#one was chosen pre attempted murder

[theawwesomeeridan]

At this point I’ve just gotta admit that my type is cool color coded boys who have attempted murder. I don’t know what that says about me.

[duckiemimi]

hii dunno if you've seen this geto analysis but i just wanted to know what u thought of it !!

https://twitter.com/Aamaly3/status/1713133769148796985?t=zEv2zdoEtU8NFWicEDsuUg&s=19

thinking abt how geto spent the last decade of his life trying to justify the impulsive actions he made as a teenager hurtsss

oh, i love geto so much, i actually scrolled back and found something similar i wrote back in july!! it was on geto and fear! i also have a post on geto and empathy, if you’re interested!

a little excerpt from the first post!

“geto was the type of guy who needed something to believe in, a clear-cut ideal that empowered him and gave him purpose. he rarely gave himself the space for nuance. everything had to line up with the end goal and you can see this by how he justified his actions only after it happened, retroactively, then in how he acted accordingly by murdering his parents—their death by his hands served as an ultimatum, an attempt to eliminate any lingering doubt he still had. he had to completely let go of his old principles to pave the way for his new convictions.”

when i said “juvenile care” in the empathy post, the word “juvenile” applies entirely to geto pre defection (i’d argue even post!). no matter how much you think you know at 16, 17, 18, you’ll always know more in hindsight. a combination of arrogance and a savior complex, of anger and grief, of adolescent conviction; yes, geto is complex because he was not faultless.

another add on: i think this “chosen one” complex that geto had directly inverses gojo’s attitude towards his own god-given gift. to geto, who’s had a life before jujutsu, he was special. to gojo, it was his everyday. and it’s why geto was able to see a life out of the system, no matter how questionable and reprehensible, and gojo could not. with his upbringing outside of jujutsu, geto had a reference he could build upon. meanwhile, jujutsu was all that gojo knew.

(i also made a post about gojo and his narrow worldview here!)

[junkosblunt]

despair sisters hot take // ramble

i know this is an extremely hot take but i love being hot so whatever: the happiest ending for mukuro ikusaba in the IF universe would be her reuniting with junko and the two of them subsequently working to mend their relationship. i feel like no matter what happens, junko will always be the person who matters most to mukuro, as tragic as that seems. i don’t think she’d ever be able to view living without junko as a relief or a freedom. to her, it’d feel like a punishment or an exile, a waking nightmare she’d be forced to build all sorts of walls around and deny because she wouldn’t be able to bear the idea of junko truly being out of her life for good. for mukuro, living without her twin sister would feel like being torn in half, and she’d find herself endlessly and franticly attempting to mend that relationship and reconnect. she’d desperately be seeking out that reunification to the point where it’d get in the way of any other connections she tried to make—not to the point necessarily where she couldn’t have those connections, but to the point where those connections would be strained and fucked up and junko would somehow always be at the center of that.

so mukuro’s ideal path would be getting junko to tolerate showing her love in a way that made her feel loved, made her feel needed. if she had that unconditional, impenetrable sense of belonging and connection that i imagine the two of them had together as children, she’d finally be able to breathe. she’d be set free from this constant longing to be loved by junko by any means necessary, which would then allow her to focus on other things in life.

like if their relationship were able to become something safe and certain and claustrophobically intimate again, to return to being her home, i think she’d feel emotionally secure enough (or even just whole enough) to comfortably seek out relationships and personal ambitions unrelated to junko. she’d be able to go after the things she wanted knowing that she had the one thing she needed—her sister.

and it tears me apart inside that junko murdered mukuro before that could happen because i truly believe that at some point later in life after her pre-frontal cortex fully developed and with some sort of external force/motivation, junko would’ve eventually chosen mukuro over despair. i really do. if junko had lived long enough, she would’ve let mukuro in and learned to endure how sickeningly safe and fulfilling and right it felt to have that inseparable intimacy and unconditional love with her twin sister. mukuro would’ve learned to truly understand junko and her despair, and the two of them would’ve figured out a way to manage junko’s need for despair that didn’t hurt mukuro. mukuro could’ve been happy and loved and junko could’ve been miserable and loved like they could’ve been toxic and awful TOGETHER as a FAMILY as SISTERS but instead they DIED and that makes me fucking feral.

emotional tangents and gross grammatical errors aside, here’s what i’m trying to say: if you were to ask mukuro ikusaba what she needed to feel whole, she’d say, “my sister” without a moment’s hesitation, regardless of where she was in life.

[mortemoppetere]

TIMING: pre-ireland LOCATION: wicked's rest community center PARTIES: @honeysmokedham & @mortemoppetere SUMMARY: when the judge of a local talent show is convinced someone is out to kill her, axis investigations is on the case! CONTENT: mentions of child death

Axis got a lot of stupid cases. If you asked Emilio, most of them were stupid, though one might say he was a biased party. Still, it was hard to deny that this case, more than most, was a goddamn nightmare.

Shelby Peckman was positive someone was trying to kill her. Over a talent show. In all honesty, Emilio had zoned out of the conversation fairly early on, because it turned out Shelby talked a lot and he didn’t have the patience to listen, but he got the basics. Shelby was a judge at the Wicked’s Rest Community Center’s annual talent show. Shelby was positive one of the contestants was going to murder her and had made several attempts to do so already, though she didn’t know which contestant it might be. And Shelby refused to quit the voluntary position because it was her ‘duty’ or some shit. 

This town was the fucking worst.

But, on the bright side, Nora seemed interested. And Nora had been through a lot lately, had been down because of it, so Emilio was willing to work a stupid fucking case with a stupid fucking client if it might make Nora feel a little better.

He did, however, have some objections to her chosen method.

“This is a bad idea,” he grumbled. “I don’t see why you think I need to be involved here. You could do this by yourself. I don’t want any part of this.”

—

Robin Banks laid upside down on the couch engrossed in a TikTok video. One two three four. The instructor said over the video as Nora did her best to memorize the dance moves. Did Nora want to get on stage and dance in front of a whole room of people who believe talent shows should extend past the age of five? Of course not. But she did want to see Emilio do it. “I can’t do it alone.” Nora responded. Van was going to love this. She would probably tell Van to show up and watch. “Or do you want Shelby to die?” 

That was a stupid question to ask. Of course, Emilio wanted Shelby to die if it meant he could get out of getting in front of judges and displaying his “talent.” That talent was still being decided by Nora, who’d recently picked up the job title of Axis Talent Manager. She was fluctuating between two songs, Dancing Queen by ABBA or Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo. Both had an appeal that sang along the lines of Emilio would hate it. Eventually Nora decided on Vampire. To her, it was funny to get Emilio dancing and singing to a song titled Vampire when he was a slayer. 

“I really shouldn’t be going on stage at all. What if they recognized me? You’ll have to take the lead on all of this.” Nora slid off the couch, got to her feet, and connecting to the bluetooth speakers, thank god for Teddy being in the 21st century. “Alright learn the lyrics while I teach you the dance.” Who knew that years of forced dance class would come in handy? “Five six seven eight.” 

After a few hours of whatever they were doing, which couldn’t be qualified as practice to any intelligent person, Nora clapped her hands together. “This is it.” She declared. “We are talent show ready. Should we go to work?”

—

“Shelby is annoying,” Emilio deadpanned, which both was an answer and wasn’t one. He didn’t want Shelby to die. If Shelby died, he wouldn’t get paid. And Shelby had kids, and Emilio didn’t think kids deserved to lose their mom just because that mom thought God had personally bestowed upon her the sacred duty of judging a bunch of grown ass adults in a talent show whose prize was a $30 gift certificate to a pirate-themed restaurant. 

There were, of course, other ways to keep Shelby from dying. Emilio had pointed this out, more than once. But Nora seemed pretty dead set on this as a solution, and part of him wanted to let her do whatever might make her a little less heavy than she had been lately. She hid it well enough, but he could tell she was still rattled by what she’d seen on that ghost tour, and by the plethora of shit that had come her way before it. 

“What if they recognize me?” He shot back, though the argument wasn’t nearly as good as Nora’s. Emilio was only recognizable to a very small number of people. And, sure, that small number of people would like to see him dead, but it still wasn’t the same sample size Nora had to deal with. He groaned as she continued playing the songs, hating both of them with an equal ferocity. 

Learning to dance was something he, naturally, protested. “You know my leg doesn’t work, right? If I start dancing, I’m probably going to fall on my ass. Or I’ll be feeling it for a week. What if my talent is throwing knives? I’m already very good at that.” 

Of course, his protests didn’t do much. Nora was perhaps one of the only people in the world who was just as stubborn as Emilio was. He learned the moves she drilled into him — which were easy enough on his leg, even if he grumbled and pretended they weren’t — and complained about the lyrics as he memorized them. It was a miserable few hours. Emilio would have preferred physical torture — and he said that as a man who had experienced it. 

At least the talent show was a one time thing. They’d do it, then it would be over and he’d get paid. And he’d buy so much whiskey. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, holding on to that thought to keep him sane. “Let’s get to the show.”

—

There was something cathartic in inflicting the same pain she grew up with on someone else who hated it equally as much as her. Luckily, the stakes weren’t nearly as high as a multi-billion family business, which meant she didn’t feel that bad. One day. That was simply a fun side-quest. Fun for her, again, just to clarify. She didn’t think any of this would be fun for Emilio. Dance moves and memorizations, Nora even had the brilliant idea to add knife throwing into their chirography after Emilio exclaimed that he’d rather do that. This is the twenty-first century after all. They could have it all. “Wait. I almost forgot.” Nora pulled out two plastic bags from her backpack. “Costumes.” 

And that is how the universe conspired against Emilio, setting him up on stage dressed and made up as a knock off member of KISS with Nora, standing beside him in similar garb. As she had been plastering on her makeup she gave Emilio a dead-pan stare with the simple explanation “Did you really think I’d give them the chance to notice me?” It was cases like this that reminded her why she wanted to be a private investigator. It was more than helping people, it was about hindering the people in your life. At least, that’s what she learned from watching Emilio’s self-destructive habits. 

The lights burnt Nora’s skin as she stood in them, their heat threatening to break sweat. Sweat would wipe away the bright white make-up. That would be no good. Why did they need these lights anyway? As she squinted into the audience she could see about thirty dark figures in them, surely the majority of them were other contestants trying to figure out who they’d be fighting for the gift card. Then there was Shelby, bright and cheery. Her smile was so wide and white that her teeth could have been one of the bright lights staring them down. “We’re Axis Rock, and this is Vampire.” 

The performance was, well, it was one of the performances of all times. It happened. Nora had even paid for someone to record it so they could send it to Teddy. There was a brief moment while they were on stage, knives being thrown, dance moves being badly executed by both parties, and song being sung extremely offkey and unenthusiastically that Nora forgot everything. The bad things of this town, the fact that Shelby was probably going to die despite their best efforts, that this town would do anything to dig its claws into all who lived there and drag them into the depths of hell. It was just a town. Full of people she cared about deeply, and there was fun to be had. 

But moments like that don’t last. Especially not when the performance ends and you’re stuck standing in front of a panel of judges, chests heaving with the physical effort, and waiting to be read for filth. 

—

Costumes. Emilio stared at Nora blankly for a moment, needing a drink more than he ever had in his goddamn life. “This is Hell,” he said flatly. “I’m in Hell. I always knew I’d end up here, but I thought I’d at least remember the dying part. I thought, hey, at least that part might be fun! Maybe I go out in a big blaze of glory, yeah, get everybody talking. Instead, I just end up in Hell without knowing how I got here. And Hell has costumes. Oh, no puedo creer que esto esté ocurriendo. I thought there’d be fire, at least.” 

Despite his dramatics, Emilio did make some effort to learn what Nora was teaching him. She’d worked pretty hard on this plan, and she did seem to be enjoying herself in a way he thought she deserved to. At least she let him throw some knives. It looked ridiculous and felt even weirder, but there was some quiet comfort in the familiar sensation of a knife gripped between his fingers. 

He hated everything about standing up on stage. He hated the lights, he hated the people looking at him, he hated the fact that he could feel people behind him watching from backstage. His eyes darted through the silhouetted figures in the crowd, trying to determine which of them was out to kill Shelby Peckman over a $30 gift certificate, but the lights made it impossible to actually see any of their faces or expressions. His eyes landed on Shelby herself, who looked excited and cheerful and way too happy to be someone in danger of being murdered. Everyone in this town was a fucking idiot, Emilio thought. Himself included.

The performance was terrible. Emilio spent most of it wishing that the lights at the top of the stage would fall and crush him, but he’d never been particularly lucky. Tragically, he survived the entire ordeal with his leg aching and his chest heaving, all his knives sticking out of the target across the stage. (All his throwing knives, at least. He’d managed to sneak a few extra knives into his costume, though not as many as he’d have liked. Nora had chosen a particularly tight getup.)

With it finished, he and Nora faced the four judges. Shelby clapped her hands. “That was terrible!” She said happily, writing in her notebook.

“I feel I’ve lost something,” lamented the man beside her, his head in his hands. “I feel I’ve lost something I can never get back. You’ve taken something precious from me.”

“I wish you’d thrown one of the knives at me,” the third judge chimed in, shaking her head.

Three heads turned to the final judge, who sat silent with their chin propped on their hands. Emilio blinked. Shelby cleared her throat. The final judge stood, bringing their hands together in a slow clap. “I loved it,” they said earnestly. “I don’t know what everyone else is talking about. I think it was the best one of the night! I’m using my veto to move you on to the next round.”

Emilio was definitely in Hell.

—

The lack of applause, the audiences clear distaste for what was happening, the uncomfortable energy in the room. Someone in the back, after a knife flew a little too close to their head, was having a full blown anxiety attack. Fear radiated off of him in tasty waves that gave Nora a burst of energy. This was what performance was all about. Forget making the crowd happy, the slack jaws, glassy eyes and uncomfortable round of applause was worth it. For the fleeting moment Nora could understand why anyone would want to do this. It was hilarious.

The judges' critiques were right until the last one got it wrong. What the fuck was a veto to get them to the next round? They weren’t supposed to get to the next round. They were supposed to hang around backstage and solve a mystery. And if that person wanted the worst act to precede forward, well there was no nicer way to say it, that was the person sabotaging this whole thing. Nora slid that piece of information into her back pocket. “Wow.” She deadpanned the word in her monotone, her affect one of a bored teenager who could really be anywhere else right now. “Sick. It’s been Inigo Montoya’s dream to win a talent show his whole life.” Nora glanced at Emilio, his body language was screaming fed up with this shit. “It was his father’s dream. And his fathers before him. Prepare for us to win.” 

The judge that liked them clapped, the other judges sat there in bewilderment, the audience member having the anxiety attack was crying so hard they decided to leave. Nora was going to miss her little snack. The crowd applauded with hesitation, each person looking at their neighbors. A susurration of whispers ran through them, disbelief or disdain. Nora didn’t care. She left the stage, making her way back to the green room for talent acts that were allowed to go on. “That was great.” She told Emilio, stopping halfway between the stage and the green room. “I think we should search that judge’s makeup room.” 

Not bothering to wait for his idea, Nora was off, tracking down the door that read Taylor Finch. It wasn’t locked, and since this production was small, it turned out that all judges shared the same backstage space. Nora’s hands were instantly prying through purses and backpacks and she searched for anything that had a blue paw print designating it a clue. “This show is so bad, I get why Shelby couldn’t give it up.” Nora noted, eating a granola bar snack she just pulled out of a bag. “Did you see the act before us? Ventriloquism. In 2024. Fucking asshole.” 

—

There was something undeniably unnatural about the judge who enjoyed their terrible performance. Emilio scowled at them, trying to will them into taking back their veto — what the fuck was a veto? — and dismissing ‘Axis Rock’ from the show. But the judge only maintained their too-wide smile, hands still clasped together in some strange ghost of their excited applause. Shelby met Emilio’s eye and shrugged, clearing her throat. “All right, Axis Rock!” She said. “You move on to round two! Congratulations!” 

Emilio decided to double her rate. No, actually, he would triple it. He’d make her give them a kidney or something. 

He glared at the judges even as Nora began to speak, nostrils flaring with irritation at her monologue. He should have never let her pick his alias for this job. He was sure he’d never agreed to make her pick a backstory, because he’d been pretty certain he wouldn’t need one. It was supposed to be a pretty simple gig. Go in, perform, get voted out, and spend the rest of the show in the audience observing reactions. He couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out where they’d went wrong. But he knew it went back to that fourth judge, somehow. There must have been a motivation there. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.

Emilio shot one last glare at the judges’ table before following Nora offstage and into the backstage area. He shot her a glare, too. “That was the worst thing I have ever gone through,” he retorted. “I’m not doing it again.” They’d find another tactic if they had to, but there was no way in hell Emilio was putting on a repeat performance of that. He nodded at Nora’s plan. “Yeah. You’re right.” Even if the judge wasn’t a suspect — which, as far as Emilio was concerned, they were — he’d like to ruin their day just a little by fucking with their shit. 

He followed Nora, who he knew would find the makeup room without much trouble. Once inside, he began rifling through things. “Shelby is an idiot,” he replied. “You know she isn’t even being paid? It’s a position they sign up for. Posición voluntaria. They’re all here because they wanted to be. I don’t understand it.” He yanked open a draw with a particularly violent slam, sifting through… a pile of fast food sauces. He took one out, holding it up for Nora to see. “It’s orange,” he said flatly. “Who eats something this orange?” Figuring it might, somehow, come in handy, he slipped the package into his pocket. “Is that the puppet? Or the, uh, the one who sat on the stage with the plastic cups?” He had no idea what ventriloquism was, and he hadn’t been paying nearly enough attention to know which act went on directly before them.

—

“You’re being dramatic.” It was funny. This was a shit experience. Nora loved it. People who wanted to do this constantly were freaks. Good for them. “You’ve been like stabbed and shit. Would it make this experience better if I stabbed you on stage?” ‘Audience in Shock; Bloody Mishap at Talent Show’ would make for a very amusing title. But, Nora vehemently did not want to land in any newspaper article ever again in her life. 

“Lots of people eat orange things. Like oranges. Naranja. And people who eat.” The last part was a pointed comment. Nora cracked her neck, going through people's things was hard work for the pointed down position. “The puppet. The plastic cups was weird. I thought they were going to pull a Pitch Perfect. In 2024. Asshole.” 

Private investigator work as invigorating. Nora loved her work. She loved an excuse for breaking into people’s belongings and snooping into their life. She loved that it meant something, a mystery would be solved, a puzzle piece would fall into place and the world would change around them because of what they discovered. Drawers flew open around her, papers and make-up scattered around, the mystery of what was wrong with mysterious judge number three was solved when Nora found a magazine full of unicorns in heavy metal glam. Only a freak who liked that could like Axis Rock. 

Nora’s leather pants cricked and creaked as she turned to throw the magazine at Emilio. “Mira esta porquería.” A laugh tinted her monotone voice. By now the room was a mess, and Nora wasn’t sure any clues had been found. “These judges are brave for not having weapons. Anyone crazy enough to go on stage here is crazy enough to attack a judge. Do they not believe in self-defense?” 

—

“I would rather be stabbed,” Emilio replied flatly. It was true, too. Being stabbed hurt only for a moment or two. The knife went in, and there was pain. The knife came out, and there was more. But after, it faded. It ebbed out, it went away. Even if someone recorded it on their stupid phone, it wouldn’t hurt the same when you watched it back later. This experience was one that Emilio was pretty sure was going to haunt him until the day he died. “Do you want to?” If she stabbed him on stage, at least it would be funny. 

Nora pointed out the existence of fruit, and Emilio wrinkled his nose. “Don’t trust it,” he said, pulling a face. He ignored her pointed comment, going back to rifling through the 

drawers instead. They had much more pressing concerns than his occasional aversion towards food. The sauce did look gross — there was no way Nora could pretend it didn’t. “Right. A pitch perfect.” He had no idea what it meant, but he figured Nora was probably right on them being assholes. Most people were assholes. 

This judge was certainly no exception. Emilio found a few more things that raised some eyebrows, from pens with fluffy pompoms on top to DVDs with incredibly bloody cover. What kind of person were they dealing with here? He glanced over at Nora’s find, something warm flowing through his chest as she called his attention to it in Spanish rather than English. He kept his expression neutral, knowing she’d probably prefer it that way. “Can’t get a good read on them,” he admitted, wrinkling his nose. None of the shit they’d found seemed to go together. The puzzle pieces didn’t fit. 

He moved behind the desk, idly checking the back of the mirror. “People always think they don’t need them,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Like nothing can touch them. But nobody is untouchable.” Not hunters with decades of experience under their belts, not little girls safe in their own living rooms. “Anybody can be…” He trailed off, something catching his eye. He flattened himself against the wall shoving his hand behind the desk and reaching around until he got a good grip on it. He yanked it out, holding it up for Nora to see. 

It was… a wig? A wig that looked… a little bit like Shelby’s hair. “This is weird,” he said. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

—

“You realize, if I stabbed you, you would still have to sing and dance the rest of the song.” As much as Nora liked to torment Emilio, there was a protectiveness that lived inside her. The one that wanted to help those important to her. Emilio was important to her. Her friend. Her mentor. Her - Well. He mattered. She didn’t want to hurt him. It was all big talk when it came to breaking his kneecaps, and never a shred of follow through. “You’d just be extra grumpy.” Nora threw in an eye-roll, for the showmanship. 

“You don’t trust anything,” Nora added. “Oh. Maybe it’s extra hot sauce. And when Shelby put it on her food, it would burn her to death.” Stranger things had happened in this town. That was a fun feature of Wicked’s Rest. Things that shouldn’t happen, kept happening. “Pitch Perfect is a movie. It was acc-nnoying” Nora could feel the disgust rising in her just for saying it. Was there a video on the internet of her doing the cup song? Yes. Did her fathers insist on it? Yes. Was it one of the biggest shames in her life and take fifty-thousand takes to make, half of them dissolving in her fathers yelling at her for not taking it seriously enough even though she was a clunky eight-year-old who just wasn’t talented at singing and cup shit? Also yes.  

Another drawer in the judge’s area revealed a Pikachu doll with pins sticking out of it. Whatever magic was supposed to be happening with that, Nora had no clue. She tossed it over her shoulder and went on exploring. Underneath were three peach flavor condoms and a physics textbook. “This person is a freak.” There was almost respect in Nora’s voice. Whoever was so confident to have the weirdest assortment of items lying around, like good for them. Shelby should have had her eye out on this weird judge to begin with. 

“People are dumb.” It was a shared ideal at Axis Investigation. But sometimes it needed to be repeated. “Anyone can be… dumb?” Nora looked up, trying to finish what statement Emilio was going to make to watch him putting his fake investigator license to work. “That looks like Shelby’s hair.” Nora pointed out the obvious. See that was her job as the apprentice, she didn’t have to make the fancy connections that brought in the big bucks. She got to break into things and have all the fun. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t throw her wildest ideas around. “Is Shelby already dead? Is the killer pretending to be her?” 

A pause. A moment. “Oh. Then the killer would be wearing the wig, huh?” Nora moved around the other mirror. Nothing. Boo. Nora moved to the closet, flipping it over and instantly jumping out of the way as a mannequin in a ladder costume came toppling out, revealing a knife and a note sticking out of the back. “Oh. You’ve got mail.” Nora told Emilio, pointing. 

—

“I’d probably pass out before we finished if you got me good enough. Then you could drag me off stage, make it part of the act. Would be a hit.” He kept his tone… his version of light, which was to say, a thing only Nora could differentiate. She’d never actually stab him, and he’d never actually ask her to. But this was the kind of thing Emilio found funny. The mental image of Nora stabbing him on stage and then dragging him off after was a little entertaining, if only for the knowledge of what the judges’ faces would look like in the aftermath. 

He snorted at Nora’s assessment, which… wasn’t far off, really. “I trust you,” he pointed out, glancing over to her and hoping she wouldn’t ask him to make a list of other things and people he trusted. They both knew it would be a short one. “It was what?” He tried to wrap his head around the extra syllable in the familiar word. Was it intentional? Nora didn’t slip with her words often; she was careful about the way she spoke. It was one of the things Emilio liked about her. “Whatever. I’ll make sure not to watch that one.” As if he was watching any movie that Teddy didn’t put on the television before sitting on him. 

The dressing room didn’t make m

uch more sense the more they uncovered within it. There was a metal can of bug spray with the top sawed off, a straw sticking out of it. A few loose screws scattered across the desk. Fliers for various events around town with words and faces cut out of them. Emilio couldn’t begin to decipher what it all might mean, and none of it seemed to properly match the personality of the person they’d seen at the judges’ table. “They are definitely strange,” he agreed, holding up one of the fliers for Nora to see. Maybe she could make more sense of it than he could.

At least the wig felt like a clue to the specific mystery they were trying to solve here. There weren’t a lot of normal, innocent reasons Emilio could think of for having a wig that looked like your coworker (covolunteer?)’s hair laying around, especially not when the coworker in question was the subject of a murder attempt. “That’s Shelby’s hair,” he agreed solemnly, tossing the wig towards Nora so she could study it a little closer.

His ‘training’ of Nora was never quite an intentional thing. He didn’t have lessons in mind, didn’t have a specific regimen for her to study. Emilio himself wasn’t exactly trained to do the things he did — it was mostly instinct. But Nora had the same instinct, and Emilio could foster that. He could let her study things for herself, let her come to her own conclusions just like she did now, with the way she dismissed her first thought. 

He glanced over again as the mannequin fell from the closet, moving in to take a look at it. Reaching down, he pulled the knife out of the mannequin’s back, freeing the note. Unfolding it, he squinted at the words. 

It took him a moment to read them, though nothing about it was particularly complex. Even in Spanish, Emilio’s literary skills were lacking. In English, he barely knew enough to get by at all. He didn’t read the note aloud; he knew it would have been a little embarrassing, the clunky way he’d have to sound out each syllable. But he read it to himself with his brows knitting together, holding it out for Nora after.

Richard, it began. If you’re reading this, it means I’ve done what we always said we would do. You never needed her. None of us did. Don’t worry. No one will ever know. I’ve hired someone to take care of the aftermath. No one will even know what happened until the show is over.

—

“Why drag you off stage?” Nora added to the bit. “We could make you bleeding out on the stage part of the act. The crowd would be horrified. Edge of their seats. Will the EMTs get here in time or not? They’ve probably never heard of duct tape.” And that was on the general populas being stupid. “Plus, the show would probably be canceled, Shelby wouldn’t be in danger, and it’d be another case solved. And I’d be the new best private investigator in town.” Nora turned slowly to face Emilio, hand on the knife they both knew she had tucked in the outfit, tilting her head as if she was considering it. 

Nora didn’t bother to explain the acapella of it all. No one needed that cursed knowledge sitting in the back of their minds. She also didn’t comment that Emilio wouldn’t watch anything anyway. People who didn’t watch things were weird. By the way. Because everyone watched things. It’s twenty-twenty-four. The television has been a home staple for her whole life. Not watching things was just weird. But that wasn’t a hill worth dying on. Maybe his life was better since pop culture didn’t haunt his every waking moment. Good for him. 

The fliers were weird. Nora dug them. They were like art, the way everything was cut out. She’d remember how that looked for future projects. The flier went into one of her many pockets. On the discovery of the letter, and the realization that the fliers were not being used for weird art, but instead weird letters, it really made them less exciting. But Nora still kept the flier. The idea would still work for her.  

Nora caught the wig tossed to her and flipped it inside out to look at the tag. There, on the tag, written in Sharpie right under the hand wash only tag was a name. Magaly Lola. Magaly Lola? “Does the name Magaly Lola mean anything to you?” Not to lie, Nora didn’t do any of the research she’d normally do on this case. Because it was a talent show. For thirty dollars. And there had been a lot of rehearsal needed before time. Generally, she liked to look up everything she could. Instead, she looked up TikTok dances. 

Emilio read the letter, then handed it to her. She traded the wig back to him. “What the fuck, Richard.” Who was Richard? Who was Magaly? Where was Shelby right now? “Do you think coming here was a mistake? I mean like, what if they are killing Shelby right now?” Nora allowed a moment to share a look at Emilio before slamming her way through the door and booking it to the stage. See, she had to be the one to run there. Emilio was old and slow. He’d show up when his fossilized bones managed it. This was her job. 

Nora burst through the auditorium’s doors just in time to see a magician’s act set up. “For my next trick, I’m going to make someone disappear!” The man on stage announced, a smile twisting at his features. “Do we have any volunteers?” The bastard didn’t even pretend to look around as he pointed right at Shelby, whose hand wasn’t even up by the way. “Shelby! I think you would make the perfect assistant.” He turned to his real assistant, the one he could and should have been using this whole time. “Don’t you agree, Magaly?” 

Oh fuck, Nora thought to herself. They were going to off Shelby in front of everyone. 

—

“There you go,” Emilio agreed, nodding his head. “That’s the kind of creative problem solving we’re known for. Tell you what, if we don’t find the killer before they want us back on stage, we’ll go with that plan. You take over Axis, I’ll fuck off to the cemetery, Shelby doesn’t get killed. I bet they’ll call you the winner of the show, give you that gift card. Everybody wins, yes?” He glanced down at her hand on the knife, gesturing to himself as if inviting her to go ahead and take a stab. It was the kind of joke he was pretty sure no one else in his life would find remotely funny, but Nora got it. Nora got plenty of things.

Nora also got his sentiment that this case, while stupid, was turning into something at least remotely interesting. That was part of what he liked about this job — sometimes, even the things that started off annoying had a way of sucking you in. It was a good distraction, when he needed one. He could think about Shelby and her death threats and the fliers and the letter and not have to worry about the shitshow that was his own life, and that was better. That was preferable. Maybe it was for Nora, too. Maybe that was why they worked well together.

She caught the wig as he tossed it to her, reading off a name on the tag inside. Emilio’s brow furrowed. There was something familiar about it, but he wasn’t sure what. Had he heard it before? Or did he just think he had? Either way… “It can’t be that easy. Can it?” The murderer wouldn’t leave evidence with their name scrawled on it, would they? They wouldn’t kill a woman in the middle of a public talent show, wouldn’t fail to even clear the building beforehand. Except…

Except this was Wicked’s Rest. And they absolutely fucking would.

Nora took off running, and Emilio scrambled to follow her. He was far slower, and his leg protested even the glacial speeds with which he moved, but eventually, he reached the stage. Aching and grimacing, sure, but the important thing was that he made it. And he made it in time for the killers to practically announce themselves on stage. Emilio let out a groan from where he stood off to the side, marching up the steps to the stage and yanking open the curtain, hoping Nora would follow.

“Stop,” he snapped. 

Off stage, one of the judges gasped. “Axis Rock?”

“Go fuck yourself,” he replied.

One of the other judges hummed in acknowledgement. “Yeah, that’s definitely Axis Rock.”

—

This was getting good. Juicy. Like a television show. Pitch Perfect could never. Well, actually it could, but it would involve a lot more singing. Like Emilio would be singing a song right now and then she'd be expected to join in. Nora couldn't sing though. So it was a really good thing this wasn't Pitch Perfect.  Nora followed Emilio onto the stage, the bright lights making shadows of the judges. "Yeah, fuck you!" Nora agreed, her monotone voice happily trailing after Emilio’s. "We were just pretending before. This is our real talent.”

“Ruining shows?” Someone from the audience heckled. Nora flipped them off.

Nora marched over to the magician set up. The magician looked shocked. Which wasn't a magical look. Nora kicked him in the shin. "Richard the Fake is here to kill Shelby. And he was going to use that box to kill her." Nora turned and pointed to the large prop Shelby was supposed to stand in. She let the audience get their shock value. The ooos and the ahhhs. She let them sit there a bit, Richard whimpering in pain over his kicked shin before walking over to the box and kicking in the fake back. "And this is proof."

"That's not proof!" Richard yowled, he was a cat in pain. "It's a magic show! Magic isn't fucking real! Everyone knows it's all sleight of hand!" The audience started murmuring in agreement among themselves. Everyone knew magic wasn't real. Why was Axis Rock ruining another performance? Hadn't it been bad enough that they all hit to sit through their horrible performance? They were really desperate for that 30-dollar gift cart. One loud voice was boldly proclaiming she felt really bad for them, obviously they had a lot of issues. 

God Nora hated people and their dumb little minds. This was obviously a murder attempt, why weren't they paying attention? Nora turned to face Emilio, giving him a 'What do we do now?' look. Someone in the audience started to boo. "GET OFF THE STAGE! I WANT TO SEE SOME MAGIC." A tomato hit the ground in front of Nora. "Who the fuck brings tomatoes to a talent show?" Nora asked the faceless audience. 

—

In a perfect world, Richard the stupid fucking magician would have collapsed into a puddle of tears the moment Emilio and Nora reappeared on stage. He would have confessed everything, in front of the crowd, and stood perfectly still to wait for the real cops to show up and… probably shake his hand and apologize for the inconvenience before letting him ride shotgun to the police station, or something, because cops fucking sucked, and Emilio did their jobs for them more often than not, anyway. But at least at that point, it wouldn’t be his problem anymore. At least if Richard the Terrible confessed, Emilio could go home and have a drink as opposed to sneaking them from the flask he’d barely managed to contain in this outfit Nora had picked.

But this world wasn’t perfect, and Richard didn’t confess to his would-be crime. Emilio and Nora were going to have to prove it. At least Nora got a good kick in on the guy first — Emilio felt some satisfaction in knowing that he wasn’t the only one on stage whose leg was aching. 

“Ay, ¡cállate!” He snapped in Richard’s direction, shooting the man a dark glare. Richard, for his part, looked a little taken aback. 

“You suck!” Someone from the crowd shouted. Another tomato hit the stage.

“¡Vete a la chingada!” Emilio called back. “I’m going to solve a murder. Is that good? Is that okay with everyone?”

“I’m not dead,” Shelby said sheepishly. 

“Fuck you, Shelby,” Emilio replied. 

Walking out onto the stage, Emilio inspected everything. The box Richard had wanted Shelby to climb in, the assistant who hadn’t wanted to assist, the stage where Shelby would have stepped out to complete the trick, the —

Wait.

He circled around behind the box, to the stage where the false back would have opened. He took one step, then two. Richard drew a sharp intake of breath behind him, and Emilio stopped. Hadn’t the stage been a little creaky during their performance earlier? Emilio walked to the spot on the floor, pressing his foot against it. It creaked. Richard hissed.

Emilio turned to the woman who’d been with Richard on stage. “Magaly, wasn’t it?” She nodded, looking uncertain. “Great. Stupid name. Magaly, come stand right here.”

Magaly paled, looking to Richard. Richard looked like he’d been sucking lemons. Emilio felt vindication creeping in.

—

“Yeah,  ¡cállate!” Nora repeated the word. She’d heard him say it before, and it was fifty-fifty that it was some big cuss word that might get her beat up somewhere or something about being quiet. Either way, she had his back on this one. As Emilio announced he was going to solve a murder, Nora did her job as the hype man. She stood at his side, nodding her head, blank expression made comical by the KISS makeup that was now slightly droopy because of the sweat. 

More talking, more audience reactions, another tomato. This crowd was rotten, just like their tomatoes. “Fuck you, Shelby.” Nora echoed again. And Emilio thought this was going to be a bad case. This was the best case they’d had in a while.  Emilio managed to keep his title as the town’s best detective by missing what Nora hadn’t noticed. A weak floor. The pair sweated, staring at each other. Nervous.

There was a split second where they met each other’s eyes and Nora knew what they were about to do, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. The two bolted forward, rushing towards the judge's table, hands outstretched for the 30-dollar gift certificate, and maybe Shelby’s neck. Nora would understand that. But the stage collapsed underneath them, right at the weak spot that had been creaking under Emilio’s inspection. 

The pair toppled down like ragdolls, limbs, hair, and costumes flying everywhere. Nora moved closer to the edge of the broken stage. “They fell into their own trap. That’s… pathetic.” Nora told them as if her leather costume hadn’t squeaked while bending to look down. 

The crowd was going wild. The judges slapped the button that made confetti go everywhere. Nora grabbed Emilio and positioned them so she could get a selfie with their fallen foes. This picture was going on the favorites wall, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

—

He realized what the pair were going to do about half a second before they did it. He was pretty sure they figured out what they were going to do about half a second before they did it, too. There was a moment of eye contact, a heartbeat, and then scrambling. Emilio took a step back to avoid being plowed over. As far as he was concerned, his part in this case was over and done with. He’d been hired to find out who wanted Shelby dead. He’d done that. Whatever happened next was someone else’s business.

That step back was a good idea for more reasons than one, it seemed. Richard and Magaly, in their haste to escape and snag that stupid gift card (was Emilio underestimating how good this stupid restaurant was?), forgot about their shitty murder plot. Emilio watched as they fell through the floor, just inches away from where he’d been standing before. 

Nora moved closer, and Emilio did, too. He peered down into the hole, looking at the pair of bad magicians who — they weren’t even dead. Their death trap designed to kill a talent show judge to earn them a thirty dollar gift certificate wasn’t even deadly. Was anyone in this town competent? Sometimes, Emilio wondered. 

He was startled by the sudden confetti falling onto the stage, and then Nora was grabbing him and pulling him into a picture. He scowled at the camera, which she probably preferred, anyway. Shelby came up onto the stage, glancing warily down into the hole.

“You saved my life,” she said tearfully.

“I don’t think it would have killed you,” Emilio replied. “They’re not even dead.”

“I want you to have this,” Shelby continued as if Emilio hadn’t spoken, thrusting the thirty dollar gift certificate towards Nora with one hand and putting her other on Emilio’s shoulder. He stiffened under the touch, carefully shrugging it away. 

From the hole, Richard let out an anguished scream. “That was our gift certificate!” 

—

Nora kicked a spare piece of debris into the hole at the screaming Richard. “Your legal nickname is dick, and you’re worried about a gift card.” People really needed to consider their life choices. Shelby was crying. Another judge was crying. The weird judge had their phone out and was recording all of this. If this ended up on youtube, Nora was going to make a pact with an eldritch abomination to haunt the internet forever. 

The confetti stopped flying, the auditorium emptied out, Richard and Magaly cried as if they were going to receive a life sentence. Cops showed up, but that was Emilio’s problem to deal with. Nora always made herself scarce before the police showed up. She kicked around the back of the building, spray painting monsters eating puppets until Emilio showed up.

There was only one thing left to do. They went to the Bottomless Booty. The place was loud and it smelled like a wet dog. Their server said something in the worst pirate voice that was ever used in the history of the earth. The pair were still dressed as reject KISS members, making them clash hilariously with the decor. They were seated next to a wax pirate with a ship’s wheel in front of him. Every now and then the wheel would spin and a crackling speaker would play a disjointed arrrrr. Nora flipped open the menu and took her first look. Thirty dollars wouldn’t cover a single meal. Good thing this would be added to Shelby’s bill.

[best-yandere-tournament]

The Darkling and Alina: The Darkling tries to own her, attempts to murder her friend and love interest, horrifically emotionally abused and isolated her, and physically abused her including giving her jewelry that scars her. All because he has issues. Alina wants to help orphaned kids and be a mapmaker but got slapped with Chosen One syndrome which is the only reason the Darkling sees her as a person at all.

Grace and Max; Grace is a super-devout protestant church girl who's big on abstinence. Max is an asshole quarterback jock who crushes on her because porn gave him specific expectations for "repressed" girls. Grace actually IS repressed, so she happily hides his body after (accidentally) murdering him - seeing his death as an Act of God. Max comes back from the dead as a vengeful ghost. Grace seduces Max's ghost - tricking him into a ritual that gets him exorcized after they have sex. Grace proceeds to live on his memory by becoming one of those serial killers who go after guys that have pre-marital sex. (god it feels so weird to call Jaegerman by his first name)

[anderstrevelyan]

You already answered about Viconia (my love) so I'll ask for more info about Skie 😏

For sure! (answering questions about my WIPs here) (but also that's all of them now, thanks everyone!!)

So this one's durgetash being horrible. Set after they've started their alliance, but still early within it, before anything's happened between them.

It requires a bit of previous-game setup, too (from the Siege of Dragonspear expansion, specifically): The original Skie Silvershield is the bg1 companion Charname is driven out of Baldur's Gate after being accused of murdering—a false accusation, in Valas's father Feron's case. Skie's descendent Torlin is (a possible) Chosen of Bhaal for a time pre-bg3. Torlin has a daughter he named Skie Silvershield the second.

Valas, deep in his Bhaalist days, would really like to murder her. He thinks it's a waste, that his father never did with the original Skie.

Gortash decides to seduce her and bring her back to his manor to facilitate this.

Still sketching it out, but I'm thinking she survives—Valas ends up being much more interested in the seduction part. It's about the awakening of desire in Valas that has nothing to do with violence, and the religious crisis that kicks off.

An excerpt:

He’s close, too close. Valas keeps his eyes trained on the carpet, and tries not to feel the shift in the cushion to his side, the soft suggestion of breath against his neck. “Would her death be of use to you, Lord Gortash?” He’d meant them as weapons, the title and the tone, but words have never been among Valas’s best. “Is that still how you think of me?” He takes another sip of the wine—too cold, too weak, nothing like the wet, warm iron he longs for instead. He hears his own in his ears, rushing through his veins, and ignores his, so close and sweet and begging to be spilled. “You’re a lord,” he says. “It’s your name.” “I rather thought I’d be Enver to you by now.” The two syllables alone are too much, and Valas tries to stop them sinking deeper, into his bones, where he knows they’ll haunt his every breath. At least Gortash has the decency to stand to refill his wine when he doesn’t respond, leaving the space beside Valas mercifully empty. He savors the slide of his sleeve against his as he goes. “But no,” the lord continues, studying him with those eyes, almost black in the candlelight, as the sound of his pour lingers, “there’s no political advantage that I could see. And I’m not sure I see the obstacle here—you’re a prolific bringer of death. Give her to your god.” He holds out his hand for Valas’s glass, and he offers it, rough fingers brushing his as it moves between them. “Bhaal doesn’t care for whose death he’s brought. There’s no glory in powerful targets, in beauty, in needless risk.” He takes the glass back and stalls with another sip, straightening his posture. “It’s a waste of thought.” “My dear Bhaalspawn,” he says, sitting back down at his side. He crosses one leg over the other, leaning closer than before. It’s manipulation, it’s malice, it’s an attempt to throw him off guard, though even as he tenses Valas has no idea why. “What’s wrong with taking something simply because you want it?”

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2023: #17-#16

17. UNITED KINGDOM Mae Muller - "I wrote a song" 25th place

Decade ranking: 46/116 [Above RAFAL, below We Are Domi]

Pahr Mae. All the abuse she had to sit through pre-show for not being Rina Sawayama by twitter queers in ugly mullets (please log off and touch grass.) and later by the boomer press for being a VILE, JEWISH, ANARCHO-LIBERAL ENGLAND-HATING "T-WORD" (just a reminder: Mae is not trans and transphobia hurts ALL women, don't fucking engage in it, you stupid "gender-critical" cunts) for idk... daring to say Tories suck (they do). She gave us the gift of #GAYRIGHTS (she did), and the gays rewarded her back with a paltry bottom 2 placement. She was just tryna slaaaaaaaaaay you filthy little bottoms. 😭😭😭

Like okay, the second Mae said she was on #VocalRest we knew there would be no "recovery". Her singing was never not strained (even at the pre-parties) and it wasn't going to get any better. She knew that and so should've we. Yeah, her off-kilter vocals were a big detriment to the overall performance. I wouldn't dare to claim otherwise.

However, at a certain point in the ranking I have to let go of my ~personal gripes~ and rally my angry logic for the purpose of defence and I've chosen THIS point you can't make me. Mae's vocals were blergh and that was a deal, but visiually, omg, it looked so GOOD?

THE ZENA-ESQUE BACKDROP (yes, we're gonna Like It)

THE FUN ACT WITH THE BUDDING HE/SHE/THEY DANCERS

THE SASS, THE SPUNK, THE ZEST, THE PLUCK

YOU'RE POWERFUL, YOU'RE ALL YOU NEED, WERK IT BABY, COME WITH ME!

If you have a one decently-sized negative and then a bunch of smaller positives, the net result is still a positive, surely? Well it was here and you'll have to deal.

Not to mention the UK fucking TRIED this year, okay and god there have been too many years recently where they've just been fucking phoning it in, not even trying to be good, sending reasonably talented artists like SuRie and James Newman to their doom with lame demos and visionless non-acts nobody could possibly be made to care for. "I wrote a song" was a self-written pamphlet against toxicity and in favour of mental health (Roxen could NEVER; therapy can work lest she/they first learn to LISTEN TO PEOPLE [other than *ndr*w t*te]). Depth and thematic relevance any 2010s BBC entry would murder an orphanage for.

While it did not pay out this year, and instead of like... a solidly competent entry we got a visual treat with trainwreck vocals, point still stands. The UK made an effort to prove that Ryder wasn't a one-time fluke. Kick-ass song by a kick-ass maiden was a good attempt and befitting her entry, is the proof that BBC are working on themselves, which is more than what one can say about the next country on our list:

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

16. MALTA The Busker - "Dance (Your Own Party)" 35th place

Decade ranking: 43/116 [Above Montaigne, below TBA]

As is the case with televised competitions with semifinals, some participants need to NQ and ideally those flop spots go to solulu/delulu broadcasters that have lost their touch with reality, have no idea what they're doing, are throwing away golden opportunities with zero regard and yet respond with indignation when their stupid schemes ricochet back in their faces like errant boomerangs.

So in the light of that, TVM's flop era was has been long in the works and is fully deserved. To hell with this wishy-washy, cynically corporate piece of secretive shit broadcaster. Malta have only been truly good twice recently, and even Destiny was kind of debatable (What separates a "Je Me Casse" from a "Queen Bees" other than two glasses of chardonnay?).

However, as if often the case with entries that get the overdue flop results (see also: Ela and Tell Me More), The Busker didn't particularly deserve to be the anvil of fate, not in the least be hit with such overkill: last place with 3 points, excusez-moi? No idea what The Busker did (well, what they specifically did) to be immediately branded as THE MOST ANNOYING THING OF ALL TIMES once they arrived in Liverpool. We've seen worse of the same "offenses", where WERE these people when The Roop and Mikolas Jozef were being an ABSOLUTE TERROR to us? Oh right, bookie odds made it fashionable to pretend to like them, got it.

Anyway, how else can you do an entry such as "Dance" any justice if not by going ham? This is only one of two recent examples since "Walk On Water" where Malta actually staged appropriately, playing to their song's best strengths.

🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷 I FEEL BETTER IN MY SWEATER 💃💃💃💃💃💃💃

I *liked* the presentation. It was jank and clunky and Moldovan. The three acts, the sweater change, the obnoxiously bad sax playback, the bedroom dance moves that completented the song's bedroom karaoke vibe, Dav Jr.'s excellent hairline. Works for me! They HAD A VISION to craft a story of lockdown blues and social anxiety and I won't toss it in the bin just because it's trashy and out of vogue! It's Eurovision, and trashy also-rans have been a staple since the very beginning. Embrace them!

The true reason why the Busker did this poorly was bad luck. They were on second in r/o, had no built-in vote bases (like Serbia) and directly competed with the OTT-LOUD entries from Croatia and Finland. Hurricane Käärijä landed and left only destruction in his wake. Put The Busker in Semi 2 and their total points rise to a similar level that Iru and Diljá got.

Of course, The Busker also dropped for me, but that's just the normal trajectory for gimmicky entries doing its work. When the joke is still fresh and funny, I'm into it the most, but once I've acclimatized my mind and the novelty has worn off and I'm just left with how much I like the music. As it turns out, "Dance" was fine fun semi filler and that's something I'm perfectly okay with. 😁

THE RANKING

[tieflingtareon]

There's Nothing Wrong Contemplating Gods (You're in the wind, I'm in the water)

[A 'My Love, Are You the Devil' prequel]

Chapter 3 | Words: 12k

Summary: "The past is lost to you. Let me clear up some mysteries, then. We share so much history." The history between Tir'yal, Child of Bhaal, and Enver, the Chosen of Bane explained in a non-linear format.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51625999/chapters/130498312

(Pre-Game Tir’yal :) in case anyone was curious)

The Dark Urge. What a ridiculous name. Is that truly what this 'Heir of Bhaal' went by? The fact that it took three of his own spies to even get that much information on him irked him. The first two had perished and been strung up by the docks - something he should have done himself, honestly, being bested so easily was shameful as a Banite - while the third had managed to make it back to him, enough to spill his findings in the sewers of all places. Of the man who lead the other group of cultists he had no reign over. Bhaal worshippers. Bane had insisted he keep an eye on them, and Enver had. The best way to keep an eye on a possible enemy was to find their home base. To stalk their shadow; which the Bhaalists made quite hard for him.

He wasn't quite sure yet what to make of the Bhaal cult, but so far, no one in his own cult had been targeted - outside of the ones he sent, but could he really call them true Banite's anymore? - and none of them had interfered with his own plans so...They weren't enemies just yet. This task felt beneath his status in the church, but if Bane wanted him to keep an eye on the Bhaslspawn, he would.

Though...it was exciting. A Bhaalspawn, roaming Baldur's Gate, leading a little congress of worshippers. He hadn't even been aware of any Bhaalspawns in the area. The moment he'd been told of the leaders heritage, he'd hit the shelves, reading up on whatever he could find about their history. It was interesting enough, but it made him weary. Most described them as compulsive killers, drunk on the euphoria of murder and intensely loyal to their God. Like always, there were exceptions, but...he wondered if this man was any different, if he could find any use of him. The spy that did return after a confrontation with one of his cultists had mentioned he spoke with a 'monotonous' voice compared to the frenzied murder hoard he led. He wasn't sure why, but that made him curious, for the man to use that descriptor of all things. Not 'chilling', or 'calm', or even 'curt'. Just...monotonous.

He sighed as he snapped his book shut and placed it aside.

He needed a way to breech the gap between them, without the Bhaalspawn or his cultists attempting to kill him point blank like the others. Something to create a bridge, create conversation - after all, with the resurgence of Bhaal worship, he couldn't afford to be on their bad side. This city was only so big. It would be a shame to have Bhaal's assassins slaughtering all he's worked for, all he'd done to rebuild Bane's church and gather it's worshippers beneath his order.

He may not be Bane's Chosen yet, but he made sure they all knew he would be, and he would be. He made sure they knew that he deserved their respect. He left the supreme title with another devotee, someone with more time on their hands, but even she answered to him, and Bane in turn, who often spoke his desires through him. He knew that's why the other Banite's heeded his words. Because they saw them as Bane's own, and he didn't bother to change their perception. His and Bane's interests were intertwined after all.

Power.

This Bhaalspawn could be a wrench in the cog of his well oiled machine if he went and killed someone important. Like himself. What could he possibly offer a child of a Dread Lord to gain his attention? To get him to stow away his blade? If only until Enver could find a weakness in his cult and take it out himself. Though, if the man proved useful, perhaps even open to an alliance...it wouldn't be the worst alliance he'd found himself in. Connections were connections, official business or otherwise. This could be an opportunity like no other.

The cult of Bane and the cult of Bhaal, in an alliance. Banites would have the spotlight, and Bhaalists would have their shadows. One could kill, one could cover up, could direct their blades into the right hearts...Enver could see it now. Murder and Tyranny; you could not have a bloodless ruling, a war without gore, and you could not have murder without the upper-hand, without power.

There might be use of the other yet. Bane was right to tell him to keep his eye on the cult. He would have happily discarded them without a second thought if not for spying in on them first. Now, he just needed to find a way to draw the Bhaalspawns attention. No point going through his followers - Enver would much prefer to speak to the leader, not his loyal mutts. It would be a waste of his precious time.

He looked down at his map of the House of Wonders, the notes he'd made when he visited last to look at the displays. Not all of it had been interesting, but he enjoyed note taking, not wanting to forget the minor details. His goal at the time was to look inconspicuous, like a standard journalist, but the true task at hand was mapping out exits and entrances. He wanted deeper inside. He wanted to see the technology they hid deeper within, what the Gondians were working on behind the scenes.

He wanted to see it for himself, to put it simply. And take whatever might be useful to him. His mind hungered to expand his knowledge, and his hands itched to touch the creations they made in their holy temple. He was certain he'd find something worthwhile inside once there. He rarely came out of a heist empty-handed or dissatisfied.

The tip of his quill stopped beside one note and smirked.

Ah. That might just work. A common goal.

He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and got to drafting out a letter to the Bhaalspawn. Compulsive killer or not, every man had some amount of pride in their legacy, and their history.

****

His messenger had not returned. He didn't expect him too. But he damn well expect the Bhaalspawn to read and respond to his letter, especially after a tenday had passed. He'd told the young man very strictly to hold it out to the 'tallest horned figure' when he entered the sewers - the only description he got out of his spy. To ask for the 'heir' should he come across any masked figures. He supposed there was no guarantee of it getting to him, realistically, but it annoyed him nonetheless. If he knew where the temple was, it wouldn't be an issue, but he didn't. The secret was wrapped up tight, and anyone who went looking did not come back. All he knew was that it was likely in the sewers, because the Bhaalists did not seem to reside above ground unless out for a cull. Not that he'd be able to check for their residence anyway, not with all of them wearing masks like most assassins, shielding their identities.

How on Toril was he supposed to get his message to him? Go down there himself?

He grimaced at the idea. He thought he'd gotten to the stage in his life where he was above slums and sewers, but apparently not. Was he truly willing to give it a shot for some half-assed chance of an alliance? He gave it a long thought and sighed. Yes. Yes, he was. He'd done far worse things for less fruitful alliances in his youth. That should be taken as a lesson, but he supposed even he had his follies.

Having a Bhaalspawn owe him a minor debt for making him aware of his ancestors things being displayed for others to gawk at, even if there was no alliance, wouldn't hurt. Being on neutral terms alone would be enough, as long as he wasn't on his bad side. His spy had described the other as sounding rather young, yet he was leading the cult, and probably had for some time now, under his nose. Enver himself had come into leadership fairly young, both in his church and his profession as an arms dealer, so he could respect another young leader. He only hoped the other would live up to his expectations.

If he didn't, he'd find a way to remove him off the lanceboard, along with his cultists.

Enver picked up his quill once more and rewrote his previous letter, pausing at the bottom of the page when he went to mark his name. He hummed. Perhaps the man had received his letter and simply thought nothing of him. After all, who was Enver Gortash to a spawn of Bhaal, the child of a God?

He smirked. Was it truly a lie if he knew it was his destiny? When it had been promised to him years ago?

With utmost sincerity,

The Chosen of Bane,

Enver Gortash

****

As expected, the sewers smelt awful. He wrinkled his nose and took out a vial of peppermint oil from his pocket, dabbing some beneath his nose, if only to avoid a headache. He supposed he'd become a touch spoilt since his urchin days. He had much more money to work with now, finer things to wear, tastier things to eat. He didn't have to go cold or hungry or bruised.

He worked hard, and he still worked hard, but now he got to enjoy the benefits of all his labour. Like vintage wine and a tailor; and a cold, damp room that didn't smell like mould and rot.

Enver stepped cautiously over the slippery grime beneath his feet and grimaced, thankful that he had chosen an older pair of boots for this journey. He still tried to dress decently though. He was meeting someone quite important after all! Or, he wanted the other to feel as if they were important. Important enough to warrant him treading all the way down into the sewers of all places. The first rule of any dealing, any negotiation, was always to put your best perceived foot forward, but conceal your true playing cards. Look your best, talk eloquently, but don't give away respect until it is earned. Be polite, be humble but not too humble, one needs to be confident if they want others to be confident in them, what they can provide.

And of course, always get your end of the bargain before the other. Always keep your head about you. It's a hassle to chase up loose ends.

It was all a dance, really, and one Enver had spent years studying first hand, knowing his true goal, his destiny, was to sit upon a throne. Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate, Lord Enver Gortash. Perhaps one day, he'd even hold all of Fae'run in his hand. King Enver Gortash sounded just as delightful as Lord. Arms dealing was just another form of politics to him, and that's where he truly belonged. On top of the hierarchy.

Enver felt a change in the air, and trusting his instincts, he waited in anticipation. He didn't speak, looking out into the darkness. He should have taken a darkvision potion, he supposed, but what did it matter now? He strained his eyes as he searched the shadows. The drains above allowed moonlight to drench down upon him, helping somewhat, but not by much. If anything, the spotlight was on him, marking him a target to whatever was prowling around the rust and grime. His heart began to race, if only on instinct, before he pressed a hand to his chest, pressing down like he might be able to silence it.

"Tell me; do I have the privilege of being in the presence of divine royalty, or are you simply one of his many jesters?" He finally spoke up, going for an unimpressed tone. He did not appreciate being circled like prey.

He saw the pinpricks of orange and blue before he saw the man himself, the colour vanishing and the large body closing the distance between them with the swiftness of a feline despite the slippery terrain. He barely managed to throw up a barrier before the assassin was before him. The tip of his blade bounced off the surface, a low rumbling sound escaping the man. He was larger than Enver imagined, both in height and mass, his thick horns growing up towards the sky and curving outwards. Like scythes. Appropriate for a man who left a trail of death behind him.

The Bhaalspawn was a tiefling, he realised. He supposed it made sense. Bhaal had died, he had no more 'seeds' he could sow. Perhaps he dealt with a devil to make himself a new heir. An heir Enver had no idea about until recently. Why had it taken so long for his murders to be caught, to become spectacle?

The Bhaalspawn was wearing a mask that only left his eyes and a dark slope of hair that ran across his orange, almost red, eye for the world to see. He ran his blade along the barrier, digging into it, but it wouldn't budge. He looked at Enver, looking highly unimpressed.

"Wizard."

"I did not need a spell to keep you at bay. Not today." Enver nodded to the small contraption at his feet, one foot pressed on top of it, keeping the barrier alive. "It's magical, yes, but it requires almost no energy than creating a true barrier from scratch. Handy to ones who aren't as proficient with magic."

"Like yourself?"

"I consider myself proficient in anything I put my hands on, or my mind to." Enver smirked. "You were going to kill me, I assume?"

"Yes. Though, now you've quipped my interest. I think I'll take you back home and kill you slowly, open up your inside and take a look at your brain matter." The Bhaalspawn sounded almost amused, but his voice still held a monotonous edge to it. Unchanging, spoke clear and precise, with no room for emotion to effect it. He continued to test the barrier with hand and blade, curiosity in his glowing, mismatched eyes.

He seemed level-headed despite the blade in his hand, already bloodied by someone else's blood. Compared to the compulsive killers he'd read about in the line of Bhaalspawns, he seemed eerily calm. This was no mindless, murderous monster that the textbooks might lead others to believe Bhaalspawns to be. Enver was almost glad he came to visit him himself rather than leave another errand boy to it.

"That would be a waste. For the both of us." Enver pulled out the letter he'd written and quirked a brow. "I have something I think you'd rather like. Information on some...family heirlooms."

The Bhaalspawn glanced down at the letter and quirked a brow.

"...Are you 'Gortash'?"

"Ah, so you did receive my letter. It's typically frowned upon to not give a response, dear-" He paused and frowned. "What exactly do I call you?"

"The Dark Urge." Enver couldn't refrain from scoffing at the ridiculous alias.

"I'm not calling you that."

"Spawn of Bhaal works too. Prince of Bhaal is used occasionally." The Bhaalspawn walked around the sphere, dragging his knife along the surface. Enver watched him from the corner of his eye. Sphere or not, a threat was a threat. He would be a fool to treat the man like he wasn't one.

"I'm not asking for a title. I'm asking for a name. You know mine. It's only fair, to share yours."

"...Tar'eon, is a name I used to use. If that works for you. My true name can be hard for those who only know of the Common Tongue." Tar'eon came to stand before him, tilting his head. Those glowing eyes were rather pretty, when Enver let himself stare back into them. Terrifying, but in a beautiful sense. "I didn't read your letter. I didn't recognise your name, so it did not matter to me. I typically...receive mail to begin with. You're a persist man."

"I'll have you know, I am proficient in several languages." Enver smirked, something in his mind trying to wrap around the name and squeeze out it's meaning. Somehow, it felt familiar. "Infernal happens to be a favourite of mine." He glanced up at his horns pointedly, but the man did not react.

"What do you know?"

"Ah, ah, I've played this game before. You will not get the information unless I'm promised my life. I'll have to drop my barrier to hand it over, and we both know you'll have the advantage." His eyes travelled down the massive tieflings body and shook his head, as well as any passing thoughts that came with the glance over.

"I can't promise you much in return right now, but do believe me when I say we could be very good for each other." He smirked. "Two leaders, running two separate cults, hidden from the outside world? We're more alike than most would ever consider. The Spawn of Bhaal...and the Chosen of Bane. Wouldn't it be fun to see what we could do, if we worked together?"

"Now why would I ever work with a worshipper of Bane?" Tar'eon narrowed his eyes and Enver laughed. Even now, something was scratching at the back of his mind, demanding answers he couldn't remember.

"Why would I ever work with a Bhaalspawn? Simple. Because it benefits me, and in this case, it also benefits you. This letter will have the details. I'm sure you'll find me, should you agree to what I'm offering. I'm not the only one with spies after all." Enver doubted he would be left unwatched after tonight.

"So you're the one who keeps sending them."

"I wanted to keep an eye on you. I thought perhaps I'd be able to find your base of operations, watch you closely to make sure my own fellow worshippers or important people weren't being targeted - purposefully at least. The others you killed were barely Banite material, if they were bested so easily." He turned his nose up at the very mention of them.

The Bhaalspawn watched him closely, coming to stand as close as possible to the barrier, steel boots scrapping the floor.

"I'll let you live, and I'll read your letter, as long as you promise to end your search for my Father's temple. It's forbidden to outsiders. Unless you're dead." This close, Enver could see the hint of green within the glowing blue iris, the other like a flame. Those eyes...

It struck him like a hammer to metal, the realisation ringing in his ears. He knew those eyes. He knew that name. That scrap of steel was more familiar than anything else. Gods, to think after all this time...Even with the mask covering his lower face, the hood drawn up over his dark hair, he knew it was him.

How funny fate could be, to draw them back together after so long apart. The last time he saw him, he was been only eight years old. They had said goodnight outside the door of his house, his friend tall enough to steady the flower pot hanging from above the door, and he had ruffled his hair, before Enver walked back home alone. That was his last night in Baldur's Gate, before he was taken to the House of Hope.

He had never been the gentle sort, even back then. He had been just as 'wretched' as he was. They knew they were better than others, knew they were meant for more, both smarter than their peers. He had been stronger, sure, but it was Enver who aided his strengths. He used his skilled hands to craft things, even against his parents wishes. Like boots. Steel boots, worthy of a knight.

Enver smiled faintly. He might not recognise him anymore, it had been two decades after all. Remembering him was a miracle in itself. This changed nothing though. People changed, and so had he. If he stood in his way, he'd pick him off the board and toss him into sea, even if he'd feel a small ache at a wasted chance of renewed friendship. Recognising him had opened a flood gate of old memories he hadn't touched in years.

"Of course." Enver promised. "Consider it an oath. I keep my life, and you keep your temples secrecy."

"I suppose I have to honour it then. Consider the oath sworn."

Enver eased his foot off the device slowly, the barrier falling away. As promised, the Bhaalspawn didn't jump to stab him. He watched him as he leaned down to pick up the device, tucking it away and offering out the letter. A clawed hand took it, glowing eyes falling to the envelope before looking back at him, gaze feeling impenetrable. He obviously wanted to read it, but he was waiting for him to leave first.

"May our paths align, and may our endeavours be fruitful for the both of us." He bowed his head ever so slightly and smirked, taking a few steps back before chancing turning his back to the other and reaching for the ladder that would take him back up to the surface. He climbed up it and shoved the manhole aside before looking back down at the tiefling who was watching him. Like a panther, looking for a moment to strike.

"Have a good night, Tir'yal." He pulled himself out and closed the manhole.

He didn't even notice his slip of the tongue until he was back home, chuckling to himself. The little robot on his shelf gave a cheerful greeting to its master as he placed the barrier device on his pillow. He smiled at the robot and picked it up, thumbing over the gentle glowing light of its chest.

"Hello to you too, Borot. No visitors?"

"Not today, Creator!"

"Good." He placed the robot back on the shelf and idly undressed himself, considering what his slip of the tongue might cost him.

"He didn't tell me his true name, did he?" He was rarely that careless. He'd blame it on the surprise. It wasn't every day you met your childhood friend after two decades apart, and found out he was now a Bhaalspawn. Or, he supposed he always was.

"Not today, Creator!" Borot repeated. He only had a select amount of phrases now, but Enver intended to expand his vocabulary soon.

"You're right. Not today. But he did once...Set your alarm, Borot."

"Alarm set, Creator!"

"Good." With a sweep of his hand and soft incantation, the torches around the room died. He crawled into bed and sighed softly, holding the small square device in his hand, thumbing the pressure mechanism. Borot's light was as gentle as moonlight in his dark room, and he found himself drifting, slowly but surely. Borot would warn his master if anyone entered. He had his protection in hand.

He would just have to wait and see if the other even noticed. Wait for his answer. He'd be ready for him, should he come. When he came.

****

Tir'yal wasn't used to being caught off guard. It was unsettling to him. He was quiet as he peeled back the skin of a human man's submental space beneath his chin, more distracted than he liked while examining the man's inflamed thyrohyoid. He was long dead, but that didn't mean he didn't still have his uses. He killed in his Father's name, yes, but that didn't mean he could waste all the bodies he created to show his adoration, his devotion. There was always something new to discover.

Humans were common amongst these parts. He almost wished he had more variety in bodies in this city, but there was always travellers from all around Fae'run stopping in. They weren't missed, more often than not. With nimble fingers, he picked up his scalpel and sliced the inflamed muscle out slowly, careful not to disrupt the rest of the throats interior. Once he had it, he looked at it in the light closely, admiring the swollen texture between his thumb.

"Fel."

"Yes, Milord?" His butler appeared at his call and Tir'yal turned to look at him from over his shoulder.

"Put it in a jar for me. Keep it fresh." He'd have a closer look at it later, behind one of his microscopes.

"Oh ho, whatever my young Master desires." Fel chuckled and whisked away with the muscle. Tir'yal turned back to the body and continued to slice deeper into the throat, trying to find the cause behind the swelling, to find where it began, testing the movement of the larynx with two fingers.

He heard sopping wet footsteps against stone and turned to look at his sister.

"Blood kin!" Orin threw her arms open but he knew she would cut him if he dared to hug her. She was showing off the gore on her body, soaked in it. "I saw what you did with the spies. A splendid touch to your morose slaughters. I almost approve. I think I have you beat though, after tonight." She grinned, looking awfully proud of herself.

"I have no desire to challenge your creativity, sister. My artistic abilities still only apply to music and paint." He assured, but she only scowled. He never knew the right thing to say with her. Her emotions flickered from one end of the spectrum to the other in seconds.

"I should paint with your blood, brother." Orin dragged her feet forward and looked upon the body. "Playing doctor again?" She mocked in a sweet voice.

"Not doctor. More...mortician meets scientist." Tir'yal smirked. He enjoyed talking to her - sometimes. He supposed he never stopped looking for a sibling after he gave up his own to Bhaal. Orin wouldn't ever be Aelath'nus, but...nobody would, not really. Killing her would never fill him with the same feeling he'd felt when he killed his older brother.

He'd loved him. Perhaps more than a brother, but not exactly a lover either. He wasn't sure if that made him a worse person than he already was, or like every other Bhaalspawn. Incest wasn't exactly uncommon from what he had learnt in his own studies. You either lived long enough to fuck a fellow Bhaalspawn, or you were killed by them. Sometimes both.

Orin's hand run up his arm and she chuckled, looking down at the body with her pale eyes.

"I crave nothing more than to put your body on this very table and peel your skin from your muscle, to tear your sinews, to reach inside and twist your organs up into one big heart..." Orin's nails dug deep into his shoulder, but he did not flinch away, used to her antics. He looked down at her, watching for the moment when she'd choose to strike or step back. He would be ready for either, and he was used to both. Tonight, she simply laughed and walked back, hips swaying in tandem with her long braid.

"I have sated my thirst for one night. A crowd of noble drunkards, who squealed like filthy pigs as I scraped muscle from bone." She pressed her hands to her stomach, still wet with blood, and smeared it up her form, over her breasts and up her neck as she relished in the blood. Even if it was from pigheaded men who couldn't hold their liquor. "You may live to see another day, blood kin."

"Enjoy your rest, sister. I'm sure your murders were as beautiful as you are." He smiled faintly and looked back down at the body, slicing down the man's chest. He wondered how his rib bones would sound when snapping. If it would be more hollow or sharp, given his elder age. "Do not disturb me again unless you've come to ask me to wash your back."

Orin's expression twisted into something fierce, lips downturned and eyes murderous.

"Forget the days of youthful follies, brother. I need not for your help any longer."

"Yet I will still offer it to you, little sister." When he arrived, she had still been young. Barely thirteen. It had been a three year difference, but he always liked the idea of being an older brother, like Aelath'nus. Had he been like Orin as a child? So emotionally driven, so quick to anger, pouting and whining...

He didn't like to think too much on the past anymore. His home was with Bhaal, and he had given up everything he knew to have his love. His unconditional love, reserved only for the monster born from his gore. His one, true pureblooded child.

He couldn't exactly expect strangers to love him for forever, though they tried to assure him of that. But his blood belonged to Bhaal, and he was his Father's son. He could not deny his heritage. At least his foster parents would be remembered kindly. Nobody would remember them quite as fondly if he'd refused Bhaal's call back to home. That's what he liked to think, on nights were he got a touch too sentimental about it all. When he dreamt of the past.

He knew though, that what really drove him to Bhaal was the fact that he was offering answers, as well as love. All those urges, all the times people had called him a heartless child, a cruel child, had been explained simply by the sweet whisper of his Father's voice. Every time he'd lost control, where his vision had gone black if only for a few moments, were explained.

He sacrificed one family for another, another full of monsters like himself. This was where he belonged. This was his home. This was where he was truly loved, for all the rotten parts of him. They may not love the humane part of him that could not be banished or squashed, but it was easier to cover up the good in one's soul than the bad. All one had to do was take a moment to pause, to think, and you could turn away from doing a good deed. He could forget the voice inside that didn't belong to Father, but instead to the him that had died that day with his family.

Evil was not instinctive to him. It always required thought. At least, that's what he believed.

He snatched Orin's wrist before she could stab him and twisted her around, wrapping an arm around her throat as he squeezed hard enough to break her wrist should she not drop the knife. She didn't, and howled when her wrist snapped, the blade clattering to the floor as she struggled against him. He held her tightly though, arm moving down to trapped the other against her side.

"I will accept no challenge from you, little one, until you learn to show me some damn respect." Tir'yal growled into her ear and Orin whimpered, silence following the sound before she chuckled lowly.

"You broke my blade-hand, brother. I shall string you up by your sinews, should you let me go."

"Perhaps another day, when your blade hand can no longer be broken so easily." Tir'yal mused, not threatened in the slightest. He was used to threats against his life. He was either worshipped or loathed, or a mix of both. That was simply the fate of a Bhaalspawn. Orin's immature mind and diluted blood would never understand.

He eased his grip slowly and he raised her wrist up, larger hand still wrapped around the tiny thing.

"Shall I help you wash tonight, little sister? Like the old days?" He mused and she scowled, ripping out of his grasp and picking her blade up with her left hand.

"We aren't children anymore, brother. Should you desire this form in the nude, or any other, you will have to beg for it, like the pig you are." Orin smirked, hips swaying with the confidence of a woman as she left the room. Tir'yal could only see her as that little girl though, the one who had stared up at him with so much awe and envy when he came to the temple. She was still so immature and unable to see reason, to change in anyway that wasn't her surface skin, to learn...he had no interest in any form she could take.

He turned back to the body before him and stripped away muscle slowly from the bone, snapping them and setting them aside. Perhaps he'd make a new instrument from them. Indulge in the true music of this humans being. He reached for the cold heart in his chest and smiled, holding it in his palm before parting his lips and digging his teeth into the muscle and fat, letting the blood gush down his chin and wrist.

Not a single part of this flesh would go to waste. That was his promise to his victims. The ones who deserves it would serve a purpose after death, but they would all invoke something special within him. This ones purpose would be to sate his curiosity, and fill his stomach.

Once he was done, he'd spare a thought to the Chosen of Bane who knew his true name, and spoke it with haunting familiarity.

****

It took four days. Enver knew he'd find him eventually.

He felt a sharp zap of awareness as he woke from his rest, the warding hidden beneath the rug alerting him of an intruder. He whipped around and slammed the butt of his cane into the trespassers chest before he realised who it was, the Bhaalspsawn holding the other end tightly. Enver gripped the silver handle tightly and narrowed his eyes.

"It's rude to wake someone from their well-deserved rest."

"Couldn't risk you getting drool all over your papers." Enver tugged on his cane gently to test the give, but the masked man kept a firm grip. His brow twitched and with a proper tug, the Bhaalspawn relinquishing it to him.

"I don't drool."

"You do snore though."

"A couple of broken noses over a lifetime have natural consequences." Enver shrugged, standing tall before the other. He would not lie to the man. His business was a rough one at times. He had suffered more than his fair share of injuries in the past.

"I see." Tir'yals gaze fell down to his desk and rounded his chair to look at the hand sketched plans. He'd been marking entry and exit points, as well as where he'd noticed guards. The day prior he had watched them for hours, checking their rotations for a weak point. He'd found one. Alone, he could probably sneak through the mission, but if Tir'yal was to join him - he'd need to know how to avoid the most bloodshed. Not that that was necessary. He didn't care who they killed if it meant he got inside and got his hands on all that Gondian technology.

"Brother Toop's bones and Brother Eler's racks are on floor one. Why have you marked the opposite wing?"

"This heist isn't just to get your heirlooms back." Enver scoffed. "I have my own goals."

"Which are, wizard?"

"Artificer." Enver corrected with a scowl and Tir'yals brows slowly raised upwards.

"Ah. A tinkerer. You want the Gondian's tech." He was quick as ever. Enver's pinched brows smoothed out, expression more pleasant.

"Some tech, a couple books, maybe some blueprints..." Enver waved his hand like it didn't matter, stepping closer and tapping the entrance he had marked off. "They leave this door vulnerable during change over in the noon. It's a ten minute interval. We'll go in through there, and stealthily make our way in, and out, with what we both want."

"That's it?"

"It's a simplified version of the plan, yes." Enver shrugged. "I'll indulge you in the details after you assure me you're all in."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Tir'yal looked down his nose at the man and Enver felt a stirring of irritation. He did not appreciate the arrogance, but he supposed it made sense. He was a Bhaalspawn now, the leader of a cult. His old friend deserved a touch of arrogance. Even in the old days he'd been rather blunt and coarse, but always softer with him. Not kinder, simply...softer. Curbing the sharp edges of his personality just enough to not cut the younger boy.

He could set aside his impertinence, just this once.

"Yes. But I prefer verbal agreements. Written is even better." Enver smirked.

"Fine. I'm all in. The idea of Baldurian's gawping at Brother Eler's work, allowing it to rot, displaying Brother Toop's bones like the unwashed scum they are beneath my boot...I want to cut their eyes out and remove their tongues." He growled. It was the highest measure of disrespect in his mind, to be displayed after death and gawked at by those who would never appreciate the true beauty of murder, to be stared at by strangers with no love for the history of Bhaal's spawns. Little Toop the Brave should be home, amongst his collection, the bones of the kobold cleansed and respected, in the most beautiful mahogany grandfather clock so he may be remembered with every hourly chime. Eler Had's racks should be restored and put back to use, to honour his memory, to honour all the work he did in the name of their Father.

"I don't want this to be a stealth mission. I wish to savage the guards for entertaining the public with what belongs to my family. They made fools of us, turned us into tourist attractions - I shall give them all the entertainment they desire. The most bloody kind."

Enver frowned slightly. It didn't change much for him, honestly. He preferred skirting around fights, if only because he was more focused on getting what he wanted and leaving, but if his old friend truly wanted to get his revenge...well, he couldn't deny him that. It would be nice to see what he was truly up against, should things go south.

"I'll help you get your things back, but stealth would be preferable once we're in the Gondians quarters." He explained. "I'd rather not risk anything getting destroyed before I can make use of it. The Gondians are not on my 'need to die' list."

"You intend to make use of the Gondians?" Tir'yal tilted his head curiously.

"Perhaps. Depends on what I find." Enver smirked and offered his hand to the other. "For the time being, we're allies. Partners, if you will. It's a pleasure to have you on board, Tir'yal."

The tiefling narrowed his eyes and took his hand, shaking it firmly, grip tighter than he appreciated.

"How do you know that name? I never told you."

"Let's just say...we have history, you and I." He admitted before shaking his head. "But that's not important right now. The mission is. Should you still be curious once it's all over, perhaps I'll divulge more of our history to you, over a cup of wine." What better way to loosen one’s tongue and see their true intentions. A truth serum perhaps, or maybe he’d hide a mind reading potion in his own; take a peek into Tir’yals mind while they conversed. He would hate to jeopardise a good thing by forcing his tongue - it would be simpler to slip into that mind of his.

Tir'yals brows pinched, looking unimpressed. Enver attempted to pull his hand away, but the other did not let go.

"I'd prefer to know now."

"Have patience, Tir'yal. A good alliance is built on trust.” Enver chuckled, eyes narrowing ever so slightly despite his smile. He did not trust anyone as far as he could throw them. “I do hope you intend to return my hand. I quite like my hands, as do many others.”

Tir’yal gave a small growling huff before he released his hand, tail whipping behind him as he dragged steel boots across stone floors, looking around the office.

“I don’t like this. Allying with a Chosen of Bane.”

“Well, if it puts you at ease, I'm not. Not yet.” Enver admitted, hoping it would not lose him points with the other. “But I will be, in time.”

“You sound confident in that.” Tir’yal mused, a single claw dragging along the spines of his books. “Banites. Always so cocky.”

“I simply used the title to my advantage. You’re Bhaal’s spawn. I figured you’d only respect my request if I was a Chosen.”

“I’ll admit…I was curious. I’ve never met a Chosen before.” Tir’yal turned his gaze to Enver and the human tilted his head ever so slightly.

“You do seem rather sheltered, if you don’t mind me saying. I hadn’t heard of you until just a few months ago. The Bhaalspawn, Bhaal’s Chosen-"

“I’m not his Chosen.”

“Oh?” Well, that explained why his falsified title had not been considered by the other. “I’m surprised. Are you not his heir?”

“I am. I am the first pureblooded Bhaalspawn, and I will be the last. But I’m not his Chosen. Father says I am not ready. Not yet.”

“Well, I suppose I empathise with that. Bane insists that his blessing with come with time - but a mortal man can only be so patient.” He chuckled, trying not to let his resentment slip in. He had to bide his time until Bane finally bestowed his blessing onto him. Then, he'd truly be free. Once he was his Chosen, no devil would ever be able to touch him.

“I respect my Father’s wishes. He will let me know when he needs use of me. He often does.” Tir'yals tail gave a flick, something akin to annoyance before he turned towards Enver's window, still open from his entry. He climbed up and over the sill, crouching outside on the roof as he spared Enver a look. "I will meet you outside the House of Wonders tomorrow, at noon sharp. Do not be late, Banite, or I'll kill those Gondians too before you can make use of them."

"I am never tardy, my friend. I pride myself in being one step ahead. Of even the clock." He smirked.

"Just be there, Banite."

"You know, you could always use my name." Enver offered, irked by Tir'yals tone but not showing it. "We're allies now, aren't we? Temporarily, at least."

Tir'yal frowned but slowly, he nodded.

"I will see you tomorrow...Enver." He closed the window sharply and disappeared. Enver frowned a moment before a smile tugged onto his lips. Usually, he'd remove a finger or two for anyone daring to use his first name. He wasn't close enough to anyone to allow such a thing. Only Bane had the right, and that was because he was his master. His God.

But...whether he remembered or not, Tir'yal had gained the right to his first name decades ago. Enver could hardly be annoyed, even if he wanted to be. Tir'yal was his ally now, and hopefully would stay as such. He suppose one thing he could give him, was the right to use his true name, just as Tir'yal had given him the right all those years ago.

****

There wasn't much to it, in the grand scheme of things. He had met Tir'yal outside the House of Wonders, Tir'yal wearing his respective mask and Enver wearing his own hood to cover his identity. They had slaughtered their way through guards as the few civilians there ran for their lives. He had slipped away once they found the racks and bones, using an invisibility ring to hide himself as he explored the wing of labouring Gondians, Tir'yal assuring him he was standing guard of the door as he went through. Enver didn't need his assurance, if the man decided he couldn't be bothered to guard him, it would be no sweat off his back. He was more than capable by himself.

He managed to nick a few things without getting caught, but what really stuck with him was the craftsmanship of their work, their productivity. He had noticed many of them had pictures on their desks of family, of lovers. Enver had many ideas of his own, but it was hard to make them come to life when he had so little time to himself and only two hands. His fellow Banites had no knack for his talents in engineering. With a dozen or so extra hands on board, hands that knew what they were doing...

He'd keep their usefulness in mind. Their families. People were sentimental, even people who spent their whole lives creating non-sentimental machines. He was specialised in blackmail, and he had a very obvious angle he could work off when it came to the artificers working within the temple. The desire to create, and the desire to keep their families safe, should he even need to go that far.

When he finally left the wing and returned to Tir'yal, he kept himself hidden for a few moments longer than necessary to watch the tiefling who looked vigilant despite not needing to be. The Bhaalspawn was crouched over a fresh body he didn't remember leaving, the dead guard bleeding over silver boots.

"...You're not worth being savoured. Rot." He gave the body a sharp kick, his tail whipping wildly in obvious anger as he stepped back to his post beside the door. Enver waited another moment before he pulled the ring off his finger and tucked it away.

"I got what I came for. This partnership of ours has been most fruitful, son of Bhaal." Enver gave a dramatic bow of his head, hand raised as if to exalt him. "May we find reason yet to work together again."

"You still owe me answers." Tir'yal narrowed his eyes. "I expect them. You'll see me again. For now, I take my leave. I have to return my Brother home, as well as the racks."

"Well, do not let me stop you then. I will see you when you decide to grace me with your presence again. Ah, do be mindful of the window, though. I can't allow just anyone sneaking in, now that I know it's an option. A knock on the front door should suffice." He hadn't thought the window to be an option, it was hardly the easiest way into his office. Though, he had already booby-trapped the balcony, so...

"A door sounds mundane. I'd rather you not know I'm there until you do." He could almost hear the smirk in his voice before the tiefling walked away down the hall and vanished around the corner, leaving Enver alone. The artificer huffed a soft sound of amusement at the threat that didn't quite land like one. It felt more like an inside joke than a threat.

****

Enver had expected the Bhaalspawn to show up that night, but he was left feeling quite disappointed when he didn't. It wasn't until the next night that he slunk through his window once more, dropping his traps onto his desk where he'd just been writing. The Banite glared, annoyed by the petty action.

"You know tieflings have a natural resistance to fire." It was common knowledge, and he could tell Enver wasn't stupid.

"Resistance is not an immunity." Enver let the annoyance slip away, an easy smile curling onto his lips as he raised himself from his desk, picking up the disarmed traps and moving them aside as not to dirty his papers. He turned back to the tiefling and clasped his hands together in front of him.

"Care for some wine?"

"You promised me answers."

"I also promised you a drink. Come." Enver beckoned him to follow and didn't bother waiting to see if he would, moving over to a drawer. He opened it and pulled out a bottle of wine from the portable larder, before opening the cabinet beside the rack drawer to pull out two silver goblets. He only kept those two silver cups in the cabinet, along with one black chalice. That one wasn't available to guests though. That was purely for him to enjoy his wine during his midnight prayers. Bane may not be able to drink anymore, but Enver could indulge him through his own mortal palate, Chosen or not. Bane held his being tightly within his black hand, and he had ever since he answered his prayers in the House of Hope.

The least he could do was allow his God to taste an excellent vintage through him and his tongue. In exchange, he dealt with the sickening taste of smoke and thanked him for it. Small sacrifices were necessary in the grand scheme of things. They were worth the protection of his God.

"Do you prefer red or white?"

"I don't drink wine."

"Oh? Do you prefer beer?" Enver didn't have any, but he was curious. He had more than his fair share of beer and liquor in his life; sometimes a shot of whiskey was the only thing that could keep him warm for a night. It wasn't preference though. He much preferred wine, or even champagne.

"No. I don't drink alcohol." Tir'yal corrected.

"Well, I guess I'll have the honour of introducing you to the tastiest version of it." He chuckled and closed the drawer, the cork popping quietly as he opened it. He poured the wine into the two cups and offered one out to the other as he leaned against the small counter. "Go on. I'm surprised a man of your age hasn't had a sip."

"I have. I just don't like it." Tir'yal frowned and looked at the red liquid. It was Enver's personal favourite, but he was willing to share. If only to broaden Tir'yals horizons.

"Maybe you'll like this one." Enver nodded for him to take it and the tiefling huffed softly before taking the cup and hesitating. He turned away from the other and lowered his mask to take a sip. There was a visible shudder in his tail and Enver bit his lip to stifle a laugh. "Not to your taste?"

"No, it's...it's better than what I've tried, but not by much." Tir'yal admitted, glancing over his shoulder at the human. It was a surprisingly demure gesture for the large man.

"If you don't like it, don't drink it." Enver was many things, but he was not one to force inebriation on an ally. "I will happily finish it for you."

"No. I'll drink it." Tir'yal said with finality and wandered off from his spot in the room, his curious eyes falling back to the shelves of books. Enver watched his back, seeing as that was all he could see of the other as the Bhaalspawn continued to take small sips from the goblet. Enver slowly made his way towards his desk, leaning back against it as the tiefling scanned over titles. He still considered his option of using a mind reading potion, but he wanted to see how Tir'yal would react to their past first.

"Well?" The Bhaalspawn looked over to him, tilting his head, mask back in place. "Aren't you going to ask me what I know?"

"I was...distracted. You have an impressive collection. I can tell you enjoy reading."

"I do. I have since I was a child." Enver said, taking a swallow of his own wine. It was an ice wine from Neverwinter, one he had imported in for his own enjoyment. It was honeyed and richly sweet, leaving his breath feeling cold when he exhaled despite it being left at room temperature. That was the magic of Neverwinter wine. It kept it's rich flavour without growing acidic, and left a cold, refreshing aftertaste like drinking iced water.

"How do you know my name? Nobody else knows it, or uses it for that matter. Not even my Father."

"Is that why you go by 'The Dark Urge'?" Enver scoffed. "That's a ridiculous name."

"It's a title, more than a name. I didn't need one when I came to Father's door. Everyone knew who I was. I am my Father's creation. When I came to him, I was told to shed my old life and leave it behind me. So I did. I am Bhaal's spawn. His heir. That's all I need to be. I don't need a name." Tir'yal did not seem upset by this notion, simply accepting of it.

"I understand the worship of your Father, I do, but a name is necessary. An identity outside our masters is necessary. We may work in their names, but it's important to also work for ourselves." Enver took another sip. "How can we offer anything substantial to our Gods if we have no purpose, no sense of self? Blind worship is for the dimwits who have no ambition or intelligence, or anything real to offer in the first place, outside another empty soul."

"You seem rather confidant that that's what all Gods desire. Individuality." Tir'yal was looking at him now, and Enver chuckled.

"Bane likes that I have a mind of my own. We think similarly, of course, our values align, but...he knows I worship him for a reason. Sure, partly because he's helped me to get where I am, but also because I want his blessing. I want to be his Chosen, to have the power that comes with that, and I'm willing to work for it. I want to work with him, to create a brighter horizon for this city that I call home. I want to conquer it. Eventually." Enver shrugged with one shoulder and Tir'yal hummed, turning away once more to take a sip of his wine. His tail gave another small shudder and the menace in him wanted to pull it to see how he'd react.

"I suppose we're different, you and I. My God is my Father. Bane is not yours, and you aren't his, not in the way I am Bhaal's. I am still being raised to become the Chosen he desires. My purpose is Bhaal." Tir'yal shook his head softly. "I do not need a sense of self, or a name. I only need to be of service of him, until he gives me my final task."

"How dreary." Enver frowned and finished his cup before walking off to the bottle and bringing it back with him, pouring more wine into his goblet. "Whether you need a name or not, you have one. You have a brain, and a heart, and a body. Not sure on the soul thing, considering Bhaal made you, but nevertheless..." He smirked.

"What do you consider to be a 'sense of self' then?" Tir'yal asked, glowing eyes flickering over the other mans features.

"Simple. Who you are, who you believe yourself to be. Things that are unable to be striped away, because they are inherently ones nature. It's about the roles we take, the attributes we have, inherent behaviours we can't break. It's about what we consider most important about ourselves." Enver gestured with one hand as he spoke, a habit he'd had since childhood. Talking with ones hands distracted those who didn't care, and drew in others who did, making them focus more on what he was saying. He was finding himself quite enjoying the conversation, if he was honest. He rarely got to talk so openly about subjects that fascinated him, like technology and the human psyche.

"I consider my intelligence to be a very important part of myself, and it's something no one can take from me. I was born a genius, and I will continue to be. But, the life I've lead has shaped my behaviours as well. I'm hard working because I have ambition. My ambition is not Bane's, and I don't have them because I worship him. I like luxuries because I didn't grow up with them, not because Bane demands me to drink fine wine and wear expensive clothes. And I loathe small talk because I find it demeaning and pointless, not because Bane doesn't know the concept of small talk. These are things I can't deny about myself, that are not influenced by my God, so they must be a part of me - they must make up who I am, and that's the big question we all ask at some point. 'Who am I? And who do I want to be?'"

"...I had a life before Bhaal. I don't like to think too much on it. It's not who I am anymore."

"But who are you now?"

"I...I'm Bhaal's heir. A Bhaalspawn." He reverted to his previous answer, not meeting his eyes.

"I didn't ask what you are. I asked who you are." Enver shook his head, wondering if the hopeless man would ever understand what he was actually asking. It was no wonder he didn't remember him, if he didn't enjoy thinking about the past. Enver usually wasn't the type he enjoyed looking back either. Tir'yals tail wrapped around his ankle as he tapped a claw on the shelf before hesitantly pulling his mask down, the hood slipping down with it. He sipped the wine, bitter and sweet all at once.

"I am my Father's son. But I suppose I am also...Tir'yal. I like anatomical science. Figuring out how people work, internally. Looking at their brains, their organs, the muscles and bones..." He shook his head slightly and Enver soaked up the new features offered to him. He had definitely changed since he last saw him, features sharper, stronger - the skin was paler than when he was a child, probably because he stayed inside so much now. There was discoloration beneath his lips, and he wondered what it was from. He had noticed it on his hands, but he hadn't realised it was on his chin as well.

"I also like music. I can play almost any instrument given to me, but I prefer the flute...because it was the first thing my mother taught me to play. I like the colour green, but I wear red and black because it's easier to hide the bloodstains. I...I like killing only for a reason, rather than mindlessly and in droves like Father wants. I don't like wasting my victims, so I try to give them purpose, after death. I like to keep parts of them and wonder what life they led before I ended it."

"Is that who Tir'yal is?" Enver smiled softly and sipped his wine. He should be put off by his words, but somehow, it just reminded him of the boy he once knew, in a strange way. Quieter, softer, but still blunt and jagged around the edges.

"I'm not sure. I suppose so." Tir'yal looked down at his cup and finished his glass, coming closer and holding it out. Enver quirked a brow and picked up the bottle, letting the neck of it touch the chalice before he poured the other some more.

"Good?"

"Mm. It is, once you get past the bitterness."

"Bitterness? This is a desert wine, Tir'yal. It's supposed to be sweet."

"It is sweet. But also bitter." Tir'yal sipped slowly at the wine and looked at Enver from over the rim of his cup. He swallowed and tilted his horn ever so slightly to the right. "Who am I to you?"

"Ah, well...You're Tir'yal." Enver smiled, an easy smile he wore for many as he drained his cup and poured another. He never went past three, so it would be his last. He intended to savour it. "We knew each other before Bhaal. Before Bane. It was a long time ago; I doubt you'd remember. I don't remember much myself."

"How long ago?" Enver looked up, trying to calculate the years in his mind.

"Well...I think I was eight the last time I saw you. You're older than me, but not by much. You would have been about ten, I think. It's normal, not to remember that far back."

"Unless it's a core memory." Tir'yal corrected. "I was a core memory for you."

Enver resisted the urge to snarl, to tell him to shut his mouth, to silence the truth from his lips. He didn't like that he was the only one who remembered, not when it was put like that. Like he'd been hung up on Tir'yal for two decades, when he simply had good memory.

"My memory is superior to most. It's a part of why I'm a genius." He assured. "We lived near each other. Neither of our families were particularly wealthy, but I preferred what your mother made for dinner compared to mine." He smirked and swirled the wine in his glass, looking down at the tiny whirlpool.

"We were friends?" Tir'yal asked, eyes trying to pick out the others expression, to extract answers. "When we were children?"

"We were. We were each others...only friends." Enver admitted softly before scoffing. "Nobody else was like us. Nobody understood that we were made for greater things. Look at us now; we were right. You're the son of a God, and I am to be another Gods Chosen. We were right not to listen to them, to let them force us into their tiny boxes of mindless idiocy."

Enver barely suppressed a sneer, shaking his head and allowing the hatred of the past and his anger to fall away to the back of his mind. Cool and collected, as a Banite should be.

"We didn't need anyone else. We had each other." Enver explained before a smile curled onto his lips. "And we can have that again, Tir'yal. We worked well together the other day. We're useful to each other, and we already have an old foundation we can build off. Let us put aside our Gods and think for ourselves on this one. You have a mind of your own, even if you insist you and your Father are one in the same. An alliance like ours...what would it hurt to give it a try?"

Tir'yal watched the other intensely for a long moment before turning away and walking alongside the bookcase, scanning titles as he thought of a response. Enver scowled, not appreciating his offer being ignored, but refusing to be the one who spoke up first, lest the man assume he'd gotten under his skin.

"I don't remember our past. I can't say there's a foundation on my end, but...your offer is tempting. You're good at that, offering things - getting people to accept your offers." Like some sort of devil, luring others in with a deal too good to be true. Tir’yals thoughts were halted as he spotted a book of interest and pulled it off the shelf, reading the title.

“This book...In Father's dreadful name, it’s a first edition too. How did you get your hands on it?” Enver quirked a brow at the topic change and glanced at the cover, taking a sip of wine.

“Oh, it was a…parting gift, if you will.” Yes, a gift. That he took, before setting the mans house alight. That would teach the charlatan to try and go behind his back.

“…What would you like for it?” Tir’yal asked curiously, opening the cover to admire the signature on the first page. His eyes gained a gleam. He itched to take it home, to devour it ravenously. A book on Genasi's powers and differing biology wasn't easy to get his hands on naturally. He hadn't been able to kill one himself yet, they weren't exactly as common as some other races in the city, so he hadn't the chance to study one himself either. “I’d like to add this to my collection.”

“You mentioned enjoy anatomical science...are you a scholar of some sorts?”

“Hmm…in my own way.” He was more of a hoarder of knowledge, especially when it came to the scientific beauty of anatomy and biology. “What would you like for the book?”

“What are you willing to give?” Enver chuckled, amused by the others obvious desire to covet the book for himself. It was only habit to negotiate rather than give a direct price. After all, he cared little for the intricate workings of people, let alone Genasi's - he preferred machines. Machines were infallibly loyal to their creators, could be controlled without pesky things like emotions and sentiment getting in the way. They couldn't betray or kill you, unless you were stupid, which he wasn't.

Tir'yal seemed to consider his question, tracing a single claw along the edge of the hardcover.

"I could kill you for it." Enver barked a laugh.

"Now, that's no way to bargain. You need me alive - if you're intending to accept my offer. An alliance isn't much good if one of us is dead."

"Maybe I want the book more than I want your promises." Tir'yal snapped it shut and Enver refused to flinch even if instinct almost got the better of him. The Bhaalspawn stared at him long enough for him to wonder if he'd actually do it, but the tiefling smiled. "I don't carry gold. It's worthless to me. I can't imagine I'd ever be able to afford a book like this - a signed first edition on Genasi's of all creatures, even if by an author I have no recognition of."

"Then what can you give me that isn't gold? That would be of the same value of such a...treasured piece of literature." Enver was pulling the mans tail. If he wanted it, he could have it, but it didn't hurt to see if he could get something out of this exchange.

Tir'yal stepped closer, crossing over the warding of his desk once more. Enver could feel the tingling of magic that warned him of danger, of 'ill-intent'. He subtly slipped his fingers under his desk for his emergency 'firecracker', looking away to appear more demure than he was. It was closer an explosive than a typical firecracker. He didn't have to win a fight against the other, he simply had to outsmart him. Enver had quick reflexes even with two cups in his system, was resilient to pain, and he was good at gaining the upper hand before striking deadly blows.

When you're an urchin, with no money to your name, you're willing to do odd jobs. 'Dog fighting' was a common practice in the slums. Except 'dog' didn't always mean the literal kind. He might be rusty, but he never forgot how to fight for his life, cage or no cage, collar or no collar. Smuggling put food on his plate and put a roof over his head, but it didn't feed the hearth that kept him alive in the winter, or came in handy when someone pulled a knife. Nights of bloody fists and a bruised face did that.

Despite the invasion into his space, Tir'yal did not attack. He simply looked down his nose at him, looking thoughtful before Tir'yal tucked the book beneath his arm to free a hand, reaching his right hand up to his mouth and baring eight sharp canines as he parted his lips, catching a ring between his teeth. He slipped it off and let it fall into his palm; a silver chain-like band with a square blue jewel in the centre. Enver quirked a brow, curious, and allowed the other to take his wrist in hand, moving his hand away from the explosive hidden beneath the desk. He clenched his jaw, watching closely as the tiefling slipped the ring upon his middle finger, the enchantment on it feeling like crisp winter air before it seemed to attune, adjusting to fit it's new wearer.

"That should suffice." Tir'yal hummed and stepped away. Enver hadn't realised how warm the other man was until his body heat disappeared from his personal bubble.

"And this is...?"

"A gift from one of Father's faithful. It originally belonged to a traveller. He boasted about traversing all kinds of terrain with the help of his magical ring. I probably would have let him live - he didn't draw my attention the way his orc friend had, but he grabbed one of my fellow assassins rather indecently, so...I took him home and tortured him. For days." Tir'yals lips quirked up in a satisfied smile. Enver wondered if the other considered his fellow cultists to be friends, or simply showed loyalty to them because they were devoted to Bhaal as well.

"I let her watch, and learn. She got the killing blow, and his body was hers to do with, but...she offered me the ring. She said she wanted nothing to hold me back from my murderous duties." Tir'yal nodded to the hand. "It happens to also be useful against any spell that intend to restrain or paralyse it's wearer."

"An invaluable gift..." One Enver was quite pleased with. "Do you not have your concerns that that might come to bite you in the arse later?"

"I don't need magic to restrain you." Enver couldn't tell if the half-mast gaze the other was giving him was simply from knowledge of his physical superiority, or because he was considering other ways he could restrain him. To kill him, or to do other, more depraved things. Perhaps the third glass was too much for him tonight, if he was interpreting such things from a single expression. If he was imagining killing him, then Enver could respect the restrain he was showing, at the very least.

He hummed to break the tension.

"Don't underestimate your allies...or your enemies, should we come to that. Though, I don't intend to make an enemy out of you, Tir'yal." He meant it. Knowing who he was now...it's not like he wanted him dead. If anything, he wanted the opposite. He had wondered how Tir'yal had changed over the years, and what about him stayed the same, and he found so far he liked what changed, and what stayed.

"I truly do think we could be good for each other. Putting our past aside, we can both benefit from this. You like to kill, and I have people I'd like dead. I have many enemies, given my profession. As for what I can do for you in return...I have an arsenal of weaponry and people at my disposal, many skills you're free to ask use of, and I can make sure your night time fun doesn't cause too much scandal. Enough scandal to threaten your Father's temple. People are like cattle, Tir'yal. They panic when they see the slaughter that awaits them. A panic that often leads to chaos. That benefits no one. I can make it so they don't see it. So they're blind to the slaughter that awaits them at your hand." Enver smirked and glanced down to the book that now belonged to the tiefling.

"You've already found something interesting just by meeting me. I can see you're as hungry for knowledge as you are for blood and gore. I'll admit, you show miraculous restrain despite what I've read on Bhaalspawns. Especially ones who stand by Bhaal and praise his name. I can respect a fellow intellect who knows the meaning of self control."

"Just because I have restrain, doesn't mean I'm in control of my urges." Tir'yal admitted with a soft scoff, looking away from the other as he opened the book to skim the first page.

"Your urges?" Enver pried, unable to help himself. It was all so fascinating, even if he was a touch irked to be ignored in favour of parchment.

"It's...the best word for it." Tir'yal relented, a clawed finger underlining the sentences as his eyes followed the words. "I was created by Bhaal, and I have the same compulsions that all of my brothers and sisters had. I am no different from them. The urges are simply...stronger than theirs was. There is more of Bhaal in me than anyone else has ever been blessed with."

"I've seen regular men with less restraint against murder. Count me impressed."

"I am no regular man." Tir'yal glanced back up at him before looking back at the page. "I sated my urges prior to our meeting. I didn't want to kill you before I got my answers."

"Funny. I had a similar idea, to discard you if you posed a problem - if you ended up being useless. I suppose we'll have to remain useful to each other then." Enver chuckled, not bothering to hold the truth back from the other. Neither of them had liked liars as children, and even now, Enver still didn't. So he would not lie to his oldest friend.

"Whether I had known you as a child or not, I would have offered you this alliance to begin with. I feel we're similar people, that we...understand each other. That we could have much more than we already do if we simply work together."

"Not very Banite of you, wanting to work with someone."

"Oh no, it's very much within our nature to latch onto potential and help it thrive. To use it to our benefit. I know this alliance will benefit me. It just happens that it will benefit you too. What do you say?"

He placed his cup down and offered his hand to the other, a small smile on his lips.

"Shall we make a new era for ourselves, old friend?"

Tir'yal looked down at his hand and rapped the books backing slowly with his claws. He took a gulp of the ice wine and finished the cup before placing it down beside Enver's. If Father asked, he'd blame it on the wine. The wine made him slip his hand into the Banite's own and swipe his thumb over scarred knuckles, wondering how they came to be.

He could only blame his own curiosity for accepting the alliance though. His curiosity was sure to get him killed - but he didn't dare to pray to Father that the satisfaction of knowing would bring him back.

[stressed-sock]

so. are bianca, crescent, kai, and nico all part of solis? if so, what kinds of roles or appearances do they make in relation to the other characters? how much influence does bianca have over elliott, and how much involvement with the eventual villain arc?

yep, they are all part of solis!

also here's a quick summary of their characters before i go into relationships :D

bianca (she/her) is a duchess of the kingdom (that has yet to have a name), and holds a lot of power - in high society as well as political stuff. she's also pretty power hungry, which leads many to think that the rumors of her murdering her husband to be true.

crescent (they/them) is a shapeshifting weapon. made by one of the best smiths of the time and on top of that, considered her life's greatest work, they're pretty arrogant. they are also the kind of weapon that chooses their wielder, but none have met their standards yet.

kai (they/them) is a similar 'species' to crescent - the gems embedded in both their foreheads are what give them life as well as 'pre-programmed' skills specific to them. kai is made of an extremely durable enchanted porcelain and made to specialize in pretty much any weapon. they are made by a renowned ceramist.

nico (he/him) is the youngest prince of the current ruling royal family. after a deadly assassination attempt, he was sent away to a trade city far from the capital (along with kai for protection) until he came of age.

~*~

now for relationships, i guess i'll start with bianca!

as stated before, she is elliot's stepmother and also touil's biological mother. when elliot showed promise in magic, she took to experimenting ways to harness his power for herself. touil on the other hand was almost completely ignored after she was found to have no talent.

elliot tried to run away and seemed to have succeeded but y'know that one scene in puss in boots where humpty dumpty was revealed to have been there the whole time? yeah that. that's basically what bianca was like.

she plays a big part in his villain arc but i don't want to reveal everything yet (plus we'd be here all day lmao), so just know she had a lot of influence on elliot before he grew a spine and then she makes a big reveal that partially triggers the villain transformation

crescent doesn't have many relationships since they haven't chosen a wielder yet. they are currently kept in their maker's workshop. (the smith isn't very developed yet, so i'll probably post about her later or smth)

kai and nico somehow wind up getting tangled with thala and theo at some point since they live/base in the same port city :D

[eretzyisrael]

by Ari Allyn-Feuer

DSA Palestine’s tweet said this: ‘One could (and should) very well argue that in a settler colonial context there are no such things as “civilians”, but disregarding that even, it’s total folly to honestly compare settlers perpetrating pogroms to resistance groups deploying violence to liberate themselves.’

This is a stunning statement. The distinction between civilian and military personnel, non-combatants and combatants, in an armed conflict is the dividing line between those who have the protection of international law, whom it is a war crime to target, and those who may be intentionally killed, legitimately, without limit or sanction, anywhere in the theatre of conflict. Saying that there are no Israeli civilians (not even women, children, or the elderly) is saying that DSA considers it legitimate, as a general rule, to kill any Israeli.

And, of course, one must presume that they only mean Jewish Israelis, since they regard Israeli Arabs as Palestinians, and would obviously not regard attacking Palestinians as resistance against Israel. In short, DSA Palestine endorsed (‘and should’) the killing of Israeli Jews (‘no such thing as “civilians”’) .

DSA was swiftly asked to correct itself. Only hours later, Congressman Ritchie Torres tweeted in condemnation of DSA’s statement. He pointed out the obvious problem with this statement, saying: ‘Denying Israelis the status of civilians means declaring them fair game for violence and terror. If a naked justification of terror against Israel is not a sign of a demonic double standard against the Jewish State, I am not sure what would be.’

In response, DSA Palestine did not back down, but posted a lengthy Twitter thread explaining why the original tweet was, in their view, correct and making clear that they still endorsed its content.

Although they deleted the original tweet, their response to Congressman Torres said that ‘the tweet of reference was deleted strictly because it had not been properly vetted before it was posted,’ i.e. not because it was incorrect. This is also a confirmation that the DSA Palestine twitter account is responsible to DSA’s communication vetting policies.

DSA Palestine’s thread identified itself as intended to ‘clarify and present nuance,’ not to retract or apologise for the original statement, and identified Torres condemnation as a ‘bad faith attack.’

The thread concluded by saying that ‘Indigenous resistance in all forms are valid, whether it be non-violent protests or armed resistance.’ ‘All forms’ presumably includes Hamas firing thousands of rockets at Israeli cities – recognised as a war crime by the United Nations – as well as the stabbing of Jewish civilians on the streets or in their beds and mass shootings inside synagogues by the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. These murders and attempted murders of civilians have happened in recent years, and not only merely in Palestine or East Jerusalem but inside Israel’s internationally-recognised, pre-1967 borders. This is what DSA has chosen to endorse and defend.

And in a response to a Jewish DSA member commenting on the thread to ask for a review, DSA Palestine said that ‘[that] review has already occurred,’ and that its response to Torres ‘was created as the last step in the process rather than the first.’

[kitkatt0430]

3, 6, 8, 10, and 11 for the fanfic ask game!

3.) What is the most amount of research you’ve done for the smallest detail? What was the detail and how much time/effort went into researching it?

I've put time into researching the different types of power of attorney for a few different fics, though I put the most time into it for Hello Hadley. I also put quite some time into finding out the requirements for getting a PI's license for Anya only to decide that she was just gonna circumvent the system.

I don't really know how much time I put into those, but definitely several hours of googling stuff and deciding how much of it would actually go into the fic.

6.) What is your favorite type of feedback to receive (favorites/kudos, comments, DMs, complete and utter silence in the pursuit of remaining unperceived?)? If comments or DMs or anything else involving a reader writing, do you have a particular type of feedback that excites you more than other types?

Comments definitely, though kudos are a close second.

I especially love getting comments that mention the commentor's favorite part (or parts) of the fic. Rambling comments because they enjoyed it so much. But honestly, I know how anxiety-inducing it can be to leave a comment sometimes, so I'm excited for any type of comment I receive. I get ridiculously happy for them, even if sometimes it takes me a while to respond.

(That morning kudos email, though... I get one of those and it makes me smile all morning.)

8.) Is there a story idea you have that you would love if it could appear fully realized but that you do not think you’ll ever write yourself?

In high school I started a Tales of Symphonia fanfic where Zelos was much more deeply embedded in the Renegades. I wrote some side stories for it and I'd desperately love to finally write it all out, but... I have not made any progress on it since college. It would have covered from Zelos as a pre-teen, meeting Yuan because he ran away from the Tower of Salvation, hoping the angels would kill him so his sister could be the Chosen. Though her being half-elven and half of the wrong lineage, she's not actually second in line to be Chosen. (He had a very difficult childhood.) He's lucky that the angel who finds him is Yuan, who takes him to the Renegade Base and convinces Zelos that what would help his sister more is to topple the system that destroyed their parents lives.

Zelos goes back to his life of the Chosen, but with a new resolve. As the Chosen of the flourishing world, he's considered for candidacy for the real organization of Cruxis and Yuan makes sure he gets in. So in one part of Zelos' life, he's traveling to Dherris Kharlan regularly to see if he gets his wings and a permanent place in Cruxis, in the other he's sixteen now and politically active, trying to make Tethe'alla a better place for half elves with the support of the elder of the two princesses, who just so happens to also be the person the Church has arranged for Zelos to marry to carry on the Chosen bloodline. They're genuinely in love - something Zelos' parents very much didn't get - but of course tragedy strikes when they're eighteen and the pope has the princess assassinated. The attempt was intended to take out Zelos too, but... it fails. His best friend from Cruxis makes sure Zelos doesn't do anything stupid and winds up recruited into the Renegades as a result.

Zelos doesn't stop trying to help half elves, but takes his support into the shadows, perfecting the public persona he has in the game while teaming up in the background with his sister's aunt who runs a loose organization for helping at risk half elves escape. The problem is, of course, that her being his sister's aunt also means that she's the sister of the woman who murdered Zelos' mother - who was aiming to murder Zelos and missed. They do wind up becoming close friends because she very much disagrees with her sister's choices, but it takes time for them to learn to really trust each other.

By the time Zelos enters the events of the game, he's already neck deep both in overthrowing Cruxis with the Renegades and trying to overthrow the pope more locally so that he no longer has to worry about Seles being used against him if he became more politically active again. Openly politically active, anyway. So he still plays the triple agent he did in canon, but he's a bit at odds with Yuan over the Renegades backing the attempted assassination of the Sylvarantian Chosen - he's the Chosen too, he's not going to be okay with just killing that girl.

Meanwhile it would have filled out the backstory of the Renegades and established a number of OCs to build up the organization's leadership beyond just Yuan and Botta. And done the same for Cruxis, demonstrating that a lot of the angels aren't necessarily bad people. They've led difficult lives and suffered under prejudice so heavily that when offered a way out... it's no wonder they took it, even if it meant in some cases compromising their morals.

It would have gone post canon too, including a reinterpretation of the sequel, but... yeah, I was waaaay too ambitious with this at a time when I did not know my own limits as a writer.

10.) If you could banish a single trope to live at the bottom of the ocean, never to be seen again by any human eyes (or at least your own), which trope would that be?

Hanahaki disease. While I've seen a few that aren't awful, it's a massively amatonormative trope and I find it way worse than soulmates in that regard. It has such a feeling of 'blaming the object of desire'... or shaming them into requiting feelings. The whole thing just kinda creeps me out. And not even the versions where there's 'surgery' to cut the feelings out, as it were, make it better. I don't know, it just seems worse? Like this character has to undergo surgery to keep from basically killing yourself with flowers? All because they can't deal with unrequited feelings? I just... flowers are such beautiful things to me, but there's something very ugly and entitled about this trope.

11.) Conversely, if you had to pick a single trope to read for the next seven-and-half years, which trope would that be?

Enemies/rivals to lovers. I really enjoy the dynamic of two people who think they hate each other discovering they actually love everything about one another. I like it better than friends to lovers because so often it kinda treats the friendship like it was never more than a stepping stone to the romance, which just annoys me. Enemies/rivals to lovers though? It's gonna have that belligerent UST I enjoy so much. Hartmon, Coldflash, Coldwest, etc... definitely a lot of fics out there that capitalize on that trope.

[asteriasfallingstarsandtears]

I cannot express just how much my Durge lives in constant fear to the point she pushes down any emotional response besides what Bhaal gives her, because anything else, Bhaal can and will take from her.

Her foster family? She was raised in a Lolth sworn house, her life was a constant missed opportunity to be killed by her Goddess, her family, her competition and whoever else thought to assassinate her to gain power. When Bhaal came into the picture she slaughtered most of her sisters and the staff in ty section of House Baenre's compound she lived in before she broke free of the Urge in time to prevent the killing blow on Minthara

Her Bhaalist family? Sarevok acts as a mentor until it's clear he wants to be above her and use her. Helena follows her father's lead behind her back and dies for her trouble. She tried to raise Orin as she was raised only for her to turn against her and murder her (it didn't stick). The cultists watch her constantly for weakness, Bhaal might favour them instead if they overpowered his child.

Love? The Urge had pegged Gortash and any other lover she grew too close to for murder, Gortash is the only one who survived pre tadpole, and that was because she stayed away more than she stayed with him. Her first lover when she resurrected the Cult died at her hand at Bhaal's command, an offering and reminder that she is his.

Children? She knows every child she has will be Bhaalspawn and subject to Bhaal's power and whims, she makes sure that it doesnt happen. She failed once and immediately handed that child off so she wouldn't corrupt it. Even when she believed herself just a Drow she was expected to carry on the bloodline.

Girl probably has an ulcer that keeps healing and reforming from stress, anxiety and fear. She never sleeps on the Chosen's room (not that Drow really need to), she finds places to hide to rest and never stays in the same place twice. Years of assassination attempts and other abuses I don't want to get into here will do that to a person.

So she empties herself until all that is left is Bhaal and Murder.

[finitevoid]

Finally able to organize my thoughts on the blue beetle movie. so here they are:

-I think the concept of a destined chosen hero is antithetical to jaime reyes as a character. khaji da is not some heavensent agent of destiny, they’re a weapon of mass destruction developed by a colonial empire and sent to mass enslave other planets. The reason jaime is blue beetle as opposed to anyone else is mostly chance, and the fact that jaime happened to be the first person khaji da came into contact with that they didn’t find repulsive, hence them “choosing” him

-I like that they live on el paso street, that was cute

-I like that they made jaime’s little sister a cynical pessimist to counteract jaime’s glittering optimism. Also she’s goth a+

-the fact that jaime attended gotham university not only sent me into hysterics but is continuing to haunt me. Jaime reyes gotham u pre law graduate. Whew

-I was really surprised when they announced this movie because Whatever section of the dc company is in charge of greenlighting these movies seem rather attached to gen 1, year 1 origin stories. we’ve had Two (2) movies about year 1 batman in the past decade, not to mention man of steel and the wonder woman movie taking place during ww1 etc. they’re not even touching the gen 2 sidekicks let ALONE gen 3, so when I saw the blue beetle movie was about jaime and not ted kord I was pogging. However, adapting a Generation Three hero’s origin story into a self-contained story that Actively shies away from the context of the wider dcu seems to be an exercise in futility, because when my father and I watched it he came out so confused as to what had happened in that movie that I spent 30 minutes explaining infinite crisis to him in an attempt to make sense of the movie’s allergy to exposition. while I’m not expecting an adaptation of jaime to, like, completely adapt the utter insanity that is infinite crisis, I do think that the way they went about it ultimately harmed the film more than anything else. while a bit more boring, I think yjtv did a better job by just having khaji da break tf out of their cage and latch onto jaime as a means of escape. It makes more sense than couching the whole movie in a really weirdly unsubtle jesus metaphor

-when George lopez said “batman’s a fascist!” I scream laughed

-I liked that jaime spent the whole time haggardly being like NO MURDER while his entire family was so Utterly down for murder. Truly that is the vibe of the reyes family

-anyway the movie did tackle things that comics, I think, would never be able to. discussions of class and race that blunt would get shut down in (modern) comics, so I enjoyed them taking this opportunity to go there. I liked how believably the reyes family acts like a family, from how they smoothly interact with one another, reference things together, reference past events and even have, you know, thoughts and feelings about their place in their family. jaime’s always been an outlier in comics for having a family that isn’t dead, but I think comics will always struggle to portray a family that Feels like a family (because the writers will always be bogged down by portraying people other than the heroes are surface level cardboard cutouts) so having actual actors take that out of their hands was cool

-“it’s like batman’s stuff but shittier” is the greatest thing jaime’s ever almost said

-I didn’t like the romance subplot

-How did they manage to make one of the most batshit, buckwild and whacky origin stories and make it into a cookie-cutter superhero movie with a bland social justice flavoring. Jaime spends half his comic fighting with an alien parasite on his back, getting mindcontrolled by said alien parasite, fighting robots and Going Into Space To Topple An Alien Colonial Empire and this movie was just so. Predictable. yeah ok he’s the chosen one who’s hunted for his chosen status dead dad become one with your destiny beat the bad guy who isn’t bad so he can beat the bad guy who is. Yeah. Ok man

[princeofhags]

Trying to figure out the game's timeline in relation to the Dead Three and their Chosen is a pain in the ass. Drowning in Forgotten Realms lore and just getting more and more confused and frustrated.

Canonically, of the Three, only Bane is alive for any long period of time immediately pre-game (he came back 1372 DR, which works well for Gortash as Bane's Chosen, since it gives more flexibility in the timeline).

Bhaal's resurrection kicks off the Second Sundering only 10 years prior to the game's year of 1492 DR, and Mykrul's resurrection is vague but it's sometime between 1482 DR-1487 DR. So Ketheric can only have been resurrected sometime after Myrkul came back.

Normal Bhaalspawn were created pre-death by Bhaal because he knew his death was coming. They're easy enough to work in even without Bhaal being directly involved ⸻ typically. But Durge?? With the whole born of Bhaal's gore thing? Is either only 10 years old or was created before his death in 1358 DR. Which could work for a Durge of a longer-lived race, but canon Durge is a Dragonborn? And not only that, but the game Blood in Baldur's Gate, which takes place in 1477 DR, ends with Durge being revealed as the culprit. So. Obviously was not created in 1482. And we know Durge did not spring from Bhaal's spilled blood a full-grown adult, as we have the memory of Durge killing their mortal family as their first murders.

I believe? That Karlach says she spent 10 years as a soldier to Zariel. So that places Gortash's betrayal of her in 1482 as well, in which I believe he got the prototypes related to the construction of his Steel Watch.

This post attempts to outline the events pre-game concerning the Chosen as best as one really can (though I'm unsure of a date or two presented here) and points out a lot of inconsistencies and plotholes. To the point where I feel like I should just ignore and abandon any sort of game timeline and make one that suits my writing needs instead. Attempting to parse all this out is giving me a headache.

[mareastrorum]

TF&TS Meta: How did The Fool and the Soldier come about?

Since I am posting another chapter on Friday, no WIP Wednesday excerpt today! However, I will try to throw out a meta post 2 days before each chapter to tide people over.

This post goes through the following questions:

Where did the idea come from? Why did I want to write it? What premise does it cover?

See the directory for other meta posts.

I finished Campaign 2 in July 2022. It was great! Loved it! Hyped for the book! Pre-ordered it! Queued up the Campaign 2 Wrap Up.

In the wrap up, the cast discussed what Taliesin knew about Mollymauk and Lucien (basically nothing), and what Matt had originally planned for Molly’s character arc before he died on Glory Run Road in episode 26. Matt explained:

“How I had initially had planned it was that Lucien, the original soul that was in Molly’s body—after being shattered—found his way back but had to go into another body and is trying to get the original body with the nine eyes back. And so it was going to be— what was this movie? There was this old, I want to say, Denzel Washington movie about this killer spirit that would transition from body to body through touch. I can’t— it was a film from the late ‘90s or something. … But anyway, I wanted Lucien to be this, like, spirit that would jump from person to person and was, like, a recurring antagonist trying to find a way to kill Molly to take the body back or find a way to remove Molly from the body to take it back. And that was going to be a smaller ongoing villain until things like the Somnovem got revealed, and then Molly died. I was like, ‘Fuck!’ … Or, yeah.”

The movie that Matt couldn’t remember was Fallen, a 1998 thriller about a detective who discovers that a serial killer he had caught was actually possessed by a spirit/demon named Azazel. Azazel had spent thousands of years possessing people, systematically ruining their lives, massacring those they care about, and moving on whenever his victims get caught or killed. Azazel set his sight on the detective once he realized what was going on, and the film follows the detective’s attempts to stop Azazel.

I love that film. It’s such a cheesy ‘90s thriller. I love Azazel. He’s a horrific, sly, manipulative predator playing with his food the entire film. I enjoyed Lucien as a villain for the same reasons.

Azazel’s powers were incredibly creepy. He could possess people upon a touch, and very few could resist him. In NYC, a notoriously overpopulated city, he could practically swim through people tapping each other in a chain. If his host died, he could travel through the air to a new host, and when he did that, no one could resist him. He perfectly controlled his hosts, stole their voices and memories, and had tons of nasty tricks for tormenting his prey. He could be anyone, anywhere, and there was no easy way to contain or detect him if he didn’t want to be. Just a delicious villain in every way.

However, even though I was so certain someone would have already taken that idea and run with it for an AU, no one had done it. Some fanfics explored Lucien as a more traditional ghost or haunting dreams, and a smidgen of fanfics addressed something similar to body-snatching. But not a full-on Azazel-style spirit pursuing Molly and trying to murder him throughout Campaign 2.

So I stewed in that for a while and thought: what would Lucien's spirit abilities even be in a D&D game? Taliesin had chosen the ghostslayer subclass, so I’m certain Lucien would have been undead. That would have given Taliesin a chance to really capitalize on his subclass and show off all the cool shit. However, individual and bodiless undead are pretty lame in D&D against a group as large as the Mighty Nein. Lucien couldn’t have been one of Matt's Lingering Souls because that could be killed permanently, and it would have been really easy for the Mighty Nein to do that. That wouldn't work for a recurring villain. He'd get Lorenzo'd. So Lucien would have to have been something that was more challenging for a group, and he'd need to be able to come back from each defeat.

Since Matt would have certainly customized a stat block, I built a monster block for Lucien with Azazel style mechanics by mashing together different types of undead. Then I got all the character sheets from CritRoleStats and played out how it would work in actual combat. I had to adjust it when it turned out that Molly would absolutely curbstomp Lucien. An undead spirit trying to kill Molly would have to be incredibly powerful just to survive the fight, let alone threaten Molly’s life.

As I tried to finesse the block, I thought, wait, when would that have even happened in the campaign? Would Molly have leveled up by the time they crossed paths? I looked up the timeline on the wiki to sort out when there would be an opportunity for (1) Lucien to come back as a spirit in the first place, and (2) when he would be able to reach the Mighty Nein.

But first, well, how would Lucien come back? If he wasn’t a Lingering Soul, and he had to be repaired by the Somnovem, then he was somewhere in the Astral Sea. The Somnovem probably couldn’t just fling a soul across the planes, so someone needed to summon him to the Material Plane. Who would do it? The Tombtakers! But how? Only Cree and Otis have spells, so one of them. Otis can't use summoning spells like that, and there's no way for Otis to contact the Somnovem. But Cree could Commune! Cree had Legend Lore! But when would she use that? And so on and so on until I worked out a plausible way and time for him to come back.

Then I had a subsequent question: why would the Somnovem send Lucien as a spirit instead of telling Cree to murder Molly? Matt might or might not have had an explanation already planned—or maybe he would have gone in an entirely different direction—but regardless, it never came out in the campaign. At that point, I figured that I wasn’t going to write anything, but I couldn’t avoid the bigger question that I had been ignoring the whole time: if someone were to do that AU, how would Molly have even survived at Glory Run Road?

And then I had an idea.

It was going to be a lot of fucking work, and I was still set on not writing a fanfic, so I wrote the outline to get it out of my head and reasoned that would burn off all the motivation. I spent all of August creating a massive outline for the entire campaign and then editing it to fit in this rough idea of how it would play out. When would the attacks occur? How would things change between each of them? How would each side adapt? I eventually began fleshing out themes and ideas for the Somnovem, then the Tombtakers, and then Lucien, and Lucien’s backstory.

At that point, about September 2022, I figured, okay, I’d write it. But I would wait until The Nine Eyes of Lucien came out to finish polishing Lucien’s backstory so that I would know what to include in the AU.

I did not enjoy TNEOL. Part of that is my fault, I had high expectations. However, that is also beside the point—my enjoyment of something has little to do with whether the material was useful. After all, the appeal of fanfiction is that writers can change what they don’t like or add things in that were removed or sanitized. The problem was that the characterization of Lucien Tavelle in TNEOL was completely incompatible with an Azazel-style villain.

Characters are literary devices for telling a story. They need to be created with the genre and intended themes already in mind. A protagonist, who just needed someone to redeem his poor misguided soul, from a tragedy is not going to match up with Azazel by any stretch of the imagination.

Azazel was a serial killer. He was cruel, clever, egotistical, relentless, manipulative, playful, menacing, and charismatic. Lucien Tavelle was none of those things. Tavelle was careless, idiotic, spineless, lazy, inconsiderate, ignorant, and utterly delusional. TNEOL went out of its way to make Tavelle a lamer version of Molly. Tavelle would not act like Azazel, he would not make full use of Azazel’s abilities in a way that would be entertaining to a reader nor suitable for a horror/thriller villain, and he would probably give up after the first or second time the Nein beat him into submission. Why? Because there was no coherent motivation for his desire to be the Nonagon. He didn’t even do it because he thought it was fun. It was simply a conclusion that he wanted to be the Nonagon because the narrative demanded it. Whether anyone attributes that to irrationality based in grief or madness, Tavelle would have been a disappointing villain as an undead haunting Molly.

Worse, Lucien Tavelle would have been a terrible antagonist for Molly. Molly was designed to avoid his character arc—he would not have willingly sought out Lucien or anything about him absent some external motivation to do so. There would have been no pressure to have anything resembling a character arc if Tavelle was the one chasing him. A grief-stricken, insane ghost would have left Molly unimpressed and bored. He’d have shrugged off any semblence of conflict. Maybe he would have shifted from mocking Tavelle to pitying him, but there would have been so little substance to their dynamic.

Note: This has nothing to do with the relationship between Lucien Tavelle and Molly in TNEOL. Their roles as protagonist and antagonist were reversed in the book. The issue is that in the AU, Molly would be the protagonist and Lucien would be the antagonist. Thus, Lucien would need to be some sort of catalyst or foil for whatever arc Molly goes through, and Tavelle was simply not written with that in mind. After all, that wasn’t the premise of the book. These stories have different purposes, and that imposes different characterization needs.

I needed a character that would suit Azazel’s abilities and the premise that Lucien would ruthlessly try to murder Molly or rip his soul out of his body so that Lucien could trek through Aeor for the threshold crests, fry the Somnovem’s minds, and use Cognouza to take over the world. I needed a villain. Specifically, I needed a villain that puts Molly through a character arc and was canonically going to assimilate all of existence. This is important: if the Nein hadn’t killed the Tombtakers and destroyed that threshold crest, and if Molly hadn’t fucked with Lucien from within in the final battle, the Nein would have lost. The default outcome was that Lucien conquered Cognouza and returned to the Material Plane.

Trying to make TNEOL fit with this premise was going to be an overwhelming amount of work that would have resulted in a mediocre-at-best villain who was really just a poor little meow meow at the center. That wouldn’t work for a compelling thriller/horror/action/adventure longfic AU going through all of Campaign 2 where the looming threat is that the villain will win if the protagonists don’t get their shit sorted.

Fuck.

Thus, I disregarded TNEOL entirely. I did not make that decision lightly. That meant I needed to develop a headcanon from scratch and sort out how to work that into the story itself or write multiple stories for it to make sense. Why not include parts of it? Because I decided to write something I would enjoy, and I didn’t enjoy TNEOL. Why would I pick out pieces of something I didn’t like to shoehorn into a different story when I had already decided not to include the main character? I’m not going to combine two stories meant for different audiences, genres, and purposes into something that would be less than if I just did my own thing.

By the end of November, I had methodically gone through every single plot hole or gap in explanation that I could find in the campaign related to Molly, Lucien, the Tombtakers, Vess DeRogna, and the Somnovem to develop that headcanon. I also managed to come up with a way to work that backstory in: dreams. Thus, it all fits in one story, though it certainly has chunky chapters. By 8/4/23, when the story was first published on AO3, I had reached 400k words in 9 months.

I am well aware that my opinion of TNEOL is not the majority opinion. I love ruthless, ambitious villains, and TNEOL was not written for people like me. I was simply not the target audience of that book by any metric. However, TF&TS was always going to feature a ruthless, ambitious villain. This fanfic is the result of my excitement for a premise that Matt discussed in the campaign wrap up. I refuse to undermine any of that for the sake of a book that doesn’t address that premise—TNEOL wasn’t meant to, and that is not a criticism. That is a simple fact.

Don’t take my opinion as a guide as to whether you should or shouldn’t have enjoyed TNEOL. There is a Venn Diagram of unknown size where there is an overlap between fans of TNEOL and people who would enjoy TF&TS. They are not mutually exclusive things. However, I want to be very clear, both in the tags and in my meta posts, that this AU will have a completely different flavor so that readers aren’t surprised when they read TF&TS and think, “Well, that’s not what the book did.” I know. I read it. It doesn’t work for this story.

In closing, go watch Fallen. It’s fucking great.

[setokaibapetty]

5 + 1 Fic Friday Roundup: The Tags Amused Me

Fanfic, in no particular order, that had a fun tag (or tags). Fics are listed by tag rather than fic title for this one.

so your dad got shanked and you really didn’t really like him anyway (AO3) - "Temari would not have chosen the Red Sands Playhouse to make their stand." This fic is set to private.

more like the dance of the dumbasses (AO3) - "SI into Laenor Velaryon. Watch as our protagonist stumbles his way to the finish line, and catch a few bruises and maybe avoid an attempted murder or two along the way."

Jaime is a very pretty idiot (AO3) - "Lyarra Snow had not expected a hand extended in kindness to be remembered. Now there was a lion knight loitering around the Wolfswood asking for her hand in marriage."

morals? i don't know her (AO3) - "when eighteen-year-old, post-war Sakura is thrown back into her tiny, pre-Academy body, she makes a decision. she'd had a childhood once already, and this time, she's more interested in Not Dying when the inevitable shit hits the proverbial fan. so she will work harder, care less, kill more, and smile when she's done."

feelings are hard so let's fuck instead (AO3) - "Hawks and Dabi get hit by a quirk that makes them feel sick, looks like they're stuck like this until it wears off."

Bonus: stay for the typos (AO3 / AH / SV) - "Our main character, after annoying the all-powerful being that is GRRM, well that is after being impaled by a forklift first and then annoying GRRM, wakes up in the body of one teenage Petyr Baelish, freshly nearly-disemboweled. Hilarity ensues."