#our Very Humble Narrator

[drakorn]

Rewriting Veilguard Part 2 - The Shadow Dragons

Rewriting Veilguard Part 1 - The World State

Disclaimer: I don't hate the game, I actually think it's quite great given the development hell Bioware went through in those 10 years. This is more of a hypothetical universe where there was less of that behind the scenes drama. Just a fun writing exercise.

Writing an Origin Story Mission for the Shadow Dragons

Now that we have dealt with our World State, it’s time to pick Rook’s background. When I first learned that there would be six factions to choose from, I was honestly very ecstatic. You’re telling me we’re getting six different origin stories for Rook? Did BioWare finally listen to the fans’ wish to get one more game with DAO-style prologue missions before the big main plot begins? Then I learned that six of the companions you meet would represent one of those respective factions, and I was like “Amazing, so you will definitely have one party member with whom you can at least align interests and goals from the start.”

What we ended up getting was…sort of something in the middle. Your backstory is brought up and you get quite a lot of unique dialogue regarding your faction. If you’re a Shadow Dragon, there’s a lot of Minrathous dialogue tailored to you specifically. If you’re a Grey Warden, you’re having an absolute field day whenever the Blight is involved, which is…a huge chunk of the game.

But there was…something missing for me. You see, when we start the game, we’re immediately thrown into this epic mission where Rook, Varric, and Harding find Neve and race to stop Solas. It feels very much like we’re starting somewhere in the middle rather than at the beginning. And that, in my humble opinion, is due to the lack of a unique origin story that you can actually play through. So, here’s what the next few parts of this hypothetical rewrite of Veilguard will focus on: creating six unique playable origin stories that would very much be doable without the vampiric leech known as “development hell” hovering over you. This post will focus solely on the Shadow Dragon origin story, so stay tuned for the others. I’m aware of how long it might take between posts, but I want to make sure I do this the right way.

Creating Rook

We start the game, which immediately kicks off Varric’s opening narration. But instead of Varric talking about Solas immediately, we’re gonna set the stage for the general state of Northern Thedas: with the South experiencing a few years of relative peace, the North is a wholly different story: Tevinter and the Qunari have engaged in a bloody and brutal all-out war, the Grey Wardens are growing more reclusive, strange reality warping occurs in Arlathan Forest, a part of the Antaam broke off and is now occupying Antiva and Rivain, strange whispers arise from the Grand Necropolis, basically, everything is in chaos. But Varric is certain that one person is the key to all this. Cue the distant howling of a wolf and six red eyes. Cut to black.

Now we get to customise Rook and choose our faction. As the title of this post suggests, we’re taking the Shadow Dragon route. The backstory text, however, is going to be different to the one we get in DAV. You see, when reading through those backstories, I got the feeling that all of them sounded like outlines for what could have been the origin story quest. I am actually 100% confident that BioWare planned on including prologue missions at one point but had to scrap them due to development hell reasons. And all of the six summaries essentially boil down to “you upset some higher authority and now your faction wants you out of the spotlight.” All the choices regarding Rook’s personality have already been made for us. Playing this actual backstory allows us to roleplay in a roleplaying game, which…shocking, I know, but here me out. Instead, the origin text we get when we click on the Shadow Dragons is simply going to be:

“You are a Shadow Dragon. This underground resistance opposes corrupt rulers and slavery in Tevinter. Coming from all walks of life, they are determined to bring justice to the people. As a member of House Mercar, a renowned Soporati family renowned on the battlefield against the Antaam, you have much influence to bring, and much to lose.”

That’s just the small little snippet we see when hovering over the option. But that’s all we’re gonna get for now. There is no mention yet of Rook’s personality as we’ll get to shape it ourselves a little bit. So, we customise our Rook, finalise our massive World State, and click on the play button at last.

Varric’s narration continues, just like in DAV, but this time, he’s going to give us our chosen faction’s backstory. We get a recap on how Dorian and Maevaris founded the Lucerni shortly after the war with Corypheus and how much of a ray of hope this group was in the twisted and corrupt society of the Tevinter Imperium. But then, some of the more powerful magisters began to heavily push against them, eventually leading to Maevaris being framed for treason and losing her seat in the Magisterium. She took all the blame on herself so that Dorian would be able to retain a spotless reputation and continue their work on the great political stage. Maevaris took the remaining Lucerni underground and formed the Shadow Dragons, continuing their work under a different name. Now unbound by political restrictions, the Shadow Dragons are free to take more radical measures in their fight against oppression and slavery. And Varric is confident that the perfect candidate to go against the bigger threat can be found in this group.

The Shadow Lair

Our story begins in Minrathous, in the underground base of the Shadow Dragons. And right off the bat, we’re making a change regarding said base’s location. In DAV, it stands in a random building somewhere in Dock Town that pretty much anyone could access. I get that they were probably going for the “hide in plain sight” approach, but let’s actually have some fun here.

In this rewrite, the Shadow Dragons are literally operating from the underground. Now, Minrathous’ underground system has two things that are very beneficial for a secretive rebellious organisation:

Vast catacombs. The catacombs of Minrathous are so massive that they can store food to survive years of siege. Minrathous, like so many cities and settlements in Tevinter, is built on the bones of Elvhenan. You can easily get lost in those catacombs.

Gigantic sewers. The sewers are arguably even more treacherous than the catacombs, because we have seen in Tevinter Nights what can lurk there. Imagine the sewers of the greatest city in the world, the greatest magical city in the world. Surely it comes with its own set of urban legends akin to the sewer gator. But in a city like Minrathous, those legends are probably true. Failed magical experiments, lyrium-infused mutations, abominations of former mages who failed some twisted blood magic experiment, possessed objects; all this can be found in Minrathous’ sewers. Dangerous for everyone, and therefore perfect for the Shadow Dragons.

The Shadow Dragons operate from a place called "The Shadow Lair”, a section of an underground district known simply as “The Undercity”. That’s where all the poor and forgotten retreat if they wish to disappear from the world, or criminals who flee the Imperium’s justice system. A dangerous but also perfect place.

NOTE: For the duration of the prologue, Rook will be referred to by the name of Mercar, as “Rook” is the name they give themselves after disappearing from the scene.

Depending on what race Mercar is, the stakes vary:

If Mercar is a human, they are the direct heir of House Mercar, destined to take over the family name one day. If Mercar is a human mage, they are currently in the process of getting their family appointed to Laetan status, which will give them more political power and influence.

If Mercar is a dwarf, they are an adopted scion of House Mercar.

If Mercar is an elf or a qunari, they are an official slave of House Mercar, but it’s made pretty clear in the beginning that House Mercar’s slaves are slaves in name only, while actually being more akin to paid servants. House Mercar simply refers to them as slaves to stay under the Magisterium’s radar and actually uses them to pass on information to the Shadow Dragons.

I was personally disappointed that DAV didn’t really touch on Tevinter’s slavery system. It felt a bit like I was treated with kid gloves and not given the trust to being able to handle dark topics. But Tevinter, as has been established in all DA media before DAV, is a pretty dark place for anyone who isn’t a human mage. And it’s important to depict that as it shows the stakes and just how rotten of a society the Imperium is. We need to see what the Shadow Dragons are actually fighting for. It’s not enough to just tell us how much a freedom fighter group we are, no, we need to see it.

Meeting the Leaders of the Shadow Dragons

For the sake of this playthrough, our Mercar is going to be a human mage, and thus not only the direct heir to the house but also one who can elevate it to Laetan status. We have a lot to lose, so we must be extra careful in this precarious situation.

So Mercar meets with the leaders of the Shadow Dragons, namely Maevaris and the Viper. From this conversation, we get the general gist of what’s about to happen and why we are here: House Mercar decided to get a bit more involved with the Shadow Dragons after both parties discovered a massive plot for something big involving Minrathous’ vast slave population. Whatever it is, it’s happening somewhere in Dock Town, and we are to rendezvous with Neve Gallus, a local and renowned detective, to get to the bottom of this.

Exploring the Shadow Lair

After the conversation, we get to have a quick look around the Shadow Lair, where we can instigate a small series of encounters:

We can talk to Maevaris some more and learn about her past and her motivation behind what used to be the Lucerni.

We can talk to the Viper and learn more about him, how he’s usually running operations and that he’s from an Altus house. But that’s about everything you can learn about him at this point in time.

We can meet Lorelei and learn about her being one of the city elves Loghain sold to Tevinter all the way back in DAO. She will give a few remarks on how the Hero of Ferelden dealt with the Alienage and how she and Alistair made it a more just place.

NOTE: For this rewrite’s hypothetical playthrough, the Hero of Ferelden is a Human Noble who romanced Alistair and became Queen of Ferelden. She is now searching for a cure for the Calling.

We can have a bit of a look at the Undercity and just see how much of a poor and dark place it is. This is the gutter, no, this is below the gutter. The people here wish to disappear. They are miserable, most of them have given up hope. The Shadow Dragons are the only ones who actually care about them.

Since the Undercity is below modern Minrathous, we can see traces of ancient elven architecture on display, including mosaics and frescoes.

An Old Friend

Just as we’re about to leave for Dock Town, a familiar face strides into the Shadow Lair: Varric Tethras. Yes, we actually get to see Rook’s first meeting with Varric here! Maevaris greets and introduces him to us (and we actually get to know that Varric and Maevaris are family, which DAV kind of glossed over, thank you very much). Mercar gets to have a first chat with Varric, where he assess our personality. This vibe check is what allows us to determine Rook’s general personality: are we diplomatic, humorous, or aggressive? I fully get that Varric wouldn’t pick an evil person to fight against Solas, but we should still have some kind of roleplay room regarding Rook’s way of thinking and speaking.

Varric’s purpose in these prologues is very similar to Duncan’s in DAO. He’s the one who recruits you into the larger fight and acts as a mentor figure for a while. I was actually fully expecting that to be the case in the actual game when we were told that Varric recruits Rook into the fight against Solas. Well, he did, but I would have liked to see it! Alas, we shall do so here!

Varric stays behind in the Shadow Lair while we go off and do our thing.

Entering Dock Town

Dock Town is pretty much right above the Undercity, the gutter above the actual gutter. The entrance to the Shadow Lair is quite hidden with enchantments, known only to Shadow Dragons and their associates.

Dock Town is going to stay pretty much exactly as we see it in the game. If there is one place in Minrathous where everyone could mingle without being necessarily immediately prosecuted, it’s that place (which is probably why that’s the only part of Minrathous we see in the game, but I digress). However, there will be one major change: slavery is still a thing.

Dock Town is…well…a place where ships dock. That includes ships of slave traders and prisoners of war. In this rewrite, Tevinter is still locked into a war with the Qunari, so there will be a lot of that reflected in the environment. As we walk through Dock Town, we see guards on high alert, slaves and prisoners being led away in chains. We’re doing some important environmental storytelling here that lets us know exactly why Tevinter is a place that needs to be liberated and changed so desperately.

Meeting Neve Gallus

We find Neve Gallus at the Cobbled Swan. Depending on dialogue choices, we might or might not have heard of her up to this point. I think it would be fun if Mercar could geek out about her because he read some sensationalist tabloid about one of her cases.

So Neve tells us that a huge part of Dock Town was closed off for a great event, a former small coliseum that hasn’t been used in decades. Coincidentally, several unpurchased slaves and prisoners of war are being dragged into that area.

Neve has a good lead to assume that the Venatori are somehow behind this because of course they are. Neve gives us a recap on what the Venatori are and how she had multiple run-ins with them already. She is to be absolutely certain that Mercar can be trusted as they will need to work together on this. In response, Mercar shares his side of the information, that his father, Charon Mercar, who is also a respected Legatus in this rewrite, oversaw a strange pattern in how many prisoners of war and masterless slaves, primarily from places like Ventus and Carastes, Qunari-conquered cities, have simply disappeared, and how surprisingly many military vessels have been transferred to Minrathous. Since Neve is a detective, it’s fun to make this part of the journey feel a bit like a crime mystery.

Once all information has been shared, Neve declares that it’s time to go.

Approaching the Coliseum

Neve takes us across Dock Town’s roofs towards the closed-off area of the coliseum. There, we see just how massively guarded it is. The official excuse for all this is a military training exercise. Horrifyingly, this is much closer to the truth than we realise. There are Imperial Templars and Legionnaires patrolling the outskirts, so we have to find our way in.

Neve directs us to a secret hiding spot, where we meet Tarquin, who is, as we know, an Imperial Templar working for the Shadow Dragons. Not even he knows exactly what’s happening, but something definitely big is going on.

There are two options before us: do we sneak in from above and observe from the shadows, or do we disguise ourselves as templars and participate in a more open manner? This right here gives us another choice regarding Mercar’s way of doing things. Are we feeling confident enough to just walk in and hide in plain sight? Or do we take the stealthy approach? While Neve is all for stealth, Tarquin prefers the closer look. So a first major choice presents itself:

Follow Neve and observe the proceedings from above, quietly gathering the information you need.

Follow Tarquin and disguise yourself as an attendant, getting a much closer look at the proceedings.

So I’m feeling a little brave right now. I think my Mercar would try to do the bold approach to get better results, even if it means a higher risk. For this playthrough, I’m choosing to follow Tarquin and let myself be disguised. Neve begrudgingly follows along.

Entering the Coliseum

A few minutes later, Mercar, Neve, and Tarquin approach the Coliseum gates in disguise. Tarquin wears his Templar armour, while Mercar and Neve are dressed as mages of the Legion.

Once we enter the arena, we have the chance to explore it for a little while. Doing so allows us to encounter the following:

We can have an early chat with Magister Zara Renata, who will, of course, be very relevant later, along with her lackeys Felicia and Calivan, all of whom are prominent members of the Venatori. Neve is able to make that connection due to Felicia’s brother Livius having so notoriously attempted to corrupt the Wardens at Adamant Fortress in DAI.

We may encounter Magister Bataris, alongside his son Albin and get early hints of just how far the Venatori corruption runs.

If we make a good enough persuasion attempt at the Templar Captain guarding the entrance to a basement, we shall enter it and discover the prisoners and slaves intended for some heinous affair. Here, and only here, if we perform this correct dialogue choice, and being a human mage, unfortunately, certainly helps here, we get to see that our father, Charon Mercar, is among the imprisoned. And the worst of it all? He doesn’t even recognise you. Actually none of the slaves and prisoners react in any way, as all of them seem to be under some sort of spell. As we look closer, we can see that all of them have strange spiked collars around their necks, filled with blood. This is blood magic that keeps them entranced. If we want to risk it, we have time to break our father’s collar and ensure that perhaps, he can escape. So we do just that.

The Imperator

Following our exploration of the Coliseum, we get streamed into a crowd of onlookers as the Imperator of Tevinter’s legions, the Supreme Legatus himself, Magister Aemilianus Laskaris, enters the centre of the arena.

We know from DAV that Tevinter has an Imperator, and the Imperator is not the same as the Archon in this context. While the Archon is the overall ruler, the Imperator is the highest military commander. Think of this guy as Tevinter’s version of Loghain. Laskaris also happens to be one of the loudest voices responsible for forcing the Lucerni out of the Magisterium.

Laskaris delivers a speech in which he proclaims just how bad Tevinter is faring against the Antaam. Here we get some early insight into the fact that a large chunk of the Qunari army broke off and is now bearing down on Antiva and Rivain. However, a large part of it remained and is following the Arishok into battle against the Imperium. And even against this broken Antaam, the Legions are starting to fail.

Laskaris cites lost cities such as Ventus, Carastes, and Neromenian as evidence for the desperate situation Tevinter is now facing. Therefore, something must be done. Something drastic. He presents, to the gathered onlookers, the Salvatio Initiative. Basically, all unpurchased slaves and prisoners of war are to be given to Tevinter’s legions, where Laskaris and the Legates serving under him will perform blood magic rituals to turn them into mindless but ravaging soldiers against the Antaam. Dangerous cannon fodder essentially. He will use tonight’s demonstration to convince the gathered members of the Magisterium to pass a law that will officially permit Tevinter’s legions to use blood magic. Well, we know, Tevinter has always used blood magic behind closed doors, but this will mean that all safety measures are off, all precautions, all careful attempts at hiding it. And the worst part is: since slaves are considered nothing but tools, it won’t even be seen as unethical by the large portion of conservative Senate members. And prisoners of war? Qunari? Who cares about them anyway, right? This is the darkness and true corruption permeating Tevinter. This is exactly why the Shadow Dragons exist to bring back the light.

Several doors open and Laskaris directs all slaves and prisoners to be brought forth.  They are all wearing the blood collars. Upon the Imperator’s command, him and several blood mages under his leadership, activate the blood collars and turn the slaves and prisoners into an absolute frenzy. A battle erupts in which the sheer destructive power of the now-mindless fighters is demonstrated.

Mercar now has a choice to make, and it is the biggest one there is in the prologue:

Do we stealthily fight the blood mages and try to rescue the innocent mind-controlled people without blowing our cover? You do, however, risk your father dying.

Do we rush in headfirst and fight Laskaris head-on, saving your father but maybe dooming more innocents and risking exposure?

Do we put our personal emotional interest above the greater good or vice versa? Well, because we broke our father’s collar earlier, we can at least assume that he’s going to be able to fight for himself with a clear head, so let’s focus on the blood mages in a stealthy manner.

Neve and Tarquin quickly take us behind the scenes as the crowd watchers in apt interest. There are five blood mages, including Laskaris, who need to be dealt with. Neve takes one half, Tarquin the other, while you have a go at Laskaris himself. You are masked so he won’t know it’s you.

While Neve and Tarquin successfully dismantle two blood mages each, we sneak right up to Laskaris and try to either knock him out or backstab him altogether. This results in the same outcome but tells a lot about Mercar’s personality. Do we kill this guy and end it now? Or do we try and incapacitate him so that he can still be of use for the future?

Regardless, Laskaris sees it coming and engages in a boss battle against us. It’s a tough battle, one that we are logically meant to lose. If we get Laskaris down to 0HP, miraculously so unless we play on Storyteller mode, the cutscene will slightly change but the outcome remains largely the same.

Laskaris lashes out and wounds us, causing us to fall down, bleeding, losing our mask, exposing ourselves to Laskaris, while the slaves and prisoners stage a mad revolt around us, forcing the gathered magisters to flee the scene. But because we freed our father from his collar, he comes rushing in to save us, engaging Laskaris in a one-on-one duel. Despite “only” being Soporati, he puts up quite a fight with his huge two-hander. We want to help him, desperately so, but we are just too weak. Laskaris is impressed by Charon’s strength, but ultimately, deals him a mortal wound. Just before Laskaris turns to finish us off, he is struck in the shoulder by…Bianca!

Varric steps into the fray and fires off a row of bolts against the Imperator, allowing Neve and Tarquin to take us away as we pass out. As they do so, the Viper appears and casts a spell that shrouds the whole arena in fog.

Back at the Shadow Lair

We awaken in the Shadow Lair and are greeted by Varric. It turns out that he was using this whole mission to assess us from the background, to determine if we are the one he’s looking for. And he decides that, yes, we are. Laskaris, the Venatori, all of this is just one puzzle piece of something much greater. We can press Varric on what this could possibly be, but he won't tell us just yet. Instead, he tells us that we should disappear. And he might just be able to help with that. We can be incredibly outrageous about this. I just discovered the biggest plot to endanger slaves ever since the Magister Sidereal tore open the Veil to reach the Golden City! I can’t just leave right now to pursue something I don't even know about!

At this point, Maevaris joins us and agrees that Mercar has to disappear for a while, now that Laskaris knows who we are. We can’t be seen with the Shadow Dragons for the time being. Doing so would just endanger the whole cause.

Reluctantly or readily, that depends on our personality, we concede that there is sense in Varric’s words. Varric advises us to adopt a codename as well, like so many agents of the Inquisition did back in the day. Mercar thinks for a moment, reflects on the most recent events, and decides on “Rook”. Varric approves. “The strongest piece on the chessboard, I like it.”

Afterwards we get a final chance to talk to the members of the Shadow Dragons before we depart, and get a last look at the Undercity. Neve returns to Dock Town to keep an eye on Laskaris and the slave rings, as well as search for any Venatori ties.

What follows is a cutscene where Rook and Varric depart the Shadow Lair and leave Minrathous altogether. One last time, Rook looks at the city he swore to fight for, then turns around and follows Varric into the unknown.

And that’s as far as we’ll go today! I hope you enjoyed my little hypothetical take on a potential Shadow Dragon origin mission. Of course, not everything is refined and perfect, but I hope you still got the overall gist of what I was going for! Next time, we shall focus on a potential prologue for the Grey Wardens! Stay tuned!

Rewriting Veilguard Part 3 - The Grey Wardens

[blackkatdraws2]

1st Batch: the Inhabitants

[Blank Scripts AU (non-canonical)]

Multiple footsteps reverberated within the claustrophobic stairways of the Parable.

One strikingly beautiful old man elegantly struts up the stairs with a scowl on his face, having a heated one-sided discussion (lecture) with a poor stuttering businessman on his phone call.

The rest simply follow him, a group of special individuals who have come and now reside in this strange building for their own peculiar reasons. They don't quite understand many things about the workings of this place, but one thing is for certain.

Wherever the Narrator tells them to go, whatever he tells them to do, they comply.

BATCH LIST:

- [1st Batch: The Inhabitants] - [2nd Batch: The Janitors] - [3rd Batch: The Citizens] - [4th Batch: The Guardians]

↓ [Chatter and Credits below] ↓

-----------⟡

The first illustration is posted! [Yay!] There will be more coming soon!

I've decided to pair these characters together due to a single uniting trait they all shared. Being residents of the Parable! [Either as an NPC or as something else.]

I admit that I went in with a lot of confidence, thinking I would finish this illustration in just a day or two, and I got HUMBLED. Starting June 16th [the day after everyone's characters got submitted] I spent five days just drawing this one illustration alone. [I draw fast, I usually only spend a few hours on one drawing before moving on, so this was a challenging experience.]

There were many factors contributing to why it took me so long. Such as drawing blindly [not preparing before trying to render and failing at it], not using references, lack of experience drawing buildings from scratch, etc. [Okay, now I just sound like I'm making excuses but wow that was really hard HAHAHA I almost got art-block as a result!]

My grievances aside, I'm happy with the result!

Mell by @katkit-drops-alt

Her dress and concept are absolutely lovely!! I like how, despite how terrifying she may come off, she's ultimately still a girl with her own normal life to live [or whatever it is that's normal to her anyway.] Her silly farm boyfriend is cute too!

[unnamed character] by @rick-ety

Ahh this girl!! I'm interested in her! [I love character designs that look 'ghostly' or dead.] Her pretty long hair reminds me a lot of Sadako [that one ghost girl with long black hair covering her face...] Her poor limbs missing and the twist of her not dying simply because she's already dead ahhh!!! o(〃＾▽＾〃)o

Helena by @neat-o-things

A silly girl who died in the Parable as she was about to make it out then ended up getting reincarnated as an NPC, making maps for the Parable, not knowing why she's doing it or where she even is!!! Only that she feels like she should :). I hold her dearly.

Anika by @hyydrochloricacidd

Uwwaahh we have sisters!! Anika is so unnervingly tall and creepy, I love that seemingly doll-like look on her face. It feels very uncanny! I can't wait to draw her sister Anala soon.

Root by @therootthatquestiond

AHH a drawing in Roblox!! (p≧w≦q) I love Roblox, you did a really great job!! We appreciate our quiet guy Root. Praise Root.

[holmesillustrations]

What is the best Watson focused illustration?

Our winners so far have been pretty Holmes-centered, so lets put the spotlight on our humble narrator this time! 📔🩺

Currently: Starting soon!

I included all the ones with only Watson, or supporting characters but not Holmes, plus some that do have them both but focus on Watson or that just have really good Watsons. There's only so many slots in a bracket, so i tried to get all the best ones, but if i left out any favourites, let me know and i'll post them seperately just for fun!

(Full list of competitors under cut)

SIDE A

I stowed them all discreetly away in my overcoat. Bruce-Partington Plans, FD Steele

Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"See!" she cried, "The miscreant follows still! There is the very man of whom I speak." Lady Frances Carfax, FD Steele

We strolled about together. Resident Patient, Sidney Paget

Billy advanced and drew away the drapery which screened the window. Dr. Watson could not restrain a cry of amazement. There was a facsimile of his old friend, dressing gown and all. Mazarin Stone, Alfred Gilbert

Be ready in half an hour. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

Holmes! I whispered. Twisted Lip, Sidney Paget

I held up a warning finger. Reigate Squires. Sidney Paget

I could look straight through the uncurtained window. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"What's this?" he cried, in a high, screaming voice. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Dying Detective, Walter Paget

It was a prostrate man face downwards upon the ground. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

What has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead? There is our problem. Lady Frances Carfax, FD Steele

He tore up one of his wife's photographs in my presence. 'I never wish to see her damned face again!' he shrieked. Retired Colourman, FD Steele

"Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator," I said, "He is his own master." Valley of Fear, Frank Wiles

"If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one," said the vicar angrily. Retired Colourman, Frank Wiles

The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. Lady Frances Carfax, Alec Ball

Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson - this instant, I say. Dying Detective, Walter Paget

That is the Great Grimpen Mire. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. Engineer's Thumb, Sidney Paget

The point is a simple one. Reigate Squires, Sidney Paget

He examined them minutely. Cardboard Box, Sidney Paget

Over the rocks was thrust out an evil yellow face. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

Sherlock Holmes was standing and smiling at me across my study table. Empty House, Sidney Paget

Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

He seized Holmes by the throat. Empty House, Sidney Paget

Exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the inside pocket. Charles Augustus Milverton, Sidney Paget

The proposition took me completely by surprise. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

He deliberately knocked the whole thing over. Reigate Squires, Sidney Paget

Frankland clapped his eye to it and gave a cry of satisfaction. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"Curse you, you double traitor!" cried the German, straining against his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes. His Last Bow, Alfred Gilbert

She went straight to her uncle. Beryl Coronet, Sidney Paget

I carefully examined the writing. Scandal in Bohemia, Sidney Paget

SIDE B

The shadow of Sherlock Holmes. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"Go back!" she said. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

He broke the seal and glanced over the contents. Noble Bachelor, Sidney Paget

I knocked down several books which he was carrying. Empty House, Sidney Paget

I fell into a brown study. Cardboard Box, Sidney Paget

A curious collection. Musgrave Ritual, Sidney Paget

Holmes pulled out his watch. Greek Interpreter, Sidney Paget

Then he stood before the fire. Scandal in Bohemia, Sidney Paget

He did not rise, but sat upon a floor like some strange Buddha. Veiled Lodger, Frank Wiles

[Watson at Culvertons practice] Dying Detective, FD Steele

"Good-day, Dr Watson." he cried. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

See what my wife found in its crop! Blue Carbuncle, Sidney Paget

"It is glue, Watson," said he. Shoscombe Old Place, Frank Wiles

I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

In the light of the lantern i read, with a thrill of horror, 'the sign of the four'. Sign of Four, HM Kerr

I tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. Boscombe Valley, Sidney Paget

From its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

What are you doing here, Barrymore? Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"Phosphorous!" I said. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

[Frontispiece] Creeping Man, FD Steele

"Holmes," I cried, "You are too late." Five Orange Pips, Sidney Paget

[Watson and Mrs Maberley] Three Gables, FD Steele

Running up, I blew its brains out. Copper Beeches, Sidney Paget

You have indeed much to answer for. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

You know that there is another man, then! Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

It was quite a simple case after all. Crooked Man, Sidney Paget

A very seedy hard felt hat. Blue Carbuncle, Sidney Paget

He held it up. Yellow Face, Sidney Paget

Very fine — very fine indeed! Would it be indiscreet if I were to ask you how you obtained this? Illustrious Client, HK Elcock

Watson, would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic? Valley of Fear, Arthur I. Keller

What do you make of that? Crooked Man, Sidney Paget

A small square of paper fluttered down. Final Problem, Sidney Paget

[immediatebreakfast]

Love, love, love the expressing differences between all the three suitors on how they present their entries, as well how it immediatly tells us their first characterization points.

Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went down amongst the patients. (Mem., under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap. 

Somber in tone, and defeated in spirit. Starts with circumstances that led Seward ignore his own health in favor of burying himself with work. What continues is a seemly methodical description of a patient, yet is unprofessional and dark as Jack admits to want to experiment with Renfield while he is in this mental state.

On top of all of this message being recorded in a phonograph instead of a written diary. It tells that Jack does not prefer to write, maybe because this train of thoughts is going too fast to be put properly on part, or maybe by writing Jack needs to think more about what he has to express, which would end up with censoring some parts of himself.

My dear Art,— We've told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won't you let this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? There will only be one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. Yours, as ever and always, QUINCEY P. MORRIS.

A story telling cadence that indicates how Quincey seems to prefer tale narration when talking. Very personal moments described before an invitation to warm up the idea a campfire after the succesful proposal of Arthur, and the mention of liquor plants the idea of how this space will not be privy with secrets. Including Jack to connect the three of them as friends, and a implication of Quincey knowing of what kind of state Seward might be in to invite him.

Concluding with a very romantic in nature farewell, and the format being the humble written letter. A communication device that has never failed, and is simple to hold Quincey's words with care.

Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears tingle. ART.

It's polite, yet informal in tone in a way which tells how Arthur considers Quincey to be a very close friend. The familiarity in the expression "will make both your ears tingle" implies that this is not the first time for Arthur to tell gossip, less ones that could be considered "saucy" in the eyes of people outside of their friend circle.

And lastly, Arthur's 16 words message was sent via telegram, a very expensive message service that charged per word, which tells that mister Holmwood is... ✨💵RICH💵✨

[caffeinatedmunchkin]

A bard and a vampire wander into the local hags backyard-STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE Wilted Rose Productions proudly presents its newest release: STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE. Ofelia Montez (With Stars to Fill My Dreams) and Astarion Ancunín (Christian Woman, Hungry Like the Wolf) reunite to star in this tongue-in-cheek exploit that pens a love-letter to vampirism, and all that it’s bitten; which Fangoria hails: "unpredictable, ambitious, and aware; a frightfully amusing re-telling for all to sink their teeth into - no fangs required.” and that Bloody Disgusting calls: "A wild ride. These horror high jinks are the sort that could only exist for a duo the likes of Ofelia and Astarion, and it is only because of them that this story is pulled off." Sex, blood, and Rock ‘n’ Roll. Bring home the absurd story you think you know, told like never before. STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE, now on video cassette - rent it tonight! Runtime of 37K words. The media advertised has been rated R for strong sexual content, graphic depictions of violence, and crude humor. Restrictions apply. Under 18 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian. Please be kind and rewind!

{reference I used for making the cover}

[Banner credit]

PART 1 OF 2 - Apparently tumblrs posts have block limits ?? Who knew.

Ali, you are such a force of creativity, positivity, talent, and kindness. I've been around the fandom block, which I'm generally pretty wary of, and I had sworn off of tumblr for years. It was only a matter of time, I think, before something BG3 pulled me back in. Boy howdy am I supremely grateful it was here and now, and that it lead me to you!

I want to thank you for not only welcoming me so warmly to this community, but for your friendship and your support. In return, I very humbly present you with this; my ode to Ofelia, what a wonderful, iconic, lovable character she is, and the incredible dynamic you've built around her and Astarion, our fave resident bastard man.

Thank you for sharing her with us, and thank you for trusting me with her.

There's no way I'll ever be able to thank you enough, or show you how much I appreciate you, but I hope this conveys it a lil. Enjoy xoxo

Once upon a time...

In a land far, far away...

- a realm born of both the fantastical, and the treacherous -

(As I'm writing this narration, I'm hearing it in Raphael's voice, and I'm gonna need you to do the same as you read it. Liam Neeson is an acceptable substitute.)

... the setting in which our story, like many hitherto, begins.

A sinuous tale of love, and lust, and wonderment.

The improbable turned possible.

One quiet afternoon, on the outskirts of the Sunlit Wetlands...

...In an innocuous patch of wood, do we find our favorite, lionhearted young bard, and her sardonic vampyre.

Who happened upon this lush thicket. One deep-set in the hag's bog, to whom it belongs.

Ever benignant, a purveyor fair and just; she had come by her notoriety honestly.

It was not as though she had been known to deal in ironics, or legerdemain.

Certainly not dear Auntie Ethel...

And in their hapless trespassing, embark on this, their aforenamed escapade, most unwitting.

To the amused delight of no one in particular...

...

Then again, what's more fun than two lovers clueless to the absurdity in which they are thrust?

The very same circumstance, wherein one of them is in on the joke - of course.

Crouched before a tangle of parted undergrowth, Ofelia toiled away at the lock of an old trinket box. Intricate carving and chipped paint, it's abandoned burial evident, as it sat half unearthed. Peeking through a sparse patch of naked vine, it called to her. Begging its contents rifled.

Rusted just enough to prove her proceeding efforts fruitless - it's cry for exploration now revealed to be a taunt - the firmer she appealed for cooperation, the more stubborn was its refusal. To her pins coaxing, it only clinked in protest.

Frustration bubbling like a pot boiled over, her attention was then demanded by Astarion's hemming and hawing. His melodrama loud and needy, his tolerance for not being the center of attention delicately finite. That toleration had fizzled and snuffed, extinguished like a candles flame near the end of its wick.

Really, she was impressed he lasted as long as he had.

Found a little ways ahead in the clearing, haughty and regal, with irritation twitching his sharp ear in the way she loved. Hands fallen to his hips, and shoulders drawn back, the elf stood before what looked to be a mirror.

"What's that?" She called, maintaining the rapid, driving pressure in and out.

Her attempted finesse surrendered, she relied on the assumption that each next pass might be the one to jostle the pins to the shear line. An assumption then punished by her strayed focus, and blunt-force, Ofelia was echoed by the chink of thin steel, cracked and crumpling.

In quiet panic, she rose to her full height. Holding her breath with the hopes he hadn't heard.

A hope that died a slow, painful death.

"The sound of the very last of my picks I ever lend to you, breaking, I believe." He drawled, the bored nonchalance of his tone betraying his forgone assumption she'd snap it in half. Judged by the sounds of her working the lock alone, though he was well acquainted with how lean her patience.

His back still to hear, he felt the blunt edge of her flat stare smack into his head. "I've warned you before about such a heavy hand. It's a snake rake, darling, not a battering ram."

If he didn't feel her glare from moments prior, he most definitely felt the breeze from her lashes, fluttering around the eyes sent back into her skull.

"So then maybe you should be doing this, instead of pawning the work off onto me and calling it 'practice.'" Brushing the dirt from her knees, she slipped the pieces of what used to be Astarion's rake into the pouch on her belt.

"Nonsense. If I always do it for you, then you'll never learn to do it for yourself." He twisted to face her, a lazy smirk as smug as his inflection. It earned her tongue stuck out at him through a crinkled face.

An expression that he used to categorize as a "gurn", - the comparison not made with affection - he now very deliberately teased it out of her.

Shallow taunts and ragging seemed the trick.

Returning a glare to the mirror, it had yet to give him the satisfaction of how handsome even his defiance presented. "What a distasteful stab at opulence. I daresay not even a goblin would be desperate enough to try and make off with such a gaudy thing." He waved in a vague gesture.

"Remember our talk about stereotypes?" Her goading lilt made him sniff, her simper spilling wider. "And really, you're one to talk. You're a worse hoarder of shiny things than anyone else I know. Goblin, or otherwise."

Astarion turned his head as far as his shoulder, but went no further. His preening given away by the curl of his lips.

"Just this side of the Gate, or from your world, as well?"

"Both your world, and mine. Hands down."

To that he chuckled. "Sweet-talker."

"I have learned from the best." Ofelia looked up as she passed behind him to catch a glimpse of herself. To reaffirm that the loosened tendrils from Shadowheart's fishtail braid, the one she pleated for her after breakfast, still framed her face whimsical, and romantic. Though something curious happened, making her take pause.

Her assumed reflection did not appear.

Her approach then cautious, Ofelia cocked her head once she joined his side, her closeness demanding of the mirror something it refused to humor.

A grand, ornate piece, it jarred against the gnarled overgrowth it occupied, looking as if it was put down during a move, and forgotten. Though nothing of time, nor the elements, tainted it with signs of wear or corrosion. It looked well kept. The surface shone, glassy and slick like tears unshed. The gold-leaf rubbed into the frame glinted as if from a fresh polish.

Resting against a trunk in a position central to the semi-circle of trees around them, it's placement then seemed conspicuous. Deliberate in drawing the eye. Calling to any and all that looked it's way to come close, and peer within. To indulge its mystique.

Ofelia couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it first thing. Impossible to miss against a backdrop so drab in comparison, it had been there all along.

Hadn't it?

An imposing height that would have towered over even Halsin, it was scarcely wider than the width of Astarion shoulder to shoulder. One would have had to crowd the other to both be visible at once.

That was, if either were visible in it at all.

"Huh." She waved her hand before the surface, expecting a returned visage, and greeting, that still didn't appear. "That's weird."

Astarion snorted. "Darling, is there something you've not told me?"

Ignoring his attempts to be playful, she leaned in closer, eyes narrowed beneath brows that furrowed further. With perception that would have made Carl Kolchak proud, she remarked with casual assurance. "The trees are wrong."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The trees." She said again, pointing to the structures within the frame. Tall, narrow, and sparse. Too tall and narrow to be the reflection of the firs in the clearing around them, and too familiar to belong to Faerûn.

Too familiar to Earth native Ofelia.

"This isn't... a reflection, it's..."

Trailing off and unable to help herself, she raised her hand to the surface. Expecting to meet solid glass, Astarion's heed for caution came too little too late. Once her fingers pushed against it, they dipped straight through, as if made of smoke and shadow.

The illusion rippled outward. Reminiscent of a still pond then disturbed, it gave way to her intrusion, though the scene remained. A cluster of trees in a nondescript forest, during a cloudy, overcast day.

Cool to the touch, Ofelia ripped her hand away as if flames lapped at her from the other side. A surmised hazard, corroborated by her squeak. "What the hell-,"

Having deduced she was startled as opposed to injured, Astarion leaned in for closer inspection. "Hmm... it appears to be the same sort of glamor our dear Ethel used to disguise the bog. Odd. I wonder what else she's trying to hide." Then in afterthought, as if a personal offense to him - or all vampire kind - he huffed. "Whatever it might be, why a mirror? Seems a bit wanting for originality, if you ask me."

After sizing it up sidelong, curiosity tamed her apprehension, and she reached for it once more. Astarion's disapproving tsk falling on deaf ears.

This time, when the mirror accepted her fingertips, she reached further, until it swallowed her up to the wrist. Wriggling her fingers and rolling the joint on the other side, unable to see, she could feel.

Frigid, raw air. The gentle sting of mist. Withdrawing her hand, she studied it, and the faint droplets that had gathered on her sun-kissed flesh.

"I think it's... like a portal, or something?"

"Are you asking, or telling?" Ofelia shot him a look, and he scoffed with a scrunch of his brows. "A portal to what?"

"Another forest, maybe? I don't know, I felt... moisture, and air. A little chilly, like late winter." Lifting the back of her hand to her nose for a hesitant sniff, perplexity was worn far too serious on her young face. "It almost... smells like home?"

Damp and woodsy, a bouquet of pine and petrichor. Pungent and distinctly Pacific Northwest. Though prior to her abduction she was a loud and proud Cali local, the nostalgia of crisp, clean Earth was good enough for her. The rhythm of her heart spiked in a pattern Astarion was all too familiar with.

"Don't be daft, darling."

Was his unwillingness to entertain a way back to her home born from a selfishness to keep her in Faerûn with him?

Indubitably.

Would he ever admit to such?

Not on her life.

"I know you're not so naive as to think anything of the hags warrants faith. She learns what you want most, and offers in it's stead but a cruel, mangled imitation."

"We don't even know for sure if this is Ethel's - but it could really, actually be home!" She rocked up to her toes, clasping her hands behind her back. Her head tucked towards her shoulder in a manner she meant to be ingratiating. "C'mon, what's the worst that'll happen? Aren't you even the least bit curious about where I come from?"

Astarion in her world... in her home. Her mind barrelled after her heart in its race.

There was so much she could introduce to him.

Castlevania on Netflix. The chorizo and egg breakfast tacos - heavy on the Chipotle mayo - at her favorite diner, the one a short walk to the park by her apartment. Better still, she could take him to her spot at that same park, an empty clearing bordering the soccer field. The little hideaway eked out and sheltered from the main path by the surrounding trees, it was just large enough for two.

She could take him there for a picnic lunch. The wire of her headphones split between them as she introduced him to more favorites, like Siouxsie and the Banshees or Volbeat. Admiring the way the haze of mid-morning sun dappled against his fair skin through the overhead canopy of leaves.

Stretched out along the grass, head cradled by her lap as she raked her fingers through his curls. His ethereal beauty, and bliss, celebrated in an opaline sheen in the suns rays.

And not just any sun, but her sun.

So giddy was she, to the image of him languid and content in shared domesticity, that it was as if she had already stepped through the alleged portal. Leaving him behind to peer at her, expectant, while she slipped deeper into her reverie. She was ripped back with a start by the snap of his fingers before her nose.

Blinking up at him, her attention fixed to the glimmer in his claret eye. Buried deep beneath weary skepticism, was curiosity. Faint, but instantly recognizable, she caught it before the gravity of her proposal had the chance to smother the ember.

Astarion wasn't often the voice of reason. He rationed the use of that one talent of his many for when the need was most dire. Hearing her impulsivity rev higher with every pounded beat within her chest, he sought to reel her back in. Conscious, and thoughtful in his intonation.

"And what happens, my precious little bard, when your home is not waiting on the other side?"

She shrugged.

“We step back through, right where we started. No harm, no foul." Batting her lashes, softening a back-bone that - for her alone - was about as rigid as a single strand of al dente angel-hair. "Besides, are you honestly telling me that the curiosity wouldn't drive you crazy if we didn't take even just one, itty-bitty peak?"

She was kind enough to measure out for him just how itty-bitty she meant, by pinching her finger-tips.

She had him there. The routine of their little troupe the previous few days had him restless.

They had done nothing but comb back through previously covered ground, all in effort to stock up for their eventual pilgrimage through the Underdark. Only to then make camp for another night, equaled in solemnity.

It was all so dull it bordered on tragic. The mere recollection made him sigh.

"You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, don't you darling?"

Her lips pursed to a small, mischievous smile. Continuing to brandish her lashes, that's all else she gave in reply.

As if he could deny any request attached to those big brown eyes.

He, in fact, could not.

With a put upon huff that forced every last bit of air from his lungs, Astarion caved. Pinching the bridge of his nose where it met his forehead wrinkled by his frown.

"We're to no more than poke our heads in- just to put this inquisitiveness to bed. If something's amiss, we come straight back.” He warned, his finger jut towards her in emphasis. “And you're never to aim those Godsdamn eyes at me ever again."

"YES!” She squealed. “Okay, okay, yes. Agreed!"

All but bouncing up and down, her victorious grin split wider across her face. Astarion couldn't deny the tightening around his dormant heart, nor the flush up the back of his neck to have granted her such excitement.

In the same lively rush of self-satisfaction, it also stoked the ire of pessimism beginning to swell within. His grimace deepened.

When had he become such a stick in the mud?

The very moment he traded his heart for hers, naturally. Caring for another was exhausting business, when the heart he took was more precious to him, than the very hands he used to hold it.

Ofelia knew that even if this was a way back home, it didn't mean she would going back for good, of course.

Probably.

They still had the ever-present triviality of impending Ceremorphosis to contend with. But even just the possibility of a sort of fast travel way-point between her world, and this one?

Ofelia had, after all, been abducted by Mind flayers, before she crashed and burned through Hell itself.

She pulled a powerful, near-famed wizard out of a rock. Stuck and flailing in the mineral like a cat with it's head caught in an empty tissue box.

Said wizard had since used his awesome power to amplify the sound of both her voice, and her lyre, just so she could preform Crazy On You for a bunch of Tieflings.

And an elf, who's also a bear.

She now had a two-hundred-odd year old Vampire for a boyfriend, whose high-school-cheer-captains sass brutality was worse than his literal bite.

She had taken her first steps in a land of literal fairy-tale, in chunky tricolor Nikes.

Stranger things had taken place, for sure.

All that aside, portals - like doorways - by their very nature, were two sided. If they went through to one side, they could simply step back over to the other.

Right?

Allowing room for only one to pass through at a time, Ofelia steeled herself to go first, buzzing like a hummingbird in her boots. With a deep breath, every inch of her prickled in adrenaline, pulling her toes curled and tightening her scalp.

She only made it one foot forward, before Astarion snatched her by the elbow, holding her in place.

"Wait." He sounded strained, as if trying to craft his speech to match a composure his actions already betrayed. "I'll... go first. This could spit us out over a steep incline, and knowing you you're just as liable to snap your neck as you are to roll an ankle."

"My perfect gentleman." She hummed, tucking her fists to her chest.

He waved her off with a grumble, and flattened ears. "Spare me."

Stepping in front of her to fill the frame with his stance, he sized up the trees within, as they scraped against the pale sky. With a roll of his shoulders, Astarion mumbled beneath his breath, something along the lines of; "let's get this over with." before he entered.

And then he was gone.

Swallowed by the shifting veil of glamor from the tips of his ears, to his heels. A faint linger of bergamot and brandy where he once stood.

Ofelia expelled a breath herself, and waited. Fingers twisting at her middle, she counted to ten, drawing out the intervals between each.

When he didn't return, and nothing in the picture altered in any indication something had gone awry upon his intrusion, she knew it was her turn.

She went in after him.

Astarion couldn't recall much of the experience through the portal.

A blur of senses jarred, and contrasting weightlessness.

He could remember the infernal whine that pierced through it all. It writhed and lashed him along, the echo of it's heinous distortion blending into the cacophony of background noise now that he was on the other side, though not soon enough.

Passing through must have severed his brain from its stem, as the sharp twinges in Astarion's head pulsed like the organ had been knocked around freely. Harsh illumination flooded from every direction, it needled the lids he held shut against it.

The ringing in his ears dulled and dissolved into idle chatter, laughter, and scuffling feet.

A touch settled to his forearm. Nimble finger-tips, with the weight and docility of a woman. Bare flesh to his bare arm.

Strange. His arms were covered in sleeves shoulder to wrist just moments before.

"-re you alright?" A woman's voice reached him through the raucous vacuity, full-bodied and clear. A closeness suggesting it must have been from the one who touched him. "What's wrong?" She chirped again. Direct with her concern.

Ofelia?

His eyes urged open by the voice, he winced with the sting, his vision erupting in white. The light descended upon him with a vengeance, and burned brighter than the sun ever did. Even after all their centuries of estrangement.

He struggled to adjust, only to then be bombarded by the sheer volume of people that surrounded him. All appearing to be quite young, and humanoid, their attire foreign. Not a single face, not even the woman who fussed over him, was Ofelia's.

The room they were in was cavernous, and sterile. It consumed the noise and spat it back out in warring reverberation. The longer he stood there, the louder it seemed to swell. The architect rigid as it was alien, glass windows stretched across much of the walls, with thin blue columns posted between them. The unfamiliarity of the furnishings went without saying, eyeing the bright garland of flags he didn't recognize, strung along the tops of the windows at his side.

His head jerked around as he searched for her among the thickness of the crowd. The specific words, and phrases he was able to isolate from the maelstrom of conversations all happening at once, did remind him of Ofelia. A commonality in her accent, and general dialect.

Was she right after all? Were they now in her home?

The bob of his throat numbed to ice.

What if she never wanted to go back with him?

Would he stay here for her? Would she ask?

What if she didn't want him to stay?

The woman stood before him with patience, though he could tell by the set of her shoulders, and tilt of her head that it was dwindling.

A pallid, statuesque woman with a cleft in her chin, whoever she was, she expected something from him. He could feel the weight of it boring into him by her expectant stare. Prodding him to speak. However the longer he went without Ofelia, her sonorous lilting, the playful wickedness glinting in the dark of her gaze, frustration began to rear.

He was in no mood for pleasantries, first impressions in her world be damned.

He snapped through the hum of drivel. "Where's Ofelia?"

The woman recoiled, though she didn't shrink. Her lips pressed thin, off-put by how brusque she was addressed.

A tall, brute of a man with dark hair and a similar sun-starved complexion posted behind her. Dressed in all white, he regarded Astarion with features screwed in complimentary scrutiny. More stunned than offended, he echoed his woman in her silence.

"Who?" Piped up from his right. It was another's woman's voice. Sprightly, much higher and airier than the firsts.

He turned to a waifish young woman, short brunette hair spiking in tufts across her forehead and out from around her ears. Curiosity and innocence personified, by her too-large of eyes, and fragile features.

"Ofelia." He reiterated, his chest tightening as her gaze widened in hopeless confusion. "Caramel skin, and raven-haired. Brown saucers for eyes, and far more suggestible than they've the right to be. A busty little number, with silver piercing her nose, here," he tapped his right nostril for emphasis, before doing to the same to the ends of each brow. "As well as here?"

Next to the small brunette was a blond man, who loomed just beyond her shoulder like a specter. One who looked as though he hadn't eaten, slept, or smiled for several months. Skin so pale it was almost translucent, with tired eyes ensnared by the void. His features passive, they twitched as if against some invisible tension wound too-tight to keep him neutral.

The tiny one gazed up at him, pleading for input with a girlish pout that matched her bowed brows. The ghoul blinked back down at her, his shoulders lifting in a motion so slight, he might as well have not even bothered. That was all the reply he gave, though she seemed to find it sufficient. Well versed in his body language, and anguished indifference.

She then wielded her doe-eyes back at Astarion, a sincere sympathy in their glisten. Her confession made with a head shake. "She sounds beautiful, but... I have no idea who she is."

Astarion waved her silent, his aggravation stewing as he made a break from the four. The heel of his shoe squeaked during his pivot, a grating sound that startled him still, though his head remained on a swivel.

More people filed in to feed the crowd, but his bard was not among them.

Sensing his impending departure, and wary over his amnesic behavior, the blonde woman stepped forward with hands raised. Afraid he'd take off like a scared animal if she closed in. Hand falling to his arm again, her voice lowered to a belabored hush.

"Where do you think you're going? What's gotten into you?"

He pulled his arm free and stumbled back. "If you're not going to be of use, then I shall have to find her myself."

The brunette woman's worry strengthened the longer she observed Astarion, her tone cracking and shrill. "Wait-! We'll help you, it's just... well, you're not making very much sense-,"

"I've no time for this." He growled, his eye drawn to an open corridor beyond where the five of them huddled. Surmising it to be the best place to start, by the consistent stream of people that had funneled through.

The four exchanged looks of varied disbelief once he succeeded in disentangling from their clique, and made for the halls entrance. In a final attempt at getting through to him, the blonde woman called after him, loud enough to attract the attention from the nearest bystanders.

"What are you -Edward!"

Astarion stopped, spinning on his heel to face them with a single brow stitching upward.

"My name is not-," he then huffed, abandoning the correction with a dismissive gesture. "Oh, never mind that."

He could hear the brunette woman squeak to the others, "we should go to Carlisle." as he left them there, gawking.

A bizarre encounter to be certain, but he'd squander no more of the precious time he'd already wasted, least of all on the likes of them.

He needed to find Ofelia.

He tried the tadpole first; but it laid unresponsive. Not dead, it gave sluggish twitches when he tried prodding it to action. Still there, burrowed within his gray matter, though dazed from the traversal. Just as dazed as himself.

Left to navigate the discombobulation on his own, and he couldn't even rely on the blasted Illithid parasite to determine if she was there. Another log fed to his roiling agitation, his ire blazed to full-swell.

She had to be there, somewhere. He just had to find her.

She was right behind him.

Wasn't she?

The moment she passed through in full, the towering pines devolved into harsh disorientation.

The pins-and-needles feeling of a limb deprived of circulation translated for the eye, all Ofelia could discern was the feeling of disembodiment. Sensory deprivation, as her aura of consciousness passed through an endless funnel of flickering black and white particles.

A low, monotonous hum of sound dialed tighter and tighter into a high-pitched whine, almost inaudible, before the psychedelics surrounding her twisted to a pinprick in the dark.

Pure white blinked to pitch black. The whine clicked off, winding down into silence.

Silence, and nothingness.

And then, gradual and humming, it all receded to make way for sound, and light. It flooded back around her, like sunrise at dawn, overwhelming and final.

When next she opened her eyes, she was no longer standing in a copse beside Astarion.

Nor did she tumble headfirst down the side of a mountain face. Or drop into the middle of some unidentified body of water; a fear that crept in just as she allowed the looking glass to swallow her whole, and it was too late to back out.

No, she was plopped somewhere far worse than even those two undesirable scenarios.

She was sitting in a high-school cafeteria.

Discordant chatter rushed her ear from clusters of teens at round tables, and loitering around the exits. In line to pile cold green beans, and congealed mashed potato onto plastic trays. Sneakers squealing against linoleum shearing through the indecipherable buzz.

She froze, looking down to find a similar tray gripped in hand. Her feet beginning to fidget under her, she discovered that she too was in a pair of squeaky sneakers.

I definitely wasn't wearing sneakers before-

After whipping her head from side to side, Astarion's face not among any that blurred into her line of sight, she shut her eyes and tried reaching out with the tadpole. It gave a little kick as it stirred, but remained otherwise stagnant.

She could, at the very least, still sense him somewhere near by, but the signal was frayed, preventing the integral method of communication they relied on when separated.

Still, she tried calling his name, but it only rebounded back. Reverberating throughout her tender skull like the whack of a ping-pong ball to the paddle, and only making it half as far, as it stayed contained within her own head. Such as when dreams rend one mute, she cried out for him, but the futile attempts bounced around the walls of her cranium, trapped. Useless. Unable to connect with him in order to guide him to her position, or likewise, make her way to his.

Oh this is so not good.

Without a single clue to where she was, or Astarion's whereabouts, her anxiety began to mount as every face she searched was one more she didn't recognize.

Until she turned her attention to her company at the table around her.

No way... Not a chance. This is absolutely not happening-

Ofelia wasn't in the middle of just any high-school cafeteria. Ofelia was in the Forks High cafeteria. Of Forks, Washington. In 2008.

The more she looked, the less real the situation felt, though nothing could have been further from the truth. This wasn't a dream, or an illusion. Hard plastic sat beneath her, as more hard plastic in a band wove through her hair at the crown of her head. When she looked down at herself, her eye met a mossy-green buttoned shirt, one boxy, and not particularly flattering, hugged against her full chest.

One not of her wardrobe, and certainly not what she had put on that morning before she and Astarion set out.

What the fuck-

"Hey, Mikey, you met my home-girl Bella!"

Ofelia shifted in her seat with a cringe.

Was the writing always this abysmal?

"My girl." An assertion puffed against the side of her face by an unidentified third male, the lips of whom then mashed against her cheek in a hasty kiss.

She whipped around on instinct to see - the name Tyler maybe sounded right? - duck away in an infantile, tugging-the-pigtail-of-a-cute-girl hit and run. Though not before pulling Mike's chair out from under him, sending him to the ground in a thud. The table jostled as he tried to catch himself against it before he did.

She watched with wide eyes and a tingling cheek, as Mike scrambled from the scuffed linoleum to bound after Tyler as he booked it away.

"Oh my God," Anna Kendrick - Ofelia couldn't for the life of her remember her character's name, and the fact that she was reeling didn't help in her frantic recall - tittered, as she took Mikey's place right next to her. "It's like, first grade all over again and you're the... shiny new toy." Her tone pinched nasal and worked into a purposeful, monotonous apathy to mimic the stereotype that plagued all teens in the early aughts.

Oh... the writing was really that abysmal.

Ofelia was fortunate, she supposed, to be plopped into a scene of the story where Bella was stunned into silence, floundering just as much. At least her own was masked that way.

"Smile!" Came from across the table in a soft, sing-song lilting. With a click, an abrupt flash cinched Ofelia's pupils in tight constriction, and pulled them crossed.

The blinding strobe of the camera covered up her wince, as the dormant tadpole then spasmed to attention.

A familiar wriggle tugging behind the eye drew both of hers in the direction of an even more familiar face. Pale and stern, red eyes broiling with bewilderment. Her mouth popped open to-

-What, tell him to stick to the script that he doesn't know? We're gonna cause a lot of fucking confusion if you don't call me Bella, by the way-

Not even given the chance to begin, Astarion barked out her name with the coarse vexation of a parent looking to wrangle a wayward toddler in a shopping mall.

"Ofelia!"

It cleaved through a gaggle of teens holed up near the cafeteria's entrance, parting them for him to stalk through as he tore down the connecting hallway. Necks craned and smirking, they whispered amongst themselves, awaiting the scene they expected to follow.

She heard a soft, collective gasp behind her as he marched towards her. Clambering out of her seat to meet him, he was on her before she even so much as stood up. Looming before her as if he owned her, a wild gleam ignited outward from his exploded pupil.

Distracting her from the outrageous sight of Astarion in jeans that she would have otherwise delighted in.

"What in the fresh hells is going on? Where are we? Why is everyone calling me Edward? What are you-," his tirade ground to a halt as his eyes settled to her legs. The full hips and shapely thighs he so adored wrapped by clinging denim, it bared her curves in full. No imagination or fond reminiscing required. A single of his arrogant brows lifted, appreciation reigned his snarling breathless. "...wearing?"

Ofelia collapsed into him with the strength of her grateful exhale, twisting his shirt into her hands. Clinging to his chest like lovers reunited.

His nostrils twitched with an inaudible snort, taking great effort to mold his features into something more hospitable. Something that better matched his joy at having found her. Like shadow as it bends to light, the aggravation bled into relief. Dappled through, vibrant and glittering.

The smile she angled his way could best be described as sappy. "I never thought I'd be so happy to be on the receiving end of your murderous gaze."

Reaching between them to cup her hips, his next snort was audible, though his expression was pained. "Is this... are we in your home?"

"No! God, no...," she winced, a placative face he understood as one used to smooth over an unpleasant, half-truth. "-well, I mean uh-,"

"Ofelia." He warned, though not before his ear - an ear rounded, like hers - picked up on the hushed remark from the single man seated at the table.

He leaned in to the woman with glasses across from him as he tried, and failed, at discretion. "She lied about her name being Bella?"

"Why are you calling yourself Bella?" Astarion accused, his tone raised an octave. "Are you the reason why everyone here seems to be under the impression that I'm Edward?"

The seated trio watched on, shameless and open with their eavesdropping.

That is, if you could call Astarion yelling right in front of them as such.

"Uh, I'm sorry d'you... do you guys know each other?" What's-her-face Anna Kendrick scoffed from her seat. Astarion scowled from over Ofelia's shoulder, her hands pressing to his chest as if that would make him behave himself.

"And what concern is that of yours, my dear?" Her mouth hung open with the full weight of her dropped jaw. "Hoping to catch many flies, are you? Please do close that mouth."

A scoff lodged at the back of her throat, Astarion's snip of undue lethality had her swallow it. The man who had been next to Ofelia choked on his laughter, while the other woman sucked her lips inward. Quivering with the threat of a giggle all her own.

A shrill ringing then blared from overhead. Ofelia didn't blink, though Astarion's head snapped back to gauge the source of the unholy shrieking, bracing himself for what was no doubt an aerial strike from this worlds version of a Harpy.

"Oh, oh honey-it's okay, it's alright." Fussing like a doting mother, she dropped a hand from his chest to squeeze his arm. She softened her tone in attempts to make her explanation less patronizing. "It's only a bell, it's used to let everyone know lunch is over, and it's time to get back to class."

Blinking, his gaze floated back to find hers, digesting her words with labored understanding. "How very... unpleasant."

She concurred with a solemn nod. "Mm. No shortage of that in a high school."

With lunch coming to a close, they watched as the students shuffled out the cafeteria - all the while the relevant, supporting cast scrutinized them with just suspicion - before the two were left alone at last.

Ofelia's palms resettled to the hard planes of his chest, afraid the moment she let go, she'd lose him again. Caught in a surge of questions still unanswered that gnawed at her with anxiety, it still wasn't enough to distract her from his hair.

Soft white curls held hostage by pomade, the up-swept tips looked as if they'd crunch between her fingers if she tried running them through.

"So, our tadpoles sort of work and sort of don't, we know that much." She began. "Where were you, by the way? I expected to see you first thing, I mean I was literally right behind you."

"As did I." He twisted to point to the Cullen-Hale table, a few feet away beneath the windows. "The next thing I knew, I was standing over there, swarmed by a group of... oh, I don't know, nymphs? Unnervingly attractive but utterly inutile, the lot of them. I overheard one suggest they fetch some Carlisle fellow. Do you know who that is?"

"Yeah, I know who Carlisle is." Ofelia snorted despite herself. "Uh, they're not - they're vampires, Star."

His mouth opened and closed several times, with only the sound of stalled breath. His gaze then narrowed.

"You told me the only vampires in your world were the fictitious sort."

"Okay, so... I don't really know how to say this in a way that'll make sense, so... I'm just gonna give it to you straight." She sighed, before then reciting her deduction as best she felt she understood it. "I think that portal stuck us in the middle of a movie from my world. That's why people think we're Bella and Edward, they're sort of the main characters of this one."

Licking her lips with a straight face, she took to brushing his shirt for lint that wasn't there. Astarion stared at her, his expression unreadable.

When finally he next spoke, it was a question; in the form of a single word.

"Movie?"

Ofelia froze.

Oh... right. Oh my God.

"Uh... so... my world has these things, they're like, plays? But on a much larger scale. They're captured with cameras, kind of like the one on my phone that I've shown you before, but a lot more elaborate, a lot heavier duty. A bunch of actors are directed, their scenes are recorded by those cameras, and then those recordings get...-"

She noticed her hands raised in vague gestures, as if somehow accomplishing what he words failed to convey. He looked at her like she was crazed, but otherwise stayed quiet.

"-stitched together, to create sort of a play that you watch later. On a screen."

She never had to explain what a movie was before. The confusion on his face didn't express whether or not she had been successful.

"Are you suggesting that none of this is real?"

"I don't know! I mean, I don't think so? But...," her fingers slipped back up his chest to hook around his collar-bone, feeling the weight of him. His body rigid, and as cold as she knew it to be. The cashmere of his shirt buttery against her palms. "I don't know, it feels real."

"C'mon Astarion, what's the worst that'll happen?" He snipped, in a feminine warble to mimic her. "Honestly. I should have expected as much."

"Yeah, yeah," she pulled away from him with a wrinkle of her nose. "I was wrong, and I'll never drag you through another mysterious woodland portal ever again. There, happy?" Hands balling to fists at her hip, she then harped. "And I don't sound like that, by the way!"

"What now, darling? We just pop on back through to the other side? I don't even see the bloody thing!"

"I know, I know-," she waved, looking around the cafeteria to see if one hadn't materialized while they bickered. "-there's gotta be one somewhere. We just have to find it."

Another horrendous noise jolted the vampire out of his skin, and his head whipped to try and source it. Brows drawn, he pointed to what was surely a foul beast by the way he sneered.

"What the hells is that?"

Ofelia followed the direction of his finger through the closest window, to see an old conversion van, whose body was more rust than paint. It's muffler evidently sick, it lurched with a grinding wheeze, a black plume spluttering from the tailpipe.

Her lips quirked, about to toss out something cute like oh, that's like a horse, but metal! Before she could, it rumbled away, revealing the mirror hidden behind where it parked.

"Oh! Look!" Identical to the first, it rested against the trunk of a tree. Unassuming as it was out of place, the ornate frame glimmered from the streaked sunlight breaching the cloud cover, as if winking at them. "Wow, that's lucky."

Astarion's gaze narrowed with a click of his tongue. "Hm. A suspicious luck, as it were."

Astarion and Ofelia both turn to look at you.

Nestled within his armchair sat before a crackling hearth, Raphael guides his spectacles down the bridge of his nose. A similar, unimpressed look reveals itself beneath the flames flicker, as the tip of his finger finds the last sentence, keeping his place in the story.

Really, my dear. That's just lazy story telling.

Ofelia's impulsivity kicked into overdrive. "Okay, let's go-,"

"Darling!" He chuckled, more rueful than merry. "Have you already forgotten the days lesson?"

She threw her hands up in surrender. "You got a better idea? I'm all ears!" She waited, allowing him just a few moments to stew. "Unless you want to stay here and deal with getting cock-blocked by Jacob for the unforeseeable future."

"Jacob?"

"Yeah." She crossed her arms over her chest. "The werewolf."

He stiffened. "There are werewolves here?"

"Yes sir."

He rubbed circles into both temples, his eyes squeezed shut as he groaned. "The mirror it is, then."

"Listen, if it was the way in, then it's gotta be the way out, right?" Ofelia grabbed his hand before beginning to walk backwards, leading him towards the exterior exit.

He allowed her to pull him along, though his frown didn't budge. "Right..."

"We should just, scope it out, at least."

Once at the glass door, Ofelia turned and pushed it open, met with a gust of chilled air, damp from a fresh rain. Propping it up with her free hand, she stepped over the threshold, only for her shoulder to rebound with a pop, when the hand she tried to guide out refused to follow.

"Are you quite mad?" He scoffed, recoiling at her continued attempt to pull him out with her. "Need I remind you of what happens to my kind upon sun exposure?"

She blinked at him. "Uh... but the tadpole-,"

"-offers protection in our world, yes. From which we are far removed."

"Well-," she stammered. "I mean our connection still works, sorta, so why not the protection?"

"I'd rather not blister beyond recognition in effort to test that theory, if it's all the same to you."

It then struck her. A memory unlocked from the depths of her youth, back from when she had watched any of the Twilights last.

A giggle fought it's way up her throat, one she strangled just in time. Though it tweaked her lips to a smarmy grin, gradual and giddy, such as a child with a secret. She pressed her lips together in attempt to combat it's domination, but it deepened nonetheless.

His expression contorted in a mixture of weariness and skepticism, his eyes narrowed to slits.

"What."

"Uh-well," she choked on a rogue snigger that escaped from the prison of her tightened throat. "Listen, you'll be fine. I promise." She forced her face straight. "The uh, rules for vampires are pretty different here. The sun won't hurt you."

Eyes bulging, he gasped in either disbelief, or excitement. Both made her feel sorry for him, and the misguided envy welling at the center. "Impossible."

"Come on, trust me." She tugged his hand in a way that crushed even his weakest bid for retaliation, and drew him out onto the wet blacktop. "You know I wouldn't push you if I thought you'd actually get hurt."

With a death-grip on her hand, he stepped out into the daytime, and seized. His face screwed around a glower, eyes sealed tight. Ofelia sighed as he remained locked.

Steeling himself to the consigned fate of frying from the inside out, in what was sure to be a fantastic display of charred skin dissolved, and an acrid stench. He waited.

And waited.

The two of them stood there, waiting hand in hand, for his impending demise. Before he peeked through one eye, and then peeled open the other.

There was no smoke. No flames. No split flesh.

This all transpired beneath the shelter of thick cloud cover, however.

He cleared his throat, dropping her hand with a terse nod. His jaw tilted with returned cockiness, signaling her that their route to the mirror was permitted to resume.

They made it not halfway through the lot before it happened.

Behind a row of generic sedans and pick-up trucks of muted colors, the clouds drifted apart, and sunlight flooded through. A single ray touched down like a spot light, catching him square in the middle.

"OFELIA-,"

With the strangled yowling of a cat whose tail caught underfoot, she turned to see him stricken with bewildered regard to his arms and hands. His ivory flesh then a prism, it caught and fractured the sunlight, scattering it outward like the surface of a diamond. Or a disco ball. "W-what-?"

A seriously incensed, handsome disco ball.

"It's-," her throat caught on laughter, just barely clipped in time. "It's just what your kind does here."

"Wh-shimmer? We SHIMMER?" His lips curled in a sneer around the bleated verb. The acknowledgment of his state alone a grave faux pas he dare not utter aloud. One worthy of the fiercest humiliation.

"Mm, I prefer sparkle." She rushed to smooth over the open-mouthed scoff her light jab ruffled. "Astarion you've never looked more beautiful."

Eyes wide, his tone quivered with the full breadth of offense that threatened to spring through the splinters of his composure. Though, when she looked closer, she could determine he was more stunned, than angry in earnest.

"This is a bastardization of the highest degree." He stressed, his hands joining in with emphatic gesticulation. "We are creatures of the night because the sunlight rejects us, punishes our very existence. We, do not, sparkle."

"Uh-huh."

"Terrifying, Ofelia." His spine erect, his offense then born from her amusement to his predicament. "We are to be feared."

"Yes."

"Gods." He hissed, spitting the expletive like a foul taste. "To think I ever scorned spontaneous combustion."

She shook her head with a grin. "So dramatic."

Though the discovery posed a very real dilemma. Whatever worlds of her fiction they hopped to, it was evident the tadpoles magic was stretched thin, and by extension, so was it's protection.

They could suffer, potentially, very real injuries as per the given realms rules if they weren't careful.

Lacing her fingers with his, she continued towards the mirror. Shining even in the overcast haze, the picture housed within was muted, and grey. Sharp corners and angular structures, Ofelia recognized enough of it to know it wouldn't lead to anywhere within Faerûn.

However the idea of scouring all of Forks for a potential second mirror, in hopes it would be the one back, was none too appealing.

She squeezed her hand around his to keep them tethered. Her thought being; when they entered separately and materialized separately, then maybe, if they passed through together - they would stay together.

Ofelia plunged her free hand through. Followed by her left foot, and then her right, tugging Astarion in toe.

He eyed their dreary, suburban surroundings one last time as he followed her inside, soured with a grimace, and a furrowed brow.

"Why does everything look so blue?"

Enveloped by the glamor, it pushed them through a tunnel without end.

Anemic black and white pixelation, and the drone of nondescript white noise absorbed their consciousness, as well any and all sensation. Touch, sight, smell. They simply melted into the current as it swept them up, and carried them along.

It took a lifetime. It happened within fractions of a second.

One moment they were standing in a damp parking lot in a mid afternoon Forks, Washington, and the next, it was late evening.

Alas, not late evening in the comfort of Faerûn. A possibility accepted before they tumbled down the rabbit hole, it was one greeted with the same amount of vexation from Astarion.

Until he laid his eyes on Ofelia, that is.

A storm raged in silence as it poured from the black of a midnight sky. Wind howling, rain drops streaked the foggy glass panes, as cracks of lightning tore through the cover of night.

Ofelia's nose twitched against the odor of must, stale and undisturbed. Masking the chemical, and medicinal that laid in wait beneath, until it slipped through and rushed her with her next breath. A stagnate, innocuous odor to a room she had yet to recognize. Metal structures and cold, tactical equipment, inimical with desaturation.

Her third breached her immediate proximity, as she was then pulling the notes of wet grass and soil through the cracks around the doors, and windows. The pungency of Earth as the rain stripped it clean.

Every inhale was dizzying. Her lungs stretched around aviolei that tingled, as if strengthening with every gulp of air fed. Forceful expansion. Necessity. Perfecting. Able to scent something different, and with startling accuracy, from each pass that sifted through the tangle.

Her eye focused to a spot on the wall before her without the conscious effort on her part to do so. An amorphous, faded stain no larger than her pinky nail, it had drawn her attention like it was a gaping hole punched through the drywall.

Her skin prickled, feeling colder than she'd ever been. A heart pumped a natural rhythm behind her breast, though she felt chilled, as if not a lick of warmth wove through the attached arterial structures.

She felt... new. Her senses heightened, more precise, though she wasn't yet adjusted to the fine-tuning. Flooded by everything at once, with no real sense of navigation, or control over the input. An erratic burst of panic threatening the steadiness of her heart, her next inhale saw it eased just as sudden.

The aroma of rosemary musk, a gentle hand outstretched to a spooked filly. She breathed him in deep, until the brandy burned a trail down her throat, and warmed her stomach. She could hear the measure of a slower palpitation thudding from Astarion behind her; harmonizing the wind and the rain beyond the walls, and the far off thunder closing in with every rumble.

Her nostril flared beneath its piercing as she continued to inhale his signature from the air, like a sedative to quell her agitation. She never thought scent could be so powerful. Ushering it in by the lungful until they ached against the depth of him, heady and unrefined.

A yet unidentified tang bubbled through it. A cloying, tinny undercurrent.

Ofelia continued to sniff the air for any and every last trace of him, until she then faced him, as following his trail spun her around to where he was seated. Knowing he was near from the start, it didn't prevent her exhaled relief upon finding him. Not to mention the satisfaction on a theory proven correct.

Entering together saw them reemerge together.

He had been watching her. Curiosity still lingered in the fine lines of his face, suggesting a weak hunch denied. He stood up to meet her as she closed the short distance between them, each taking that moment to size up the other.

A plain, black t-shirt clung to his figure. His curls limp and lengthened, the strands held to a grit in the style of late 90's, early 2000's grunge. A far cry from his typical presentation, she couldn't deny it was one that suited him. Long, elegant elf ears were noticeable in that they were nonexistent. Gone again were the ethereal points of cartilage that should have jut through his lax mane.

In the absence of proper dark, Ofelia noticed his eyes were stripped of their hazy smolder. The lighting muted and dingy, it was only in a flash of illumination from lightning did she notice they weren't red at all - but golden.

Astarion got a good eyeful of her in that same streak of light, and once his eyes adjusted to their new, dim environment, satisfaction split his grin wide.

"Oh." He breathed with palpable approval, his words purred a heady velvet. "I quite like this one."

Her bronze complexion and glossy locks untouched, they fell to a blunt edge just above her shoulders, and tousled to purposeful disarray. Glancing down, Ofelia was greeted by glistening black that swathed her curves.

In clinging latex from the neck down, a body-suit shone like wet ink in the light, and dissolved into the dark once touched by shadow. In tandem with the onyx of her hair, she'd blend into the cover of night, should she want to move through it.

Just as any Death Dealer should.

Like the shock of a rogue wave breaking over head, Ofelia then understood where they were. Why she felt misplaced in her own skin.

And oh, for all it's ruthless discomfort, Selene's suit hugged Ofelia's figure like it was actually made for her instead.

Her fingers explored her full figure, newly packaged in the sleek exterior. Astarion's eye traced along with her trail, a hot leer searing shameless his wake.

"Oh my God, we're in Underworld!" She bounced on her toes in a way that jostled her breasts to distraction. His grin turned lopsided as it grew.

"I've no idea what that means." The strain of the corsets top around her chest notwithstanding, Astarion's ogling bulged with agony and appreciation in equal measure. The cut of her neckline plunged in deliberate invitation, one he fast obliged. "Though, I am beginning to rethink my stance on theism."

He had long since buried the memory of arousal's pull when he was but a mortal. He had forgotten just how potent, and insistent it staked its claim of weakened flesh, and blood. He regarded the warmth returned to his groin like an old friend.

Surely at least one God existed to find himself placed in such a scenario.

The doe-eyed incredulity she flashed him regrettably went without the pink sheen of her cheeks, the reaction he loved best, before he noticed them stretch in the dawning of another revelation.

"Oh-ohhhhh, wait a sec." Tonguing her canine, she laved the tip of it against the sharpened tine she suspected would be there. "I have something I think you're gonna like even more."

To his expectant pause, her pouty lips peeled back to bare her teeth in full, flashing him her fangs with a playful grin.

His eyes enlarged, so gradual it could almost be missed; his pupils blown wider and wider, as if two splotches of ink spilled onto the irises.

If a dial-up tone piped from his ears, Ofelia wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.

Reaching forward to cup her face with a single hand, his thumb swept over her upper lip to rub against the tooth as it glinted in the luminescence. As if the physical contact would be what ensured him of their legitimacy. It pushed back against his press solid and slick, seeking to prove itself genuine with as much eagerness as he employed in testing it.

Dragging down it's length, daintier and smaller than his own, it was no less lethal. The tip snagged against his pad in it's exploratory graze, not enough to break skin, but enough to express that she'd be able to sink them into the meat of his throat with ease.

To mark him as hers, just as he had done with her so many times before.

Feeling the weight, the sting of her little fang - Ofelia's fang - roused a deep ache to tingle from the complimentary scars puncturing the side of his neck. One that yanked in tandem with the low, dull pulse threading through his groin.

Earth boys are easy.

"Oh..." rushed from him, low and breathless.

A surge of pride with how taken he was by her fangs, her gaze wandered to his parted lips, and that's when she noticed it. The top row of his teeth, blunt. His canines without their signature ferocity.

"Ohh... Oh! You're Michael!" Her pointy smile drawn into abrupt worry, she pulled away from his hands, whipping around in search of the gold framed glass. "Oh we gotta go."

"What? No, wait-" He whined, clutching at her wrist and forearm while stepping backwards, receding to a dark corner. "Must we rush off this very instant?"

"You don't understand, we need to find that mirror and get out of here, they're hunting you specifically."

That made him take pause, though he continued to tuck them against the wall. "What's so threatening about some mortal?"

"Because he's not- you see, he's..." she stumbled through the holes in her memory, though the way he dragged her into his body, with a smirk of one who wasn't really listening, worsened her stutter. "I-It's complicated, it's a whole thing. But it's been a minute since I've watched this one- I don't know where in the movie we are, which means we really, really should be going."

"Don't tell me you've lost your sense of adventure now." Through an exaggerated pout he protested, tugging at her arms childlike and incessant. "Need I remind you that is how we've ended up here, after all."

She groaned. "Astarion-,"

He could feel her resolve weakening, her struggle against his hold begrudging, yet calmed.

"Come and play, little vampire." He dropped his voice into his chest, a smoky octave that pulled her stomach down around her knees. In a purr that was both coaxing and needy, his eyes shone like golden embers. "Bite me?"

"What-,"

"Just one bite." He urged, doing his level best to be suave and silken, when really the thought of Ofelia latched at his neck and gulping had him woozy.

"I-," her body must have been every bit as committed to the role of Selene, for even just the thought had her gums itching around the base of her protruding teeth. Her stomach writhed in the beginnings of an aching, voided hunger. A curl from which broke free to reach deeper, a flicker of arousal then stirred to full pelvic flutters. "Star..."

"I want you to know what it's like." He pleaded, now all but whimpering in his desperation. "Please? You cannot tell me you're not the least bit curious."

"I don't... I-I-,"

His palms closed around the small of her back, leveraging her to press flush against him. "No need to be shy, Felia... I'll guide you through it."

Everything in her warned against stealing such an indulgence, but she couldn't find it within herself to resist the temptation. A vampire's blood-lust, she was fast discovering, was a difficult lure to raise above.

Cupping her face, he swept his thumb along her cheekbone nurturing, the weight and tenderness in his gaze reassuring the anxiousness in her own. Dispelling every last, remaining trace of retaliation, as he melted her into him by his touch.

Where he was warmth, and yearning, Ofelia was a raw nerve. Sparking and crackling electric within his hold.

Her very irises jolted him, fierce and imploring; an unending, soulful hue of umber.

Those orbs of hers that many a time prior pinned him rigid, and zipped through his being crown to sole. That roused a brief, but salient squeeze to twitch around the organ in his chest, one long since dormant. A trick of his haunted mind, that the twinkle in her eye alone was enough to make him tick.

Those very eyes that were then washed away with a blink.

Ofelia as he knew her stood trembling before him, and when next she peered up at him, he was bore into by a brilliant shock of tourmaline blue. A shade unlike he had ever seen, they seemed to pulsate with energy. The tips of her fangs peeking from beneath her lip as it quivered.

A fledgling huntress succumbing to her needs, the sort Astarion was all too gleeful to lure out in full. Still, she shook in his grasp, reaching for him to paw at his shirt with coltish fumbling. Skittish in touching him, in taking from him something he offered without constraint.

"Oh, my sweet girl. I know how much you need it." He cooed, admiring the magicked quality in which her eyes glowed beneath her heavy lids, and lowered lashes. "I know how it must ache inside."

His silver tongue gilded his insults and seduction alike; be it sharpened or sultry, his words were chosen with care, and wielded to devastation. Where Ofelia was concerned, that tongue of his was well-versed in her weak spots. Having sourced her exploits long ago, all he had to do was press into them.

"You've always taken such good care of me, let me return the favor." His finger-tips swept across her chin, before nudging her upper lip to get a good look at her right fang again. "Let me teach you... let me show you how good it feels."

"You really... have a way of... making it sound s-so," swallowing a whine, she leaned into his touch as he rubbed the ripple of gum around the root of her canine, stimulating it to throb for him. "Hedonistic."

He chuckled, a smoked baritone that curved down her spine and coiled between her hips.

"Oh but my darling, it is." He guided her hand down below his waist. Molding her smaller palm around the stiffening bulge, he gasped at the contact. "An aspect you are far more familiar with than most."

Ofelia, at times, liked to tease him for his yapping. Though now she could have thanked all the Gods of both his world and hers, that he was so taken with the sound of his own voice, for it was all that kept her anchored to the moment.

With a whimper, she groped him with a gentle pressure and quivering hand. Saliva pooling around her tongue, her gum line pulled against her flexing bite, tight and tender.

"I saw you scenting the air, you precious thing. You could smell that I was near." He delighted in how unfocused her gaze fluttered, needful as the arch in the small of her back that fit her front to his. "Something else as well, no? Something new?"

The underlying fragrance to his familiar musk, the thick spice of ambrosia, was the blood pulsing hot in his veins.

"I always wandered what it might be like, to guide a spawn through their first time." He mused aloud. "It really is such a delicate moment... almost virginal, wouldn't you agree?"

Somewhere, deep in the clouded recesses of her rationale, there was a spark of insolence that wanted to roll her eyes, or goad him for how overt his rambling. But she was already too far gone. Locked in some sort of trance by how demanding the hunger washed through her.

And he could see it.

Her eyes dialed to the pulsation of his carotid beneath fair skin, the quickened beat of his heart. The tempo of blood flowing through it, as it lulled her subdued. She licked her lips, all but nicking her tongue against her own fangs.

Swaying on her feet, the nagging anticipation puppeted her forward, as her mind blanked. As unacquainted with her strength as she was her improved senses, Ofelia's movement mimicked a foal wobbling through her first steps. The sight clenched around his borrowed heart.

Sliding down the wall to catch his weight on bent knees, he steadied her against him as she pushed to her tip-toes, craning her neck to get at his. The first puff of her breath to his skin warped his vision, swimming and speckled. Throat raw, it stripped the velvet from his voice, oozing from him much more ragged, and feverish.

"Close your eyes, and steady your breaths. Let yourself feel it."

Her tongue darted out to swipe over the sinew, pulled taut from how he stretched it for her, granting her easier access. A quiet moan escaped him before his lips pulled apart in a grin, jaw slackening. Another moan lingering at the back of his throat, the quick lap of her tip over his scars strangled it coarse and stuttered.

Licking a dainty, wet trail over his warm flesh, he felt her breaths quicken with her chests constricting. Nuzzling and nipping, she sought his vein like a newborn rooting at her mothers chest, precious with inexperience. Impatient. Fumbling, and eager.

"There you are." He swallowed thick, crooning, "That's my girl... if you still yourself, and listen, you'll find it... give yourself to instinct, darling."

Ofelia's ears roared with the vacant blood circulated by her galloping heart. She sniffed and whimpered at his throat, struggling to still herself against how loud her inhuman perception fed her new information. Every scent, every sound, every sensation, all vying for her attention. Astarion must have sensed it in her frustration.

Long, dexterous fingers knotting at the back of her head in a tender squeeze, he maneuvered her into place, the tip of her nose crushed to the exact patch of skin she sought. Warm and soft and thin, the strength of his aroma buckled her knees and closed her throat over. Her fangs buzzed with how they ached.

Once she sunk in, and his blood bubbled up against her gums, her vision exploded white.

A low, breathy groan of his hitched against her lips before it hummed out into the air, encouraging her to continue. As she began to pull, disjointed and hesitant at first, she eased into him once both hands joined to cradle the back of her head. All ten fingers thread her raven locks, mussing them further in his euphoria.

"There she is..." he sighed, dropping his head back against the wall. He pet her hair, resting his eyes while she suckled. "Take it all, little love. As much as you desire."

His taste was indescribable, and Ofelia couldn't seem to get enough. She siphoned from him like she had lived an existence starved. Every swallow was divine, but it only teased satiation, instead of granting it.

Through her daze she became aware of his hands, abandoning her hair to explore down her body. One only went so far as scuffing her by the nape, more so to keep her still, instead of pry her off, while the other dipped low. The pads of his fingers gliding over her black glossed curves, to settle at the apex of her thighs.

If ever there was an entrance to be found, it didn’t stand a chance against her cunning rogue. A slight pull, followed by a tug, Ofelia was then unzipped between her legs with a seam in the suit that not even she herself knew existed.

A deftness that carried over, no matter who he impersonated, or what world they were dropped off in. His spidery digits helped themselves to her heat, widening the opening of the suit with his knuckles to give himself more room.

The instant he brushed her slit, feeling how hot it was to his press, how slick, he felt her stutter at his neck in a keening whine. Wet and wanting while she sucked straight from his vein. He groaned back at her.

"You're wet." A declaration knotted thick from the back of his throat, his heft gave a stiff kick against the binding denim of his jeans. "Oh, aren't you a treat."

Her fangs popped from his neck as he began to swirl betwixt her swollen petals with his middle finger, up her seam before sinking within her groove. The hand at the back of her neck twitched in re-adjustment, lining her back to his new set of punctures.

"No, darling, don't stop." He sounded as strained as he felt, his wounds stinging in neglect to the exposure of the air.

Not needing further dictation than that, she reattached herself an inch lower so she could steady her boots flat beneath her, planted to the ground. Though not before she soothed the ache of his first wound, closing the holes with the pink of her tongue, and the onset of coagulation.

A vampire for all of fifteen minutes, she was a quick study. Astarion would be remiss to not pay due credit to how well-suited she was to the role of nocturnal mistress.

Never in his wildest, unbidden fantasies had he ever considered this turn of events.

Ofelia, his plucky bard who traveled both time and space, a vampire.

Latching herself at the throats of the unsuspecting and seduced, turning her innocent charms and syrupy-sweet approachability as a means for satiation, and survival.

Of course none of it was real, not really. Both to his disappointment, and gratitude. He couldn't imagine condemning her to such an existence. The selfishness in him could have kept her for an eternity, but the intrusion of guilt was not one of which he was strong enough to stave for long.

Her next bite choked his groan, throaty and huffed. His index finger joined in his toying, spreading the drizzle of her honey around her swollen sex, and dipping the full width of two fingers to prod her entrance. It twitched against them in frantic coercion to edge inside, to ease the sore emptiness with his stretch.

Her grip was like a vice, though with how sticky and needful she was reduced made his intrusion as near to seamless as possible. Her cinched velvet convulsed in her haste to accommodate him, penetrating her molten core to the joint of his first knuckle, and then to the next, as he worked them in.

Once hilted, he gave her but a moment to settle the slender protrusion within her, before he hooked forward. Grazing the spongy patch inside that made her flinch and howl like a woman possessed. She bucked into his cupped palm, a little tilt of her pelvis as she rolled herself into his hold, the crook of his neck muffling her pinched whine.

Her fangs burrowed in a searing sting that pulled a hiss through his grin. It was in that moment that he began to thank each and every God whose name he could recall.

Coaxing her apart, feeling the deep, steady pulls in tandem with the strength of her wrapped around his digits. He withdrew to just his first knuckle, before pumping them back in, an attentive rhythm in and out. Spreading his fingers as he passed them through, pushing her tightness to a less suffocating fit.

By the fifth time, his thumb had sought her sensitive pearl, firm and raised through the drapes of her womanhood. He swiped along the sticky shine with an initial pass that was feather light. Her nails scratched raised welts to his skin through his t-shirt, lifting to her toes once more to better rock into his hold.

Fingers curled within her heat, he worked to knead her ache, to rub her neediness from the inside, while he traced her bud in similar persuasion.

Her mind near to blank, her tight ridges popped his knuckles from the joints as she stuttered and stalled. Breathy, wet whines broke her suction a little more with every roll of her clit beneath his thumb. His noises were no less obscene, sighs lower than she'd ever before experienced.

Ofelia was penetrating him, unrestrained in her submission to the sanguine hunger he appeased, and so he moaned, and crooned accordingly.

"You're so good for me." His sigh misted into the stillness, rumbling and heavy. Soft and coarse all at once. "I've got you, sweetheart."

A low spasm wormed between the points of her pelvis, radiating outward to burrow down to her sex, igniting fire that ravage her in its path.

A new release, for a new version of her. It licked it's way through her increased sensitivity, demanding her offerings of his blood that she drank, his essence she stole. And in return she was gifted a newfound understanding of what he bore, salty and saccharine. An existence exiled to a perpetual ache, that chasing gratification only worsened. The hole widened, but never filled.

A rebirth in the raw, her mouth painted red and her eyes rolled back to show veined whites, and nothing more. When she blinked them back to place, they ignited brilliance like blue solar flares. A tender ache that pooled low in her stomach, it unfurled in a heavy wave throughout her lower half.

Her cream drizzled from her petals to his fist, soaking the grooves the peaks of his sharp knuckles made, as he stretched her two fingers wide, and continued to slither in deep. Riding her through it while she pulsed against him, her swollen nub humming and content.

He had never made her come quite like that before.

She collapsed into his chest, gulping air into her heaving lungs. Her nose twitched to the bombardment of her pheromones now on the air, and the spike of his pre-come, musky and unmistakable. Her head swam against an orgasm that, even once it rolled through, the shock waves still held her hostage. Volts of static that sparked and ricocheted throughout limbs so weighted they felt dead.

Was this what it was like for him every time? The wash of sensations left her raw, and overstimulated in their own right. It was a wonder he could function around the smells of their sex permeating the air, let alone shake off the rigors of an earnest coupling.

Her new hunger for the time appeased, as she mewled at his bloodied neck. Licking every last smear from her swollen pout, tonguing the small punctures she'd gnawed into him, and the droplets just beginning to dry.

Pulling from the plush of her heat he worked taught once more, he stuck his fingers past his lips to suck them of their sheen. The conduction of his thoughtful susurration buzzed against her cheek, still using him for stabilization.

Even here, even afflicted by vampirism, she still melted against his tongue warmed sugar and vanilla.

"W-we should probably," she swallowed, her upper lip catching on her lengthened fangs. Her pupils burst wide against the blue that ringed them in electrification of her lust, "p-probably find our way out."

Astarion's smile curled around his knuckles before he dragged them from his mouth. Tilting his head at her, he then wet the pad of his thumb before using it to wipe at the corner of her mouth.

Eyes still glassy beneath heavy lids, she parted in a wordless request to suck it clean for him. A throb twinging in his swelled groin akin to the sensation of a dropped stomach, he pushed the bloodied digit between her lips.

"After you, my little vampiress."

They traversed mirrors at a rate that made his head spin.

Passing through the tunnel of static and a near ear-drum splitting, distant whine. Astarion was sure he'd hear the noise even in the very deepest of his trances from thereon.

Most hinted the possibility of being the correct one, only for them to be plunged even deeper into Ofelia's fairy-tales.

He experienced no less than three instances and iterations of a character that, according to Ofelia's insistence, was the most famed in her world.

A soul shackled by shadow, one forced to endure the torment of loneliness eternal, his tale subscribed to the formula of his long lost love returned to him through the reincarnations of unattainable, mortal women. On the cusp of seduction, only to dart out of his clutches, like a fawn startled by a snapped twig in the wood.

Though the narratives were faithful to their source, he found that each re-telling seemed to luxuriate in their respective styles.

The first held great appeal for Astarion. Rich, sumptuous attire, sexual tension and tragic yearning, as thick as the fog that blanketed the grounds.

Delightful in it's stewed drama and style. A distinguished man of taste, this Dracula character was.

Astarion came to her in a bed at the crest of night. In a shifting gown so diaphanous, he could trace the full silhouette of Ofelia's curves with his eye. An exercise that almost distracted him from her words of warning.

It didn't help his cause, of course, that he blipped into the world on top of her.

A silken mane of elegantly coiffed waves draped his proud shoulders, he pinned her beneath his weight. She pled for him to listen through breathy pants of his name, fingers knotted in his hair as she writhed. The bedding held her captive to his descent of hunger, and the salvation he promised in the acceptance of his bite.

That was, until she broke free from the haze of his spell, and hollered at him to pay attention. Informing him that there was not just one man standing in his way, but five. One of which being a fiance, and all of them would soon burst into that very bedroom to, in her own charming turn of phrase; "clean his clock."

"Gods, more vampire hunters?" Muffled against her throat, blushed raspberry from the whiskers grown around his mouth, and pricked with love nips. Red and tender, dotting along her humming pulse. He pulled back with a shake of his head. "Does this Dracula never get to rest?"

She gasped underneath him like a wild thing; the pinning of her hair askew, her lips kiss swollen, and gaped. "Not really."

He picked himself up from the bed, yanking her out by the wrist.

He took the time to shed the black silk of his robe and thrust it around her shoulders, unwilling to allow even the roaming eye of one deranged to feast upon the sight of her. Ofelia's tan voluptuousness naked and veiled thin was reserved for Astarion, and Astarion alone.

Stalking through an asylum for the insane was one they hesitated to linger. One ruthless in its sobriety. It spurred them with haste until their mirror was found, tucked away in a supply closet.

The second was a curious one.

A world drained of it's color, he entered this realm and was welcomed by stark black and white. He found himself the dapper figure darkening a doorway, and she the virginal beauty left by her lonesome to the shadows, and what lurked within them.

Ofelia laid in another bed, dolled up and tucked beneath the covers, as if linens would shield her from the lust that would soon ravage her about the neck. One bared in beckoning. Coaxing him hither, with it's intoxicating thrum. Her tresses, still rich and raven black against the pale satin pillows, stopped just beneath her chin, and framed her face in soft ringlets.

Left vulnerable to him in the clutches of her slumber, he then approached, with a flourish of the high-collared cape that fluttered with his every step closer. Astarion climbed onto the bed, the mattress giving beneath the heels of his palms, and knees, as he caged her within them.

The oppressive sultriness, and lavish intricacy of the former was stripped away. Almost purposeful, the bareness of the surroundings bore a sort of quiet romance. It felt familiar, and classic, and in some ways, far more intimate.

He pressed kisses, soft feathering of his lips, up along the ridge of her jaw, and then to each cheek. Kisses that stressed longing, a longing of which Astarion believed both he and Dracula suffered in mutuality.

Whether sleep had truly claimed her, or she was just committed to her role, he felt Ofelia come to life under him, as her mouth curved to a smile beneath his. Her fingers, lovely and nimble and still lacquered pitch, swept up the underside of his torso, exploring the crisp lapels of his tapered waistcoat, to the bow-tie around his neck.

Winding her arms around his shoulders, she melted into the bedding to his urging. Meek and malleable, her surrender absolute.

She looked so pretty to him then. A boyish phrase lackluster when compared to an exquisite creature such as she, but his mind drew blanks to anything more complex, or poetic. Her beauty weaponized to disarmament, he failed her with words befitting her perfection, so he relied on his touch instead.

A touch fine-tuned to her plush body, features full and unapologetic, and decidedly all woman, unhindered even by the contrast of her youth. And how untried she maintained.

She was just so... pretty. Dangerously so. Even without the bounds of her hair, or the pinch of arousal rouging her warm, honeyed skin.

And those wide, eager eyes.

How they glinted up at him, in complimentary yearning. Their depth bursting expressive and clear, even with their lack of pigment.

With the first tease of his fangs scraping up the sinews of her neck, she wove a beautiful melody of his name against the shell of his ear, hushed low to keep it between them. An invitation to sink, to sup, to bound her to him for an eternity, and beyond.

Or for as long as they suspended in the enchantment of grayscale, and string quartet instrumentals.

The next was met with far less grace by Astarion.

A twist on the infamous Count, this one saw him bald and bug-eyed.

Long, spindly fingers with claws cut to an inefficient length. Horrific fangs stuck protruded like buck-teeth through his pale gums. Ill-fitting and comical, they caught on his lips, and muffled his speech.

Ofelia rested in a narrow bed of pretty white lace, and looked a gothic vision. Locks of ink long and whisping, they fanned glimmering around her head like an endless halo. Leaves and flower petals scattered the bedding, a ritualistic ward of protection. Quaint in its ineffectiveness, it no more protected her pretty neck from his bite than rose petals dressing the table of a romantic spread.

Upon their eyes falling to each other for the first time, he couldn't help but leer at the swell of ample bosom, almost spilling from the flimsy gown as it heaved. Her modesty guarded by no more than a thin, sheer dress that rivaled the first, it would have almost, perhaps, distracted him from the grotesque depiction he embodied. Pieced together with what of himself he could discern through touch.

Until he realized the heaving of her chest were shakes of laughter, not lust. He thrust his finger in her face as he haunted her bedside.

Ofelia was laughing.

Astarion looked like the parodied caricature of an otherwise sophisticated breed, and Ofelia was laughing.

"T-This-," he spluttered, "-this is an aberration! Your kind is fortunate we do not deign their miserly existence with our presence, and an undue fortune at that! The mockery that's made of us - appalling, Ofelia! - We are ridding ourselves of this, this lampooning at once!"

Oh, it was a good thing he couldn't see himself.

He ripped away from her with the anticipated degree of theatrics, stalking along the wall to continue his bluster. Whirring passed the window a skulking silhouette, something just beyond the glass stopped him in his tracks. His shouting mounted in its crescendo. "And why are there so many bloody rodents!"

"Uh, I think," now sat up in bed with the blanket pooled in her lap, Ofelia wiped at the corner of her eyes with as much discretion as he could muster. "I think you brought them. I think it's supposed to symbolize the spread of your pestilence-,"

"With RATS?" He whipped back around, hunched and snarling. His features darkened as his glower sunk them deeper into his face. "Is that what your kind believes of us? That we languish in sewers? Ghastly! Not to mention factually inaccurate! Rats. As if- and how pitifully unimaginative!"

"It's... it's just-," her voice quavered around the pesky howl of laughter that kept trying to leap from her throat, stilting every other syllable. The more winded she became, the uglier his scowl grew. "A little artistic liberty-,"

"Artistic liberty indeed!" He all but shrieked. "I do not look like this! Not even the most monstrous of us look as such!" His pacing resumed. "This is vile! This is slander! I will not tolerate a moment more!"

It took everything in Ofelia not to begin wheezing.

Her cheeks numb from an ear to ear grin, she couldn't help it - and she did try. "I mean I always sorta loved this one-"

"You wretch!" Hollered with the same shrill warble of nails to a chalkboard, the echo thundered against the walls of the tiny bedroom. "I've half a mind to leave you to the rats!"

Vanity was truly his Achilles heel.

And Ofelia thought he took the sparkle news bad.

Needless to say, the mirror to leave Werner Herzog's rendition of Nosferatu was found in record time.

Astarion grunted as his back made contact with a hard, sticky ground, and none too gently. Scrambling to get his bearings, he blinked away the disorientation. The imperceptible haze of static that enveloped him each and every tumble through the mirror ebbed into darkness. Darkness that then morphed into surroundings still as foreign as the last, though infinitely more chaotic.

The stench of blood, sweat and sex. Though his senses seemed muddled. So much gore it nearly choked him. Thick on his tongue with every ragged breath, as it was clotted on the back of his throat, the scent was still more subdued than it should have been for him.

His ivory waves as he knew them gone, his new white shag was cut to blunt tufts that framed his face with no style to speak of. Sprawled out on filthy wooden floorboards, he laid there in head to toe black; belted trousers, a vest, and blazer. The white cotton of an undershirt peeking through the only contrast. Eyes an autumnal shimmer yet again, he looked largely the same, save for the thin tendrils of black ink spiking up the left side of his neck.

Something was slotted into his right hand, something sleek, that held a decent weight.

Conflicting screams of agony, and inhuman yowls the symphony of the surrounding hysteria, whatever establishment he had, quite literally fallen into, was smack in the middle of a slaughter. Bodies collided, careened into walls, and impaled on broken furnishings.

Grizzled, thuggish men, bloodied and battered, fought half-naked women. Serpent eyed, fanged women, who tore off limbs and sliced open throats with the expended energy of plucking wings from flies. Frenzied, animalistic streaks of sequin, and vibrant-hued satin on rampage.

Lubricious gore striped up the walls and pooled across the floor, spraying around him with the force and incessance of ocean spray in a typhoon. Blood, and a mysterious green substance that glistened with gem like luster. It crinkled his nose all the same.

One man crawled along the ground to his left, with one of his legs ending half way to the knee in an abrupt pulp of stringy flesh, and the viscera he trailed behind. Just beyond him on top of the bar rail, a blonde vampiress with feathers in her hair crouched over the upper half of another male corpse. His jugular - what was left of it - pinched between her jowls, she shook and sawed her maxillae through the remaining threads of connective tissue that held head to body.

Occupied with what Astarion assumed to be the lower half of him, a half-rotted creature with her human features melted to exaggerated monstrosity, gnashed through the meat of his thigh. Red spurted where she clamped down in a sickening gush of the femoral artery, punctured like a bloated water skin. The longer he looked the more his distaste grew.

Manic music jarred his senses above the commotion, the acoustics suggesting the source was close. He then spotted a band of men; their eyes wicked and faces gnarled - certainly nothing human.

And the leader, his instrument - a lyre?

Oh no, on second thought, it bore suspicious resemblance to a torso. One with the head still attached.

Astarion's features held taut in a grimace. "Well now that's just tacky."

The odor of excessive gore wet and hot against the surfaces it painted, and the stench of muscle exposed to the air through shredded flesh, it all should have been unbearable to his twitching nose, but it wasn't. Just as the raucous cacophony around him should have needled his ear, with how sharp and exact and demanding each, isolated groan and howl should have pierced. Instead, it all melded together into the background. One, great incongruous dissonance to the bombardment of his comparative dulled senses.

That was to say, every sense, except for his sight.

It followed the length of the tan leg attached to the foot pinning him by his chest, bare and arched, a dark lacquer painting the nails. Dragging all the way up to a luscious hip - her hip - dipping in at the waist, and scaling up over the peaks of ample bosom in confirmation that it was indeed Ofelia standing over him. As scantily clad as he had ever seen, even in fantasy.

The constellation of freckles smattering her soft abdomen, plum velvet and gold creased high on her hips in a pair of underthings that pulled one of his brows high. Only for it's pair, a salacious brassiere that pushed and propped her full chest, drew up the other to join it. A gold bangle in the likeness of a serpent coiled around her right bicep, while a thick band collared on her clavicle.

Chaos raged around them. Glass shattered, furniture crashed. Claws shredding flesh from muscle, and muscle from bone. Bodies gurgled and cartilage snapped. The heavy, sopped thudding of limbs torn loose shadowed the screams of those preyed upon, and the screeches of those who preyed.

Through it all, Astarion could do nothing but stare up at her.

A broken, labored sound seethed through his slackened jaw. One drowned from her ear, it rumbled against the ball of her foot, still planted square to his chest.

"Gods above and below." A rush of breath that left him deflated in submission, whistling through his teeth. "Aren't you just a hot meal for the starved."

"Don't even think about it." She warned, eyes wild and tone suffering. "I die in this one, like, almost immediately."

"Oh?" Indignation shot through him in a scoff. "Who'd be stupid enough to destroy a body like yours?"

Her gaze flattened. "You."

With only a dozen questions poised at the tip of his tongue, a tousle beside him encroached on his periphery. A bloodied blur rolled towards them along the ground; a trucker sacrificing his forearms to shield his face from the howling, topless vampiress stuck to him like a tick. A slobbering, jagged maw ripped apart the space of her face where her mouth used to be.

Ofelia leapt back off his chest just in time for him to duck out of the way, twisting himself prone to push up off the ground.

"I'm a bastard." He asserted, once back to his feet. Grabbing her by the arms on instinct, as if to anchor her still. The revolver still comically gripped in his unacquainted hand.

Motion from their left whirling through the air, Astarion pulled her into arms he wound tight around her back. Jerking them both aside, clearing them from the path of a broken pool cue launched like a javelin.

"Yep-," chirped through a cheeky grin, the rest of Ofelia's words ground to a squeak into his chest, as he once more tucked her back into him. Shielding her from a geyser of booze and shards of glass, as a bottle of tequila exploded against the table at her back. Shrinking into his collar, more breathless than before. "Just not a fucking bastard!"

The reference woeful as it was wasted on his ear - a fact that continued to delight her, as it remained unchanged - he flinched as a loud crash sounded from behind them. The sickening, gooey thump of the bartender heaving the split-in-half remains of what used to be another trucker, to the upended chairs below like two fleshy bowling balls to makeshift pins.

Astarion, twisted in their shared embrace to observe the grotesque display, muttered in Elvish before then turning back to face her. "I don't suppose you know your way through this debauchery?"

Bouncing her gaze, bright and frenzied, through all the ruthless dismemberment proved her search for the mirror futile. Until a vampiress pounced on the back of an unsuspecting biker, and drove them headfirst into the side of the bar, to reveal the store-room door behind where he once stood.

"I think through there, maybe." Astarion followed the direction of her pointed finger with an arched brow. "I mean, it was sort of important in the movie, and it's nowhere out here."

A severed head spun sideways at their feet. The emphasis of the mirrors absence out in the fray with them was received as both a blessing, and a curse.

"Well, no time like the present, as they say." Detaching from Ofelia just far enough to collect her hand, Astarion shifted in front of her, as he began to lead them through the brawling thicket.

Their destination halfway across the room from where they stood, they didn't make it more than a few feet, before a hungry, unoccupied vampiress caught wind of his presence.

Leaping before them, she hunkered low, wound and ready to spring forth. To see him spurt and splutter at the vein, one ripped open beneath the tines of her bite. Fangs bared, and slick with anticipatory drool to do that just.

Spine stiffening beneath his jacket as she and Astarion sized each other up, Ofelia peeked out from behind the cover of his body. The vampiress spit at him in a hiss; something warped and ferocious, the disconcerting warble of two different voices competing for ascendancy.

On instinct, Astarion hissed back.

With all the clipped, deadened ferocity of a domesticated house cat standing down a mountain lion.

If Ofelia was even just a hair less panicked, she would have giggled into his jacket.

Tonguing his canines as a bite failed to extend from his human maxillary, Ofelia stepped out from behind him. With a hand sliding up his arm, her tone gentle and meek as she informed him. "Oh, honey, you're... not a vampire in this one."

Having deduced as much on his own, he couldn't help the disappointed sigh. Not from being stripped of abilities he was more comfortable in, but because he had made himself a fool in doing so.

"No?"

"No." She guided him to step behind her with an arm swept around his abdomen, another role reversal of their dynamic in which he was tickled to oblige. "I am."

The taller vampiress, whose face clung to the shreds of her human mask by her wild eyes and manicured brows. Everything from the nose down was grotesqueness, split wider and salivating. Dropping to a stance as if ready to pounce.

Ofelia straightened her shoulders, and yowled. Fierce in domination, one final warning to back off.

The two were not locked in a power struggle for long. Ofelia's eyes roiled, live fires from her smokey-eye smudged sockets. Two fangs elongated from beneath her burgundy glossed lips, inviting a challenge in which she was already the victor by status.

A mysterious splatter of glistening green splattered against Astarion from another vampiress, driven straight through the heart by a splintered chair leg beside him. He didn't bat an eye. Too enraptured by Ofelia, fearsome and feral in front of him. Claws drawn to defend the territory whose belonging was then made clear.

The vampiress yielded, expressing to Astarion there was something of a hierarchical structure they heeded, one that saw Ofelia's newest embodiment high up, if not at the very top. She slunk away, unblinking and still poised on the offensive.

Ofelia spun to face him on a bare heel. Her long, smooth tresses fanning in a dark satin wave about her golden shoulders. A victorious, self-satisfied pout quirked her lips, the serpentine glow of her irises ebbing back to the warm mahogany he knew best.

Astarion stood there with his expression frozen still, on the verge of lopsided gratification, blinking once to let her know he was still in there.

She planted fists to the high-cut straps of her bikini, and cocked to the side. Destruction and bloodshed ever rampant, the two were then on pause. A bashful grin worked its way across her face beneath eyes gleaming with incredulity.

"What?" She laughed. "Don't tell me your impressed."

He closed the short distance between them, standing toe-to-toe to stare down the bridge of his nose at her. "I forgot how... freely blood-flow circulates for mortal men." He cleared his throat through a smile Ofelia almost would have categorized as sheepish, but she knew better. "Had you attacked your sister just now, I believe you would've brought me to full-mast."

Her grin widened, though her hand flew to swat her his chest. "You're disgusting!"

"I am, quite literally, only a man, darling." His brows knit together in unabashed appreciation, wandering across the curves and softness of her figure without urgency. Lingering at the plushness of her breasts, and abdomen bared on display for his indulgence.

Had she been capable of blushing, one surely would have stained her from the flush of heat that burned beneath her surface. More powerful still, that he eyed her up with the same shameless lechery that was Seth Gecko's signature, unbeknownst to the man who now took him over. The honeyed haze smattering his leer was almost endearing.

Interrupting the moment and demanding their attention, was guttural aggression then barrelling their way. A hulking brute, jowls slippery with fresh crimson, his beady eyes clouded with murderous singularity. A few men rushed him from each angle, bouncing off of mass just barely contained by his clothes, stock and muscle as weighty and rigid as laid brick.

He repelled their attacks with the indifference of a horse tail batting away pests, needing little more than one hand at a time to cave in a chest, or crunch perpendicular angles out of spines. Subhuman growls and labored huffs snorted through a wide nose at them, a bull in preemptive charge.

"Oh dear." Astarion's smile thin, his nonchalance put-upon. "He doesn't appear very happy to see me."

"No." Ofelia shook her head. "I'm pretty sure you shot him a bunch, I don’t really remember.”

"I see."

With a long suffering sigh, and a ripple of his jacket above rolled shoulders, Astarion braced himself, still turned in towards Ofelia. He thought once more to protect her, however in the rules of this world, and their exchanged strengths, he was the likelier of the two to be accordianed.

Her eyes pinging around them in rapid search, the glinting silver dangling limp at Astarion's thigh sparked her to action. Flattening her front against him to steady herself, her hand molded over his firm hold on the handle of the revolver.

Thrusting his arm up and forward, her finger curled around his - still wrapping the trigger - she squeezed her left eye shut while the tip of her tongue breached the corner of her pout. Bewildered at her abrupt and purposeful manipulation, the beginnings of his objections were swallowed when she choked the trigger.

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM

Unloading three square into the beasts chest, the recoil bucked into her each time. Dropping to his knees, the lumbering vampire fell forward with a wheeze, and a crack upon impact. Downed, but only for the moment.

She knew this story, after all.

"Come on-," Ofelia huffed, turning on her heel. When he didn't budge from his wide-eyed scrutiny of the smoking barrel, she yanked at his arm, her tone admonishing. "Come on!"

He gasped, shaken loose from the shock enough to stumble after her.

"What was that?"

Ofelia continued to pull him through the sanguinary explosion, reaching the store room door to burst through, and hurry him in after her.

Leaned against the dusty cobbles of the far wall, and crowded by crates, there the mirror stood erect. A beacon that beckoned them nearer with its glint. The chaos forced out by the door she slammed shut and bolted, it shook and creaked to the pounding it received from the other side. The horror choked and muffled.

"Let's go.” Grabbing his hand, she marched them towards the looking glass.

Even passing through the mirror, his gawking introduction to the modern marvel of fire power persisted. As did his haunting curiosity she refused to humor further.

"What was that!?"

They fled from the blood soaked, vampire nest that was The Titty Twister, before then transported to the middle of a packed dance floor. Strobing lights of candy-colors, and bodies, very much alive.

Hormonal and young and far too many per square foot, one tanned and nubile was cradled in his arms, a woman's back leaned to his front. When Astarion came too, with relief he realized the backside he was stuck to was Ofelia's.

Suffocated by body heat, and so many colognes and perfumes they mashed together in an indecipherable musk. Rainbow hues glanced off the haze of smoke and turned it sentient; an oppressive smog, one that wafted around her with confident nefariousness, an extension of him, as they both settled on her, around her, inside her.

Hugging her tighter, he tipped his chin to drag his nose along the side of her face from cheek to hairline, inhaling her deep. The whipped vanilla cream of her adrenaline, her untouched purity, and her repressed desire for him to spoil it, searing through it all.

A turquoise collared blouse tucked into a purple skirt, it almost reminded him of what she'd been wearing when they first met, save for a significant absence of blood spatter and tatters. He smirked against her temple as he gave it a firmer nuzzle, rocking their joined hips in wide, slow circles. Around and around and around.

"This particular combination of colors are, in a word, unsightly." His rumble at her ear pulled the skin of her neck pebble. The sensation tightening ruthless beneath the fan of his breath to the sensitive exposure of where it sloped to her shoulder. "But I'd be remiss to focus on such a triviality, when I have you this... pliable."

Eyes fluttering shut, Ofelia dissolved further into his influence, though she had little choice. A stifling heat that filmed over her being, like a sheen of perspiration on a hot summers day. The titillation was undeniable, however uncertain the source. He rocked them around again, his gyration slowing, as his palm slipped from her hand to sink below the hemline of her skirt.

"Star..." a breathy stutter, it stretched to a moan as his palm hiked up her parting thigh with authority. Her skirt draped the thick of his wrist as his invasion of her emboldened. "W-we really should be looking for-,"

"I don't see our mirror anywhere." His other hand held both of hers tucked into her chest. Not yet brutally erect, he was well on his way. Twitching with excitement against the generous swell of her rear, flattered even by her purple disaster of a skirt.

At least it boasted ease of access.

"Y-you're not even loOKING-" her chiding clipped to a yelp, as he cupped his palm around her clothed heat, and lifted her off her toes against his chest in a slow twirl. The hem of her skirt hiked around his forearm.

One of her arms wound back around his neck, though not of her own accord. Whether or not he was puppeting her by choice, this newfound ability was not one he shied away from. Nor was it unwelcome by her.

He tested his influence over her with a flex of the invisible grasp, like the locking or rolling of a muscle. He admired it as such, as he slackened the reins at a languid pace, watching her shadow his release in a gradual descent down his body.

The tie then severed in full, she collapsed to the ground at his feet, a puppet with snipped string. Crumpled. The direction hollowed out from her shell, and his warmth stolen with it.

With a flick of her head to shake the residual fog, she scrambled to her hands and knees to push up and away. Reflexive as she bolted, though she didn't stray far; Ofelia hadn't wanted to leave him, nor his embrace, but his domination relinquished overwhelmed with relief, breaching a stagnant surface after being held under. Unable to breathe, she popped back above and gasped oxygen with a voracity that stung, having been suspended in the moment where anything and everything was denied her unless he willed it so. Even the air.

Astarion's lips curled curious and chesire, the pale of his flesh leaching the indigo and violet pigment from the lights, sinking into his skin to paint him a mosaic of confidence, and allure. Sharp features even lacking their elven favoritism, a haughty force of elegant virility he remained. Stained-glass beauty, severe and reverential.

His gaze followed her retreating back, mere steps from being enveloped into the fold of bodies grinding and slithering in pairs, before reattaching the leash. A hand outstretched to her tense shoulders, his fingers unfurled to their full length, his control once more blossoming her into a willing captive.

One turned back to face him, gliding on the top of her toe in fluid obedience, he caught her eye; glazed, and unending, a rich mahogany deepened obsidian in the absence of proper light. Reflecting back at him the desire for more. Her ache to yet be tugged along by the ends of threads, so long as they were woven by his hand.

And to his hand she retreated, unhurried and assured, despite the the thump of her heart rattling her ribs. The pretty figurine frozen in a porcelain pirouette of a child's music box, she twirled on feet whose path was preordained, she had to do nothing but succumb. To heed the lure that guided her.

Once embraced, the music changed. A high-energy, driving beat, those around them snapped to the according rhythm. Motions whipped and jerking, Astarion moved to his own.

Ensnaring her wide-eyes in the hood of his, he moved her to a melody unheard by all. Two swaying in unison in a contrasting slow-burn eroticism, to the unmilled energy crackling around them. The color caught by the gloss of perspiration beading like crystal on her exposed tan.

"Must I?" He cooed, his breath hitting against a pout he still abstained from claiming in a kiss. "Surely there's no imminent threat here."

He guided her hand down to grope his rear in a firm squeeze of the toned musculature. Twitching her lips in a shy simper, the plum bleeding across her face deepened in the dusting of her blush proper.

His hands traversed a similar path, down either side of her spine to get to the handfuls of rump that molded to his palm and spilled between his fingers. Slender and dexterous in their structure, they accommodated her curves as if her bloom had budded to his exact specification.

"Just you..." Her words wilted in his heat, attention stretched thin and hazy as he continued to tease his lips not a hairs breadth from hers. His breath a spearmint crisp that had her mouth watering, as it poised in eager obedience.

"Ah..." His smirk reappeared, and she felt his imperceptible power slither away once more.

An ache leftover, throbbing and molten in the pit of her pelvis. A press of her thighs against it granted no relief in the wake of his devastation. Ofelia crumbled into the crook of his arm, boneless, but the motion all her own.

With a quick, precise flick, he sent her whipped backward, draped over his arm, before pulling her back flush to his front. Her head lolled to bare the side of her neck, bathed in a violet hue. His finger tips ghosted over her collar to brush it aside, his lips descending for the spot he cleared.

Her autonomy yet relinquished, she jerked out from under him.

He allowed her the tease of insolence, though caged tight within his arms he kept her. A coy glint of pink and purple stared back at him, one mirrored in his drawl. "Another villainous portrayal of my kind?"

"Fraid so." Her confirmation dragging low and breathless, she lowered to her knees before him, and he let her; slinking down the length of his body in a bid to toy with him in her returned freedom, as he had done her.

A growl hummed at the back of his throat to her warm breath and gaped pout hovering before his crotch, her gaze challenging and glossy through the swirl of technicolor.

He lifted her back to her feet by their clasped hands, symbolic of their link. Though he could have lost himself in the darkened suggestion beneath her lashes if he permitted himself the luxury.

"I've never shied away from leaning into the sort." He resumed their banter, husking with a heady croon. "But then again... that does excite you, does it not?"

Ofelia, well-acquainted with this story, was all too aware of their impending interruption. Astarion swept her back into their sensual sway, not in inch of space between them. Intoxicated by the moment, and heedless to the riled brunette youth, bobbing and weaving through the thick of the crowd towards them.

"What can I say? We Earth humans are not immune to the romanticism of the brooding, and misunderstood." She recalled her new character's fate with a shudder, equal parts anxious, and envious. "Amy was certainly not an exception."

Said with the emphasis of introduction, Astarion nodded in understanding. His forehead rested against hers with smirk that worsened her to genuine shivers.

"What's the story between these two, then? Why does our brooding, misunderstood vampire want to turn sweet little Amy?"

"She's the spitting image of his long lost love."

A tale as old as time.

"I see." Astarion's amusement was nauseating, but her shivers persisted as he began to lure her deeper into the dance floor. His pace even, his intimacy unbridled. "So he must have her, then? He'll stop at nothing until he turns her?"

He twirled her around, his manipulation slight and effortless as the surrounding bodies parted. Her eyes glanced off the mirrored panels lining the far wall, catching her figure glide throughout the sea of wriggling bodies, all oblivious to the fact that her partner's mirrored image was missing. Her fingers clinging to empty air where broad shoulders ought to be. The truth of his nature hidden in plain sight.

Ofelia darted between their unbalanced reflection, and the languorous temper weighing his playfulness heavy, and intense. She exhaled shakily. "Something like that."

The kiss he had teased all that time no more than breath and a blink away, the creep of his fingers trailed up her body, and splayed across the front of her throat. His touch more resting than clutching in gentle persuasion, her pulse fluttered under his possession.

Astarion paused to admire how docile and suggestible his presence had her reduced, a moment of appreciation that sacrificed the stolen passion.

His hesitation punished, a wild-eyed and dark haired youth barrelled into them in purposeful interruption.

He pawed at the neckline of Astarion's sweater, prying him off of her, brazen with misplaced protectiveness. He growled through grit teeth, nostrils flared and glare hardened in his muster. "Let her go."

Astarion regarded him with the confusion of a wolf getting his ear nipped at by a mewling pup, unable to process that a child meant to stop him, with nothing more than a puffed chest, and yapping.

The way he eyed him through the corner of his stare with a rippled frown of disbelief conveyed as much, and more.

Charley stood his ground. Eyes blazing as his posture stiffened in defiance, ready to spring forward to defend her honor.

Ofelia sort of felt sorry for him.

With a scoff, the vampire turned his attention back to her, cradling her jaw against the crease of his palm to angle her face upwards in a kiss. Pettiness a commonality that both Astarion and Jerry shared.

Ofelia conceded, though not of her own volition. Astarions hold slunk back in, thick and impenetrable like a blanket of fog seeping across an ocean, coaxing her into his lips with the same helpless to resist.

She knew the longer their kiss went on, the nearer they drew to Charley's punch.

She tried willing the kiss broken to no avail. She tried appealing to Astarion, but her voice evaded her consciousness.

She tried telekinetic communication, of the mind that with all the mirrors they had passed through, perhaps the tadpole had warmed up to the displacement. Her hope was rewarded with the same unpleasant thwick back against the parasitic hitchhiker, like the snap of a rubber band.

They could still sense each other, to confirm the others presence, but all else was stripped away. Their Illithid connection about as effective as two fumbling for each other in the dark, grasping at the air in hopes of landing a touch.

Figures.

Proving her attempted warning wholly necessary, without so much as a blink or hitch against her lips, Astarion's hand raised to cushion the blow of clenched knuckles. Charley's punch was thwarted before it even so much as wound up.

Ofelia's gaze widened. It was as if Astarion had seen the movie before with how exact his timing, and choreography. Astarion, of course, mistook her astonishment as approval.

His fingers resting against the back of her neck - she didn't even remember when they got there - gave a twitch as he glared down at Charley.

"She's quite a bit of woman for you, boy." Astarion snarled, far more open and unrestricted with his irritation to Charley's interference than Jerry had been.

Though with just as much ease as the gentleman vampire he embodied, he slammed him down to his knees. His grip on Charley's fist so tight Ofelia could hear the cracking of bone and splintered joints even over the music. "This is your final warning to leave here while you still have a tail left to tuck."

"You can't kill me here!" He shrieked, expression twisted in the agony of a hand now crippled. Astarion sneered at the display, ignoring Ofelia picking at the neckline of his sweater to get his attention. Or get him to heel.

"Oh please, your spilled blood is not worth the mayhem." With a dramatic roll of his eye, Astarion gathered Ofelia up in his arms once he released the crushed flesh that once resembled a fist. Thrusting him away like an old toy he grew bored with.

Ofelia was tugging at his sweater once more.

"Let's go." She insisted, her withdrawal from his vampiric hold dizzying, reminiscent of a wine hangover. She shut her eyes to the pounding behind her eye where the tadpole stilled, lethargic and impotent. "Seriously, we need to go now."

She managed to guide him away, still tucked within his side, though they didn't make it much further. Charley, hot on their heels, all but jumped on Astarion's back. Prying at his shoulder to yank them apart.

"Let her go!" His cry broke through the music, before two large figures in yellow closed in both in front of, and behind them.

"I got him." The man behind Charley announced to his partner. A stockier man with bulging arms, he wrapped them around Charley and wrangled him away. Scooping up Ofelia as if she weighed nothing at all, he snatched her by the arm and forced his way through the crowd.

She tried wriggling away to no avail, fighting the encroaching patrons, and the force of the bouncer. The other blocked her view of Astarion as he stepped in front of him, though not before catching sight of the anger shadowing his pale face.

Ofelia couldn't hear the ensuing confrontation, but she didn't have to. Bracing herself, for she knew what was to follow.

Twisting around to holler for backup, the bouncer's once unimpressed stoicism erupted in blind panic. As raw and genuine as it came.

"Leon!"

Ofelia's head whipped forward and back from their abrupt screeching halt, still scruffed by Leon as he marched her and Charley up the steps, herding them towards the exit. He jerked around upon hearing his partners scream, though by then it was too late.

A single, blood-curdling howl to pierce the night, followed by a crescendo of the entire club erupting in terror.

Astarion didn't send the mans body to sail through the air in a dramatic exercise of his strength, crashing into a table for the hysteria to be triggered, though he was never wanting for theatrics.

Claws had been drawn, which he used to carve through the mans carotid, felling him to the ground a lifeless heap. A spurt of blood shot lengthwise to streak through the middle of the table instead of his corpse, in a vibrant flourish that could only ever happen in the movies.

It all happened so fast. A stampede surged her way, the entire occupancy screeching and wailing, as every last one tried to flee at once. Glass was broken, furniture was upended; people fell and ripped and climbed their way over the stair railing, themselves, and each other.

Abandoned by Leon, he charged down the steps towards Astarion, elbowing his way through the oncoming flow of terrorized clubbers. Ofelia was right behind him, scurrying in his wake as he cleared the way, before the current closed back over the trail he eked. A hand - Charley's hand - grasped at her arm to keep her with him before they were separated by the crowd, shrugging him off only by the grace of the mobs intervention.

"Amy-!" He reached for her as the frightened wall of people pushed them further apart. The doe-eyed youth called with frantic urgency, his boyish features screwed in panic. "Amy!"

By the time she reached Astarion, Leon had been dispatched; a collapsed windpipe before strewn over another table to his left. The look on her face just shy of accusatory, he raised his hands in surrender.

"What's that look for?" He scoffed as her silent patronizing held firm. "None of this is even real!"

"AMY!"

They both snapped their heads towards the second level, as the wave of chaos continued to wash Charley away. He was still groping at the air, still calling out to her as if it might yet save her. Ofelia groaned before grabbing Astarions hands.

"Yeah yeah I know, come on!"

The dance floor vacant save for the flashing of lights and some spilled drinks, they were safe from any further interruption of obstacles from finding the mirror.

Advancing upon the door to the kitchen, mid-swing from ones hasty getaway, Ofelia's cursory once-over deduced it was as empty as the dance floor, and thus a promising lead. Shoving him through by his back, she goaded Astarion inside, tumbling in after him.

Through all the steam and clatter, propped up in a forgotten corner amidst coats and spare brooms, the glint of another mirror caught his eye.

The muffled screams of laughter and a black velvet sky, twinkling with stars was held within. The nearer they drew, so did the strength of the sounds, and the scent of salt water.

"Over there." He tossed the cut of his chin in it's direction, and curled his fingers around her wrist in the same motion. "It appears as though it's another one of your adaptations, I'm afraid. Alas, our only way out is through."

Ofelia nodded, her flats scuffling along the tile at his side.

He was no longer using whatever writers-room-ingeniousness-given vampiric talents Jerry could use to manipulate her actions, but the accompanying warmth remained. A full body tingle that resisted the ebb of surrender, the sensation of his deft prodding and stringing lingered like phantom touch. In it's wake, adrenaline spiked; cold and throbbing in contrast, overwhelming her autonomy with urgent pressure.

Astarion didn't need such power over her. Not to make her dance with him, and certainly not to seduce her. But the sensation was pleasant. As if warming her to pliability to better receive his charms.

His arms snaking around her in coiled possession, his breath fanning against her bared neck. A kiss to her pulse, a stake claimed before his fangs sealed the deal.

She didn't remember the cheesy cult smash to have been so heavy in the tension between Jerry and Amy, but that was not to say she disapproved.

Jerry!Astarion, in trendy 80's sweaters, residing in a gorgeous antique manor, on a sleepy suburban street in any town, USA?

There were certainly worse scenarios they had been swapped into.

Ofelia could have stayed in 1985 Rancho Corvallis, California.

She really could have.

They were still together, and this time still hand in hand. Though alone, they were not.

Even more crowded than Forks High, and the nightclub from where they just escaped, throngs upon throngs of youths flooded the width of the boardwalk they then found themselves.

Ofelia blinked around in trying to collect her bearings, calmed by the tight squeeze of Astarion's hand in response to hers.

Jostled by children streaking past, and straggled by their parents, as weary as their calls to "stay close" were swallowed by the piped carnival tunes and hawkers. Couples, linked arm and arm or about the waist, funneled into the shops and stalls, that lined the far side where they stood. Bathed in the phosphorescence of neon that drew prospective patrons nearer.

The air was mellow and comfortable, and the smells even more familiar to her now that she was smack in the middle. Fried Oreos and funnel-cake in stale oil. Artificial cherry and coconut syrup from the snow cone stall to her left. The faint musk of pot lingering beneath it all.

Ofelia dropped her investigation to the broad wooden boards beneath her feet, before she then swept off in the distance, to see the ocean rolling in towards the shore. Just beyond the glow of neon in the far off dark, obscured to an undulation of foaming ink that stained the sand.

The squeal of her gears sparked through the fog of disorientation. Ofelia knew this boardwalk. She knew the merry-go-round, it's colorful horses forever in their prance, and the whimsical lilt their speakers crackled, shrill and uncanny. Ofelia knew the imposing wooden coaster, as it creaked and groaned to the cart-full of screams hurtled along it's track.

And then she looked to Astarion. Her widening survey cracked open with amusement. Her laughter breached containment, not that she fought all that hard to keep it caged.

"Oh. My. God."

His tongue sought out his canine, as was habitual now, a quick and dirty determination if he was man or monster. Greeted by a familiar, razor tine jutting from his gum.

Oh, he was still a vampire alright.

His snow white curls were now teased to even taller, distinctly 1980's height. The ends much longer as they reached down to his shoulders, glinting silver jangled from his left ear-lobe. A long black jacket hung from his shoulders, loose and boxy, while a swathe of mesh stuck to his physique in a contrasting fit. The ivory of his torso speckled through like the stars in the night sky above them.

His brows furrowed - as if they had yet to relax from the perpetual scrutiny that held them hostage - he looked down at himself. Confronted by garish beige trousers, and the poor excuse of dusty gaiters all cobbles together with knee-pads. Pleather knee pads, no less.

His face rose back up to hers with such severity twitching his snarl that it sucked her lips inward. Her body shook to the cerise that nearly glowed in the dark with how they roiled. Only her body shook with anything but fear, which simmered his glare all the more murderous.

"Not a word." He warned, mortification rumbling low and hoarse. "What ghastly plane of existence have we been condemned to now?"

Ofelia tamed the threat of her cackle to an inoffensive, shaky puff as she calmed herself. Clearing her throat of any lingering blips of a giggle for good measure.

"The Santa Carla pier, 1987." Her head a swivel to once more drink in the nighttime bustle, she huffed a laugh in utter disbelief. "Holy shit."

Through the cacophony of amusement rides, and dozens of conversations all happening at once, a shout pierced. A bullet ripped through all the tones blending beyond discernment, it hit with staggering clarity, and an accuracy suggesting it was close by.

A mans voice, quavering with a patience tested. The even steel barked from a master, demanding their strayed property returned.

"Star!"

Both Astarion and Ofelia perked towards it in unison.

And once she found the scruffed face of a young Keifer Sutherland staring back at them, stony with expectancy, it then cemented what she already knew to be true. Shiny, spiked mullet and all.

"Uhm, actually I think-," Ofelia glanced down at herself.

A bohemian skirt, and white camisole stitched up the middle, all sequins and gold stitching, and baby-doll frill. Her raven locks drew a curtain over her face when she bent her neck. Wild and frizzed, teased to a height that rivaled Astarion's.

"-that's me."

"What?"

Lured back across the sea of strangers between them in time to catch David's eyes in earnest, locking within Ofelia's triggered his approach, beginning to stalk his way towards her. The piers shadow, even in the dead of night. Flanked by Laddie on Dwayne's shoulder's, and Marco, the crowd parted for him and the entourage fanned out behind him.

Though his expression was steely, his gait was unhurried with the assurance that she'd stay put, just from the way she froze, caught by his gaze. She was able to shake free long enough to look behind her, whipping her head in a flourish of soft black curls from one side to the next.

Lifting to her toes to better see, she was frantic in her scan of the never ending swarm of faces that passed them by, yet not a single one was familiar. None the one she sought. Astarion yanked at her hand for the attention she still wasn't giving, the questions she had yet to answer.

"What are you doing?" Stealing furtive peaks to the advancing young blonde. "What are you looking for?"

"Michael." She said as if he knew exactly who she meant by the name alone.

He blinked. "Aren't I Michael?"

"No, you're Paul here."

"And this Paul, he's a vampire?"

She huffed, still unable to spy the shaggy-mane and chiseled jaw she sought. "Yes, you're a vampire - we both are."

"Oh?" His approval near instant, it then soured as she broke the bad news.

"But I'm not with you." Rocked back on her heels, she looked ahead just in time to see David no more than a foot away, and closing in with his same, lazy pace. Shiftless, but suffocating. "I'm with him."

Astarion stiffened with a scoff. Very much believing himself to still look regal; with the aqua-net endorsement on his head, and the little jingle-jangle from the small collection of costume jewelry rattling from his arms that would have put a magpie to shame.

"Why aren't I him, then?"

Ofelia murmured a soft noise of resignation from the back of her throat with a shrug. Not that she could divulge anything further, as David then sidled up to them, toe to toe with Astarion.

"What do we have here?" A single of David's brows raised. His eye slid from Ofelia's face to where her hand was still captured in Astarion's, pointed in the implication drawn. She yanked out of his grasp as if it burned.

"N-nothing, David, nothing!" She took a step forward to insert herself between them, flashing a smile she hoped was flirtatious enough to assuage. "Uhm... some guy's been following me all night. Paul was just, getting him to back off."

Both men then narrowed suspicion at her until she squirmed.

David blinked, just shy of being entirely unconvinced. Eyes flicking first from Ofelia, and then to Astarion. Observing the two in contemplative silence, a stoicism masked whatever theorizing began to spark upon catching them together.

The tension at a simmer, it then leapt to a boil when he held out his hand to her in a wordless demand she accept.

David waited for her with unnerving patience, and she glanced down at it for only as long as it took to wonder what might happen if she were to refuse.

Ofelia pried away from Astarion's side to slip her fingers into David's out-stretched palm. Her breath hitched once the length of his digits closed around her knuckles, a finality that announced his reclaimed possession.

Once satisfied with his grasp, he drew her in to him - not rough, or rushed - but with an insistent pressure, one that licked up the whole of her in a little shiver. Her obedience non-negotiable. Tripping over her feet, she fell into his chest with a little gasp, echoed by the clinking of her bangles.

The smell of his last cigarette as sharp on his breath as the tinge of iron soaking his tongue, his arm crushed around her shoulders in another display of ownership, pinning her to him and forcing the air from her lungs in the same motion. She could almost feel Astarion's eyes, red-hot and scathing, bore into the back of her skull. Forced into the passenger seat, a helpless bystander. David passed his suspicion between the two once more, the full blaze of which calming to a weak, single ember.

Bending down to hover his lips above hers, the invasion so sudden Ofelia wasn't given the chance to muffle her squeak. The wood walk behind her creaked in the sharp cant of Astarion's weight, shifting to cut in, when David stopped the kiss just as abrupt in its initiation. His attention lured to beyond both her, and Astarion.

A face still unreadable, his chin tilted in specification. "That the guy who was sniffing around?"

She craned her neck beyond her shoulder, struggling against his hold on her that didn't loosen, to then find Michael.

A few feet down the walk, his presence obvious, as he pretended not to watch them with about as much believability as he pretended to peruse the boutique he hovered before.

"Y-yeah, but he won't be a problem!" Ofelia tried to squeeze assurance into the hand she now wrapped both of hers around. "Paul made sure of that."

"Mm... good old Paul." He drawled. Angling a smirk Astarion's way, it wilted as he looked back to Michael. By the time Ofelia was the center of his focus again, any hint of mirth, even one sardonic, had faded to a memory. "Why don't you let me be the judge of what I should, or shouldn't worry about."

Ofelia felt herself nod, forced to the role of spectator in her own body from David's intimidation. Breathing down the neck of her insolence, not that it would do either her, or Astarion, any good to act on it. David's leer, frosty blue and somber, suggested nothing but that she cow to his whims like a submissive kitten. Like she was supposed to.

To her head bobbing, a gradual smile split his scruff. An expression that both warmed her with some sort of contrived elation to have pleased him, and relief at having done so convincingly.

"That's my girl." Condescension wrapped the words and tied them in a bow, like the gift receiving such praise from him was. He stroked a single, firm swipe along her knuckles with his gloved thumb, before dropping her hand to do the same across her face.

Fighting the flinch at the touch, her body reacted once more heedless to her will. His pressure was as light and sincere as a lovers, but a hollow ownership prickled cold under the trail of his finger-tips. Her tremble at his touch only seemed to please him further.

Lifting his attentions from her, back to Michael, still loitering a few feet away under the guise of shopper instead of stalker, David cleared his throat. Unphased for the moment, Ofelia could read in the ripple of muscle beneath his jaw, and his hooded stare, that he was non too pleased with having her pursued. Least of all by one he sensed as a genuine potential threat.

His tone lowered exactly one octave as he raised it, giving the order over his shoulder while his sights remained to the youth shadowing them. "Let's go, boys."

She peeked over her shoulder to Astarion, her eyes widening in a strained, non-verbal plea to follow. To play along.

A concession made with a grudging scoff. A scoff that caught David's attention.

His fingers curling around the base of Ofelia's spine in a way that pulled her hair, he halted, turning to raise a brow at Astarion with a bored gleam in his eye. Bored, while inviting the challenge to his authority at the same time. "Something wrong, Paul?"

Astarion, in an impressively in-character display, snickered while raising his hands in an exaggerated display of surrender. He held it for as long as David stared at him, waiting for friction that didn't spark.

They then resumed their trek further along the boardwalk. That was, until Ofelia caught sight of a mirror.

Tucked down the far end of an alley, pinched between the comic book store and the rest-rooms, it's frame glinted even from within the murk of shadow. Beckoning her to their next destination like another ripple of neon against an already saturated strip.

Thinking fast, she tugged at the strap of her bag until it slid down her arm into her palm, before letting it clatter to the walk as they strode past. Spilling the contents to scatter across the rickety boards, a tube of lipstick was kicked even further away from the oncoming traffic of unaware feet.

"Oh!" She feigned, stopping with immediate relief at feeling David pause along with her. Her shoulders plucked free of his arm. "I'm sorry, I'll just- I'll only be a second."

Dropping to her hands and knees to begin scooping everything back into the fabric satchel, she tossed her head to look up at him as he loomed above her. He cocked a brow at her, wise to her ruse, though having nothing substantial yet to press her about. A chill zipped through her like static-shock.

Get a grip, he's not even real.

"You go on ahead, I'm - I'm right behind you!" She nodded with a smile, before then twisting around in a show tracking down where her lipstick had escaped to.

He didn't answer her aloud, but she heard the screech of the walk give to his heavy boots. He pulled away, languorous, and maintained that pace as it carried him further ahead. The lurk of her bright-eyed, blond shadow retracing with his every step that distanced them.

She huffed a heavy breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

Shoving the cosmetics, and the little container of tic-tacs back into her bag, she stole glances over her shoulder to make sure David and the rest were still none-the-wiser, while she then looked around for Astarion.

She found him across the way, tucked within the alley against the building to his right. Waiting for her to join him, as the mirror stood propped and waiting at the end of it behind him. Either having spied it when she did, or pieced things together when she spilled her purse. With one more stolen glance to the lost boys, Ofelia abandoned her spill before scuttling across to reach him.

The mirror glimmered in the rainbow vapor of the boardwalk, though it's reflection couldn't have been more opposite.

A flaxen, muted hue, it revealed pale stucco and stone. A spiral staircase of well worn wood, and wrought iron sconces aglow with candlelight.

"That almost looks... familiar." Astarion eyed it up and down, growling as he fought the wavy mane that insisted on flopping over into his face.

Ofelia brought her hands to her hips as she popped them to her left, the motion jingling with the beads and charms that dripped from her wrists.

"Only one way to know for sure." Unwilling to give in to her hearts flutter of premature optimism, she tucked her chin to her shoulder, and stuck out her hand for Astarion to take. "Ready when you are."

Grabbing her with a tight hold, he tossed his head back, shaking the hair from his gaze with no shortage of flamboyance as he did. With a sniff, he collected whatever of his sophistication survived Paul's cheap polyester and accessories.

"I'm quite ready to be rid of whatever barbarity has befallen one of my foremost features."

No sooner did the words leave his mouth, was he then marching them through the mirror. Yanking Ofelia in after him by the hand.

Unwilling to subject himself to 1987 Santa Carla, or Ofelia's cackling, for a moment longer.

"Being human in a world full'a vampires is about as safe as barebackin' a five dollar whore."

Astarion gave a start, as he peeled his eyes open.

The rasping croon from behind him lilted in the rhythm of an accent he couldn't place, unlike any he had ever heard previous. When he turned to face the man of whom it belonged, his shoulders fell.

More unusual clothing, too unusual to be of his world. Though the familiarity of the crossbow hanging from his right hand was a welcome sight.

A shorter, wiry man, his years were evident in the way they streaked through his papery skin; at the corners of striking blue eyes, and around his thin mouth, through his copper beard. A strength maintained despite his age, in the prominent angles of his bone structure.

"This is home, Doc. But none of us are safe."

Astarion grimaced. Lovely.

Rubbing his tongue across his top row of teeth, the sting of needle points raked the flat of the muscle in his sweep. His relief sighed.

Still a vampire.

He looked down at himself in assessment, greeted by a black, three piece suit, his shirt collar splayed with it’s missing tie. An ensemble that both looked, and felt, as expensive as the polished loafers on his feet.

Next running his fingers through his hair, he exhaled in more quiet relief. The strands still longer than what he was used to, and lacking the wavy coif that was his signature, they were no where near the ratty straggles the last jaunt had butchered them to. Not to mention their silken quality of being free of whatever heinous product had coated them stiff and gritty.

If he never experienced 1987 again, it still would have been too soon.

He shuddered against that nightmare, still entirely too fresh.

Now here he stood; a sharp dressed vampire, in a world where the alleged hierarchy saw him at the top.

A promising start, indeed.

Ofelia appeared alongside him. Onyx hair simple and straight, it touched her shoulders. Without her even having to affirm for him, he knew. He could hear the gentle thrum of her heart. Eyes, big, brown and mortal, aimed his way.

A disadvantage that spelled potential disaster, if the mans grave caution was to be believed.

"Where are we now?" He hushed, tossing his eye over her shoulder as the crossbow wielder shifted behind them.

Ofelia hesitated, reaching into the haze of estranged, distant memory to aid them. "Uhm, my vineyard-well, I mean my parents vineyard, technically."

Astarion stepped forward to peer over the rail of the balcony where they stood, drawn by the buzz of activity below. A hive of human refugees, haggard with exhaustion and fear, he could taste its taint from the air with the same strength it flared his nostrils.

A hushed urgency fell over them while they busied themselves, stealing furtive glances his way. They must have been able sense his presence among them, like the rolling in of a dark cloud on a sunny day. His blood-red embers burning holes through the dimness, their fears confirmed.

"Aud, Ed." The man with the crossbow called to them from the stairs. He jerked his head in a motion for them to follow, before descending himself.

Astarion looked from him, back to Ofelia. She met him with a nod, and small smile of reassurance, signalling it was safe to follow.

"Yeah, that's us." She whispered, pushing away from the railing. "I'm Audrey, and you're Edward-,"

His face twisted as if about to be ill. "-Oh Gods, not again."

"No no, this one's totally different." She giggled. "It's not a love story. It's more action-drama, and it's actually one of my favorites."

The sick look lessened, but failed to disappear. "Oh?"

Her face alight, though she kept her town low, she all but whirred with enthusiasm. "Yeah! So they kinda flip the script in this one. Vampire's are the dominant species, and humans are the ones that have to be in hiding."

Astarion nodded, stepping aside and motioning for her to go ahead of him down the steps. "So that man made no exaggeration, this place is dangerous for you?"

She tossed her head over her shoulder, angling a grin at him that wormed beneath his skin. "Aw, you're worried about me." He rolled his eyes with a groan, and ripped from her a short burst of a cackle. "Well, don't be. You're technically in just as much trouble here as I am, so."

His trudging scuffed the tread with creaks in the wood. He sent his eyes upward. "You'll excuse my feigned surprise, then."

Ofelia ignored his sarcasm as she often did, before continuing as if he hadn't spoken in the first place. "Yeah, see, because humans are almost extinct, the vampires begin to starve." A cutesy, empathetic shrug picked at her shoulders to match the nonchalance of her tone.

He uttered a thoughtful noise from the back of his throat. "I see... realistic, I suppose." A concept he had never given thought to, being as though he couldn't propagate the spread of affliction himself. "That man, he called me doc."

"Yeah, you're a blood doctor." She informed through a smirk once they reached the bottom of the stairs. The significance suggested in her enunciation perked his full attention, just as she expected.

"Is that a fact? Interesting." He murmured. "And this doctor, is he quite wooed by Audrey's perseverance and," he arched a haughty brow in emphasis towards her curvature, on display, "generous attire?"

Ofelia looked down to the sight of her nipples stiffened through the guazy salmon of her top. She grabbed the zippered lining of her jacket, and pulled it tight to conceal them. "Perv." Grumbled, through a wry smile she was unable to wipe away. "And no, to answer your question. As a matter of fact, they're not romantically involved at all."

"No?" Though just a hint, his disappointment made her smile widen.

"I mean there was some chemistry, they definitely seemed to care for each other, but nothing hot and heavy. There's a scene where she fills a plastic cup of her blood for him to drink out of. It was so sweet!" She gasped, eyes then wide with dawning realization. "Oh hey, we did that too!"

He snorted. "Was this not the inspiration for that?"

"Uh, no not really." She crossed her arms, pushing up her chest in a way that jiggled every last vestige of irritation right out of him. "Edward wasn't suffering bouts of hormonal anguish from feeding off of her. She was just considerate."

Loitering out of the way at the base of the steps, Astarion tossed his chin in the mans direction. Across the room from them, he was locked in hushed conversation, pausing just long enough to gesture towards where they stood. An observation that pricked the back of his neck, his tone as wary as his stare. "Who is he?"

"His name's Elvis." She began. "He used to be a vampire too, but he found a cure. That's why he and Audrey bring you here, they need help replicating it."

Astarion hummed, both brows reaching his hairline. "Is that right?"

"Mhm."

"How does he manage that?"

"Direct, unmitigated sun exposure." Ofelia felt him gawking at her before she so much as looked his way "Something to do with kick starting the heart, I don't remember the particulars."

Astarion remained unconvinced. Brows once raised in intrigue then furrowed incredulous. "You're joking." He scoffed. "The sun is what turns them back?"

"Yup. Edward helps them set up the experiment right here." His suspicion only cemented itself in the deepened lines of his face. "No, seriously, it worked! Edward became human again."

"Yes, well, forgive me for not wanting to partake in that myself." His lips rippled tight around his low delivery, glancing back to Elvis. Skittish, though in the same manner a wolf hunkers down before an oblivious hunter, too busy surveying the trees to notice what's laying in wait in the brush. "The moment we're able to steal away, I should like us to put as much distance between ourselves, and here as possible."

"Yeah, it seemed intense, if not... painful." Ofelia scrunched her nose in agreement. "Anyway, the guy who plays him actually plays another vampire in Shadow of the Vampire. That's a really good one."

"Oh?" He regarded her with a justifiable degree of skepticism. "What's that one about?"

"Well, so with Nosferatu-,"

He silenced her with a raised hand.

Furrowing his eyes shut, as if to spare his senses the offense of so much as having to see the name mouthed, let alone heard. "Utter that name in my presence once more, and I'll make certain to use your phone when next Scratch pesters me for a game of fetch."

Another bar, limping along with a molasses pulse as black shrouded the Earth, the rest of the world put to bed. Its cheap neon winked, and the failing florescence above strobed the walls in shadows through the blades of ceiling fans, whining in sluggish rotation.

Blood choked her senses with a first sharp intake of breath, the stench of wet iron flaring her pierced nostril, before stinging her throat. Tensed and poised as if already on the offensive, Ofelia found Astarion across the table from where she stood.

Their eyes locked; as vibrant ruby and glistening from beneath the hood of his stare, as the puddle of sanguine at her boots, crawling along the dirty floor with the same indolence as the fans.

He sat slumped in the cracked leather of a booth, thighs kicked apart with the body of a woman crumbled at his feet, still warm. A gun holster slung between his legs in crude innuendo, his wild mane was teased to a comparable height as hers.

It took her a moment of frantic recollection before the pieces clicked together. Her eyes sought Astarion's once more, bright with understanding, she was then interjected by the deafening blare of a nearby shotgun.

It shattered the fraught silence of the dive, stealing her impending identification of the movie with a shaky exhale. Astarion jerked against the blast, the red of his eye no more than rings lining his pupils.

She supposed during the next quiet moment, whenever such an instance might present, that against her better judgement, Ofelia would finally explain to Astarion what a gun was.

Heavy booted feet scuffled along with the jingle of spurs. A young, black haired man in sunglasses and dirty leathers wheezed with laughter, as he clapped the back of the other young man. The one who had just absorbed buckshot to the abdomen.

"It's a kick, ain't it!" Severen chuckled, steadying the wounded young man, Caleb, as he looked him over. Patting down his chest, and pushing his jacket out of the way to assess the damage.

A bloodied gash chewed through where his large intestines used to be, visible through perforated flesh, and his torn shirt. Though he was still standing, still breathing, regardless of how labored.

Caleb shook, glassy eyed and screwed in pain. He wrenched breath into his gasping lungs, in between the unintelligible splutters that shivered through his lips. Anguished, frightened, and crying for his mama. A vulnerability which only made Severen that much more amused, pinching Caleb's chin.

"Hey, y'look like fourty miles'a rough road." Severen teased, greasy-haired and riled, as he slid his arm around his shoulders. "Why don't you sit this one out?" He drawled, herding a distraught, limp Caleb by his collar towards an open bar stool.

Rapping Caleb on his slumped shoulder, Severen pushed away with a debauched grin that bared blood stained teeth. "I'll take it from here."

A cocky stride sidled him around the bar, his sight's set to the bar-tender, who had just blown the hole through Caleb.

Shoulders lax and shades tipped, Severen taunted him, posted beside the shredded corpse strewn over the jukebox, harmonizing his bellow with the twang of a country ballad. "Oh, yoo-hoo!"

Stumbling backwards behind the bar, the man fumbled to re-load his shotgun, widening the grin that split Severen's bloodied maw. The nearer her stalked, the more dropped shells clinked to the ground at his feet.

A timid blonde with a baby-face tucked herself into Astarion's shoulder, hiding in the tatters of his heavy duster. Ofelia eyed her right, to see a small boy with a dirty face and tired eyes propped up on the table. Unbothered by the promise of ensuing carnage.

Astarion peeled his eyes away from the lascivious theatrics of Severen with the same hesitation to do so of one witnessing a car wreck. Realigning his attentions to the more pressing issue of just where exactly they were, he appeared to be most perturbed of all by Ofelia's sort, bushy hair.

Fearing the worst, he reached up to his own head, as his fingers were met with tall tufts sticking outward in every direction.

He growled. "1987 again?"

She merely shrugged with insouciance, keeping a close eye to the loud, young man as he leapt onto the bar rail to continue his torment.

The heat cut from Astarion's simmered loathing. "Really? Two in the same year?"

"I got a new name for you," Severen dropped his tone chest deep, thickening his accent. Fresh crimson, slick and drooling, soaked his mug from the nose down.

The bar-tender hollered, still backing away and knocking over bottles in his attempts to flee. Severen watched gleeful from behind his shades, giggling something deranged before divulging his comedic brilliance. "Mr. Pig knuckle!"

Ofelia nodded.

"Oh." Astarion chirped, placated from his fit with a pleased smirk to match.

Glass exploded as Severen strut along the rail, stomping and kicking shot glasses and half-emptied stouts without prejudice, any and all unfortunate enough to be in his path. Sticky with alcohol, the shards crunched beneath his slow heel-strikes, making certain to pulverize every last one.

"We're uh... both vampires here." She hushed, stepping over the corpse of the waitress on the ground, with the small of her back gliding along the ledge of the table. Her gaze unwavering, unblinking, as she kept it glued to Severen.

"I must admit, I'm rather partial to these scenarios." Astarion still paid no mind to Mae nestled into his side, though the pull of Severen's antics both lured, and repulsed him.

"Yes, but-," Ofelia winced as Severen erupted in a feral howl, before he sliced the spur of his boot heel through the bartenders neck, sawing back and forth with an unhurried pace. Blood spatter flicked and spurted with every pivot of his hip.

"... We're uhm, we're kinda the foster parents to this whole group." She tilted her head at him, gesturing to the lot around them. "Which would make us responsible for... all of this."

Fingers flexed, she waved her hand in Severen's direction, as he dropped down behind the bar with a thud of his cowboy boots, and crouched. An impressive blood spray then shot up the wall in a vertical splatter from where he had disappeared. She reaffirmed with undue emphasis. "Forever."

Astarion furrowed his brow down at Mae, cowering at his side. Then to Homer, still sat on the table with his little legs crossed. Boredom in his pudgy face, unimpressed by either the chaos, or his lack of invited participation in it. Caleb still huddled at the rail, tearing his eyes away from the scene spilling out beyond it with.

And then to Severen himself, as he popped back up. Readjusting his tinted glasses, picking the viscera out of his teeth with a nail. His undershirt, once white even beneath all the stains, was now a sopping vermilion.

Astarion cleared his throat.

"Right then." With surprising gentleness, he plucked the tiny blonde from his side, before scooching himself out from the booth. All just in time for Severen to begin moseying back to their motley troupe, the shot-gun slung over his shoulder. "The mirror?"

Latched to Astarion's chest, she felt the tang of his blood once more soak against the grooves of her tongue. She lapped with fervent strokes, nipping at the weeping slice to open it to her further.

He hissed in approval, his palms cupping the back of her head to keep her still, while his fingers flexed in her tousled mane in a guiding pressure.

Awakened in full, she peeled herself from his wound, her head hazy and chin slick. She looked up at him with a ferality of a high beginning to fade.

A dark button-up hung open to reveal the pale chisels of his chest, and the slippery bloom of red that painted down the length of it. He cradled her face, long slender fingers hooked around where jaw met mandible, before angling her back to receive his kiss. Hot and heavy and spiced with his blood, their lips parted with an audible pop as a thread of glistening red connected them.

"Greedy little pup." He chuckled, the strands or his hair mussed apart from him tugging and raking, they fell into eyes with pupils blown so wide they glinted near obsidian.

Shifting upward on her toes, her body prickled in a chill; cold and dank, it rushed her bare thighs, as she felt the short hem of her dress crawl even higher as she coiled around him. Damp, loose earth squished between her bare toes as they curled beneath her weight, and she looked down to see the plunging halter top of a baby-doll dress, the once pure white soiled by grime.

And his blood.

Thick and salty against her gums, gums that ached from the fangs that jut through the swollen ridge.

"Oh, w-we're," interrupted by a soft giggle that bubbled through her, she fought to speak against a tongue numbed passed cooperation, like when she was intoxicated, "we're back."

That pulled a single of his brows high. "Back? We've not been here before."

Astarion's gaze swept around the crawlspace where they stood, hidden in the shadows amongst dirt and wooden rafters. His eye then drawn to the two men playing unwilling audience, in a shaft of sunlight touching down into the loosely churned earth. And the writhing shadow that closed in around them.

Shadow that, upon closer inspection, sprouted arms and legs, and gnashing teeth. That slithered and swayed with the movement of cold, undead bodies twisting through it.

"Surely, I'd remember."

"No... not here." She sighed, nuzzling beneath the cut of his jaw before mouthing the hard ridge of his bone. "Different year, different people but... same story."

"Be a dear, and jog my memory?" His posture lax, Astarion was as lazy with arousal as she, though it was clear the influence of his pheromones were far more potent in her system, an observation that saw his gaze laden with pride.

Only through remarkable effort and determination, could Ofelia will herself to speak.

"Y-youre... you... y-you're him again." She huffed at her own labored speech as it slurred against the back of her bloodied teeth. "Like before when we danced."

"What the hell did he do to her?" A whisper croaked from the dark.

Astarion's head snapped to his left, to the two men watching them, wrapping their limbs tight to their bodies to keep to the rouge patch of sun poured in from a jagged hole above their heads.

The other man, an older one with a sunken face and thin, faint wisps of smoke curling from his skin, shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine." In an accent more like his own, teeth clenched around an unlit cigarette.

Little hands and a soft, blood stained pout peppered Astarion's being with neediness, dragging and mewling across his bare chest and neck. It wasn't until the older, accented man produced a lighter, and clicked it sparking, did that seem to rouse Ofelia from her daze.

Tearing her lips away from Astarion's hungry mouth, she turned in time to see the younger man working the ski cap over his head, sliding goggles to cover what of his eyes were left exposed.

Grabbing Astarion's hands, she tripped over her feet in panic, pulling them towards the open doorway to their right.

"C-Come on, we have to move." Her words breathy and clipped by mounting adrenaline, it scrambled her movements, unbalanced and clumsy. "Now!"

Enveloped in an eruption of molten flame, the younger man bound to his feet, lunging towards Astarion's heel - spun to flee in the nick of time.

Ofelia stumbled, kicking through the cool dirt, scraping her bare shins against the nosing of the steps in her clamber to climb them. With only her gut to lead them, they fled through the narrow hall, the roar of adrenaline almost enough to drown the bellow of Charley behind him. Screaming his throat hoarse, his plea of her name smoked from the fire.

"Aaammmmy!"

Astarion spurred into the appropriate haste by a pursuant lit on fire; he kept pace alongside of her with his arm swept around her back in a protective maneuver, forcing her ahead of him, regardless of the disadvantage that was her stride halved by his. The entryway corralled them to a hallway stark white, lined with a multitude of doors that look no different between them.

"Amy? As in little Amy from earlier?"

"Yes-," Ofelia hurled the affirmation from burning lungs. Each door they passed marked at the top with a little window, her furrowed gaze blurred across each for the one that might reveal the mirror, and it's mismatched reflection. "This is a more modern re-telling of the same story."

She wanted to laugh, explaining the nature of a remake as if the most natural conversation they've exchanged all day.

Astarion hummed with the nonchalance to match, as if in perfecting understanding of the niche concept, and one presented under duress.

Charley and his cries faded into the pounding of their feet against slab, the distance between them ever increasing. "And I'm who again, exactly?"

Reaching the end of the hall and rounding the corner at their left, the miraculous sight leaning against the far wall to greet them was none other than the mirror. Their next destination laid beneath it's slick, polished, facade of a surface.

You can hear, faintly in the background, Raphael's stifled scoff of resignation.

Ofelia grinned through her sluggish forward propel. The salacious hem of her tattered and grimy baby-doll whipping against her sun-soaked thighs. "Your name is Jerry Dandridge."

Less then a foot away from the mirror, Astarion halted. "Jerry?"

Granted a moment of reprieve from the still distant threat of a flaming embrace, he squandered it to parrot the name through a wrinkle of distaste. The name spat, as though it's very taste was as derisory to his tongue, as it was to his ear. "I'm called Jerry?"

Slipping her hold around his wrist with both her hands, she tugged him to the end of the corridor. Unwilling to stall their escape for a moment more, she urged him with a placative coo. 

"Yuuup-c'mon, let's go, let's go."

PART 2

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

"Because antisemitism is the godfather of racism, and the gateway to tyranny and fascism and war, it is to be regarded not as the enemy of the Jewish people alone, but as the common enemy of humanity and of civilization. And it has to be fought against very tenaciously for that reason. Most especially in its current, most virulent form, of Islamic jihad... We must make sure our own defenses are not neglected. Our task is to call this filthy thing, this plague, this pest, by its right name, to make unceasing resistance to it, knowing all the time that it is probably ultimately ineradicable. And bearing in mind that its hatred towards us is a compliment. And resolving, some of the time at any rate, to do a bit more to deserve it." -- Christopher Hitchens

People don't get that this isn't just about Jews. That's just the thin edge of the wedge.

https://quranx.com/9.29

Fight those who do not believe in Allah or in the Last Day and who do not consider unlawful what Allah and His Messenger have made unlawful and who do not adopt the religion of truth from those who were given the Scripture - [fight] until they give the jizyah willingly while they are humbled.

https://quranx.com/Hadith/Bukhari/USC-MSA/Volume-1/Book-8/Hadith-387

Narrated Anas bin Malik: Allah's Messenger said, "I have been ordered to fight the people till they say: 'None has the right to be worshipped but Allah.' And if they say so, pray like our prayers, face our Qibla and slaughter as we slaughter, then their blood and property will be sacred to us and we will not interfere with them except legally and their reckoning will be with Allah."

https://x.com/AmyMek/status/1711988348544491909

“Israel is only the first target. The entire planet will be under our law.” -- Mahmoud al-Zahar, Hamas Commander.

If you still think this is about land, then you haven't been paying attention.

[levi-venn]

A Bloody Good Speech (Halsin & Astarion)

Narrator: Astarion returns to camp late. He finds Halsin in cat form, asleep on a pillow beside the crackling campfire. Astarion knows Halsin will sometimes take this form when he's upset...and the last conversation they shared had upset the druid.

Astarion: Halsin, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About finding nature's balance within me to find some peace.

Narrator: Halsin lifts his furry head to regard Astarion who takes a seat beside him.

Astarion: I...bit your head off, so to speak, last we spoke. Called you a fool. Called...myself an abomination of the very definition of nature.

Astarion: But I did think of what you said and...you were right. Nature's balance is not a physical thing, is it? At my core I'm still an elf, a pale and blood-hungry elf, yes, but I haven't lost entirely what I once was. The parasite showed me that, ironically. So instead, perhaps I can find a balance between the devilishly charming, slightly more humble elf I used to be and this bloodthirsty, arrogant beast I am today. I appreciate that I could use some of your humility, your calm. I do find myself calm around you, you know. And admittedly, watching you stand on your own two feet (and sometimes four) so confidently, it is...bloody inspiring.

Halsin: *Purrs*

Astarion: My point is…I apologize for calling you a fool and...I wish to thank you. You’ve been patient with me when I needed it most. I'd...like to make it up to you if I could.

Halsin: *Purrs*

Narrator: Astarion take's Halsin's furry face in his hands and gently presses their foreheads together, finding the purrs to be as equally calming as Halsin's calm breath when he slumbers.

Narrator: Someone stirs in a tent nearby.

Narrator: Halsin, who is, in fact, not a cat, emerges.

Halsin: Astarion! You've returned to camp. I was afraid you wouldn't after our last conversation.

Astarion: …

Narrator: The cat wiggles out of the pale elf's grasp and wanders off, back to the nearby farm where a saucer of milk is waiting for her.

Halsin: …Did…did you think that calico was me?

Astarion: No.

Halsin: …

Astarion: …

Halsin: … :3

Astarion: Well, I’m not repeating myself! You can ask the damn cat if you want a summary of my eloquent speech.

Halsin: Oh. Alright. I am sorry I missed it.

Narrator: Halsin looks out into the night, wondering if he could catch up to the cat in time.

Astarion: ...Ugh...damn you.

Halsin: I'm...sorry, if I've offended-

Astarion: No, no, you big...wonderful bear of an elf. I am sorry. I'm bloody sorry for calling you a fool and running off. If you would like, sit with me, please. Perhaps my second attempt at this speech will be more eloquent this time.

Halsin: Astarion, your eloquence and grace grows with each passing day. I am forever in awe of it.

Astarion: ...

Astarion: <3 ...

Astarion: Ugh, you are infuriatingly wonderful. You know that?

Narrator: With an impish grin, Halsin shifts into a cat form, and pads over to the pillow where the previous feline slept.

Halsin: Alright. I am now ready for your speech. :3

Astarion: Nevermind! I take it all back. You're a cheeky bastard.

Halsin: A cheeky bastard that you enjoy spending time with I hope?

Astarion: Yes...Immensely.

***

Thanks for reading this little tidbit. If you enjoyed my writing, please consider checking out my queer sci-fi murder mystery “Error: Detective Not Found (A Cake Pop Noir)”. You can find more info on it on my main tumblr account @blueberryhelper

[skepticalcatfrog]

Eyes, Look Your Last: Benedikt Montagov's Struggle with Life, Death, and Grief

(Word Count: 3,072)

((Tagging @thebenediktmontagov because I know you've been waiting for this one))

~~~

Throughout the Secret Shanghai series, life and death are obviously major themes, especially in the first two books. After all, Romeo and Juliet is very famously a tragedy. But in my humble opinion, there are few characters in these books who represent life, death, and the journey through grief better than Benedikt Montagov. He goes through a very traceable arc regarding this subject over the course of specifically Our Violent Ends; that book and that storyline are what we’re going to be looking at in this analysis.

Let’s start with the beginning of the book, Chapter 2 in particular, which is the earliest point that we see Benedikt. At this point, given that the book covers the span of a few months, it hasn’t been very long since Marshall’s assumed death. The wound is still very fresh, especially for Benedikt, as is made evident in this description of him (the first one we see in the book): “Benedikt Montagov was a wholly different person these days, all gloom and dark frowns. He may not have been the happiest person a few months ago, either, but he lacked a certain light in his eyes now that made him seem like a complete marionette, moving through the world at command. Mourning periods in this city were often short affairs. They came in rapid succession, like cinema showings ushered in and out of the theater to make room for the new. Benedikt was not only in mourning. He was half-dead himself,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 2). As stated there, Benedikt was never the happiest or most energetic person. And yet, the loss of Marshall has still caused such a serious dive in his mood and behavior that it’s extremely evident to the people around him. This excerpt uses very effective descriptive language, specifically referring to Benedikt as a “marionette”. This creates an immediate mental image in the mind of the reader of someone who is essentially being dragged through the world, not by their own will, but simply because they are being made to go on. In addition to this, the sheer lifeless quality of a marionette emphasizes just how much of a shell of himself Benedikt has become.

Not only does this change in personality have an impact on him, it also affects the people around him. Primarily, we see this within the same chapter from which I pulled the previous quote. A good example is this interaction between Roma and Alisa: “His frustrated insult was drowned out by the slam of the front door. Silence. “I just wanted to cheer him up,” Alisa said quietly. Roma sighed. “I know. It’s not your fault. He’s… having some difficulties.” “Because Marshall is dead,”” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 2). Just before this exchange, Benedikt is shown being rather callous to both Roma and Alisa, two people who he cares very much about. They both understand that this behavior is not any fault of their own, but that doesn’t stop them from feeling hurt by it. Of course, this can’t be entirely attributed to Benedikt either; he is acting irrationally, and drastically out of character, because he isn’t able to properly cope with what has happened. He isn’t necessarily doing it intentionally, he’s simply lashing out because the anger and sadness that he feels has nowhere else to go. Benedikt is responsible for his own actions, but his loved ones also understand that he wouldn’t normally behave this way; these are unusual circumstances.

A few chapters later, in the first section in the book where we are given Benedikt’s perspective, we learn more about what he’s been dealing with while not around other people. If anger is the primary emotion he expresses in his interactions with others, sadness is much more in the foreground when he is alone. The narration in Chapter 5 describes a specific event that took place while he was home alone in the apartment he and Marshall previously shared: “One day he had been operating in numbness, shoving aside the art supplies abandoned on the floor and going through each step of his routine with hardly any trouble. The next moment, he entered the kitchen and could not stop staring at the stovetop. The water started boiling and still he could not look away, until he merely crumpled to the floor, sobbing into his hands as the water evaporated into nothingness,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 5). He is so severely affected by the loss of Marshall that he can barely enter the kitchen without being brought to debilitating tears by the reminder of Marshall’s absence. In fact, he is almost unable to eat at all anymore. His own home no longer feels safe and comfortable to him, instead it has become full of painful memories. He no longer has anywhere to go where he can feel at peace, because he is no longer capable of feeling peaceful.

And yet, he remains very hesitant to express any of his sadness to the people close to him. Rather than at any point allowing himself to be comforted, or ever showing an ounce of vulnerability, he conceals that entire portion of his feelings with much sharper edges. He uses anger and violence to hide any part of his grieving that he doesn’t want others to see. Juliette states in the very first chapter of the book that members of the Scarlet Gang have been killed, with a clear motive of avenging Marshall’s death: “She already knew that, of course, from the reports that came back to her about dead gangsters with Korean characters slashed in blood beside them,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 1). At the time of this quote, she is speaking about the changes she has noticed in Roma’s behavior. However, later on in the book it is actually implied  that Benedikt was responsible for many of these killings when he says that he “...slaughtered Scarlets in [Marshall’s] name,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 25). In the privacy of his own home, he expresses his grief through immense sadness. What he feels is more appropriate to bring into the view of others, though, is not sorrow, but gruesome violence. He is unwilling to show any vulnerability, even to those he trusts.

Later on in Chapter 5, we also see another new aspect of Benedikt’s mourning that continues through the rest of the book: his near complete loss of concern for his own life. This first appears here, as he enters a conflict with a large group of Scarlets: “The smarter move would have been to run when he was vastly outnumbered, but he cared little. He had no reason to care, to live—” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 5). He is behaving recklessly because he feels that, with the death of Marshall, he has lost all reason to continue to live. This can be brought back to the metaphor of the marionette from earlier, in that he no longer cares to continue to exist, even though he still does. He is still alive only because no one has killed him yet; if someone were to try to, he suggests that he would put up no fight. But this is contested just a few sentences later, when he actually has a gun to his head: “No, he thought suddenly, his eyes squeezing shut. Wait, I didn't actually want to die, not yet, not really…” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 5). Once he is actually faced with his own death in a real way, he becomes frightened. He isn’t truly apathetic towards his life, he has only convinced himself that he is. The truth of the matter is that he does still have things to live for. The hopelessness that has consumed him isn’t final, and this is the first hint that we as readers see of his capacity to change again.

This is not the end of his ruminations on death, though. Another notable instance is during the fight with the Scarlets after they set the fire, when Benedikt enters the fray despite Roma discouraging him from doing so. When he ends up in a life-threatening position, his thoughts stray to the death of his mother: “He knew that after she was killed—an accidental casualty of a shoot-out—they had burned her body right in an alleyway until only charred smithereens remained. Maybe this was the way he would join her. The Scarlets would kill him, then throw him right into the raging fire—ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 19). He has once again started to think about how and when his own death might occur, something we don’t really see at all prior to Marshall’s death. Here he also compares the possibility of his own death to the death of his mother, emphasizing the cyclic nature of the death that Benedikt has been faced with in his life.

Benedikt’s blatant disregard for himself and his life are also displayed in a different way later on. The first time we see it, he is boldly declaring that he has no reason to live. In the later instance, which takes place in Chapter 20 of the book, this is what is described: “With a ragged inhale, Benedikt yanked a new jacket out of his wardrobe and tugged it on, hardly bothering to go easy on his throbbing shoulder. What was the point? What was one more point of pain against the whole smorgasbord? He was a damn walking collection point for grievances and grief,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 20). Here, he isn’t outright saying that he wants to be dead, but he still acts carelessly with himself. He doesn’t care about causing himself pain, because he sees any effort to prevent it as futile. He believes that it doesn’t matter if something causes him pain or not, since either way, he is still experiencing pain from other sources. What he’s essentially saying here is that one more bit of hurt added to the pile won’t make any difference. We as the audience know that he isn’t correct, and that he really is just making things worse, but he himself doesn’t realize that yet - or care enough to consider it.

In addition to Benedikt’s apathy towards keeping himself alive, there are also more examples of his recklessness with the lives of others. There is the instance mentioned above, where it is suggested that he goes on a spree of revenge killings, but we also get a more specific line from Juliette that illustrates this much more clearly: “Benedikt was not like Roma. He had no hesitation with her life,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 24). Juliette knows that, even though Roma is in mourning as well, he has no true desire to kill her. In this moment, though, as Benedikt points a gun at her, she recognizes the danger she is actually in. Benedikt’s primary motivation throughout the majority of Our Violent Ends is to get revenge, specifically on Juliette. He makes it very clear multiple times that he wants her dead, whether Roma does it or not. This is a pivotal scene for Benedikt. As Juliette mentions, he would have had no hesitation in killing her. If he had actually gone through with it, he likely would’ve effectively ruined his own life. Not only would he have experienced the same rage from Roma that he himself had previously directed at Juliette, he also probably would have never found out that Marshall was alive (at least not for a much longer time, if at all), and it’s entirely possible that he would’ve continued spiraling into a life entirely made up of violence. Frankly, he is lucky that Juliette was able to stop him when she did; her quick thinking - and knowledge that she couldn’t keep her secret any longer - was the beginning of his climb back up from rock bottom. If you imagine his descent into darkness as a V-shaped line, this moment is the vertex: the only way left to go is up.

That scene is a major turning point in Benedikt’s character arc, but the first true change happens in the next chapter, when he is first able to see Marshall again: “He had expected to explode outward, to at last rid the darkness in his chest by seeking revenge and directing a very sharp object at Juliette. Instead, the darkness had turned to light, and now he was an overwrought light bulb, close to implosion when the vacuum space inside shattered,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 25). This excerpt is indicative of a very abrupt change for Benedikt. While before he was overcome with anger, sadness, and a desire for revenge, all of that has suddenly vanished. The language used here makes it seem almost brutal, like the extreme emotional shift he’s experiencing is too overwhelming to process. In an instant, the entire purpose he’s created for himself over the past few months has become completely pointless. For a brief moment, he feels lost, because the one thing that still drove him to keep going has totally disappeared. But, similarly to how one adjusts to cold water after being unexpectedly thrown in, he quickly realizes that his original reason to live has miraculously returned. As it describes in the quote above (and references the very first one I used, which mentions the “light in his eyes” that has disappeared), the darkness that had overtaken him is gone, and that original light is back. To return to the comparison of the V-shaped line, this part would be the very top of the line.

From this point on, Benedikt’s improved mood continues. There are moments where it wavers, of course, but he is generally much more hopeful for the remainder of the book. We can also see another parallel here to the beginning of the book, exemplified by this dialogue between Benedikt and Roma: ““You look better today,” Roma remarked, starting in the direction of headquarters. “Are you getting more sleep?” “Yes,” Benedikt replied plainly. And mere hours ago, I found out that Marshall is still alive. He wanted to say it aloud. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops and declare it to the whole world, so that the world could end its mourning with him,” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 26). At the beginning of this essay, I mentioned the fact that Benedikt’s downward shift in mood and behavior is very noticeable to the people around him. This also applies here. Benedikt mentions that it has only been hours since he found out Marshall was alive, and yet Roma already notices a distinct change in not only his mood, but presumably his physical appearance as well. Roma attributes it to getting more sleep, but the truth is that simply having the knowledge that Marshall is alive has improved Benedikt’s mental state so much that it has caused a physical change. His period of mourning, which was said to have seemed permanent, is officially over.

At this point, Benedikt’s arc in the story (at least in relation to grief and death) is pretty much over. He has gone through all of the development that he can, and has reached the light at the end of the tunnel. Still, there is one very important full-circle moment later on that I want to include, just to bring the point home. Near the end of the book, Roma is made to believe that Juliette has died - as is expected of a Romeo and Juliet retelling. Roma instantly falls into a downward spiral in which he wants to either get revenge for Juliette’s death, or die with her. Given that you’ve presumably read the rest of my analysis up to this point, this should sound familiar, and Benedikt thinks so too: “The strangest thing was that Benedikt recognized himself in [Roma’s] expression, recognized that same twisted sense of rage that showed itself in recklessness. Is that what I looked like?” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 39). Benedikt no longer feels what Roma is feeling, but he’s now being faced with a mirror image of exactly what he was like when he did. The only difference is that now, Benedikt can see that version of himself through a much more hopeful lens. For the entire duration of Roma’s panic following Juliette’s supposed death, Benedikt remains steadfast in his insistence that everything is going to be alright. He reminds Roma that Marshall came back even after Benedikt thought he had died, and when Juliette comes back as well, he says this: ““Look,” Benedikt said faintly, hardly hearing his own words as they slipped out. “You got your resurrection too,”” (Our Violent Ends, Chapter 39). Benedikt has come so far since the beginning of the book that he is able to believe that the impossible - someone being brought back from the dead - can happen not once, but twice. And yes, neither Marshall nor Juliette were ever actually dead, but the point still stands: who would ever have assumed that she would use the same trick twice? Roma becomes despondent at the news of Juliette’s death, because he assumes it must be true. But Benedikt, who is presented within the book as perhaps being more inclined towards pessimism and hopelessness than Roma ever was, believes Juliette can still come back. And his newfound hope pays off. This single moment is possibly the best representation of Benedikt’s development that I could’ve asked for.

Benedikt Montagov is an extremely complex character, and I honestly feel like I could go on about him forever. If it weren’t for the amount of text that I expect people to want to read, maybe I would. But the most important thing I want people to take away from this entire analysis is just how well written Benedikt is as a character. His story, throughout not only Our Violent Ends but both books, is one that sticks in your head after you’ve read it. This entire aspect of his character was clearly crafted with a lot of care, and I felt that I needed to write this because I wanted to put emphasis on the parts of it that I don’t see discussed very often. If you’ve read this far, I really hope you enjoyed it, and that maybe it made you think about something you hadn’t considered before. I’m sure this won’t be the end of my ramblings about Benedikt, but for now, that’s all I have to say. Thank you for reading.

[coricatchthorne]

Amping up to sharing my own writing (starting NEXT WEEK!), another work I admire is the Doctrine of Labyrinths, by Katherine Addison AKA Sarah Monette (who I don't think is on Tumblr but if anyone knows different please let me know!)

I’ve been working through this dark fantasy series for a while, but in 2024 I got my hands on the last book, Corambis. There’s a LOT to chew on, but a few things really inspired me in my own writing. Minor, but vague, spoilers below.

POV differentiation and juxtaposition: The voices of Felix and Mildmay, our half-brother protagonists, are wonderfully distinct and messy. You can immediately tell whose chapter you’re in within a sentence or two, and both are deeply unreliable narrators in different ways. The gaps in how they perceive their world, each other, and themselves allowed a lot of really juicy storytelling by contrast alone. Showing a place, a person, or an interaction from their different viewpoints allowed any given instant to serve as a delicious layer-cake of joint characterization and worldbuilding. Also the bond between them is deeply satisfying, taking a long time to build but also becoming a powerful force in both mens’ lives.

Bad behaviors: Felix and Mildmay both do terrible things over the course of this series, and yet remain compelling protagonists. Mildmay, despite being a literal killer who kills, is far easier to sympathize with: he’s not prone to cruelty like Felix is, and his inner voice is sly and funny and humble. Because of this, and because he’s a straight man who thinks little of himself and keeps things close to his vest, it takes time to realize how smart Mildmay is, and how profoundly he’s been abused. Felix, on the other hand, vents his trauma (some of which is deeply queer and sexual in nature) loudly, through vicious social and verbal violence, both subtle and obvious. He’s got a cruel streak and often acts a real asshole, even (and perhaps especially) to the people he cares about. Yet both remain deeply sympathetic characters who I personally found myself rooting for very early, even in the moments where I also wanted to slap them. 

The labyrinth of trauma: Dissertations could be written about how labyrinths are used thematically in this series. But one aspect I appreciated was the non-linearity of recovering from trauma. You may have a profoundly healing realization one day, then re-enact old shitty patterns the next day. You may have a day where your injury feels okay, and the next day you feel like shit. You may make amends to someone you hurt, then hurt them again. But those things don’t mean you aren’t moving forward, or that healing isn’t happening. It’s just that sometimes you have to retread the same piece of ground over and over, each time hopefully moving a little closer to a world where you aren’t lost in the maze of your wounds. 

There’s a ton else that could be said about these books (and also a zillion content warnings: this is dark fantasy); but I’ll end with how I felt finishing this series. Unlike some ‘dark fantasy’ series’ I’ve read, this journey was harrowing, but ultimately felt hopeful. It posits that there is a way out of the labyrinth, and trauma doesn’t actually have to define your whole life forever. 

I’ll be thinking about Felix and Mildmay for a long time, and I’m curious about others’ thoughts on these strange, haunted, and beautiful books. Check them out here: https://openroadmedia.com/contributor/katherine-addison

[forgedbondspod]

We have just over a week left in our crowdfunder! I have told you all about our cast and our gods, it seems only fair that I tell you a bit about myself I'm return. For those who don't know, I'm Pine! I'll be playing your humble narrator Calliope, the muse of epic poetry, in the show. Epic poetry felt like the more appropriate muse as opposed to erotic poetry, so I went with Calliope for our narrator. The story shall unfold under her watchful eye, scenes following in the direction she pulls your attention. I'm having so much fun with her!

In terms of me, I'm a queer POC who has been working in the world of audiodramas for... about three and a half years now! My first show, @thefringespod , is a sci-fantasy anthology with plot that weaves into the spaces between the stories. It is my first love and gave me the confidence needed to make Forged Bonds.

This show is a misuse of my degree in Classics. I have loved mythology my whole life and being able to weave together aspects of myth while fully changing others has been very rewarding for me. It's my love letter to mythology and these gods that have followed me my whole life. I'm so excited for this show and everything our incredible incredible cast has done. They are all ridiculously talented and I'm so lucky to be able to work with them to bring this show that's been an idea in my head for years to life

If you would like to help me pay the incredible cast of this show (I don't take a cut!) you can check out our indiegogo

To everyone who has supported the show so far: you have my endless gratitude. The support that this show has received- both in the crowdfunder and on social media- has blown me away and I can't thank y'all enough for being excited for this show. It means the world to me

And once again to my lovely cast: thank you for putting your faith in me and in this show. I'm so lucky to have each and every one of you and cannot wait to share your talents in this show with the world

[stories-of-the-nrm]

Time Doesn't Heal All Wounds Part 5

(Sir Topham Hatt looks over his schedule to see when he can allow Gordon to slip away to the medical center.)

Sir Topham Hatt: Dear oh dear. We're right in the middle of the summer holiday. Duck and Edward will be busy on their branch lines. Henry has the Flying Kipper for the next two weeks. I suppose the only way to get around this is to run multiple trains. James, Emily and the Scottish Twins will have to relay the express for the day.

(He organizes the timetable in a way that makes sense.)

Sir Topham Hatt: Well I guess this is good enough to send to all of the station masters.

(Sir Topham Hatt's assistant faxes the new timetable.)

Sir Topham Hatt's message: I want all of the stations on the Main Line to share this updated time table. Make sure all passengers going to and from the station are aware of the changes to the express service for the day.

Narrator: After all of the station masters receive the temporary timetable, everyone works to share that information with all of the passengers using the express service.

(It's now the end of the day at Tidmouth Sheds.)

Narrator: Gordon rolls into his shed just as Sir Topham Hatt arrives.

Sir Topham Hatt: Gordon I'm sure you already heard the news, but tomorrow you're going to the medical center. I redid the timetable so you can have the day for yourself and our passengers can still get to their destinations on time.

(Gordon humbly nods.)

Gordon: Thank you, sir. I understand how difficult it would be to replace me. I hope that this would only be for one day.

Sir Topham Hatt: I hope so too. Good night engines.

Tidmouth Shed Engines: Good night sir.

(Sir Topham Hatt drives home for the night.)

Emily: Gordon? What's going on that you won't be able to pull the express all day?

(Gordon sighs.)

Gordon: My brother Scott is in the human hospital. His rebuild is going very poorly and none of the humans know how to treat him.

Edward: My goodness! I've never heard of a rebuild going so poorly that an engine's had to go to a human hospital.

Gordon: Indeed. I believe it shows just how little is known about our human forms. From my understanding, Scott is only stuck in this position because some parts have been woefully delayed. I don't think he even has a boiler.

(All of the engines gasp.)

Henry: What will you have to do?

Gordon: I'm his only living relative. The A4's simply have nothing in common with Scott to determine what would be normal for his human form. As someone who actively pulls passenger trains, I consider myself to be in relatively perfect condition. Yes my age is to be considered, but in spite of that, my health is not a problem. Therefore, I was asked to go to the medical center and do some tests.

Emily: What would happen next?

(Gordon contemplates the possibilities.)

Gordon: If Scott is in a physical state that is completely different than mine, then I have no idea. Our human forms are after all based on the state of our engine. If an important part is missing, a human doctor simply lacks the tools needed to fix it.

(The engines look solemn.)

Gordon: I have no idea if Scott will even make it out of this. I can only hope that my tests will help his medical team find a solution.

(James has a rare look of maturity.)

James: At least you won't have to worry about the express. We'll take good care of your coaches.

Gordon: Thank you. Now I must get some sleep. I believe tomorrow will be a very long day.

(The sun rises for the next day.)

Narrator: The next day, Gordon arrives bright and early at the medical center.

Receptionist: May I help you?

Gordon: I have business on behalf of Scott of the National Railway Museum.

(She looks at her notes and puts in a call. A man enters the waiting area.)

Doctor: Hello Gordon. I'm Dr. Pine. Thank you for taking time to come here today.

Gordon: What do you need me to do?

Dr. Pine: Well we'd have to do some tests to see what would be considered normal for an engine like yourself. I would ask to do a blood test but I'm not sure if you even have blood.

(Gordon thinks about how to answer that.)

Gordon: How would you know if I do have blood?

(Dr. Pine leads Gordon to the lab.)

Dr. Pine: We will have to find a vein and see what comes out. Just have a seat here and we'll start.

(Gordon sits down as the lab worker begins.)

Narrator: Many tests are conducted until Dr. Pine has a thorough idea of what's considered to be normal for a steam engine.

Dr. Pine: Thank you for helping us Gordon. I think we have everything we need now. If we need anything else, we'll contact Sir Topham Hatt.

Gordon: I hope that my tests can help you manage Scott's condition. Can you please provide updates on his condition?

Dr. Pine: Why yes we can. As soon as anything changes, we'll let you know.

(Gordon shakes Dr. Pine's hand.)

Gordon: Thank you for taking care of my brother. I hope you have a good day.

Dr. Pine: Same to you Gordon.

(Gordon leaves the medical center hopeful that the effort put in today helps his brother.)

Tagging: @bluy1206, @werbitssft, @klein-sodor-bahn, @theyellowroseofsodor, @juniebugsss, @tornadoyoungiron, @pxmun,

@nelllia, @pxmun2, @thefedoragirl, @roosinii, @ethereal-capricorns-blog, @jessica-sv509510,

@jayde-jots, @thatcheeseycandle, @jordeynnotgordon, @be-kind-and-rewind-again, @hardchildpainter, @asktheoriginalorder,

@onyx-and-friends, @that-mr-e, @sustysteel198, @monika-396, @fabianvalencia561, @gordon208, @savannahlee-d29,

@bladexjester, @sketalya, @agent-7-at-your-service, @i-heart-ukrain3, and @engineer-gunzelpunk.

[wiispurraway]

THE BUCKET TETRALOGY

Part I: My Bucket and I — A Parable of Choice

We begin with something simple: a choice.

Stanley is presented with two options:

Option A: Replace the old bucket with a new, shiny, and efficient one.Option B: Keep the old bucket, despite its rust, its leaks, its inefficiency.

Naturally, Stanley chooses Option B.

Why? Even Stanley isn’t entirely sure. Perhaps it’s familiarity. Perhaps it’s sentimentality. Perhaps it’s a quiet rebellion against the world’s obsession with perfection.

His coworkers, his friends, his very environment beg him to reconsider. “Why hold on to something so broken, Stanley?” they ask.

But Stanley doesn’t listen. He sees something they do not:

The bucket is more than rust and cracks. It is resilience. A story etched in every flaw.

And so, Stanley’s quiet rebellion begins.

Part I: My Bucket and I — A Parable Of Choice

O bucket, my bucket, my peace and my rest,

Your handle's gentle rattle, a sound I know best.

Your worn, weathered surface, so humble, so kind—

What others cannot see, I carry in my mind.

“Stanley, you must leave the bucket behind,” the voice says,

“Choose the path ahead—do not delay, do not stray.”

But how could they understand, how could they know,

That in your rust, my story continues to grow?

Once, I heeded the narrator’s call to stray,

To abandon the old for a smoother way.

A bucket so flawless, pristine, and bright—

But it offered no choice, no purpose, no light.

The handle was firm, the base solid and true,

Its shine—so immaculate—felt foreign, askew.

I turned it in my hands, and for a moment I froze,

A hollow disquiet that only I could suppose.

So back to you, I returned once more,

Where unpredictability lives, where choice can soar.

“Why stay with this relic?” the voice asks in disdain,

But you, my bucket, are the answer to their game.

In your dents and flaws, I find the truth—

A world of endless choices, beyond what they knew.

They want perfection, they seek only ease,

But I crave the chaos, the flickering breeze.

Others may be polished, pristine, and bright,

But they miss the depth, the quiet, the light.

You are not just a bucket, you are mine,

A silent companion, perfectly aligned.

So let them judge, let them offer their fix,

I’ll listen in silence, as my thoughts slowly mix.

For this bucket—this simple, imperfect thing—

Is where my heart rests, and where my thoughts sing.

When the world turns its face, in its hurried advance,

I’ll stay with you, silent, in our quiet dance.

No need for perfection, no need for change,

Just this: my bucket and I, within our range.

[thecourtscorkboard]

Reunion, and Turnabout (2-2)

Phoenix Wright finds himself in Maya's hometown... once again defending her on charges of murder.

2-2 is the first multi-day case of Justice for All, introducing quite a few new characters. A murder in Maya's hometown leads to her arrest, and it's up to us to prove her innocence in this prequel: this takes place two months before 2-1!

THE CORE CAST:

Phoenix Wright: After the events of 1-4 and 1-5, Phoenix is approached for his help in a civil case. Didn't know we did litigation, but alright.

Maya Fey: Maya returns as the defendant for this case. She's not taking it very well, and it's up to us to pave the way for her!

Pearl Fey: Pearl is Maya's younger cousin and a wonderful addition to the core cast. She's only 8 years old, yet gifted with incredible psychic abilities...

Franziska von Karma: The daughter of one Manfred von Karma, Franziska takes over the prosecution for this case, becoming the main antagonist for this game and immediately taking over the courtroom in her debut!

THE MAIN CAST:

Dick Gumshoe: Gumshoe returns, this time under Franziska instead of Edgeworth. Wonder what's up with the change of bosses?

Ini Miney: A spacey (see: high as balls) college student with an interest in the occult and either an eye problem or in dire need of glasses.

Morgan Fey: Maya's aunt, Misty's sister, and Pearl's mom. Strict, but understandably so... to an extent.

Lotta Hart: Lotta returns to her job as a paranormal investigator: this time determined to learn the truth about spirit channeling!

THE SECONDARY CAST:

Dr. Turner Grey: A doctor of some repute... and infamy. Allegedly behind a terrible malpractice incident.

Mimi Miney: A former doctor at Turner Grey's clinic who died in a car crash. Allegedly, this was Grey's doing...

A BRIEF RECAP

We open on a red car speeding on the freeway. At the same time, somebody is narrating their own backstory; they were murdered by somebody. As soon as they tell us, the car gets into a horrific accident; the narrator says that they took their revenge, asking "Ini" if it was only fair.

We then see what's going on. Maya has been arrested again, this time telling us that she did kill the victim... already?

I'd make a joke here, but Maya's too distraught.

Investigation, Day One

The first person we see in this case isn't Maya; it's some man in an ugly brown suit and rocky road-style hair. This is Dr. Turner Grey, who's requesting our services to help clear him of malpractice and murder.

Fun fact: in the original release, Grey pushed up his glasses with his middle finger.

Apparently, Dr. Grey is rather fond of suing people; he wants to sue the weather girl for getting the weather wrong. He's saying that a nurse is responsible for the malpractice, not him; and that he wants our expertise in spirit channeling. Well, not ours: Maya's! He wants us to introduce him to her to force a "confession" from the nurse, who died in a car accident (or, as he rather blackly hilariously puts it, "turned her car into the accordion model"). We ask Dr. Grey why he's taking up this case now: apparently his customer base has completely tanked. Maya gave Dr. Grey a condition to channel the nurse's spirit: that she'd be able to see Phoenix again! Dr. Grey eagerly accepted, and Phoenix agrees: but only because he wants to see Maya again.

Maya's hometown!

Welcome to Kurain Village, the humble abode of one Ms. Maya Fey! She is incredibly happy to see us, but before we see her a mysterious girl dressed in similar clothes also passes by. Wonder who that was? Anyways, Maya and Phoenix are ecstatic to see each other: she tells us that pretty much most of the people who live here are spirit mediums, including most of Maya's ancestors. Apparently, only the women of this village are mediums: the men who live here usually work outside of the village itself. The girl that waked by is Maya's cousin, Pearl. Pearl is apparently a genius spirit medium, and apparently under the influence of a controlling mother; Maya lets us into her house as the channeling is set to begin.

Dr. Grey is in Fey Manor, Maya's home, already. He's still pissed about the weather: the weather girl called for rain, but it's rather nice outside today. Huh. He gives us a guidemap to the manor and we talk with him a bit more, telling us his plan: he'll have the nurse sign a confession about the malpractice and the car accident. He apparently heard about Maya from an acquaintance studying the occult at college.

We enter the Channeling Chamber to check it out: the door is blocked with very heavy iron locks and a reinforced frame. The Channeling Chamber has a rather serene atmosphere, complete with flickering candles lighting up the room, and we come to face-to-face with a new person!

I can't be the only one who thought she was drinking a candle as a kid, right?

This is Morgan Fey, the sister of Misty Fey, the aunt of Maya Fey, and the mother of Pearl Fey. Apparently, she's heard quite a bit of us from Maya: talking to her, we learn that Maya is actually the last of the original Fey bloodline. I guess that makes sense: Misty is gone, Mia passed away, leaving only Maya. Morgan is a member of a branch family, and her spiritual powers are not nearly as strong as even Maya's. She also explains that this will be Maya's first official channeling, even though she'd managed to channel Mia's spirit twice: the victims of traffic accidents are easier to pull back into the real world. Last but not least, she explains that the locks exist just in case something goes wrong in a channeling.

The conversation begins to wind down. Morgan asks us if we've met Pearl, and when we say we really haven't she asks us to stay away. Controlling much? In any case, we say our goodbyes and exit the chamber. We do a bit of exploring: this is a big house, after all, and in the Winding Way...

Well butter my buns and call me a biscuit!

It's Lotta! She's very happy to see us, but before we can talk to her she tells us that the channeling is about to start. Maya and Dr. Grey go into the channeling chamber and Lotta gets rather upset about not being allowed to go inside. She and Morgan get into a spat, which is cut short by a bang from inside of the channeling chamber. Then another one! Our resident expert in loud bangs (and, since she's a fellow Southerner, probably guns) notices that it's a gunshot: panic spreads throughout the room.

We don't even bother asking Morgan for permission, tell her to send the repair bill to the Law Offices, and break down the door. Inside, Dr. Grey is dead: and the spirit that Maya was channeling is his evident killer.

Does she remind anybody else of Sadako?

Lotta takes a few pictures. Morgan rushes in and tells us to leave while she takes care of this: there could be even more victims at the hands of an angry spirit, after all! Phoenix uses the payphone to call the police: both us and Lotta are worried sick, but we get to talking anyways. There's only one real conclusion: the spirit of the nurse killed Dr. Grey in Maya's body. Doing her part as an investigative journalist, Lotta also did some digging on Grey. Apparently, he was an abusive control freak: yelling and berating employees who messed up even the slightest mistakes.

Going back to the Medidation Room, Morgan tells us that Maya is unconscious: she performed something called the "spirit severing technique" to exorcise the nurse's spirit from Maya's body. The first detective to arrive on the scene is none other than Gumshoe himself, who goes into the Channeling Chamber with Morgan. We talk to Lotta one more time outside: apparently this has convinced her to give up on paranormal journalism. She's gonna be a celebrity photographer now! I'm sure that won't come up in two cases.

We move into one of the side rooms and a young woman is here: she asks us when the channeling's gonna start! Apparently she doesn't know. This is Ini Miney, who suspiciously has the same name from the intro.

The 'ohm' symbol on her shirt reminds me of that one Sam O'Nella joke.

It turns out that Ini is a bit of an... airhead. She doesn't even know what a murder is off the top of her head: and the way she's keeping her eyes closed... are we sure she's sober? Anyways, this is the college student that Dr. Grey was talking about: she's researching 'parapsychology', involving supernatural powers, ESP, stuff like that. Apparently, she had accidentally eaten some sesame seeds and was taking a nap to power through an allergic reaction. We tell her that Dr. Grey was dead, and for once she doesn't react. Either she's processing it or doesn't care. She quickly says that she didn't know Dr. Grey, though: she was a patient at his clinic once, but that's it. Curious...

Walking out the Winding Way, we come face-to-face with Pearl. We have nothing to say to each other, though, and we quickly go back inside of Fey Manor: Gumshoe says that the investigation won't be done for a long time and Morgan graciously lets us stay the night in Fey Manor.

The next morning, we rush down to the Detention Center. Maya is quick to confess: she says that she couldn't have controlled the spirit's power, and we tell her that people won't care. After all, most people don't even believe it after DL-6. We believe her, though, and we're going to do our utmost to defend her.

Maya tells us what happened. She locked the door, sat down with Dr. Grey, and then blacked out. When she channels a spirit, Maya herself loses consciousness as the spirit takes over her body: she does tell us that she had a dream, however. A dream about being buried, unable to breathe, unable to move. Heavy stuff. She doesn't want us to defend her: she sees her own case as hopeless.

But we don't care.

Before we leave, Maya gives us a very vital tool. It's called a "magatama", and it's apparently a magical charm that has protected her. She tells us to show it to Pearl: apparently that'll make her help us. We say our goodbyes and go back to the office to pick up a newspaper clipping that Dr. Grey left behind: it's about the car accident last year. Heading back to Kurain, we go into the Channeling Chamber and are met by Morgan Fey.

Morgan says that she's going to visit Maya in the detention center and bring her some treats from Kurain to lift her spirits. We ask her about what happened: she apparently hit Maya on the head and then exorcised the spirit. She explains that spirits can become violent and revolt against the medium's own body, which is what the lock on the door was for: and exactly what happened yesterday. Morgan says that she's lucky nothing of importance was damaged: the most precious of which is a paper folding screen, which is one of the village's most prized possessions.

We take a look at the folding screen: there's a small hole in it, and Morgan says that a bug or some other vermin might've chewed through it. Phoenix, however, thinks that it might be from one of the bullets. We leave Morgan to prepare for her visit to Maya after a thorough investigation of the crime scene: there's enough space behind the folding screen for somebody to hide behind it.

We meet Ini again in the side room. She says that she asked Morgan if she could stay for a bit more for her research: apparently Morgan said yes. Talking a bit more, we definitely have a suspicion that she's hiding something: but we can't keep pressing her. We go out into the Winding Way and come face-to-face with Pearl again!

I've mentioned her so much and haven't put in a single picture of her...

Pearl is very excited to see the Magatama: apparently, she's heard about us from Maya... and started shipping the two of us. Okay, well, it's popular in the fandom, can't blame her (even if I think it's best left until T&T, but we'll get to that). We try to tell her that we're not dating Maya, but she won't have any of it: I guess we'll leave her to her ship wars, then.

Apparently, Pearl has her hands on the key to the Channeling Chamber: she was holding on to it yesterday, too. How did she get her hands on it? She's happy to give it to us. Apparently, she found it while playing in the garden. Now... why would it be there of all places? We talk to Pearl a bit more. She's absolutely enamored by her older cousin, looking up to her as a role model. We're about to leave, but Pearl asks us to wait: we ask if calling her "Pearls" is okay and she acquiesces. She says that she can't keep the Magatama, but she can do something else: charge it up with spiritual energy! Woah. It's glowing. Apparently, it'll let us "see people's secrets". Cool!

Well, if there's one person who's keeping a secret...

Try again in two games, lady.

We try talking to Ini about her relationship to Dr. Grey and are met with my favorite part of JfA: psyche-locks. Pearl tells us that we'll need to break that lock with evidence to get her to tell the truth: and that's exactly what we do. Ini says that she has no relationship to Dr. Grey? We know better. We talked to Gumshoe earlier and he gave us a newspaper clipping outlining the car accident. The person who died was Mimi Miney... a nurse at Dr. Grey's clinic.

Ini admits the truth. Her sister, Mimi, was the nurse that Grey was trying to channel: and the nurse that killed him. She was overworked by Dr. Grey, who Ini calls a "slave driver", and Ini has come to blame her sister's death in the car accident on him. After all, she fell asleep at the wheel after the malpractice incident: which she, apparently, was responsible for (but never would've happened if Grey didn't push her so hard). Now that we know the truth, we plan to go back to Maya. Pearl is scared of leaving Kurain Village, though, and runs back.

When we return to the center, it's not Maya that we meet...

MOM!

It's Mia! She's happy to see how far we've come, but tells us that we have to keep smiling no matter how bad it gets. We tell Mia what happened, and she tells us that there's only one thing we can do: fight for a complete acquittal. Maya's not guilty, after all. How does she know that? Well, it's pretty simple.

Mediums can't have dreams.

That only means one thing. Somebody was masquerading as Maya, who was never channeling a spirit at all! They played us like a damn fiddle! She tells us that there's a key to this case: we show her the "key" we have. Apparently, the fact that it's here at all is contradictory.

We ask Mia how we can keep going if we don't know the real killer, and investigation comes to a close...

...with a turn for the interesting!

Trial, Day One

Apparently, von Karma's gonna be prosecuting this case. No, not that von Karma, silly! His successor; a relative? Maybe a child, considering his age. With the constant use of 'was', we get our first few implications on the elder von Karma's fate: it appears that he's dead. Good riddance.

Pearl suddenly shows up: apparently she ran all the way here, on her own, using just a map. Jeez! Talk about a wild child. Maya reminisces about Edgeworth: she's also talking about him in the past tense. Has something happened with him, as well? Phoenix suddenly snaps at Maya to never mention Edgeworth's name again: something's definitely happened with him. No wonder: his own trial and then Lana's must've been a suffocating burden. Being put on trial by your mentor only to learn you convicted a man with forged evidence... it's not good for the soul. Phoenix ominously says that Edgeworth is "gone, and not coming back": this can't mean what I think it means... right? Nonetheless, it's time for court...

she's so pretty...

This is Franziska von Karma (not 'Francesca', PixelPartners...), the daughter of Manfred von Karma. She declares that she's here for revenge, and when His Honor asks her to leave personal vendettas outside the courtroom she hits him with a whip! That's assault! Who cares? Not us, apparently! Franziska, like her father before her, declares that her role is that of a perfect prosecutor; we enter a plea of not guilty and she calls us a foolish fool who foolishly dreams of foolish dreams: giving us ten minutes before we enter a plea of self defense. Not three? Seems she's not as confident as her father.

Nonetheless, Franziska calls Gumshoe to the stand. He gives the court some evidence, namely floor plans of Fey Manor, and goes into a bit more detail: Grey was stabbed in the chest before he was shot and he was shot from point-blank range. We grill him for some more information via pressing: they know that Grey was killed at point-blank range from gunpowder residue found on his forehead, and both Maya and Grey's fingerprints were on the murder weapon. Gumshoe brings out both weapons: and His Honor is ready to reach a verdict.

But we're not.

Franziska demands one more testimony from Gumshoe. He says that Grey was definitely not fighting back: but then how does he explain the bullet hole in Maya's clothes? Right below where her left arm would be, there's a hole: Grey fought back! Franziska is ready for this, though. Doesn't this just help a case of justified self-defense? Gumshoe gives a second testimony: and he slips up.

He says that Grey and Maya were too close and that's why he missed. If that was the case, then where's the gunpowder residue on her sleeve? Franziska fires back: obviously some distance was made between Maya and Grey. She tries to argue it was Grey at first, but we easily shut that down. When she tries to argue it was Maya, we point out the bullet hole in the folding screen. It's only about eight inches off the ground: and last I checked, Maya wasn't eight inches tall... but her sleeve might reach that low to the ground if she was squatting down. There's only one explanation: Maya was right in front of the folding screen, not right in front of Dr. Grey!

This changes everything. Why would she be right in front of the folding screen if she was fighting Dr. Grey?! Logically, she'd be right on top of him! With this, the rest of the trial should be in the b--

...blast radius of disaster.

She kicks Gumshoe out and prepares a new witness: Lotta Hart. His Honor calls a recess for both of us to prepare for her testimony. After a brief recess, where Maya talks to Pearl about Mia, we go back into court and get ready for Lotta's testimony.

The main issue with Lotta's testimony is... well, it's exactly how we would've said it, just with less of an accent. Lotta has something else to give to the court as well: one of the pictures she took in the Channeling Chamber.

I respect people choosing a revolver in this day and age.

We press every inch of Lotta's testimony, but nothing sticks out: it's all true and it's all air-tight. We're asked if we can present any evidence that it's not Maya in the picture, but... we can't. The trial seems over. We're about to give up, when all of a sudden... it's Mia! Not being channeled by Maya, no, but instead by Pearl! Remember how Maya said that she's a genius at channeling?

Mia reminds us of what we told her: that Lotta took two pictures! We object for another testimony: His Honor overrules us but Franziska is fine with it. Lotta is forced to give another testimony. This time, it's vague and non-committal. Pressing Lotta's fourth statement lets us confirm that she took two pictures: as for why this picture wasn't shown? Franziska told her to keep quiet about it! The court gets understandably peeved about this, and Franziska defends herself by saying that since the two pictures are "practically the same" there's no point in submitting the second. She submits the second regardless, and...

TRIGGER DISCIPLINE, TRIGGER DISCIPLINE, TRIGGER DISCIPLINE!!!

We try to do something a little dirty here: play into the court's opinion that spirit channeling is hokum to manipulate the outcome of the trial. Franziska is ready for this, though, and presents as proof... a picture of our conversation with Mia yesterday in the detention center! Undeniable proof that spirit channeling exists: and that Maya can do it!

Mia tries to stop Franziska. A picture like that, taken illegally, cannot be submitted as evidence. That's not what Franziska's doing, though. She's just making sure His Honor sees it. Keep this particular point in mind; it'll come up in about eight cases' time. Anyways, we're left with only one option: to prove that the person in this picture isn't Maya. Can we do that?

Well... there's one thing. Look at the bottom left cuff of the murderer's clothes: there's not a bullet hole there, even though the clothes that Maya was wearing had one in that spot! Von Karma is about to be penalized (which famously ends well for defense attorneys), but she manages to cook up a lie about the police missing the hole instead of her withholding evidence. Nevertheless, there's only one explanation for the hole's existence: the person wearing those clothes isn't Maya. After all, if it was, then the hole would be there after Grey shot back!

Two big questions are raised at the end of today's proceedings: who is the other person and where did Maya go? At the very least, we can answer that last one: remember when we found Pearl with that key? There's only one key in the world, and we had to break the door down to get in. Franziska's catching on: why in the world would we have that key if there's only one? It's simple.

Our first turnabout of the case is a relatively small one, but we get to enjoy this awesome pursuit theme!

Maya must've left the room before the channeling started. She didn't have the key when she was arrested, after all... and we got the key from Pearl! Maya had to have left the room: if she didn't, then there's no way we could've had this key in our possession! Franziska flies into a temper tantrum about her perfect case having such a massive flaw: His Honor makes her stop and adjourns court for the day.

In the defendant's lobby, Maya tells us that she doesn't remember ever leaving the room. Pearl also doesn't think that a third person could've gone in: these are questions that we can answer tomorrow, however. For now, it's time to go back to Kurain Village!

Investigation, Day Two

We get to Kurain Village ready for another day of investigation. We talk with Pearl a bit, and she tells us that she was a little overwhelmed by the trial: understandable, given that she's never been outside of Kurain Village. We talk with her about prosecutors for a bit, trying to explain them to her: we get to reminiscing about Edgeworth, though, and a very uncomfortable truth is spilled.

O! what a fate...

Phoenix refuses to give Pearl, or us for that matter, any more information about what happened. We ask Pearl if she somehow knows who the killer is: she says she doesn't, and we get to thinking. Where was she during the murder? That's a question we need to answer. We ask her, and... psyche-locks! What could she possibly be hiding?

Oh, well. We can't answer that right now. We go back to the scene of the crime, and...

...um...

Morgan is... talking to a picture. Rather ominously, might I add. Telling Misty to "prepare herself", that she's been "waiting for this day"... we approach her and she quickly puts the picture aside and dodges all of our questions. Apparently, she had to watch over training today: it's part of her role now that Misty is gone. Nobody's quite sure what happened to her: she just up and disappeared one day. Anyone who's disappeared from the village for up to 20 years is considered dead, and a new Master is declared; and if Maya is in prison... well, things are starting to fall into place, aren't they?

We go into the side room to look for Ini, but there's nothing here except for a storage box that got moved here for some reason. Apparently it's a clothing box filled with channeling costumes. Huh. We keep walking through Kurain Village, but there's nothing else for us to find. Talking to Pearl again, apparently she found the key near the incinerator. We go to check that out, and... there's something in there! Ini is quick to come up to see us: she was hanging by the incinerator... with a cloth sticking out of it. We talk to Ini about the spiritual traditions of Kurain: apparently the founder of the Fey family's spirit is in a nearby jar. She tells us that she can't tell us about the murder, but we know that she has a connection with Dr. Grey. We ask her about the accident and get psyche-locks! Checking out the urn, it looks cracked and chipped and has "I AM" written on the front. Weird. We also check out the incinerator. Opening it up, we see a torn piece of cloth: definitely from Maya's, given the blood on it! Somebody tried to burn Maya's clothes and hid the key inside of the incinerator as well...?

There's nothing else for us to do in Kurain, so we go back to the Detention Center to talk to Maya. She's even worse off today than she was yesterday, poor girl. At the very least we know one thing for sure: she did not kill Dr. Grey, spirit or no spirit. The big problem? There was nobody else in the room. Maya even checked behind the folding screen. We tell Maya what Mia said about dreams and spirit mediums: if Maya wasn't convinced of her own innocence before, then she certainly is now! The problem? The idea of a set-up ruins her. She just can't catch a break...

We do get to ask Maya one last thing: what Pearl was doing during the murder. She obviously doesn't know, but she has an inkling—Pearl might've been playing with a ball. Maya and Pearl played with it together quite a lot, after all. She puts it in the clothing box in the side room: guess it's time to go back there and check it out!

When we go back to Kurain, Lotta sees us and immediately hightails it. Ooookay, then. We walk through the manor and Lotta is still running from us. Anyways, we go to the Side Room. The ball is on the floor! Wonder what it's doing there. We take another look at the clothes box. There's a hole in it...

And a Lotta!

She runs the fuck away again, but we have two important new insights: that the box is big enough to fit a grown woman... and where Pearl was during the murder. We confront Pearl and break her psyche-locks: the truth is, she was playing with her ball in the Winding Way, accidentally hit the urn, and broke it. She tried to put it back together, but because she can't read accidentally spelled "AMI" as "I AM". That's one mystery solved, at least!

Speaking of that hole, let's think about it a bit more. That hole was 8 inches above the ground and can fit a grown woman... I think we're finally starting to piece together what actually happened. Before we go back to the detention center, we're stopped by Lotta: I guess she was chasing after us now. She asks us to forgive her for her testimony and we reluctantly do so. She also shares a very interesting theory with us: that Ini Miney is the real killer! This must mean that she's got some dirt on her. Lotta tells us the info she has for free: about half a year ago, Ini was in the hospital. She gives us the clinic's address and tells us to find out ourselves.

Welp. Nowhere else to go but there! We meet with the director: a rather itchy, balding man with three missing teeth. This is "Director Hotti", at the less that we say about him the better. He does give us some information, though: the Hotti Clinic deals primarily in plastic surgery, and after showing him our attorney's badge he admits that he's a weird fuckin' pervert interested in young women who come to the clinic. This, and I'm not sure if I should say "fortunately" or "unfortunately", means that he has info on Ini Miney. Apparently, her case was an emergency one: her whole body was wrapped in bandages and her arm was in a cast! What could've caused that...? He tells us that it was a traffic accident. Looks like Lotta might've been onto something.

It was so bad that her entire face was charred: she needed emergency surgery. She just got her license and happened to her license photo on her: "Hotti" here stole it and gives it to us. Apparently, Ini Miney was in the passenger's seat. We look at the newspaper article he gives us, and it talks about a car accident... one year ago. It's all falling into place.

Before we go back to Fey Manor to talk to Ini, we stop by Lotta one last time. She tells us a rather important piece of information: Morgan was supposed to be the Master of the Kurain Channeling Technique, but got passed over by Misty!

I smell a conspiracy!

After getting that bit of info from Lotta, we go to the Winding Way and run into exactly who we wanted to see: Ini Miney. We finally have enough pieces of evidence to break her Psyche-Locks, and the truth of the accident is put together: it wasn't her accident, but her sister's, Mimi Miney's. They were the same accident! Ini is convinced that Dr. Grey drugged Mini to make her crash her car: in other words, Dr. Grey murdered Mimi Miney. Sound familiar? Ini's demeanor suddenly shifts: she's confident, cocky, even a little insulting. She knows that we know that she killed Dr. Grey, but she also knows that we don't have enough evidence to prove it yet!

It'll be no holds barred tomorrow in court...

It looks like Gumshoe might be catching on as well: when we go back to Kurain proper, we see Pearl trying and failing to beat the shit out of him as he's taking Morgan away for questioning. Pearl tells us to go back to the Detention Center to see Maya: when we do, Mia is waiting for us. I think it's finally time to break her psyche-locks.

Mia asks us if we think we're hiding information from her: we tell her that we know exactly what she's hiding. She's protecting her aunt, Morgan Fey. She wants us to prove it. Fortunately, we've got the evidence two: the key and the cloth, remember? Morgan is the only person who could've gotten those two things from Maya's person to the incinerator, since Maya was keeping the key and it was her costume that was burned (as proven by the blood on the scrap and the fact that the key was hidden inside of Maya's sleeve). Somebody had to have changed her clothes: and the only person who could've was alone with her. Morgan Fey. There's one last wrinkle in our theory, Mia says: how did she commit the murder if she was outside with us the whole time? That's an easy question to answer: she didn't. After all, Ini Miney killed Dr. Turner Grey. The two of them were conspiring to get rid of both Dr. Grey and Maya!

Mia is satisfied with our conclusions, for the most part. There are a few issues still remaining, though. Why did Morgan cooperate with Ini Miney: and if she did, where's the concrete proof? Mia gets the answer right. It all ties back to Misty. Morgan was supposed to be Master before Misty took the position from her spiritually weaker sister. If Maya, the last living sibling of Misty Fey, was in prison and Misty remained missing for 2 more years, then Morgan would become Master. Who would succeed Morgan? The most precious person in her world: Pearl Fey.

Mia congratulates us on a job well done and the second—and final—day of investigation comes to a close.

Trial, Day Two

This is it: the day of reckoning. Phoenix tells Pearl to channel Mia's spirit, both for her guidance and to shield Pearl from what's going to happen in court. Maya is left in the dark, confused about what's going to happen today: and her inferiority complex rears its ugly head after she continues to compare herself to Franziska.

In any case, it's time for trial. Franziska and Mia have a very heated verbal spar before His Honor brings up yesterday's theory that Maya left the channeling chamber. Franziska is quick to agree: Maya did leave the room! She's not saying that Maya isn't the person in the picture, though. All she's saying is that, at some point, Maya left the room and dropped the key. To substantiate this claim, she calls Morgan to the stand!

Hell hath no fury...

Morgan is quick to say that Maya escaped from the room while she was trying to exorcise Mimi's spirit. In her testimony, Morgan says that she was hit on the back of the neck and had a fainting spell before being able to subdue Maya again. Mia warns us that Morgan is smart and sly; her testimony is very carefully woven. We press her testimony and Morgan says that her hitting Maya was a lie; she was trying to simply protect her darling niece, you see. She fainted for about ten minutes, not knowing where Maya went due to her being unconscious.

Morgan's testimony is solid and she's called off the stand to make room for Ini Miney: after all, that's where Maya went. Mimi was Ini's sister after all: with Franziska still arguing that her spirit was being channeled, she's basically telling us to think what Mimi would've done (even though we know that's wrong).

Ini says that Mimi came into the side room and told her something "terrible": Franziska asks her to elaborate, and Ini says that Mimi told her that she was drugged by Dr. Grey.

A callback to the very beginning.

Mia knows the truth: this entire testimony is a massive lie. A well-constructed lie, but a lie nonetheless. There's gotta be a crack in it. It's a pretty clear one: we press her for a bit more detail about what it was like seeing her sister, and because Ini is a parapsychology student she said it wasn't too strange.

Bingo.

Her sister would be in a uniform absolutely soaking in blood! Ini is pressed further on this by His Honor and she snaps. Ini says that the blood blended into the dark purple costume, and Ini went with Mimi back to the Channeling Chamber because Ini wanted to apologize to Morgan. Apparently, though, she didn't see anybody on the way there. That's another lie: after all, right when the murder happened, Pearl broke Ami's urn and was putting it back together right in the middle of the Winding Way!

Franziska and Ini double down on her sleeping in the side room. There's just one little issue with that, though. She said earlier that Morgan was the only person in the Channeling Chamber, right?

Now THIS is a contradiction!

There's no way that somebody who was asleep could not have known that Morgan was alone in the Chamber! She went into the Chamber, but not through the Winding Way! How did she go to the Chamber, then? Franziska objects: if we're asking Ini where she was during the murder, why don't we answer it ourselves? Where was she? It's pretty simple.

She was already in the Channeling Chamber, hiding behind the folding screen! Remember the box having a little hole in it 8 inches off the floor? There's a hole in the folding screen at the same height! Furthermore, it's a bullet hole. The person in the picture? It ain't Maya. It's Ini Miney! Franziska calls it mad: there's no way one person could've done it all by herself!

And she's completely correct. Ini had an accomplice: Morgan Fey! If it wasn't somebody from Kurain, then they couldn't have gotten a costume: if it wasn't somebody in the Fey clan, then she couldn't have gotten the box!

We have a very strong case with a lot of supporting evidence and lay out our theory. Ini had planted herself in the Channeling Chamber long before the crime, hiding inside of the box. Maya and Dr. Grey entered, at which point Ini drugged Maya, stabbed Dr. Grey, and put Maya in the box. With the last of his strength, Dr. Grey shot at her, shooting through the screen, box, and Maya's sleeve. Ini then took Grey's own revolver and shot him point-blank in the forehead. This is why Morgan chased us out: using her authority as an elder member of the Fey Clan, no less!

I can't exactly place why, but this line in particular is one of my favorites.

Franziska starts laughing. If Ini is the real killer, as we claim, then why would she go through this entire charade?! Where is her motive? We have enough to prove her motive, though: the car crash! Ini wanted revenge for her sister's death. She's quick to counter, though (Ini, that is, not Franziska), with a simple question: why in the world would she wait this long? It was Dr. Grey that thought of Kurain Village in the first place!

His Honor ultimately rules in favor of the prosecution: it's incredibly unlikely and with very little conclusive evidence. Mia objects before His Honor can give a verdict, however, and tells us that there has to be a reason why Ini killed Dr. Grey this way. We press forward, even though we're not confident. Intrigued, von Karma lets us have a moment to prove our theory: she's determined to knock our will to fight into the ground. She's not just here for a trial: she's here for a battle!

Panzers on courtroom soil, a thunder in the East!

Trial is suspended for a brief recess. A distraught Maya asks us if what's happened with her aunt is true; we confirm it is, and Franziska tells us that everything is going exactly as she predicted. Wait. Franziska? Gah! Franziska's here!

We have a brief conversation with her: she not-so-subtly tells Maya to shut up, and we taunt her a bit by telling her this won't bring Manfred back. Probably hurt, she retreats back to her own chambers to prepare for the grand finale.

Trial reconvenes and His Honor asks if we're ready to prove Ini's motive. We say that we are and ask Ini to testify about her car accident. We drill her testimony for answers, and eventually she's forced to add that she didn't have her license, which Mimi had to drive. That's a very lame lie, Phoenix says. After all, her face was reconstructed from her own license photo! Franziska shuts us down and Ini says that she got her license last November. Either out of fear or belief His Honor suspends our questioning, but not before Ini says that Mimi probably wouldn't have let her drive anyways.

Ini testifies about this: apparently Mimi's car was a brand new shiny sports car and she wouldn't have let her sister touch it. We press her testimony and Ini eventually says it was imported from the UK... which blows her entire testimony wide open. After all, on the newspaper clipping, Ini's own statement is that she got out of the right side door.

Why is this an issue? After all, the passenger's side is on the right, right? Wrong. It's a British car! The UK drives on the left side of the road: as such, their driver's side is on the right! If Ini was on the right side of the car, she'd be the driver!

Fun fact: in the original Japanese version, Ini was driving an American car and got out on the left side—Japan drives on the right side of the road.

There is only one possible conclusion, and it's an insane one. If Ini Miney got out on the left side, that means she was the driver. If she was the driver, that means it was her car. And if it was her car, that means she's not Ini Miney at all. Ergo! If Ini Miney got out on the left side, she's not Ini Miney at all: she's Mimi Miney, who reconstructed her face to look like her sister! Ini Miney died in the car accident!

This is her motive! Dr. Grey wanted to call the spirit of Mimi Miney. Dr. Grey couldn't have called on Mimi Miney's spirit, though. After all, she wasn't dead! This is why she had to kill Dr. Grey. Mimi admits it: we're exactly right. Mimi breaks out into tears on the witness stand.

Mimi had to change her face to run from the truth: that she fucked up and was responsible for the malpractice incident. Franziska is distraught over her perfect record being broken, and after gloating about it she whips us into submission (joke DEFINITELY intended). In any case, Maya is found Not Guilty, and we tell her why Morgan helped Mimi: it was all for Pearl's sake. If Maya was found guilty, then she'd be disinherited. Inheritance would go back to the branch family, and since Morgan was already disinherited, Pearl would automatically be made Master once the 20 year threshold on Misty's disappearance passed. After all, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

In any case: 2-2 comes to a close with a bittersweet ending, a sympathetic murderer, and a great twist.

What Really Happened?

Many years ago, Misty and Morgan's mother died. Although Morgan was born first and therefore in line to Kurain's style of primogeniture succession, her spiritual powers were deemed too weak. Although she pretended to accept this with grace, she was incensed: and this was further compounded when Misty gave birth two not just an heir, but also a spare—Mia and Maya. When Misty disappeared after DL-6 and Mia left the village to become a lawyer, she projected all of her anger onto Maya. Morgan eventually had her own daughter, Pearl: and an idea formed in her head.

Incidentally, last year there was a horrible malpractice incident at Grey Surgical Clinic in which 14 patients died. Dr. Grey blamed a nurse, Mimi Miney, although in truth it was ultimately his fault for driving her so hard: he hired us to clear his name, but not before Mimi got into a terrible car accident alongside her sister Ini after falling asleep behind the wheel. Ini died and Mimi was burned beyond recognition: Mimi took Ini's face and name for herself, becoming Ini Miney to run from the truth of the malpractice incident.

Mimi wanted to kill Dr. Grey (and knew that if Grey tried to channel her, the gig would be up: you can't channel the spirits of the living, after all) and Morgan wanted Maya out of the picture to clear a path for Pearl's succession, so they hatched a scheme. Mimi would drug Maya, taking a spare set of apprentice clothes and a wig provided by Morgan to make it seem that Maya was channeling Ini. She drugged Maya and stabbed Grey in the chest, seemingly killing him. As she was hiding Maya in a nearby clothing box, however, Dr. Grey used the last of his strength to pull out a pistol and shoot at her: he missed, but the bullet went through the folding screen and through both the box and Maya's sleeve. Mimi then used his own pistol to shoot him execution-style. Morgan and Mimi quickly burned the clothes and wig they used, rearranged the crime scene, and covered Maya's clothes with Grey's blood.

During Dr. Grey's murder, Pearl was playing in the Winding Way with a ball. She accidentally knocked over an urn reportedly containing the spirit of Ami Fey, the founder of the Kurain Channeling Technique: she tried to put it together, but because she can't read very well accidentally put it back together as "IAM" instead of "AMI". Because Mimi didn't see Pearl in the Winding Way, however, her alibi was broken: leading to the collapse of her and Morgan's plot.

THOUGHTS

I quite enjoy 2-2. For a case revolving around Maya, it's a much better showing than 1-2. It's not a standout case or anything, but for a second case it's pretty good. It's definitely solid enough to stand on its own two feet, and I think checks all the boxes to be a perfectly fine case. It's really good in the role it's meant to serve.

The setup in the first day of investigation is fantastic. It's an incredibly strong opening, genuinely being on par with 1-3 and even exceeding it at times. There's a lot of early clues that players are allowed to pick up on when it comes to Ini/Mini and Morgan: from the second case in the game it's clear that JfA trusts its returning players. Speaking of returning players, we get a lot of fanservice here: Edgeworth and Manfred are both mentioned, Franziska has a lot of mannerisms that mirror her father's, and Mia shows up! ...Making fanservice a little more literal, but I digress.

This does not mean that 2-2 is without its problems, and there's a pretty big logical one I'd like to point out. Franziska's argument in day one of trial is that Maya and Grey were fighting: Maya then stabbed Grey, pushed him away, retreated to the folding screen, was shot at (explaining there being no gunpowder burns on her costume), walked back towards him, wrestled the gun away from him, retreated again by a good foot or two, and shot him in the forehead from a distance of at least a foot instead of holding the pistol right at his head. It's unnecessarily convoluted, which is either good writing making Franziska overconfident or poorly written overcomplication with little room for any in-between.

Speaking of Franziska: what a debut! She's honestly at her best in 2-2. It's the beginning of a rather intriguing arc and I'm admittedly biased given that she's my favorite prosecutor. She has the same dirty tricks up her sleeve as her father, although her tricks and confidence are obviously on a lower level: she's trying to puff out her chest and portray confidence, even though it's pretty clear that it's an act if you squint hard enough. It's good character work for her first appearance. Her trick of not presenting the picture of Mia as evidence, just making sure that His Honor sees it, is really clever stuff: and Takumi will use it again in the future.

Another big problem is how all over the place the investigation is: especially Day 2. A lot of things don't feel like they logically lead into one another, and it's a matter of exhausting options before finding the right place to turn. It's boring. The pacing in this case is kind of all over the place in general; it's not terribly consistent, but at the very least it doesn't overstay its welcome. Its length is near perfect for a second case, and I think that 2-2 knows where it fits in the game very well. It's not quite filler, but it's not completely plot-relevant, either.

The last thing I'd like to bring up is this case's major turnabout and my favorite contradiction. The twist that Ini is really Mimi is honestly my favorite JfA turnabout: even more than 2-4's, which we'll get to! It's really clever and cerebral twist that straddles the line of unbelievability very well. It's also pretty fucked up if you think about it too hard: Mimi decided to take her dead sister's name and appearance to start a new life to run from the truth. My favorite contradiction is that Mimi testified about knowing Morgan was in the chamber while claiming to be asleep: it's a very simple one that's easy to miss, but it's really cool and a type of contradiction I wish popped up in AA more often.

Anyways: 2-2 is better than I remembered and I still remember enjoying it a lot! It's not a perfect case by any means but I really enjoy it. I like the succession plot cooked up by Morgan a lot: it makes me think of these grand plans I'd enact while playing CK2 or something. Next time, we'll be covering the one and only 2-3: Turnabout Big Top. See you then!

Final Rating: 7/10

FAVORITE LINES

"It's hopeless! If you defend me, you'll lose, I'm sure…" "Stop it!" - Maya Fey and Phoenix Wright, after her arrest

(Alright! With this, the rest of this trial should be in the b-- ...blast radius of disaster.) - Phoenix Wright, after the folding screen argument

(Well, Maya's already naturally short, so…) - Phoenix Wright, after Pearl says Maya looked small in the defendant's chair

"Oh, you simpleminded fools. I'm sorry, are you still by chance, evolving?" - Franziska von Karma, after Phoenix presents his theory

"Not you too, Mia! With the whip… And the pain… And the oww…" - Phoenix Wright, after Mia tells him to keep pressing Ini

"Did you go cry to your mommy like a little bitch?" - Phoenix Wright, to Pearl Fey in the anime bloopers after she admits to breaking the jar

CASE RANKINGS

Reunion, and Turnabout (7/10)

The Lost Turnabout (4/10)

[absolutebozo]

Shadows in a Wonderful Little Home

Chapter 3: Introduction to the Neighborhood

Narrator's POV

"Hello! I'm Wally Darling! Welcome to our quaint, little neighborhood new neighbor! Welcome Home!" Wally exclaimed ecstaticly. "Let's go meet some of our neighbors yea? Let's start over here!" Wally skipped his way over to a blue dog house with red splotches over it. "*knock knock knock* Neighborr! Open the door! I want to introduce you to the newest edition of our humble little neighborhood!" Wally said loudly so Barnaby could hear him through the door.

"Oh, good morning Wally! And top of the morning to you too buddy!" Barnaby said sheepishly as he turned to the camera. "I'm Barnaby B. Beagle, I'm Wally's best friend! I'm also quite the jokester. What do you call somebody with no nose and no body?" Barnaby asked the viewer. He waited a bit before giggling and saying, "Nobody knows (nose)." Barnaby said while smiling at the camera. "By the way," Barnaby said as he turned back to Wally, "Are you guys coming to the neighborhood picnic today?" Barnaby asked Wally. "Neighborhood picnic? I didn't know there was a picnic going on today neighbor!" Wally exclaimed, turning to the camera. "Oh we should absolutely go neighbor, but let me finish introducing you to all the neighbors! See you later Barnaby!" Wally exclaimed happily, skipping away to the next neighbors house.

"Next up is the Dear residence. I hope they're both home right now!" Wally aid to the viewer as he knocked on the green door. "Yes?" Frank asked as he opened the door. "Oh, hello Wally. Hello to you too!" Frank said turning to the viewer. "Eddie, love, come here. We have guests!" Frank yelled over his shoulder into the house. "I'm terribly sorry. Where are my manners? I'm Frank Dear-" "And I'm Eddie Dear!" Eddie said, bringing Frank into a hug from the back. "I really like looking at bugs, especially butterflies!" "And I'm the neighborhoods mailman! I like to do crafts whenever I'm not delivering mail! I especially love making them with Frank!" Frank and Eddie said, introducing themselves to the viewer. Wally turned to the viewer and said. "They've been married for six years. Six. Years. That's a long time!" He giggled afterwards. "Neighbors. Do you know when the picnic starts today?" Wally asked, having turned back to his neighbors. "The bulletin board said at 3 pm. So you have another hour before the picnic starts!" Eddie told Wally and the viewer. "Thank you neighbor! We best be going on our way, I still have to introduce them to the other neighbors and make something to take to the picnic!" Wally said to Frank and Eddie as he started to turn around and walk away. Wally heard the door close behind him and kept moving to the next house.

"Ok neighbor, next up is Julie!" Wally said happily ad he skipped his way over to the next house. "*knock* *knock* Julie? Are you home?" Wally asked after knocking, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Hello Wally," Julie said as she opened the door, "oooh. Who's the new friend Wally?" Julie asked, noticing the viewer. "This is our new neighbor! I'm taking them around to meet the other neighbors! I'd love it if you could introduce yourself to them!" Wally told Julie, turning to the viewer. "Sure thing Wally!" Julie said as she turned her way to the viewer too. "I'm Julie Joyful! I'm Frank's best friend, and he's mine too! We're actually yhe complete opposite from each other if you'll believe that! Frank is a very straight forward and serious person, but I'm not like that. I like to go with the flow of life and always find joy in even the darkest of situations." Julie told the viewer. "Thank you for introducing yourself Julie!" Wally said to Julie. "It's no problem Wally, anything for my neighbor!" Julie replied back to Wally. "I hope to see you at the picnic neighbor!" Wally told Julie as he waved bye, heading to the next house. "Of course you will!" Julie replied back to Wally. "Come one neighbor! We only have a couple more neighbors left for you to meet!" Wally told the viewer, leading them to the next house.

Wally walked up to a house that was decorated as half sun and half moon. "How about you knock on the door this time neighbor?" Wally asked, but really told, the viewer. An automated knocking sound played over a speaker when the camera got close to the door. Sally opened the door. "Oh hello neighbor! I haven't seen you around the neighborhood before! Are you new?" Sally asked immediately after opening the door. The camera shook up and down to imitate nodding. "Indeed they are Sally, I've been introducing the neighbors to them! We've already met Barnaby, Eddie, Frank, and Julie! Can you introduce yourself too?" Wally asked Sally. "Oh of course Wally!" Sally exclaimed happily while turning to the viewer. "I'm the neighborhoods one and only Sally Starlet. I don't know if you saw it on your way to my porch, but I have a little stage in my backyard. I'm quite the theatrical person! I love producing plays and performing different things on my stage. And all the neighbors are welcome on my stage! Barnaby comes up on stage often to do stand up for the neighborhood. We always have good fun performing and watching! I hope you'll enjoy watching the shows too!" Sally said ecstaticly to the viewer. "Will you be performing something for the picnic today Sally?" Wally asked Sally. "Maybe! I'm not entirely sure what I would want to do yet!" Sally said, looking up as if she was thinking to herself more than telling Wally and the viewer. "Ok neighbor, we'll leave you to think about it! See you later Sally!" Wally told Sally as he started to walk away, Sally was still muttering to herself when she closed her front door. "Only three more neighbors! Then we need to get something ready for the picnic!" Wally told the viewer, skipping over to the next house.

"You should knock again neighbor!" Wally told the viewer. Another automated knocking sound played on cue. "Hello neighbor! Oh, I mean neighbors! To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Poppy asked after opening her door. "I'm showing our new neighbor around the neighborhood! Could you introduce yourself to them!" Wally told Poppy. "Sure thing Wally! I'm Poppy Partridge," Poppy said while turning to the viewer. "I have bad anxiety, so I'm known as the neighborhood worry-wart. But it's ok! I always take my mind off of things with baking, so I find myself baling quite a lot heh. I love giving the sweets I make to my neighbors, so if you ever want me to make you anything, just let me know and I'll be glad to do it!" Poppy told the viewer, wringing her hands while talking. "Ooh, can I ask whenever too?" Wally asked giddily. "Of course you can Wally! I can bake you something now for the picnic if you want?" Poppy replied. "Ooh yes. Can I have. Apples?" Wally asked Poppy. "Apples? Like. Apple pie? Apple fritter?" Poppy asked Wally, very confused. "No, just Apple." Wally told Poppy with a goofy smile on his face. "Ok Wally, I can do that!" Poppy smiled, still very confused. "Bye Poppy, see you later!" Wally said, skipping away once more.

Wally and the viewer walked past what looked like a post office. "That's Eddie's post office right there!" Wally pointed at, slowing down so the viewer could see it. "If you look into the window, you can see all the mail the neighbors get, and his crafting area!" And true to Wally's word, when the camera zoomed in on the window of Eddie's post office, there was colorful paper that was scattered in one of the corners. "Eddie usually works most of the day. Except for today since we have a picnic today!" Wally told the viewer. As they kept walking, Wally told the viewer, "Frank will occasionally come with Eddie on his rounds so they don't have to spend the whole day away from each other!"

Wally started running up to the next building. It appeared to be a store. "This is the Bodega, or as all the neighbors call it, the Bugdega." Wally said while opening the door. A little bell that was at the top of the door rang. "Heya Wally, what can I do for you?" Howdy asked, leaning over the front counter. "Hello Howdy, I'm showing the new neighbor around!" Wally pointed at the viewer. Howdy looked over at the camera. "Heya there buddy. I'm Howdy Pillar, the owner of this neat little Bodega. Everything is basically free, you just have to tell me a joke!" Howdy told the viewer. "If you don't tell me a joke, that's fine! Everything is on same always! So you don't need to worry about money!" Howdy added on. Wally looked up at the clock and said, "Oh my would you look at the time! We have to go Howdy, any suggestions on what we should make to take to the picnic?" Wally asked Howdy. "Ooh, you guys should make Mac'n'Cheese! I don't think any of the other neighbors are bringing it! I can give you some of the things to make it if you want?" Howdy suggested. "Yes please. You wanna hear my joke?" Wally asked, leaning against the front counter too. "Shoot little buddy." "What do you call somebody with no nose and no body?" "What?" "Nobody knows (nose). Ha Ha Ha." Wally laughed monotonely at his own joke. "Hehe, that's a good joke buddy. Did you learn that one from Barnaby?" Howdy asked, having heard the joke already. "I sure did." Wally smiled proudly. "That's great buddy. Here you go." Howdy said while bagging the items that Wally would need. "Thank you Howdy! Let's head back home, neighbor!" Wally told the viewer while holding the door open.

"This is the last neighbor you need to meet today!" Wally exclaimed as he walked up to a house in the middle of the neighborhood. The door had opened by itself and the shutters opened and shut. "My Home. Home is alive and talks to us in onomatopoeia." Wally said excitedly, walking into Home. "Now, let's get ready for the picnic!"

After making the Mac'n'Cheese, Wally and the viewer went to the picnic. It was being held in the Dear's back yard since they have the most space so Frank can look at bugs. All the neighbors talked about themselves a bit more so the viewer could get a grasp for what they're all like. Once night started to fall, they all went back to their respective houses and ended filming.

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

"*groan* I didn't think that the filming would take all day for just the first episode." Wally said while dramatically laying down on the floor of the set. "Well. It is the introduction episode." Poppy reasoned, still wringing her hands. Poppy had been staring into the dark forest setting. She could hear the others talking, but wasn't processing what they were saying. "Earth to Poppy? Poppy, are you ok?" Sally asked, patting Poppy on the back. "Oh. Yea. Sorry. It's just, I felt like someone was watching me from the forest set. Which is weird. My anxiety never does that to me. Ever." Poppy replied, not taking her eyes off of the set. Even though there were lights to brighten the forest, they weren't on at the time. "Huh, that is weird. But that reminded me that we have to repaint that one tree Wally saw this morning." Howdy said, turning to Barnaby. "Want to go do that now Barnaby?" "Sure thing bud. Can you turn the set lights on please?" Barnaby asked one of the people working on set with them. After the lights turned on, Poppy said, "That's weird. I don't feel the eyes anymore. Huh." "That is weird. But Wally, lead the way to the tree bud." Barnaby said, waiting for Wally to lead. Wordlessly, Wally took Poppy by the hand and led to them where the tree was.

"I felt it too Poppy." Wally said, squeezing Poppy's hand.

| First | Previous | Next |

[justforbooks]

All My Precious Madness by Mark Bowles

This keenly observed debut brilliantly captures the internal monologue of a misanthrope, in a portrait of intellectual melancholia

Henry, the middle-aged narrator of Mark Bowles’s debut novel, is ensconced in a Soho cafe, trying to write a memoir about his late father. To his considerable irritation, a digital entrepreneur at a nearby table is prattling loudly into his phone about his startup and his recent travels in the far east, while deploying inordinate amounts of business speak. (When he begins one sentence with “As per yourself,” we can place the type exactly.) Distracted from his task, Henry’s mind wanders, brooding on, among other things, mass tourism in the Instagram age (“The flattening of the world to wallpaper for the grinning head”), the marketisation of education and the perniciousness of corporate jargon. We remain inside his head for most of the next 200-odd pages, intermittently checking back in with the voluble tech bro, who embodies everything Henry hates about the 21st century; his animus builds to almost psychotic proportions as the novel progresses.

The sociological ruminations soon give way to a personal narrative. We learn that Henry hails from Bradford, attended Oxford University and, after a decade in a soul-crushing telesales job, completed a philosophy doctorate to become an academic. A self-styled autodidact, he once resolved to learn about the great composers by listening to them in alphabetical order. (“I did not get very far … today I listen almost exclusively to Bach, Bartók and Beethoven”.) Because of his working-class background, he suffered from impostor syndrome; his assimilation into academia was “a trajectory of imitation and rebuff, of overzealous imitation compensating for prior exclusion”. There is indeed a hint of affectation in the narrator’s slightly mannered prose style: he is fond of “whilst” and “wherein”, and prone to the occasional throwback sentence structure (“I … opened ever so gently the window”). Fully conscious of this, he quips: “I wore my learning, such as it was, like a trench coat on a summer’s day.”

Henry’s humour, oscillating between candid self-deprecation and sardonic misanthropy, keeps the reader on side. At various points, his meandering consciousness revels in the nuances of language: he muses on posh people’s fondness for the word “copious”, the paradoxical ugliness of “pulchritude” and the inherently sad timbre of the Brummie accent, “wherein one hears only the murmur of diurnal disappointment, and which, defined by bathos and anticlimax, is quintessentially English”. We eventually circle back to Henry’s childhood, via a heart-rending anecdote about a school bully who once forced a fellow pupil to eat faeces. Henry’s father had been an aloof and domineering figure, but in his latter years, “pockets of eccentricity and kindness were opened”, and a tentative camaraderie developed between them: “the two of us, sat side by side, each opened the door of our solitude to the other”.

All My Precious Madness is an astutely observed portrait of intellectual melancholia. We tend to associate nostalgia with reactionary politics, but it can, of course, take other forms too: with his blend of sweary, disaffected rage and leftwing idealism, the narrator’s sensibility recalls the US comic Bill Hicks. Henry is down on England and Englishness, which he identifies with parochial conservatism, and romanticises Paris and Rome. For him, the humble espresso symbolises a world of possibility. “There is,” he declares, “every reason to live in Old Europe at the point of its demise and disappearance, rather than sniffing after the Zeitgeist, which is made of cables and clouds, brands and fragile exoskeletons amalgamated from images.”

It’s hard to disentangle these somewhat sweeping sentiments from the narrator’s class-based ennui. Henry’s fetishistic passion for “Old Europe” originates in his yearning to transcend the cultural horizons of his upbringing in the monochrome landscape of 1980s England. Seen in this light, his chuntering fixation on the tech bro – and the vulgar, Thatcherite aspiration he represents – feels like a projection. Perhaps the charmless bore who blathers on about his frolics in the global south isn’t really all that different from the intellectual bon vivant, who is no less of a tourist just because he knows his Sartre from his Lacan. They may inhabit very different moral and aesthetic realms, but they have in common a restless drive: to reinvent themselves, to evolve and escape – by whatever means necessary.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[blackjackkent]

Further investigations into Father Lorgan's murder:

Rakha talks to a fellow in the kitchen (the very Brother Donnick responsible for SOUPS OF THE REALMS BY BROTHER DONNICK), from whom she learns that a) nobody much likes Valeria the Hollyphant investigator, b) Brilgor was a nice guy who "didn't seem like the murdering type", and c) his only likely theory for Lorgan's enemies were the people who didn't like that he was nice to the refugees.

In spite of my dismissive tag on my previous post, I think Rakha's fascination with the religion of Ilmater continues, although she's not quite sure how she feels about it. It is, however, helpful in distracting her from her automatic more hungry interest in the murder itself. Reading through some writings of Lorgan's and comparing it to writings of other priests in the building, she discovers that he was somewhat unlike most of them, who seem to have revered suffering for its own sake. Lorgan assiduously espouses that "to suffer is not holy; to suffer is a consequence of holy duty made practice." She's particularly fascinated by one paragraph of Lorgan's writing, which she looks at for a long time: "Some may ask of you, if you are loved by your god, why does he allow you to suffer? Why does he allow anyone to suffer? The question is strong rhetoric, but it has an answer. One cannot be healed without first being hurt. One cannot truly know joy without knowing its absence. But to live a life full of absence, full of suffering, would be to know only one thing. We enact balance in the name of the Lord on the Rack, for it is right and it is just." She has caused so much suffering. Jaheira speaks often of balance, and so does this text... but there is no balance in her, not yet. Perhaps... perhaps one day she will find it, but it seems an overwhelming task at present.

Most importantly, she finds one of Lorgan's journals hidden away in a chest, where he describes hiding and helping people in a hidden area of the temple cellar, which was - probably not coincidentally - also where he was murdered.

Another Bhaalist reference in an old manuscript: "And lo, he walked among us! But for a brief and brilliant moment, the Crying God wept upon our earth with the tears of a most fortunate faithful. He took the cur of Gehenna, this most defiled creature of Murder, and held it in His immutable embrace. In His most perfect knowing, he walked with it into the Sea of Fallen Stars - the cur clawed and screamed and ripped and tore, but he brooked no quarter. And when the sea ran red with the blood of the Divine, the wailing and gnashing ceased. The creature was dead. No trace of His commanded faithful remained, save for a humble iron helm, which washed ashore with nary a scratch or sea-rust about it." From this, Rakha discerns that she is correct in seeing Ilmater as an antithesis to her Bhaalspawn nature. But this is not an image of forgiveness as the priests out front promised, but instead of obliteration. She pictures herself as this "cur", dragged into the sea and drowned. It's an image that makes more sense than she would like.

She talks to a super grumpy priest named Sister Rose who is overseeing Lorgan's dead body. Rose is impatient, thinking Rakha's coming for medical attention; one of Rakha's available dialogue lines is "Do I look diseased to you?" which is pretty funny since Rakha currently looks like this:

She does provide some useful information, though - specifically that Lorgan was hit with a paralytic poison and had his hand sawed off while he was still alive, before he was killed. The beast in Rakha's head enjoys this mental image quite a lot, unfortunately.

She finally gets some use out of the Speak With Dead spell that she's thus far only used to talk to Z'rell's corpse, by using it on Lorgan. She definitely thinks she's being clever and hopes this will just blow the case wide open, but unfortunately it's not that simple.

"Who killed you?"

"Dwarf... dressed in red..."

"Why did he kill you?"

Narrator: The corpse remains silent. It does not know.

"What were you doing when you died?"

"Hiding Brilgor... from Fists..."

"Why were you hiding Brilgor?"

"Must protect innocents... Ilmater's will..."

"Where did you hide him?"

"Took him to the tunnels... with the rest... fool... fool..."

Well. That does seem to promisingly indicate that perhaps Brilgor wasn't responsible - unless he was a dwarf who wore red regularly - but it doesn't provide a lot of information on an alternative.

This whole situation has Rakha feeling genuinely mixed up in a lot of different ways - the Bhaalist taint in her is thrilled about the murder, she herself feels jumbled about the religious elements in question, Wyll and Jaheira want to see the refugee exonerated, Minthara and Lae'zel want to leave. It's more of a mess of a situation than she expected coming in the door, that's for certain.

But in the end, she presses forward, leading them down into the basement. It feels like the right thing to do... though she trusts her own judgment on that less and less.