roar that erupts from the mass of spectators around them. Cheering for Team STAR, cheering for Magistrate Dolios. His warm and charismatic smile never falters while the hermits step up to take their prize. He remains standing from his chair, above King Sor’s empty throne and above the council’s throng. 

The crowd shuffles, going quiet as heads and bodies bow. Bowing to the hermits, the champions of the games. Days of grueling competitions designed to push them to the limit and test their attributes against the best of the best. Common folk winning a game that has been dominated by only the most elite guilds for the past decade. It was a sign of respect and reverence to the gods the games were dedicated to, even their fellow non-guild teams bowing. Though Ecto was snickering the whole time. Only one person refused to lower his head at the introduction of the winners. 

Magistrate Dolios. He remained firm, not even blinking as the chalice full of gold and gems is handed off the guild. He raises his chin slightly at the mention of the gods, of the dragon spirits, the noble guardians in the sea. Grian’s skin crawls, feeling Dolios’s gaze burn into him. The charismatic glimmer in the magistrate’s eyes turns frenzied, the smooth edges of his smile become hard and cold. But all of that is gone when the crowd rises. The only remaining proof that any of it happened is the unnerving sensation left in Grian’s body. 

Cub does the next most sensible thing, knowing his fellow hermits- he portals away all the riches and the chalice back to Eremita. And he feels great, none of his magic sapped away. He feels like he could teleport all the way to Kilton right now, his excitement and freedom bubbling inside him. 

The hermits scrabble back to their inn as quickly as possible. Funny enough, as soon as they're out on the streets, out among the crowd of spectators, no one seems to notice they’re walking besides Chimaera Champions. Is it that they don’t look like a team, or they don’t act like a winning guild would? Maybe it’s that, among the busy streets, no one’s going to notice one or two hermits traveling just a few paces behind the next bead of the string. The only stranger to congratulate them was the tavernkeeper, ordering rounds on the house of their best ale- whatever taste that would be. 

TFC feels a weight press around his body, cold metal against his back and his entire weight lifted off the ground. TFC isn’t a heavy man, but he’s got the bones of any good miner. However, Jason in his cyborg form could easily pick him up, hugging him with one arm while grinding a human fist into Zed’s hair. “Congratulations, hermits! You really gave us a run for our money. But don’t be expecting us to go easy on you next time, twerps!” 

He lets go of the two he’s captured, inviting the whole group to sit with him. Grian bounces into the seat beside the automaton man. “Where’s the rest of your team? Did you guys get out alright in the labyrinth?”

Jason waves off his worries. “We were crushing it until we got to this real nasty chimaera. Should’ve known they’d be there, it’s literally in the name! The rest of those idiots are upstairs packing.” 

“Invite them down!” Iskall laughs, grabbing hold of the tankard placed and taking a large swig. Curiously, the ale is actually quite good, the mead having a fruity flavor and even the froth light and almost marshmellowy. 

“Get the wanderers too, they should get in on this celebration!” Joe adds, prompting Mumbo to be the soul to find them all. 

“The wanderers left already.” Jason has already finished his first round, and is going in for another. 

“Were they that disappointed in losing?” Xisuma questions, pulling his chair to face backwards and crowd in the ever growing table. 

“No, they were quite happy when you guys won. But they left suddenly, following after some guy with long white hair in a ponytail.” X nearly chokes on his drink, but Jason continues. “As soon as they left, we did get this lovely letter from the Council.” 

“Oh, great. Official hate mail.” Cleo sneers. She’s the first to pick up the paper, reading over it’s contents. “Ugh, it’s nothing even interesting. Just reminding all three teams that we are to disband immediately. We aren’t legal guilds, in case any of you didn’t remember.” 

“How could we forget?” Doc sneers. 

“We should leave sooner rather than later.” TFC hums, picking up the paper and reading across the elegant handwriting. All seven council members signed it. “Just in case the arcane guard decides to remind us again.” 

Xisuma recovers from his near death experience with his beer, eyes watering but otherwise back to his normal calm personality. “I have to agree with our guildmaster. We should get out of Milliara as soon as possible. I don’t think I want to be near here when the magistrate discovers our...intrusion.” 

“What about telling the king?” Impulse tips his head to the side, nearly catching it on fire with how close team ZIT is sitting. All three are still holding onto the mark of their dead guild, despite the joy of winning. Some scars never fade. Across the table, Jason just drinks away his confusion. 

“We can easily send a message from the Ashioll sea to the king. At least on Eremita we’re safer, it’s harder to reach us, but we can still message the king. Phoebe’s a good bird.” Grian still feels unnerved about how Dolios stared at him. 

The team shares one more drink, this time with all of the members of Team Crafted, before waving them off. It’s their turn to pack. Days of clothes strewn across beds, floors, and furniture. Gathering supplies, from hair brushes to gemstones, even Tango’s hair gel to keep the flames for locks from burning his pillow. 

They know they’re ready to leave when Scar tumbles down the stairs, his medals clattering against one another like a bell. His monstrosity of packing left much to be desired, but the hermits always knew they had everyone when Scar arrived- he was always last. With everyone gathered, they can finally leave Milliara. 

Coming to the city, they only hoped to leave with information on who attacked them. They didn’t expect to win any of the events- the Championship was simply a guise. But now, walking through the canal lined streets on their way home, they would return as champions. People pointed towards them, smiling and even cheering at the sight of Team STAR. Would they cheer if they knew they were an illegal guild? 

Passing through the nobility district, unfortunately in between them and the western gate, a crowd has already gathered in a wide plaza. At the sight of the arcane guard, the Council’s personal military, the muscles in every hermit tightens. They were warned to disband- this must be the legion here to make sure they do so. 

The throngs of people part, revealing the one person no hermit wanted to see. “Ah, I’m so thankful I was able to catch our victors before you returned to the countryside.” 

Magistrate Dolios stood before a large, ornate fountain. Gilded statues of various species and wizards, water casting up and down steps and terraces in the crescent shaped cascade. The water captures the torchlight of the evening air, dancing across Dolios. Shadows cast across his body, illuminating him from behind and hiding most of his features. The only defined part of him is the golden, sun shaped clasp holding his cape, light bouncing off the lustrous material. Among the group, a short scuffle breaks out. Tango and Zedaph are barely able to hold Impulse back, to keep him from blowing the magistrate off the face of this kingdom. The whole plaza was watching. 

“Hello, Magistrate. For what do we owe the...honor?” TFC steps up, putting himself between the dark mage before him and the team behind him. That magnetic smile never wavers, Dolios’s eyes sweeping across the cityfolk around them. 

“I came to congratulate you all personally. And to invite you all to capitol hall for a feast in your honor. It’s not every day that a non-guild team wins the Chimaera’s Championship. You are exactly the reason why I opened the games to teams, and you proved me right in doing so.” Dolios waves his hand. “Please, join me for a feast, champions.” 

The magistrate’s eyes flick to the side, quickly running across the faces of the people around the hermits. TFC follows his gaze, at the hundreds of people standing around them. Waiting for their answer. He can hear them whispering, the honor to be invited to dine with the leader of Lairyon. The hermit guildmaster can feel the pressure to agree. Turning down such a proposal would be like turning down a gift from the gods. 

A flash of metal catches TFC’s eyes, as does the fearful faces of the hermits. The arcane guard, initially holding back the watching crowd, has moved in on his guild. While the swords of the guards remain sheathed, he can clearly see the sharp, shear edges of hidden knives held at the backs of each hermit. The carrot and the stick, laid out clearly before TFC. He has no choice. “We are so grateful for such an offer, I simply can’t refuse.” 

The delighted smile on Dolios’s face does not mask the hungry gleam in his eyes, and the magistrate walks away from the fountain. TFC can clearly see his face now, the smooth brown hair of his beard and well tamed curls of his ponytail. “Let us feast, in honor of the gods, the ancient ones, and the good people of Lairyon that have made this kingdom wonderful.” 

Guards close around the guild, moving between the townsfolk at hermits like they’re trying to protect them. But every hermit can feel the cold, sharp metal against their backs. They’d be safer in a pit of afanc than here among the arcane guard. They have no choice but to follow Dolios, away from prying eyes. They travel up the steps of the capitol hall, the ornate doors of the building swallowing them whole and closing it’s lips with a heavy wooden slam of the doors. 

Dolios turns around, his hand appearing from beneath the wide cuffs of his robes. The marble pillars catch and illuminate the light of Dolios’s spell. Sandy dust falls across the hermits, sparkling in the torchlight. Wels and BDubs are out like a light in a minute, but others fight off the sensation of sleep. Dolios’s calm voice does little to slow the magic. “You thought you were clever, huh? You thought you found all my secrets? Well, I have one last challenge for our champions. Sleep well, you’ll need it for your final challenge.”