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sstabhmontown · 1 year ago

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De-advanced Dungeons & Dragons

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons carries a lot of weight in the ideal imaginary “Old School”, but over the history of the “OSR” it has steadily receded. OSRIC never try to be the whole package as the B/X clones did, and since their success authors doing interesting work seem more and more drawn to either further simplified versions of Basic, or of course OD&D. As I was, starting out.

But the mystique and nostalgia of AD&D, and some of its specifics that still take up a lot of space still find ways into these games. The first big project I did on abulafia was an AD&D by way of Greenwood spellbook generator, even though another part of me wanted the abstraction that OD&D offered by never quite saying that spells were specifically in the books.

So with the party being near the end of their games, between level 7 and 10, as they started to divine questions like “where is the ark of the covenant” I knew a time was approaching to do something to cap things off. And in time for hallowe'en, I decided to prepare something special: The Tomb of Horrors.

There are a few defining features of AD&D specifically. It's rules for tournament play, with Gygax going to great length to talk about it being a proper, official way to play, even when it's filled with options, forgotten and abandoned rules, and contradictions. It also wears his voice, his language, in its strong opinions and questionable inclusions. His prejudice. And finally, it's a lot: the first time the game emerges as Three Hardcover Books. There are a lot of mechanics in there!

What is it to go back intentionally to OD&D, or folk D&D, or whatever other name you want to give the minimal style, specifically? We can see it when we look at this, one of the Most AD&D titles published: a tournament module, by Gygax, filled with strongly presented material, odd choices of detail, mechanics, and the works. Here's some of what I did.

Uhh, you probably shouldn't read this post if you think you might play in a game for this adventure, you know.

The Tournament

The Tomb of Horrors is the most exaggerated of Tournament modules: unlike many of the other adventures of the era, it never asks you to treat it any different. It's not part of a series, implying a continuous campaign, nor does it give you any tools really beyond a d6 list of possible places in Greyhawk it could be located.

I called the nearby desert the Bright Desert in recognition here. But the advice to include it in a campaign is bad advice. The adventure doesn't work in a campaign unless you do some work.

But first, the relief: they don't need to be level 10–14. Our group of level 6–10 did just fine.

It will require a full turn for searching each 10' of this cliff area. Search must be done from a distance with a long spear or 10' pole. Prodding must be high in order to colapse sufficient material to expose a portion of a tunnel entrance. Once an entrance is exposed, itwill require about 1 hour for 6 characters working in teams of 3 to thoroughly clear a passage, but a crawl space can be opened in 1 turn by 3 characters digging with a sword and hands...

Our magic-user conjured an earth elemental and spent the day clearing the entire hillside. Why would a party of powerful high level characters do any of this? The entire dungeon is shallowly just below the surface, making a complete excavation is trivial unless there's some time constraint (and there specifically isn't in the published module, with no wandering monsters). The dungeon is as unprepared for real characters as real characters are for its unfair traps—honestly a pleasing sort of symmetry.

Oh, there's one thing:

Note: Characters who become astral or ethereal in the Tomb will attract a type I-IV demon 1 in 6, with a check made each round.

This is the beginning of a tendency that I recall from my youth playing 2e, of arbitrary constraints to limit the effectiveness of high-level characters. It's one of the things I hate about AD&D design, and the avoidance of it is a big part of how the OSR is often thought of as a low-level game. So to me this is an opportunity to flesh something out about this adventure, and to try to wrestle with this problem in the game.

Like many other elements in the dungeon, this risk is presented only as rules text, without a fictional reason for this. So our strategy as we work through the dungeon can be this: to backfill a reason for each arbitrary decision, from which we can make future rulings. In some cases these rulings might be an extension, revision, or replacement of the rules text in the book. Where Gygax says a character's class ability doesn't work, let's build a framework of when it might, that we can play with.

Demons love this place but cannot entire it—Akererak has cursed them into the aether. Crossing will welcome them. The demons are imprisoned in the earth and the mortar the stonework in the dungeon, tunneling from without will free them.

Building on that idea, let's bring back in what I see as the central mechanic of old-school play: the encounter check. If you do the dungeon within the timeframe of the Tournament, sure, there will probably not be any wandering monsters. But because I've integrated torches and spells into the encounter die, we can't do without rolling—and some kind of delayed encounters will put some time pressure in when we don't have it. And—is this a tomb or not? Let's get some undead going.

Monsters approach only slowly. When you describe the monster's Spoor, foreshadowing it, add a check mark next to the encounter as it approaches. If you roll an encounter with a monster with no checkmark, do that Spoor procedure instead. Each week between visits, remove one check mark at random.

2d6 Encounters 2 Basilisk 3 Yellow mold spore 4 Gelatinous cube 5 2d6 Mummies 6 8hd Black Pudding 7 2d6 Wraiths 8 d6 Spectres 9 4d6 Gargoyles 10 Stone Golem 11 1d6 Phase Spiders 12 Demons breach from the aetheral

d6 Spoor 1–3 Check approach for an encounter (2d6) 4 Whispers in an ancient tongue echo the halls 5 Rumbling earthquake, a sign of what lies beneath 6 Blood drips from the walls themselves. Tell the party something they missed about the room they are in.

Finally, we can add another principle here: if the party wants to be careful, they can avoid a lot of trouble here. But they won't get far in a week. If it takes them six weeks of one-room adventures to find one of the major treasures that's a fair rate.

The Mechanics

While the dungeon encourages you to skip mechanics and procedures that define the rest of the game, it inserts loads of new ones. This is AD&D—and my aim is to remove these and replace them with principles to adjudicate the situtations from fiction instead. Let's work our way through some of them here.

All pits (except where noted to the contrary) throughout the Tomb are 10' deep and concealed by a counter-weighted trap door which opens as soon as any person steps on it. Thrusting with foce upon these traps with a pole will reveal them 4 in 6 (d6, 1–4). Those who step upon a pit lid will have a base 100% chance of falling, modified downwards by 1% per point of dexterity through 12, and 2% for each point about 12, i.e. dexterity of 13 = 14% chance of not falling into a pit, dexterity of 14 = 16%, 15 = 18%,...

OMG stop. D&D already includes a mechanic of saving throws, what is this for?

Pits: as the party quickly become aware that most every room in this dungeon contains a trap, make them be very specific about where they walk. The opening hallway is a great introduction to this, with a marked path.

When a character might move over a pit, but perhaps only glancingly, roll the standard 2-in-6 chance to trigger a trap—for each character. Do not reveal the trap's position unless it opens! If a character unambiguously moves over the trap, the chance is 4/6.

When a pit opens, everyone on the lid falls in. They may make saving throws against paralysis to avoid being caught on 1d4 poison spikes when they fall.

This is perhaps slightly less lethal, but with a decent sized party the pits are still more or less guaranteed to go off soon enough. In any case, my party found one pit and then avoided triggering any others. When you only cover one room per week, they won't be running out of Find Traps spells anyway.

Similarly, we can take the secret doors with unusually hard chances to find, and fit them roughly back onto the standard—I let Elves roll in the open, and clearly tell them of secrets when they roll 1–2. A door like #14 is infuriating here, with just an arbitrary 1-in-6 chance for no clearly stated reason, unless with gem of seeing. But for what? The dungeon has no dead ends, the players will clearly know there's a passage here, you aren't hiding anything with this nonsense.

Unless—it's a cramped crawlspace. I never let elves use their powers when they are encumbered, let's treat all the crawlspaces in the dungeon as one step of that. Then just make it hard to open, an invisible latch or something like it will do fine, ignore the rest of what Gygax says. I'm well-used to telling an Elf that there's some kind of false wall but not revealing the full workings of it!

The Voice

That this secret door is described only with a mechanic and not any tangible detail is absurd and play-hostile. And its all over this text.

Gygax is triumphant in his description of AD&D as the pinnacle of the form, yet he constantly derides his own work here by reinventing it. I'm sad to say that this particular vision of AD&D is still a vital part of the Product of D&D:

2020 CHANGED THE WORLD, and it changed D&D. Most tables are telling stories now in much the same way as old radio plays: crackling voices, ribald laughter, and under it all, the gentle hiss of line noise. Change—long coming, always unstoppable—accelerated. The process of running a game became centered on ceding control to players and to mechanics, finding ways to engage everyone at once. The lines between art and design have blurred everywhere else. It was inevitable that would happen to this hobby. For the first time in almost forty years, there's been a categorical change in how stories are told and in the tradecraft used to tell them. —Incredibly cringe One Night Strahd copy, navigating the official/unoffical divide as a 5e derivative, as quoted by diregrizzlybear on the OSR discord

I've long been suspicious of the OSR mission statement of “Rulings not Rules” as I love rules—and here you can see that I want to fall back to the rules of my game because I adapted, wrote, or chose them either on my own or in collaboration with my players, and I'm quite certain that we did so for good reasons. But holy hell do I feel it when I read this kind of stuff. Having just got into a needless argument (it was fine) on another discord server about what makes something OSR I am quite confident in this idea: my mission in old-school games is to make sure none of this bullshit makes it to my table.

So here's some rules for you, the kind of rules you might call Rulings or Principles for playing this dungeon. My extended notes are just a couple of pages with a few words adding to each room with how I interpret stuff that doesn't fit my OD&D game, but you can make your own version of this as you read through the dungeon. The italic blocks up above are basically sourced from that.

The dungeon is famous. Like Heracles and Thor, Akererak exists somewhere deep in the history of every fantasy world. If no one in your play group is going to recognize the green face trap and know they are in The Tomb of Horrors, you'd better tell them they are—but if they are nerds, you can let that be the revelation. (I spell it with a K as a long-winded joke about how his legend comes to us via fantasy-ancient-greek sources.)

Use the rules of the game, adapted to the situation of the text, not the other way around. Negotiate places where the text says a character's main thing doesn't work—let it work, at a cost, or only in an inconvenient scope. The spell of Knock can open a lock, but only like turning a key once.

The dungeon key is for the referee. The pictures are for your eyes, and the countdowns are ones you don't need to do out loud—just make inaction matter.

Doors are stone! Destroy exotic materials and let the mythic underworld do its thing. If an item is warded against magic, that is itself a magic rune, someplace on the object, discoverable in its own way.

Wandering monsters always exist, even if they are slow.

This dungeon is here for a reason, and all of the ends of this adventure are real ends.

While you read through, you'll be able to note things that could have been clearer in the original, like a point-form version of how to trigger various outcomes on the arch in room 5, or the order of the vats in #19. You can note that room 9 is a mechanism of perpetual motion, the moving parts striking characters, rather than some silly crossbow that doesn't follow any crossbow rules you've ever seen. And you can think about the cramped crawlspaces in terms of encumbrance.

At hallway 15, you can simply have the players roll as if they are opening a regular dungeon door and fall when they roll the 1–2 they would need to heave them open, obviating an enormous paragraph. And when Gygax instructs you to count out loud, make a clock, and mark it every time the players talk but do not choose to escape the trap.

You can already find my version of The Demi-lich in my rules supplement:

A spell researched to shatter the magic gemstones of the skull might deal two dice of damage to the monster, and a charm of forgetfulness or Dispel Evil counters its rise for a round. A Fighter sworn to a Quest to destroy the monster, a Paladin, or a wielder of a Vorpal blade all deal normal damage to the skull with their magic swords, denying the Wraith-form any energy.

The ending

As we've teased out demons in the aether and the earthquake theme, we discover what the dungeon means to the world.

If the Tomb buries itself in an earthquake, “illusion” is not enough: the demon Behemoth is deeper still in the hill, in a bricked-off chamber, and its binding was a part of Akererak's dealings in death here. The Jade Coffer in the false tomb is indeed one of the true treasures: The Ark of the Covenant, containing as well as healing potions the tablet contract bargaining the Lich's afterlife until that demon wakes to bring the end times to earth. When the canonical AD&D party defeats him, after all, he lives on to be reintroduced every edition, and so this eternal bargain is a part of the end of all things.

It's been one year since his tomb was plundered, and our Monday night party seeks out the dead god Môt from a sealed chamber under ruined Char-el in order to change the arrangements of the gods in the heavens and rewrite the contract. They must do so before Akererak overcomes the Demi-gorgon in the Realm of Pure Thought beyond the firmament and discovers how to return to the world.

Good luck.

#rules #campaign #the dungeon #the tomb of horrors #gary gygax #adnd #osr #old favourites #theory #play culture

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words-with-wren · 10 months ago

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@chrumblr-whumblr day five: forced to obey

Fandom: Original work! Love this poor boy <3

Word count: 790

late to the party but here it is! shall try do today's one tonight.

He waited in the shadows, head bowed, breathing even and steady. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching, waiting for his mistress’ attention, but it didn’t matter. This was his purpose for the moment, to stand, to wait.

Finally, she waved him forward, a lazy gesture once the last of her other commanders had exited the room. He stepped forward, head still bowed, and dropped to one knee in front of her. Waiting once again.

“Report,” she said. Her focus was split, half her attention still on whatever paperwork had been brought her earlier. It didn’t matter.

“Mission accomplished,” he said. Head still bowed, he reached into the satchel at his side and withdrew three rings--seals that had up until a few hour ago been on the warm hands of the king of a small country. He held out one hand, the rings tucked neatly onto his worn hands.

There was still blood on his hands he realised belatedly. He had come straight to report. He waited with bated breath as she glanced up, leaning forward to snatch the rings free. When she didn’t respond to the blood, he allowed himself a small exhale of relief.

“Good,” she said, and he felt a rush of…something. Happiness? Pride? Relief? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his hands were still bloody and his head was still bowed. “Now remove the heir.”

“Heir?” he asked, unsure of who that would be. He was only told enough to achieve the next mission, he was not aware there was an heir.

“Yes,” she said, unbothered by his question. “We need a power vacuum, that can’t happen if there’s even one direct relative alive. The heir is his nephew, shouldn’t be too much of a challenge, he won’t put up much of a fight.”

“A child?” he asked, something shifting in his gut.

“Yes. He was sent away to stay in the country, the manor won’t be well guarded. You’d best move quickly though, otherwise he will be moved.”

“I-” His voice caught in his throat, the image of a child flashing through his mind. Young, innocent, wide eyed. He hadn’t seen a child for a long time.

His hands were bloodied. A child.

“My assassin,” his mistress purred, and he lowered his head further, aware he was about to look at her. “Is that hesitation, I sense in you?”

“No,” he said immediately, something tight and uncomfortable in his gut. Assassin was one thing but… a child?

He hadn’t thought about life before for a long time, but now he did. He thought of rolling seas, of laughing friends, of the bright and shining eyes of the young cabin boy on the ship. A friend.

A family, once even.

Osric shut his eyes, not wanting to see the blood on his hands.

“Regardless, remember what is the consequence of disobedience.”

His mistress’ voice called his attention and he looked up at her, eyes still lowered. She waved a hand and an image appeared, a flickering vision of something somewhere, far out of reach.

A young woman, wild curly hair framing her face, dark eyes and tanned skin, the faintest hint of a frown on her face.

Oz’s heart stuttered at the sight of her, at the sight of his own face reflected in her’s. He hadn’t been allowed to see even an image of her for years.

“Izzy,” he whispered, an unconscious hand reaching out towards his sister.

His mistress flicked her wrist and the image of Izzy vanished. His mistress leaned forward, fixing him with deep, dark eyes.

“You know what will happen. You agreed,” she said softly.

He stared down at his hands again, stained with blood, remembering that day. Remembering the fear, the roaring heartbeat in his ears. His hands had been bloodstained then as well, but with his sister’s blood. And he had been desperate to do anything for her.

“She is alive?” he asked, his voice rough, unused.

“For now. For as long as you do what you agreed you would do. I don’t want to break out arrangement.”

He lowered his head, knowing it was best not to meet her eyes. She was right--he had sought her out. The blood on his hands were his own, hands only worthy to become more bloodstained.

“I will do as you command,” he said, voice even, emotionless.

He was a willing assassin. He had chosen this life, he could not choose another path.

Izzy’s blood had never fully washed out, only been covered by other. And maybe that was better because she was alive and he was only ever meant to be a weapon, wielded by others.

A sword did not feel guilt for the blood it shed.

#wren writes #origional work #oc: oz #oc: izzy #i'll tag her even though she's not technically in this #auguguhg one day i'll write their story properly #because i am Holdign them SO CAREFULLY #it's about regrets and guilt and the cycle of guilt #and how easy it can be to be trapped in doing evil #and it's about identity and family and home #and sacrifice and redemption #and i love them both so much and i want them to properly EXIST #Original story: Secret of Brightwater #<- working title for now

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ghostfvcker · 2 years ago

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WALK SOFTLY IN SHADOWS ρƚ ι - ʋιƈƚιɱʂ σϝ ƈɾҽαƚισɳ

"tasya is a bright young lady, but it is proving difficult to teach her by traditional means. I can see where Osric ran into his frustrations. I hope their disagreements do not dampen her curious spirit" - notes from benjamin redburough, tasya's tutor from ages 11-14.

.psd template made by @aqualvng, found here.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate oc #baldur's gate tav #oc: tasya giffard van olso

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wnterreign · 2 years ago

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with osric arryn / @patriciers

the lady arryn’s spirits were noticeably brighter to all who had visited the apartments in the days following mayra’s birth, and for once she had no complaints about remaining in her chambers, content to watch over her daughter. all that occurred beyond the arryn apartments was temporarily of little concern to her, a welcomed respite that selfishly she wanted to prolong. and she trusted that the vale guards would keep all unwanted guests and troubles from seeping into the rooms. her good brother, however, was not one of those. a bright smile greeted him. ❝ mayra, meet your uncle os. ❞

#i. alicent arryn — thread.#i. alicent arryn — with osric arryn.#i. arc 03 — dorne.

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talesfromaurea · 2 years ago

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Find the word tag

Thank you @loopyhoopywrites for the tag!

Words are where, why, and who

Where

Kaja looked up to see a young human boy with sunkissed skin and messy dark blond hair hanging halfway out the window of a neighboring home.

“Where are you going? Can I come too?” Without waiting for a response, he disappeared, only to reappear outside moments later, a bright smile spanning his face.

“Osric!” Saara scolded. “This is a girl’s day, you can’t come.”

“What makes it a girl’s day?”

“We’re both girls, that’s what, and you’re not.”

Why

As the savage attack continued, Leif understood why so many had claimed to have seen a dragon. When the fire light reflected off the smoke just right or when a cannon flashed, Leif swore he could see the ghostly form of a dragon towering over Kaja, mirroring her movements.

Who

For the first time since she “awoke”, Jo felt something tangible. The warmth of a fire, the soft touch of a blanket, a biting cold nipping at her face. Then she heard a voice, a familiar, timid voice…

“Kaja?” The name was on Jo’s lips before she remembered who it belonged to. Melcuni was nearly gone now, the void crumbling and falling away piece by piece, but Jo didn’t seem to notice anymore. “That’s right… I left Kaja alone,” Jo murmured, eyes wide. “I need to—I need to get back to her.”

No pressure tags for @splashinkling, @kaiusvnoir, @local-single-wizard, and anyone else! Your words are under, over, and between

#tag games #my writing #pathfinder talk

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thepraetor · 2 years ago

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who? @komosx where? near the play's stage notes: this is me ignoring how we plotted the other thread to end <3

"Come on!" Cloe says between laughter as she slips her hand into Komos' and pulls him towards the dance floor. There is something odd going on, she had been working on paperwork, wondering where the music came from, when she had found herself on the middle of Silenus funeral, the bright sky suddenly dark and a dress beyond her wildest fantasies around her. She had been wondering if the light was playing tricks on her, because things didn't seem quite real, when her eyes had landed on Komos playing Osric on the stage and she had been enraptured. Cloe had sat through the entirety of the play, wondering why it felt like she was forgetting something, until she remembered that she clearly had meant to ask Komos to dance. As soon as the play had finished and he had changed back into his masquerade outfit, she had moved through the crowd until she got by her side. "You owe me a dance."

#komosx #Komos { 3 }#senatus.midsommar

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moongurl95 · 2 years ago

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Chapter 1.5 – The Path to Hogwarts (Reprise)

Mr. Osric's screams before the dragon's final chomp still rang through her mind as she and Professor Fig jumped midair, the heat from its fiery breath almost racing towards them as they continued to descend.

“Give me your hand!” She had heard Fig shout somewhere in the distance as he reached her, and the moment she heard him shout “Accio!” everything started to spin. Terribly so. Enough that the single desperate scream turned to many filled with panic, and the tickle of flames seemed to be closing in on her.

She was all but prepared to hurl until she felt solid ground beneath her palms, a pained cry escaping her lips as she staggeringly took in breaths to fight off the nausea and vertigo plaguing her all at once.

“You're hurt.” She heard Fig say.

Faintly aware of hearing blood pumping in her ears, she acquiesced, “Perhaps a bit.”

“Take this. It's Wiggenweld Potion. That stuff'll right you in a second.” Spying him uncorking a bottle of bright green liquid despite her blurry vision, she weakly reached up to take it, taking a second to

right her drowning senses before she gingerly drank the bottle in one go.

“What happened?” She asked the moment she could trust her vision to settle as she sat on the cold stone floor.

“Poor George— I can't believe he—” She watched as Fig started pacing, “What the hell got into that damned thing? Attacking a carriage, mid-air? A typical dragon would never—” His laboured breathing caused her to interrupt his train of thought.

“Professor?” A beat, as she started to feel her strength return to her again, “Sir— where are we?”

“I'm not sure. But the key you discovered was clearly a Portkey.”

“Portkey?” She continued to inquire.

“An item enchanted to bring whoever touches it to a specific place.”

Of course she still remembered the topics Professor Fig taught her over the summer. In those two months, she also observed that outside of stepping in as her guardian, Eleazar Fig was still a grieving

man who lost his wife not even a year had passed, and now he had also lost a dear friend. Still, she needed him to focus, she needed her mentor at the moment.

On steadying legs, she started to stand up, “I’m feeling better, sir—if you’d like to look around a bit.”

“I would. But stay close. We’ve no idea who created this Portkey—or why.”

She was relieved to see that curiosity had now slowly won over Professor Fig’s previously worn features, but her momentary triumph did not last long as they neared the only exit-way they could find of the cavern they were in. She heard the cry of seabirds first, before the crashing of waves on the rocks below—

“How far did that Portkey take us?” Her question carrying over the wind in uncertainty, much like the start of her journey in this magical world.

next chapter ⤜⤏

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts legacy characters #hl mc #hl oc #hogwarts legacy oc #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #sebastian x mc #ominis x oc #hogwarts legacy imagine #hogwarts legacy fandom #hogwarts legacy fanfic #writing in progress #beatrice hayes

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ask-professor-fig · 2 years ago

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Good morning professor,

What do you think about Ranrok and the goblin rebellion? I saw it on the Daily Prophet, and would like to know your thoughts on it. Do you think Ranrok is a threat to wizardkind?

Sincerely,

A student (who may or may not be doing some research on it)

(His face grew dark for only a flash before his eyes returned to their normal open, bright blue. His smile as wide and inviting as he tried for it to often be.)

Good morning!

Well initially, and unfortunately, I had seen him as no real threat. As did many in the Ministry and the wizarding community as a whole. I had begun to learn more of his deeds either by George Osric, may he rest in peace, or by my own unfortunate encounter with Ranrok himself. I have come to the conclusion at this time that this being not only poses a threat to the wizarding world, but could potentially endanger the entire planet if not put into check.

(He notices a look of concern on your face and hesitates.)

Oh, Merlin... Please, this is nothing to concern yourself over. The correct Ministry officials have been notified of his actions, and I am personally doing everything I can to try and protect the school. Just promise me something, if you leave the castle grounds never go alone. And please, for my sanity, research this if you wish but please do not act on anything.

#ask professor fig #professor fig #eleazar fig #hogwarts legacy #character rp

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thequietgryffindor · 4 days ago

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Hi, I’m a new Harry Potter OC blog. Looking for other blogs to chat and interact with!!

Here are some of my OCs…

Florence Kemsley, my California Witch. Her faceclaim is the lovely Sissy Spacek!

Xanthe Clarke, the Gryffindor wild child! Her faceclaim is the amazing Isabelle Fuhrman.

Osric Bright, the reckless filmmaker and master of Transfiguration! His faceclaim is the chameleon actor Johnny Depp!

Concordia Minnifield, the reclusive librarian with a dark secret! Her faceclaim is the talented Melanie Lynskey!

Aquilina Tarbeck, a Flying Professor, loyal member of the Order of the Phoenix, and mother! Her faceclaim is Amanda Seyfried!

Della Whitmore, an alumni of Allegiance Academy, a wizarding school in Georgia, an Animagus, Potions Professor at Ilvermorny, and mother. Della doesn’t come alone! Her large family, the Whitmore-Easterling family, is being developed right now. Della’s faceclaim is Phylicia Rashad!

#harry potter oc #my ocs #harry potter original character #original character #ocs #harry potter

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half-baked-stories · 5 months ago

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Osric & Lyra (5,957)

Osric couldn’t say precisely when it all went wrong.

One moment he was young, ambitious and bright-eyed, standing hip-to-hip with his brother as they embarked upon a life of itinerant adventuring. They were going to do good in the world. Make a difference. They were going to stride confidently away from villages who’d just had their wrongs righted, being waved on their way as heroes.

In the next moment there was silver streaked through his black forelock, and Davrid was in an unmarked roadside grave, and Osric clutched a hammer above an Elf-girl’s body as she lay unconscious, broken, pallid with bloodloss.

Maybe there were a few fleet years between those two pillars of his life. A decade. Two. Maybe there were other adventurers who joined them along the way, some better vetted than others. Maybe they were replaced, time and again, like the soles of old shoes, until it was Davrid’s turn to be replaced.

Osric lost track of their comings and goings, after that. Whose intentions were good and whose were wanting. It all got away from him, somehow.

Now here he was, watching the blood leave the girl’s body like a spilled wineskin.

Oh, but he felt so old. So old and so very, very tired and sorry.

He gripped the hammer more tightly in his fist.

“Osric,” a voice bleated at him, and his head turned. The rest of the group stood back -- far back --gawping at him, braced in fear. Ephra, Loomis, and Loomis’s creepy sister, whose name he could never remember. The latter two turned, bolting into the woods, but Ephra retreated more slowly, still staring. “Wh… what are you doing?”

“Help me carry her,” he begged.

Ephra looked down, as if only now seeing the state of the Elf girl at his feet. She was their companion of many weeks, soft-spoken but vibrant. Hopeful. Idealistic in ways Osric had almost forgotten. Ephra shook his head.

“She’s gone,” he insisted. “Or she will be soon. Just leave her.”

“She’s a healer, she can--”

The trees parted and shook, cracking along their trunks like chopstick, revealing their splintered inner whites. Osric and Ephra turned as the Troll parted them from him like theater curtains, its lip snarled back.

That was enough for Ephra.

“Fuck this! Suit yourself!” He snatched his bow from the ground, taking off after Looms and his creepy sister, vanishing swiftly into the thick of the woods. The Troll filled its lungs like a bellows, spittle flying as it roared, then high-stepped through the gap in the splintering trees.

That was enough for Osric, as well.

She was so small against his chest. So fragile, her limbs loose as a broken marionette, but he gathered her against him in one massive arm. With the other he hefted the hammer to his shoulder, taking off through the brush in a limping, loping run. But not after the others.

He didn’t dare look back, lest the Troll take it as a challenge to follow. Who knew what compelled these creatures? He barely understood his own motivations, most days. He crashed along, huffing for breath, the Elf-girl’s slight weight as great as the hammer, the longer he ran.

He made a zig-zagging path through unfamiliar woods, ducking under low branches, deep into prickling brush that would be hard to track from above. On and on, until the thunder of massive feet stopped shaking the earth beneath him, and there were no more rage-filled roars at his back. Until he had to stop, because the weight of everything was too much, and his arms were about to give.

Osric knelt in the first small clearing he could find, dropping his hammer and arranging the girl in the splay of thick sycamore roots as he got back his breath. He lolled her head so gently, arms at her side. She was bone white, slack in a way that made his heart cold with fear.

“Lyra,” he drawled between panting breaths. He cupped her cheek in his broad palm, trying to jostle life back into her. “Lyra, darlin’, wake up. You gotta wake up for just a second.”

As her eyes cracked open, opal blue behind the black fringe of lashes, he knelt over her with urgent approval.

“That’s good. That’s real good. Stay with me.”

“Osszzy,” she slurred.

“Yeah, that’s right.

“Wh’t…”

“Time for that later, darlin’. Come here. Give me this. You see this?” He picked up her hand, spreading it weakly open in front of her face, then transplanted it firmly over her heart. “You gotta make with the magic, girl. I know you got it in you, at least one good push, alright?”

Oh, that was a big ask. She made a face of dismay -- do I have to? -- as if it was such a desperate imposition to save herself. He flattened her hand more firmly with his own, pat-pat-patting it with his fingertips.

“Go on. I know it ain’t easy.”

It was a coin-toss if she would save herself, or drain every last ounce of strength with the effort, but he had to try. He needed her to try.

Lyra’s eyes shut, viced into tight creases, and her forehead gathered with effort. She lay so long like that -- concentrating, gritting her teeth -- that he thought for sure it was too little, too late, and he ought to have stopped and tried to revive her with just a little less care for distance.

But then her hand glowed, so luminous that bones and nerves shone through the skin in soft red silhouettes. Osric tried to give her space and ended up falling back on his ass, knees canted outward as he propped on his elbows in wonder. The light grew and spidered and shimmered out through her veins, suffusing her softly, in eerie silence, until she inhaled deeply, suddenly, and her back arched from the ground.

She’d done this to him, a time or two. He knew what she was feeling. It was terrible and wonderful, that kind of magic. Both the giving and the receiving.

Lyra’s hand slid away limply, eyes reopening. She looked at him, trying to speak, but Osric rolled forward with a little noise of dismissal, squatting on the soles of his boots.

“No time for it,” he said. He shook his arms out to both sides, readying himself, then hefted her over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes. On his other shoulder went the hammer. “Sorry, darlin’. I know it’s undignified, but undignified is better than dead, and we gotta move.”

She was just lucid enough to register how very much she didn’t want to be carried around this way, as well as how little choice she was being given.

“Where… Ozzy--” she grunted as he took off at a swift, draft horse trot through the brush, bouncing as he went. She clutched his tunic in both fists, pretending she didn’t feel the massive splay of his hand on her ass, steadying her in place. “Where are the others?”

“Hm,” he grunted. “Not our problem anymore.”

“How is it not our problem? Ozzy, what happened to them? If they’re hurt ,we have to go back for them.”

Oh, he hated this. He hated every little minute of this. Fuck Ephra, and fuck Loomis, and fuck Loomis’s creepy sister, whose name still escaped him. If come-uppance was a thing, he hoped they all got theirs.

“You feel right enough to keep up with me on foot, darlin’?” Lyra looked right. Look left. The world bounced and bounced and bounced.

“Uh. No.”

“A’right then.” He slapped her ass like the flank of a good mare. “Fewer questions, more sitting tight until we’re out of these woods.”

*******

Healing magic was not a cure-all. There was as much it couldn’t do as it could, the rules and limits of which Lyra was still learning.

Broken bones, contusions, abrasions, concussions, even a good bit of bloodloss? All yes. That should have been enough, but it wasn’t. There were an endless number of afflictions -- acquired and otherwise -- that Lyra just couldn’t fix, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much people begged or offered her in trembling hands.

Sometimes people understood, strained but polite, as they nodded in resignation. Those were okay. The rest… those were harder.

Sometimes they offered her the sacrifice of their most precious worldly goods -- all that they had, and all they would ever earn in time -- in exchange for just five minutes more with their dying mother. Let me tell her, please. Just one more time, let me tell her how much she means to me.

Fathers who held their stillborn daughters out to her and begged, pleaded, apologized for not being more joyful at the prospect of a little girl. Please, please let me show her how much I can love her.

Miscarriages and waterborne plagues and tumors that ate away at love’s vessel until there was nothing left.

Lyra spent months sobbing into her grandmother’s apron, the very woman who gave her this gift, who chose her from all her many cousins to be the bearer of this wonderful, awful magic.

“What am I doing wrong?” she begged as the old, wizened hand stroked her pearl-white hair.

“Nothing, nothing. You are doing everything you can do, and sometimes that’s still not enough. But you are too soft, child. Like soapstone. These people and their sorrows, their grief, it will shave and whittle you away until you’re nothing but a sliver of yourself. You must be like quartz.”

And she could not do that at home, where all her cousins resented her, and were not-so-secretly glad at how hard she had it. She couldn’t do it in the streets where she played as a girl, among friends whose parents were now aging and dying, whose spouses were languishing in childbed, and whose grief pared her down day by day.

It was hard to leave, but it was harder still to stay.

Lyra put on her best face -- and her best walking boots, for she was not that naive -- and set out in a direction she’d never gone, down a road whose end she couldn’t foresee.

No road was easy to walk, especially not alone, and hers was no different. It was intersected constantly by bad actors with charming smiles, and those who didn’t feel the need to hide behind a smile at all. It was also, she discovered, not devoid of grief or its bearers. She learned quickly to keep her magic to herself, unless she knew with absolute certainty she could be of aid.

And she practiced, for there was no art that did not require repetition to improve. Mostly it was animals: a tired horse tied outside a tavern with a lame foot; baby birds fallen from their nests, who needed tiny bones mended before they could be safely reset; a fox halfway gnawed through its own foot in the jaws of a trap.

Some, like the horse, were knowing and grateful. Some, like the birds, never really seemed to understand either way. And then there were others, like the fox, who maybe understood, and maybe didn’t, but gave her a nasty bite regardless.

The lesson was clear: help who you can, not for gratitude but for the satisfaction of having done good.

But also: be prepared to lose a little piece of yourself.

She didn’t fully understand that last part until she met Ephra and his crew.

It was his chestnut gelding that she healed outside the tavern, the spell nearly interrupted when he came crashing out the front door, tankard still in hand, demanding to know what the hell she thought she was doing. She’d hoped to make a quiet getaway, after the magic was done, but there was no hope of hiding it, now. They were joined shortly by three other members of his party, all of them curious about her intentions, and especially why his horse was suddenly so fond of her.

“He had a lame hoof,” she explained.

“I know that,” Ephra snapped, advancing on her with the bravado of a man much bigger and taller than himself. Typical of the Halfolk race, she came to find out. “I want to know why you were messing with it.”

“If you knew,” she boggled. “Why didn’t you fix it? It’s been hurting him for awhile.”

“She’s a healer,” said the tall, narrow, mangled-teaspoon-looking man that Lyra would later know as Loomis. Both he and his sister were Human, and just as strange and vaguely off-putting as every other member of their race she ever met. He stared at her with eyes that wanted something from her, though he hadn’t yet decided what. “Well? You are, aren’t you? Never thought I’d meet one in the wild. Who do you belong to?”

Lyra didn’t know what that meant.

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Your party,” his sister explained, and though she stood alongside him she spoke as from a great, withered wasteland of distance. “Where is the rest of your party?”

“I don’t have a party.” She looked back at the road, debating if she should keep going or take her chances in the tavern for a hot wine and a bowl of onion soup. The horse kept butting her with his snout, soft lips flapping at her affectionately. “Now… if you’ll excuse me--”

“That is good news!” Ephram seized on this with sudden, charismatic delight, all previous trespasses forgiven. He took her by the elbow, urging her toward the tavern with a sloshing gesture of his ale. “We were just saying -- weren’t we, lads? -- that we could use another party member. And a healer, at that! Good luck all around. Say, are you any good with a crossbow? How about a little knife? Loomis has some little knives I’m sure he can spare…”

“A little--what?”

They closed around her -- not suffocatingly, not threateningly -- but with something that felt enough like kinship that Lyra didn’t immediately mind it. The only one who hadn’t said anything thus far was the fourth member of their entourage, tall and broad-shouldered, his arms cabled with lean muscle. Lyra couldn’t say for sure what he was: he had sharp, Elvish cheekbones and pointed ears, but he was far bigger than any Elf she’d ever seen, and of an entirely unique skin tone. Whatever blood went into his making gave him a strong nose and soft, soulful eyes. Wherever he’d come from, he spoke with an easy drawl.

“Hands off the lady, why don’t you,” he remarked, and Ephram’s touch withdrew from her elbow. She sighed in relief.

“My, uh… my name is Lyra, by the way,” she said.

The big man reached across himself to swallow her hand in his own. He gave it a single, congenial pump in welcome.

“Osric,” he said.

She came to call him Ozzy.

*******

He wanted a tavern with a few rooms to let, but after a mile of decreasingly vigorous progress through the woods, the sleepy little five-room inn was a welcome compromise. The ‘vacancy’ sign creaking and swinging by the front gate even more so.

Lyra insisted upon walking the last quarter mile, having regained enough of her sense, balance and dignity to prefer it over being toted on his shoulder. Both of them had their coin pouches on their belts, but all the rest of it -- tents and tools, bedrolls and horses -- were still wherever they’d last made camp. Knowing Ephram as he did, Osric didn’t hold his breath that they’d get any of it back.

Good timing led them to the Innkeeper’s door just past sunset, and though the man appeared in his nightgown and cap, he was no less amenable to giving them a room for the night. With a caveat.

“The thing of it is,” he began, eyeing them up and down -- Lyra bruised and listing in place, Osric slumped with exhaustion and crosshatched with scratches -- “I’ve only got the one room vacant, you see. And there’s just the one bed.” He added, with an indicative nod at Osric. “It’ll fit two, but… maybe with a tight squeeze, if you’re one of them.”

“We’ll take it,” they agreed as one.

“Aye, but… we have a thing about unmarried couples sharing a bed.”

Also as one, they looked down at their barren ring fingers. Then at each other.

Lyra corrected, inspired, “Oh, it’s alright. We’re brother and sister.”

The Innkeeper regarded them much more dubiously. One of them was easily a head and a half taller, black-haired and skin the color of thistle, the other white and fragile as eggshell, with great, opal blue eyes

Osric cleared his throat and tap-tapped a fingertip behind one pointed ear. Oh look. A family resemblance.

Lest that be insufficient, he gave his coin pouch a jingle as well.

The Innkeeper glanced warily behind him, inching shut the door at his back.

“Alright, well. Room 5, last in the row. Just… don’t let my wife see you.”

Coins and key were gladly exchanged, and despite her own fatigue Lyra yoked Osric’s arm across her shoulders to help him to the door. It was modest -- just a bed and dresser, a nightstand with oil lamp, a woodstove and washbasin -- but it was everything they needed until they could account for everything they’d lost. Osric set his hammer aside carefully and heaped onto the bed’s edge, sinking it with his weight. His elbows slumped to his knees.

Lyra watched him palm his hair back and forth, black locks slipping through thick fingers. It was her turn to sort out where everything went wrong.

“Are you alright, Ozzy?” she asked, timid.

“I’m alright, darlin’,” he sighed, but didn’t pick up his head. “Just tired. Long day, and little to show for it.”

“Well… we’re alive.”

He looked up at last, mustering a smile. “So we are.”

Cloning on him, she offered, “I probably have enough left in me to take care of those scratches all over you--”

“No no,” he puts his palms up gently. “It can wait until morning.”

“Probably so,” she countered, already reaching to roll up one of his sleeves. “But then he might charge us for leaving blood all over the sheets.”

She made a good point. Or maybe he had no strength left to resist. Either way, his elbows eased back down to his knees, hands dangling limply as she teased the taut fabric of his sleeves over his biceps. She laid her palms softly over the scratches and gouges from his hasty flight through the brush, one after another after another, light swelling beneath her palms where she touched him. Despite the limp sag of his head, he watched her work.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Lyra asked.

“Hm. How much do you remember?”

“I remember… advancing into the Troll’s territory. Getting near to his cave. We meant to sneak up on him, but that didn’t happen. And then… fighting.” Her brow furrowed, head shaking as she struggled to recall. “I think he… picked me up.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Threw you into a tree. Happier if I never see that happen again.”

“It was even less fun being thrown, I promise you.” Touch by gentle touch, scratch by scratch, she worked her way down his arm. She said, “...the others ran off without me, didn’t they?”

“Aye.”

“But not you.”

She looked at him, and he looked away. “Aye.”

Lyra thought, but didn’t share aloud, how little she understood their reason for being there in the first place. For bothering this creature in its own territory, its own home, when the villagers complaints about it were petty, at worst. Ephram had reasons that made sense in the moment, logic enough to convince them to have a look, but somehow that became ambushing it. Killing it. Becoming heroes, of a kind, and celebrating the spoils afterwards.

He shouldn’t have know her thoughts, and yet Osric muttered softly, “Ephram sure had it out for that thing, didn’t he? Always with the terrible ideas. Half the time I think I went along with them just to shut him up.”

“What did he hope to accomplish,” she sighed, frustrated.

“Hm. Not accomplish. Gain. I suspect he saw a big man, and decided there were big riches to be had by taking him down. Which is the way small men tend to think. It was a bad idea from the start, and I'm sorry I let the scheme get as far as it did.” His hands came together between his knees, rubbing over each other tensely. “I'm sorry about a lot of things.”

“Me too.” Lyra whispered her palms over his arm, bicep to wrist, then slowly rolled down his sleeve. “This whole adventuring business isn't what I thought it would be. It wasn't what I started out wanting. I wanted to help people.”

“Aye. That’s the way, innit?”

She caught him in the corner of her eye as she moved around to his other side.

“What happened? How did you end up with Ephram?”

“Oh, that’s… a long story.”

Her small fingers worked back up his other arm, rolling the fabric away from the cuts and scratches.

“This is taking me longer than it should. Might as well talk about something.”

Osric wasn’t good at talking, much less arguing, which was probably the very reason he’d gotten tangled up in this mess to begin with. But she was right. it wasn’t a bad way to pass the time.

“For one,” he said. “I didn't end up with Ephram. He ended up with me. At least, that's how it started. My brother and I were the ones adventuring, and others joined us over time. People came and went, Ephram among them. I don't remember when he started to think I was following him, and not the other way around.” His hands passed over each other again, callused fingers over scarred knuckles. “When Davrid died, though. That's when I stopped caring about a lot of things.”

Lyra put that together. “Your brother?”

“Mm. He was the older.”

“Any sisters?”

“No. Just three more brothers.”

“Oof,” she said. “Your poor mother.”

Osric laughed, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear, though he kept his eyes on the floor. Lyra felt it through his skin like a static shock, a brief jubilance arcing from within, and then it was gone. A soft, nostalgic melancholy radiated into her palms in its wake.

“What’s wrong,” she prompted.

Her acumen gave him pause, eyes lurking up at her from beneath his forelock before returning to the floor.

“Was just thinking.”

“About?” “Hm. When I was a little boy -- an actual, little boy, if you can imagine such a thing -- my Mum used to sing me a song. A nursery rhyme. About a mother duck and her ducklings.”

Lyra caught her breath and looked at him urgently.

“Oh--Ozzy, please sing me the song.”

“What?” He sat back, the insides of his ears darkening with bloodrush. “No, I… well, look, you know it, probably, it’s the one about--”

“Yes, I know it, but I want to hear you sing it.”

He made dismayed, objecting noises, but she beseeched with such smiling eagerness that he relented, defeated but faintly smiling.

“Alright, well, it goes, uh…,” He cleared his throat, then sang in a rough, basso sing-song, “five little ducks went out one day… over the hill and far away… Mother Duck said, ‘quack-quack-quack-quack’... but only four little ducks came back.”

Face dark with blush, and trusting that she had the idea by now, he circled one hand at the air.

“Anyway--well, quit grinnin’ at me, would you?--the idea of it was that every day Mother Duck went out, and one by one she loses one of the ducklings, until finally she doesn’t have any left at all. Now… there's a verse at the very end, where the mother duck goes out, and calls for her ducklings, and they all come back. Don't know if Mum added that in herself, to keep me from being sad about it, or if that's how the song always went. But it did, you know? It made me sad for her. The mother duck, I mean.” He faced the floor, barely registering the still-soft pass of Lyra’s hands over his arm. “I don't know why they do that to little kids. Make up songs about sad things.”

“To teach them a lesson, I suppose.”

“Hm,” he grunted. “Life teaches its own lessons. Seems mean to have to learn them twice.” His head turned, watching her carefully roll the fabric of his other sleeve back down into place. “Anyway, that’s just what happened to her. She had us, her five little ducks, and we all went off into the world, one after another, one reason or another. The oldest two went off on merchant ships, wanted to sail the world for their fortune. Never knew if we'd see them again. Our third brother, he died from a fever when Davrid and I were just teenagers. Then it was just him and I, and we left her, too."

Lyra perched beside him, the divot he’d created in the mattress making her slide up against his ribs.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

"Lost track of the time,” he dismissed, unbothered by her slight weight against him. “Probably twenty years, now. No telling if she's even still alive. We'd send money home, now and again, when we had it. Letters. She said she'd try to write, to catch us between towns, but we didn't always stay long enough to get them. When Davrid got himself killed, I..."

He went quiet. Lyra felt sadness well up through him again, filling him like floodwater. It caught the breath in her chest.

"Well,” he said softly. “I didn't have the heart to write and tell her. But I still picture her, you know? Like when we left. Standing there, looking down the road that took us over the hill, far away. Wondering if we’d ever come back."

Osric clasped his palms together, looking at her around one arm.

“You mind if I ask you somethin’?”

Her eyes upturned. “Sure.”

“Couple weeks back. That night at the tavern, when we met you outside. You were healing Ephram's horse, remember?”

“Sure, I remember.” She soured briefly. “...I don’t care what happens to Ephram, by the way, but I hope his horse his okay.”

His mouth curled in a quick, lopsided smile.

“That night, you said he'd been lame for awhile.”

“Yes.”

“How’d you know?”

Lyra sat upright, trying to inch some distance between them, but the pitch of the mattress kept sliding her back against him. Eventually she gave up.

“The healing spell… it isn’t just sending magic into something to mend it. I take something from every creature, every person that I heal. People and animals alike. But animals are easier, of course… there’s a kind of purity to them that’s hard to explain.”

All of it was hard to explain. She finally stood, agitated, and paced back and forth in front of him, rubbing her own hands together. Osric startled when he noticed it, self-consciously putting his palms back on his knees.

“Sometimes it’s good,” she said. “Sometimes it’s bad. It’s an impression, a memory, a sense of who they are or what they’re feeling. I thought at first I would forget those things -- the memories didn’t belong to me, so why would I keep them? But… I do. I still do. They’re…” She stopped, drumming her fingertips lightly down her forearm. “They’re tattooed into me. Stitched into me.”

Facing him again, searching him for understanding, Lyra went on, “The problem is, the longer I do this--the longer I try to fix people? The more I'm forced to absorb the bad people alongside the good. I don't even want to, but it just happens. And it's not my place to turn them away--”

“Sure it is,” he interrupted, certain and calm. She boggled at him, opening her hand helplessly outward.

“How can I do that? How can I say to someone, ‘this person deserves to live, but you don't.’ My grandmother told me I needed to be better than that. Not soft like soapstone, but hard, like quartz.”

Osric shook his head at her, gently cautioning.

“Darlin’. Quartz can shatter.”

The room felt suddenly too large, too cold. Her arms folded under her chest as she returned to the spot beside him, sliding resistlessly against his side. He watched her all the while.

"I'm afraid that the longer I do this, the more the poison inside some people will poison me, too. I think that's what Loomis meant, when he said he never thought he'd see a healer in the wild. I think something happens to us if we do this for too long. But I don't know how to stop."

“Something happens to all of us,” he said. “It ain't just you. That poison... it gets into all our blood, in time.”

He reached for her hand, holding it a moment in his own, small and precious as a lotus blossom.

“But sometimes you meet the right people, and you get healed a little, too.” He transferred her hand to her chest, pressing it over her heart, as he had when she lay broken. “It’s OK to fix yourself.”

Her fingers curled, still resistant, as if even now dismayed by the prospect. Do I have to?

She lifted her eyes to him. His gaze stayed steady in return.

“I felt how sad you were, about your mother,” she said softly. ‘And I'm... I'm sorry about your brother. I know sometimes you think about going back and trying to find his grave. I think you should. I think it would give you peace."

He took his hand back, but slowly, head bobbing in a subtle, resigned nod.

“Maybe so.”

“Maybe I could come with you. I don't really want to find the others.” She made a face. “Frankly, I'd be happy to never see Zevra's face staring at me across another campfire as long as I live.”

Osric paused, brow trenching.

“Zevra? Who’s Zevra?”

“You know. Loomis’s creepy sister.”

His fist thumped his knee.

“THAT’S her name!” He huffed, sitting upright, “Yeah. Agreed. It might do me good. And you’re welcome to come along, if it strikes you.”

She smiled easily. "I think it could strike me. You're good medicine."

"Hm.” That smile again, deeply lopsided. “That's a new one."

"And you have a charming singing voice."

"That's definitely a new one."

It was a bit of a struggle, and eventually he had to plane a hand at her back to help push her upright, but Lyra again got to her feet. She picked up each of his arms in turn, checking under the loose sleeves, feigning preoccupation with her handiwork.

“Ozzy,” she said at last. “There's something else you ought to know about my magic.”

“What’s that, darlin’?”

"I can't... fix everything."

"Well now. That's true, magic or not, ain't it."

"What I mean is--"

"I know what you mean.” He took her hand again, this time letting it linger in his own. “Don't worry about that. Ain't your job to fix me in every way a man can be broken. Even if you could."

He jogged her hand. “ Before we go find Davrid's grave, we ought go back and say hello to your grandmother.”

The suggestion caught her off guard, though the sincerity of it hummed through his very skin.

“What? Why?”

“Well. I spent a lot of years moving forward. Long enough and far enough to regret not going back when I had the chance. No sense in you making the same mistake.”

Lyra’s fingers shifted in his own, caressing the knots of old scars on his palm, the ridges of his knuckles.

“Maybe. But… I’m not yet made of quartz.”

“I suspect that was more about not letting others easily break you. I think she'd be very pleased to see what's become of you.”

She smiled, wry. “Met my Granny, have you?”

“Maybe, in a way.” Osric sobered, as uncomfortable with the admission as Lyra was just minutes before. “I don't know if it's the magic, but… it seems to me you leave a certain impression behind on others, when you heal them. Memories, feelings, a sense of who you are. Those little pieces of yourself you're losing? They go somewhere. Trick is, I guess, making sure they go to the right people."

He hesitated. "Or... maybe just... the people who want to do right."

Osric avoided her eyes, but Lyra stared at him, smiling. Charmed. He colored deeply and rubbed the back of his neck, affecting a sudden interest in the room’s other furnishings.

"Anyway,” he said. “I do go on. Suppose it's about time for bed."

They readied themselves as best they could, although with so little between them there wasn’t much to do. Osric lent her his shirt as a nightdress, and resolved to find a market in the morning where they could resupply for the journey ahead. He wasn’t sure what they’d do for money after it was all gone -- neither horses nor provisions came cheaply -- but doubted Lyra was above accepting coin for a mending a broken nose or a bad tooth. He’d need to find out exactly where her magic began and ended, to adjust prices accordingly.

If nothing else, there was never any end of need for someone who could swing a hammer, or a pickaxe, or yoke up and cart a wagon around through sheer, brute strength.

They’d do alright.

Osric laid back the covers while Lyra stood at the washstand, realizing suddenly what they’d committed themselves to. He looked back bashfully.

"Are you, uh… feeling a particular way about sharing the bed? Because, if so, I can always--"

"It suits me fine," she interrupted, tying back hair hair. "You look like you keep the bed nice and warm."

They climbed in together -- he awkwardly, respectfully, she with a beaming, bouncing, sleepover eagerness that put him unexpectedly at ease. Then she wormed down alongside him, heedless of personal space, and he abruptly had no idea what to do with his own arms.

"Ozzy,” she prompted.

"Uh. Yeah?”

"What are you?"

He breathed out hard. “Darlin', ain't we had enough deep talk for one night?"

"No, I'm not being philosophical. I literally mean what. Are you an Elf? An Underkind? Maybe a... a half-Titan?"

"Hm." Slowly he laced his hands behind his head, elbows akimbo, and Lyra fit neatly into the space alongside his ribs. "Well. Our Mum was an Elf, and didn't really look much of anything like my brothers and me, though we all bore a likeness to each other. I never knew our Dad, but she always said we took after him. Beyond that, it never really came up, and I didn't ask." He looked down at her. "Was a time, I didn't care too much beyond just being a good son. A good brother. Hopefully a good friend. If pressed to put a name to it, I'd like to just... be that."

"A good friend," she agreed, smiling. "I like that. I could use one of those. I'd like to be one of those."

"Then I guess we got each other."

Lyra stretched, stealing a kiss from his cheek. She blithely ignored the crimson that blossom beneath his skin as she squirmed back down into place. She was right, he was nice and warm.

"Goodnight, Ozzy."

He needed a minute to piece himself back together, then turned his head to blow out the nightstand lamp.

"Ah. Yep. Pleasant dreams."

#writing #creative writing #original fiction #fantasy #high fantasy #adventure fiction #character study

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unveilhq · 1 year ago

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congratulations on your acceptance, spoop, crow, &, m, rhi ! please make sure you check the next steps here

casey deidrick, homosexual, male + he/him → isn’t that karter hound? i’ve seen them hanging out with the hellhounds. i hear they’re ancient, but they’ve only been in alexandria since it's creation. they seem to be loyal, strong & protective, but also savage, short tempered & prone to violence.

aron piper, homosexual, cis-male + he & him → isn’t that casimiro ladron? i’ve seen them hanging out with the witches. i hear they're 26, but they’ve only been in alexandria for 8 years. they seem to be passionate & charismatic, but also ambit(ch)ious & manipulative. it’s cool that they’re capable of telekinesis, divination, psychometry, and atmokinesis!

jamie dornan, pansexual, cis male → isn’t that william strickland? i’ve seen them hanging out with the harpies. i hear they’re 68, but they’ve only been in alexandria for 2 years. they seem to be perceptive & charismatic, but also deceitful & enigmatic.

alex aiono, gay, genderfluid, they/them → isn’t that triniti kahele? i’ve seen them hanging out with the merfolk. i hear they're 21, but they’ve only been in alexandria for 1 month. they seem to be delightful & bright, but also naive & inattentive.

the following fcs are on reserve

zane phillips

the following characters have been dropped (or their fc swapped), their fcs reopened

bakir - can yaman, giovanni - frank grillo, kau'i - alex aiono, malachi - ronen rubinstein, omar - idris elba, osric - harry shum jr, rafael - ryan guzman, solomon - rome flynn, uriel - lucien laviscount, zane - michael b. jordan, kandi - michael cimino

#unveilaccepted

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8dpromo · 1 year ago

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DJ Daniel D - Homemade Grooves #1 - SynthFunk Music

8DPromo · DJ Daniel D - Homemade Grooves #1 - SynthFunk Music

From the bustling streets of Belo Horizonte, Brazil, to the heart of the global house music scene, DJ Daniel D has been spinning tracks that resonate with the soul of dance floors around the world. With Homemade Grooves #1, his latest EP offering under the vibrant banner of SynthFunk Music, Daniel invites us on a sonic journey that bridges the gap between the nostalgic echoes of the '70s funk and disco and the pulsating rhythms of modern house, nu-disco, and beyond. Here's a time machine with a disco ball, powered by synthesizers and an unquenchable passion for the groove. The EP kicks off with "Just Funk," a track that grabs the listener by the collar, pulling one straight onto the dance floor. Its squelchy bass lines and bongo percussions resemble Italo escapades of yore, but the bright synthesizer chords and a relentless four-on-the-floor rhythm are all about getting your feet moving in the here and now. "Don't Miss It" takes a turn into the late-night vibes of a Chicago warehouse, with its classic house sound peppered with snazzy 808 snare rolls and deep keys, all built around a cheeky sample from an '80s movie favorite. The closing track, "Life Boat," offers a mid-tempo respite, layering arpeggiated synths over a driving techno bass line, with dramatic piano chords adding just the right amount of emotional heft to the EP's finale. SynthFunk Music has indeed captured lightning in a bottle with Homemade Grooves #1, delivering a collection of tracks that feel simultaneously classic and fresh. This exceptional release is a vibrant, living entity that beckons one to dance, dream, and dive deep into the heart of house music.

Psycho-Jones (Kater Blau) – “This is really great! Can’t wait to spin the tracks.” DJ Harri (Sub Club) – “Lovely stuff, will play and promote.” Anthonne Shepherd (BoogieKnights) – “Some really nice vibes here. Each track has elements that I’m digging.” DJ Osric (Black and Blue Show) – “This is a top notch release.” Simon Kirk (Proton Radio) – “3 absolute storming 80’s tinged House gems! Wonderful release.” Bruce Tantum (DJ Mag) – “Loving this one. Really effective stuff, should work great on the dancefloor.”

Available Now From: Traxsource, Beatport, Bandcamp, And Spotify.

#Nu Disco #Deep House #DJ Daniel D #SynthFunk Music #Brazil

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shaingles · 1 year ago

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Camping trip

Characters involved: 🗡️ (Midas), 🐏 (Osric)

Osric and Midas travel through the forests of Bishui Plain with backpacks and camping gear. Passing through vines curtaining the pathway, the duo arrives at, as Osric described, the super-duper-secret area he found during his adventures. It's a serene landscape surrounded by towering trees. A roaring waterfall fills the glistening lake before them. A perfect place to camp out.

"Ta-da!" Osric presents the area to Midas with a bright smile on his face.

Midas's eyes light up as he sees the lake, marveling at its beauty. "Woah... this is a treasure trove of a location."

"I know, right?" Osric chuckles. "This place is perfect."

After evaluating the environment, Osric snaps his fingers, using his celestial energy to swiftly set up the campsite. "I learned this little trick from Shylok."

Midas looks at him, amazed at the adventurer's ability to set up camp quickly and efficiently. As he approaches him, his eyes wander over the campsite. "Damn... You sure are talented." He chuckles, patting Osric on the back before settling down at the campsite.

Midas's praise causes his sheep-like ears to flutter as he follows behind Midas. "Thank you!"

After settling at the campsite, Osric glances at the lake. "Hey, the water looks nice and clear... Do you wanna go swimming?"

"Swimming?" Midas chuckles softly as he raises an eyebrow. "Hmm... Well, who am I to deny the request to go swimming?"

With an enthusiastic grin, Osric starts undressing, placing his boots beside him before unraveling his pants.

"Oh!" Midas chuckles, "Someone's eager to jump in."

"Of course! How often do you get the chance to go swimming?" Osric quizzes, removing his shirt.

"Hmm... I guess not that often," Midas shrugs. "Since ya know, I have to work, and Boss would scold me if he caught me slacking off."

"Well, luckily for you, your boss isn't here." He laughs, standing up before removing the last of his clothes. Then, after a few stretches, Osric rushes toward the lake before cannonballing into the water. He emerges, shaking the water out of his coily hair and laughing more as he waves at Midas.

"Come on, Midas! Hop in!"

"Alright, then..." Midas chuckles, stripping down before joining Osric. As his body collides with the water, Osric shields himself from the impact's splash before swimming toward him. Midas laughs as he emerges.

"Ya know, camping here was a great idea," Osric rambles, "the weather is nice, the shade is protective, and there's only the two of us. No crowd or anything like that." He swims around Midas slowly, allowing the water to flow across his body. "You should reward me for being the best campsite finder."

"Reward you?" Midas scoffs. "Is me being here not enough of a reward for you?"

"Nope! I want more things." Osric's cheeky smile causes Midas to chuckle as he swims with him. He glances over at him, swimming close.

"Ya know, that has me thinking about something..."

"Huh? What’s up?" Osric tilts his head, his drenched sheep-like ears flicking as he floats in the water.

"Well... Not to sound insecure, but I was wondering..." Midas's cheeks flush as he glances down at himself. A hard exhale escapes him as he glances back at Osric. "What do you think of me? Sorry if my question is odd— I'm not used to being this... free around other people..."

"If you really wanna know... I see you as a big squishy cutie patootie," Osric giggles as he resumes floating around Midas while being playful.

Midas's cheeks glow redder from the compliment. "A... A "cutie patootie?"

"Mhm!" He nods, smiling brightly. "You're like a big fluffy puppy." His sheep-like ears softly flick as he playfully pinches Midas's flush cheek.

Midas, in response, floats stationarily as he allows his compliments to sink in. He's definitely something else, Midas thinks, something warm and endearing. He remains silent, his cheeks flushing more as he lets Osric's words simmer. Taking advantage of the treasure hoarder's stunned state, Osric kisses his rosy red cheek before giggling and swimming away. Midas blinks, surprised by Osric's unexpected kiss. He stares at him, his face flushing redder than ever as he caresses it, feeling the kiss's aftereffects.

"Okay, okay," Midas chuckles, "Now I'm gonna show you what I think of you." He smirks, playfully splashing Osric as he approaches him.

"Hey!" Osric laughs, his sheep ears flicking as he retaliates, splashing water back at Midas. They continue playing in the water, splashing and swimming until evening arrives.

The pair return to the camp to dry off. "That was fun," Osric catches his breath as he wrings water from his hair.

"Yeah. It's crazy how you lost, though." Midas jests.

"I lost?" Osric scoffs. "More like you lost. "

"I dunno. The amount of water coming out of your hair says otherwise." Midas teases as he dries his hair with a towel.

"Oh hush, you."

They share a laugh as they get dressed in more comfortable clothing. Afterward, the pair sit before the campfire, chatting while the sun sets.

A soft growl emitting from Osric's stomach catches Midas's attention.

"Are you hungry?" He chuckles. "I don't mind fishing some dinner for us."

"Yeah. I can cook whatever you catch if that's alright."

Midas nods, grabbing a fishing rod and some bait. "I'll be back—"

"Wait!" Osric stops him before he can leave. "Please don't overfish the lake. We only need enough fish to feed us two."

"Alright, alright," he laughs. "I'll leave it to you to keep me in check." He pats Osric's head before heading toward a fishing spot.

Midas exhales as he searches. He can't shake Osric's compliments and affection from his mind. Is he always like this, he wonders. So... soft? It's cute, but why toward me? I'm just a filthy criminal. What does he see in me?

I should stop thinking about it. Midas sighs and shakes his head before picking up the pace.

After a while, he returns with a sizable amount of fish.

"I'm back!" He calls as he approaches Osric.

Osric's sheep-like ears flutter when he hears Midas's voice. "Welcome back!" He smiles.

He studies the fish in Midas's hand. "My stars... These fish are big." He coos, taking one of the biggest fish.

"Yeah. Ya know, we can eat whatever's left over for breakfast tomorrow."

"Yeah, definitely. Good work."

Osric's praise puts a shy grin on Midas's face. "No problem... um, I'll keep a lookout while you cook, alright?"

"Alright! Thank you!"

As Osric starts cooking, Midas walks toward the outskirts of the campsite and stations himself atop a medium-sized boulder. He looks out into the dark, quiet woods, leaving himself alone with his thoughts. While focusing on his environment, Osric's compliments echo in his head. He thinks about his soft, fluffy ears and soft, full lips. I don't deserve this... I don't deserve him...

"Midas!" Osric's voice brings him back to reality. He turns to see Osric waving at him. "Dinner is ready!"

"Ah, alright... Alright, I'm coming." He hops off the boulder and rushes toward Osric. He grins as he takes a seat beside him.

"It smells good."

"I hope you like it... um," Osric's sheep ears flick as he studies Midas's face. "Are you alright?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Your face." Osric replies as he circles Midas's face with his finger. "Your whole face is red. Are you okay?"

"It is?" Midas exhales a nervous chuckle as he cups his flushed cheek. "I... No— Yeah, I'm okay. Don't worry."

"... Okay. If you say so." Osric softly smiles as he passes Midas his plate.

"Thank you... for cooking and your concern." He chuckles, enjoying his dinner.

"No problem." Osric's sheep ears flutter as his smile brightens.

After they finish their meals, they prepare for bed. They slide under the covers and rest their head on their soft pillows. The soothing sounds of chirping crickets fill the cold, crispy night air. Osric's sheep-like ears flick as he glances at Midas.

"Hey... Midas?" Osric whispers.

"Hmm?"

"Um... I should've told you this sooner, but... I'm going home in two days..."

"... What?" Midas sits up, his eyes widening at the news.

"Yeah. I've finished all my tasks in Liyue, so I'm returning to Mondstadt. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I didn't know how to without making you sad."

"I... No, it's alright..." Midas sighs deeply. "Could you stay a bit longer? Maybe another week or so? There must be something you forgot to do, right?"

Osric frowns. "I'm sorry, Midas. I would love to stay longer, but I'm needed back in Mondstadt. Plus... I miss my home."

"... Okay..." His expression darkens as he lies back down.

"Maybe you can come with me?" Osric softly smiles, scooting closer to him. "Ya know, visit Mondstadt for fun? There are so many neat places to visit. Plus, I can be your travel guide."

The way Osric's sheep-like ears flick along with his optimistic invitation flushes Midas's face. "I would love that... But I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's a long and complicated story..." He sighs deeply, caressing the blanket between his fingers as he focuses on Osric. "But the short answer is... I'm not allowed in Mondstadt anymore. If I get caught by the Knights of Favonious, I'll be arrested immediately."

Osric's soft smile fades as he studies Midas's face. "Oh..." He sighs, scooting closer to him before holding him close. "Well... Just know you're welcome to visit me in Monstadt whenever you like. Preferably when you're not wanted by the local authorities, but still."

They both chuckle.

"Thank you, Osric. I appreciate it."

"Mhm! Anytime. Now, let's get some sleep. In the morning, I wanna hike to another super-duper-secret location nearby. Good night."

"Good night, Lil guy." Midas murmurs, caressing Osric's soft hair as they drift to sleep.

#genshin impact oc #lore #writing #🐏#🗡️

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