#please help this campaign has overtaken all my thoughts...

[bred-is-a-dumb-name]

Thought I would try my hand at drawing this guy...

[thestraggletag]

Roll for Initiative, a Rumbelle D&D Fic

Summary: Tales of the Enchanted Forest was the hottest online D&D game, in part for its charismatic players, in part for the twisted turns of the DM's mind and in part because of the outrageous chemistry between its greatest OTP, the party's beautiful bard and the Dark One, an anti-hero side-character who is there to provide information and uncomfortable levels of UST. Mr Gold thinks it's a harmless flirtation that could never become anything else, just like his silly little crush on the town librarian, Belle French.

He's wrong.

Rating: Explicit.

Author’s Note: Surprise, @argoslight​, it is I, your Gifter! Sorry to make you wait till near the end but I just had way more banter to write in me than I thought. I hope you enjoy your gift. I’m so sorry to not be able to add more D&D elements but since I don’t play I don’t have a lot of idea of what could be done. Also I apologise for any mistakes! And thanks so much to @little-inkstone for her help and D&D knowledge.

The castle was quiet when she entered, her steps echoing against the stone. It was gloomy inside, curtains obscured and decor sparse and sombre, the castle living up to its name. But there were flowers on the table, moon lilies, her favourite flower. They bloomed only in the Eastern Mountains past the Old Wall, but she had long since suspected he grew some on one of his enchanted hothouses, with the excuse of using them for potions. 

“Where’s the rest of your pretty little troop of do-gooders, dearie?”

The voice came out of nowhere, echoing around the empty halls of the castle. Thankfully she did not need directions, knowing exactly when to turn and where to go. Soon she found herself in a vast room, with a table on the centre and curios filled with oddities and the like. Some others were displayed on pedestals, including a rather fearsome sword and a nasty-looking crown made of thorns. None of the artefacts were what she sought, but she was not there to bargain for an item, but rather for information.

“Off on their own quests, taking care of other things that need doing.”

The voice tsked, seeming not to approve.

“They let you enter the lair of the beast alone? Some heroes.”

The woman lowered the hood of her cloak and walked towards the unlit chimney. Immediately a fire blazed to life, as if the castle itself was trying to cater to her comfort. The fire provided much-needed light as well, revealing the profile of a man in the shadows. Or something that looked like a man, at least, if not for the reflective scales that covered his body and its strange eyes: gold irises around catlike pupils.

“I asked to come alone. I felt like we could talk more openly this way.”

She removed her cloak, ostensibly to drape it across a chair near the fire and let it dry. The creature, however, seemed to read more into the gesture, tsking again.

“You come here all alone, a pretty little lamb, and take off the only real bit of protection you have. Reckless, dearie, most reckless.”

 The creature stood up, walking slowly towards the light, revealing more of its form as it approached her. Leather pants and a long, reptilian-looking vest and coat. It wasn’t particularly tall but power emanated from it in suffocating waves. She closed her eyes, finding his cloying presence strangely comforting. Then again, she had always been odd. 

“Once again your pitiful little party of friends needs my help. How they weigh you down, Beauty.”

He stepped fully into the light then, revealing a being more creature than man, the reptilian skin and claws as off-putting as his unnatural eyes. She should’ve taken a step back, should’ve gone for her blade or the dagger tucked into her left boot, but she didn’t. As much as she knew she shouldn't, she felt at ease in his presence. Well, perhaps not quite. She certainly felt a strange sort of anxiousness in his presence, a fluttery sort of feeling that she attributed to being particularly attuned to his magic. None of the other members of her party felt that way. If anything, he repulsed them, which wasn’t something she could understand. To her he was… magnetic.

“Are you in the mood for dealing or not? I can trade for information.”

He snorted.

“With what? Your little band of misfits is dirt poor. That idiotic paladin of yours ruined your last mission. You really should think about ditching the man. All brawn, no brains. At least your rogue is a smart woman.”

His gaze left her briefly, running down the length of her clothing: sturdy black boots, a nicely-cut dress that stopped around the knees and a sturdy belt with a few pockets for her spells. But the clothing, as well-made as it was, was dated, old. Looked worn and was signed and stained in places, and it left a lot of her frail human skin exposed. She had not been able to afford an upgrade in a while, preferring to spend her coin in what could benefit the group.

His moue of distaste disappeared once his eyes fell on her cloak. Well, his cloak, since he had been the one to make it. It was a lovely thing in varied shades of green, shot through with golden thread, his trademark. She had bought it off him a long time ago, a simple thing to keep her warm during cold nights and dry when it rained. Miraculously, though, it also did not sustain damage, looking exactly the same as when she had first put it on.

“I’m glad at least my protection is serving you well.”

He ran a claw along the seams of the cloak, making it glitter, like to like, magic calling for its own. He looked smug, as if pleased she was wearing something he had made.

“It does more than we bargained for. I’ve been blasted with magic strong enough to burn through most fabric but it has not even frayed. How strange of you, Rumplestiltskin, to lose out on a deal.”

He shivered when she said his name, walking behind her to the safety of the shadow she cast next to the fire.

“Can’t help it if my magic is just that powerful, my dear. I’m glad you are a happy customer. Always thought that cloak was a nice bit of magic. Can’t fault you for always wearing it.”

She felt him close in on her from behind, to the point that it almost felt like they were touching.

“It smells like you. That’s why I wear it all the time.”

The noise he made behind her was inhuman, a cross between a whimper and a growl. His claws scrapped against the back of her dress, the feeling muted by her stays, but she could feel his breath against the back of her neck and that alone was-

“Hey, this is a decent stream! Keep it PG for the kids, you weirdos.”

“Damn it, Grumpy, I wanted to see how long it would take them to snap out of it!”

“Sorry, Snow, but I ate a big dinner and I aim to keep it down.”

The messages in the chatroom wheezed by, mostly disgruntled complaints about their OTP never catching a break. The other participants in the stream were mostly silent, their mics muted likely to hide the amused snickers. There was no video feed on any of the members of the party, all of them represented instead by artwork to preserve their anonymity. Once upon a time that had been a fanciful choice, and perhaps a way to stay safe when interacting with strangers on the internet. Now it was mostly to keep their private lives from being overtaken by the popularity of their stream. “Tales of the Enchanted Forest” was shaping up to be one of the hottest D&D online streaming shows, already on its third campaign and counting.

“Beauty is just trying to get us some answers, Grumpy. We can’t just go stumbling about hoping to run into some fairy wand by chance.”

“Oh, it’s that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Enough! Can we get back to the campaign already? It took me weeks to plan and it kinda hinges a bit on the Dark One helping, which needs to happen today.”

“Fine by me, dearie, if the dwarf can curtail his temper.”

The party was composed of five characters, a paladin, a cleric, a bard, a rogue and a thief, which along with the Dungeon Master made up the regular cast of every weekly stream. But given the popularity of the show, and the amount of time they had been playing, they had managed to amass a good amount of side-characters, guests invited every now and then to help the campaign move along and keep the interest of the audience. And by far the most popular of those guests was the Dark One, a wizard of unknown lineage and tremendous power that served both as an antagonist and a pseudo-ally depending on the situation. 

His presence was likely the reason why the livestream’s numbers looked so robust. He had amassed quite a fanbase, due in part to the commitment the player put on the character (the voice-acting was above and beyond what anyone could’ve expected from an amateur performer, and the backstory was quite complex, revealed in bits and pieces fans had meticulously assembled together) and in part to the chemistry he had managed to develop with the group’s bard, a half-human named Beauty.

“Okay, let’s all go back to what we were doing.” The DM’s voice was authoritative, though also more than a bit pissed off. “Okay, Beauty, you were about to try and cajole the Dark One to sell you the information you needed in return for a vial of water from Lake Nostos. Though the water is valuable, it’s not guaranteed to be enough to tempt the wizard. You have to roll at least a 13 in persuasion to make the trade. Roll when you’re ready.”

...

Rumford Gold stretched within the confines of the small backroom of his shop, where he had his computer stuff set up. Initially he’d bought the computer to better conduct his online business. His laptop at home wasn’t cutting it and it was better to photograph the antiques, update the website and handle the deliveries from his place of business. He had bought a good camera, some light fixtures and, on a whim, a microphone, for instances where he might need to virtually communicate with clients. It was something that was happening more and more, especially because a lot of his clientele was European. The internet had truly turned his antiquing- more of a hobby than a profession originally- into a profitable business.

He had gotten into watching D&D while waiting late at night for a client to become available in Austria. He had played as a lad, one of the few happy moments he could remember from his childhood in Glasgow, but had given it up once he had met Milah. And after they were over he had been too involved in making something of himself to remember past childhood enjoyments. But apparently D&D had evolved with the times and he had gotten into the habit of searching for and watching online D&D campaigns in his spare time. From that to actually being a side-character in one of them took almost no time. It was frightfully easy to go back to that frame of mind of playing make-believe, only now he had a distaste for the clean-cut heroic types and more of an affinity for the morally-grey, shady characters.

So he had auditioned for the role of evil-wizard when there had been an opening for a side-character in his favourite D&D stream, The Enchanted Forest. And though the DM had written what he considered to be a very flat, uninteresting character, he had been able to give it his own spin. He knew the DM hated him for it, hated when he deviated from what was expected of him, but people loved him. It was half the fun, pissing the DM off.

The other half, he had to admit, was Beauty. The one with the brains in the group, clearly, a half-human, half-fairy bard with an uncanny ability to think ahead, and arm herself with knowledge. Most of the other members of her party were more apt to try and decapitate something than negotiate with it, or even befriend it. Beauty prided herself on more of a gentle approach, which sometimes got her treated as the “fragile” one. He thought it just made her all the more interesting.

Their flirting had just kinda happened. He was half into it before he realised it had begun at all and by the time he had grown conscious- and self-conscious- of it fans were lapping it up and loving it. Even the DM, as loath as he was to admit it, found the banter engaging, even as if stole the spotlight from his story and where he wanted it to go. So every now and then he got invited into a stream, sometimes to interact with the whole party and sometimes, like the session he had just finished, to speak only to Beauty. And what was supposed to be a brief conversation before the party moved to greener pastures became a whole session, with the chatroom full of engagement and the view count off the charts.

But the DM had had a short tolerance span tonight, and had nipped things in the bud much sooner than usual. He felt… unfulfilled. Unsatisfied. Itchy, almost, in a way. So he was more than happy when he received an email from Beauty, who seemed to share his dislike of how the session had played out. They had started doing that more often, sharing emails after a session, even when he did not participate in it. It was harmless, he thought. Just an innocent online flirtation that could never realistically turn into anything. Not that his more in-person romantic overtures could ever pan out. He was in his third year of being completely smitten by the local town librarian, and in his second year of being able to put two words together in front of her without the help from Scotch, something he was perhaps a bit too proud of. And though he had decided very early on that the whole thing was utterly hopeless he had not been able to steer his thoughts or affections away. Realistically he was perhaps more in love with the idea of Belle French than the reality itself, given how little he had personally interacted with the woman. But he knew just enough to fill in the blanks and create a beautiful picture of how he imagined her to be: bookish- an easy assumption given how many times he had caught her in public places absorbed in a book-, kind, generous and delightfully able to hold a grudge and enact revenge when the time came. A bit reckless, and sometimes quick to form opinions, but also quick to revise them. A tactile person, with a great sense of fashion and a carelessness about what was expected of her.

He saw her in his head as clear as day, but little of that image was based on any personal knowledge of her. So, perhaps, he had found in Beauty a fictional substitute, someone he could talk to, and flirt with, without consequences, adopting the persona of someone more confident, more at ease with that sort of thing. The Dark One was comfortable in his skin in a way that he could only pretend to be sometimes. All the money and power he had accumulated over the years had helped him evolve from the spineless, cowardly lad he had once been, but when it came to certain situations, especially those that necessitated a level of vulnerability, he was still hopeless.

Perhaps, he wondered, it was better to think about his online liaison with Beauty as the real thing. They wrote to each other often, in and out of character, and over the course of their correspondence he had confided in her more than he had in any other person alive. Small things at first, every day peeves and details. Nothing that could identify them, certainly, but surprisingly intimate nevertheless. And over time it had grown to stuttering confessions and barings of the soul on both sides. She had told him of her teenage years in a mental asylum, the product of an overwrought widowed father trying to do right by his grieving daughter. He had had a few choice words to say about that, uncharitable thoughts about her father prompting his own willing sharing of the sad story of his childhood, neglectful father and all. It had felt nice, to confide in someone, someone he trusted.

He glanced at her email, where she lamented how their scene had not been as long or as satisfying as she had wanted, and saw she was proposing to meet later in a private stream to finish it the way they had both wanted. She had proposed something similar once or twice before and he had politely declined but now he wondered why not take her up on her offer. What was stopping him? His imaginary idea of Belle French, who in reality had never given him more than a polite smile in passing? Too young, too good, too beautiful to ever see him as anything other than an old cripple? Whatever he had built with Beauty felt infinitely more real, and attainable. A relationship without ever meeting in person seemed ideal in many aspects and, perhaps, if and when it came to meeting in the real world, his physical shortcomings would not be relevant, nor would it his rather uncharitable reputation.

He sent her a quick reply to arrange a meeting, feeling like a bit of roleplaying was, in the end, quite harmless. And if it were to lead to something a bit more meaningful, well, perhaps it was about time.

…

“Water from Lake Nostos. A key ingredient in most powerful potions and even some spells. I’m sure it could prove useful to you.”

The bard showed him the glowing crystal vial hanging from a long chain around her neck, with the glowing milky-white water from the cursed lake in it. He made a move to get closer to inspect it but the woman took a step back, tucking the vial back inside her bodice. The wizard’s eyes lingered there, hiz gaze growing intense. The bard felt her skin flush in response, something that felt a bit like fear but wasn’t running down her spine.

“And I’m sure a new wardrobe could prove useful to you, dearie. You’re practically wearing rags.” Rumplestiltskin made a show of running his eyes up and down her form with just enough disgust in his face to make it seem as if he was only noticing the rather sad state of her dress. 

“It’s my best gown, I’d thank you not to insult it.”

He made a moue of disapproval, shaking his head for good measure.

“You’re far from your days as a princess. I hope seeing the world is worth putting up with your band of idiots that waste most of the gold they earn with your wit in pointless goose chases that you know will lead nowhere.”

Beauty didn’t respond. There was nothing she could say to contradict what he thought of her party, none of which was charitable to say the least. And she also knew that he was aware that all of it was worth the freedom she had won when she had left her life in her father’s castle behind. She did miss one or two things, perhaps. Her mother’s vast library being one and, perhaps, some of the fashions. Not so much the silhouettes- she had never liked how the sea of petticoats she was always forced to wear restricted her movement- but the fabrics and colours, certainly. And the shoes.

“I’m here to make a deal, Dark One. Are you doing business today or not?”

Lesser creatures would’ve rather bitten off their tongues that throw cheek at the Dark One, but Beauty did not even bat an eye, lips curling in a defiant little smile that had the wizard smirking, something like admiration blooming in his chest. It’s what he loved most about his little bard, her spine of steel. And perhaps her blue eyes, but that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t do business with raggedy urchins, dearie. If you want to sit down and negotiate you’ll need a bath.” He made a face, as if he could smell her across the room. “And a change of dress, while I put your current outfit to wash… Or set it on fire, I haven’t decided yet.”

She could tell that he was pulling his punches, that he was playing at being repulsed by her state of dress and hygiene just bad enough that she would see he did not really mean it, not in any real way. She would’ve been able to tell either way, but it was nice that he thought it important to spare her feelings. And she couldn’t deny that a bath sounded heavenly after so many weeks on the road, sleeping out in the open and washing in freezing-cold creeks whenever possible.

“Well, if you insist…”

He took her to a well-lit and spacious bathing chamber, with the biggest copper tub she had ever seen, already filled with warm, soapy water that smelled of vanilla. She wasted no time after the door closed behind him, stripping quickly, careless of her worn and mended garments, and slipping into the tub. It was heaven on her tired muscles, and her dirty skin, and though she would’ve stayed there for hours she knew that every minute spent bathing was a minute less with the Dark One. Their time was limited. If she didn’t return to camp in the morning her party would venture into the castle, likely thinking the most dreadful scenarios. She could picture Charming attempting to kick the front gate open and getting hurt for his troubles. She could not let them worry for her, or risk the rapport she had developed with the Dark One by coming in unannounced. 

She got out of the tub with only a bit of reluctance and found a towel that she was convinced was enchanted to dry her faster than possible. She found clothing laid out in the adjoining dressing room, the undergarments soft and made of pale cream fabric and the dress of a lovely velvety, forest-green fabric, with a belt embroidered in small pearls that matched the detail about the neckline. She put it on gladly, twisting every which way to lace it up at her back. Living a less princessy life had made her acquire a number of small skills, including the ability to dress up mostly by herself even in gowns that did not lace up at the front, like most of her travelling clothes.

She did not spot her mauve travelling dress or her boots, but she was sure that Rumplestiltskin had whisked them away and would subtly mend them with magic, though she was sure he would deny it if she were to point it out. The green dress was accompanied by matching slippers, butter-soft and silent as they touched the stone floor. She made sure to dry her hair out, noticing how it shone red-gold in the flattering light of the candles, and took her time brushing it and styling it out of her face, so it fell flatteringly down her back. Her neck and most of her upper torso was bare but for the chain keeping the vial of water tucked safely against her breasts, the wide neckline of the dress dipping low enough to leave her collarbones bare, but she didn’t mind it. She was inside the Dark Castle, with the Dark One. She was safe there. On the road she always had to think about not attracting unwanted male attention. Here she rather felt like the opposite.

It was a silly infatuation, and many would argue any interest or desire on her part was due to the wizard’s power, which some would say was an aphrodisiac potent enough to make some look past the Dark One’s rather unfortunate exterior. No one would ever believe her if she confessed she rather… liked his appearance. The green-gold skin, the wild hair, the talons, but also the exquisitely-tailored pants and vests, the frothy cravats, the slim coats. A beast and a gentleman. A rather enticing combination, she had found.

She went downstairs into the trophy room once more, where two massive chairs were pulled up next to the roaring fireplace, the main source of light. The Dark One was sitting in one of them, a snifter gingerly held by a clawed hand, containing some sort of brown-gold liquid. He glanced at her the moment she entered the room, unwilling or unable to hide his appreciation for what he saw. He had removed his coat, leaving only his high-collared vest and one of his open shirts to cover his upper body, no forty cravat in sight. He seemed less guarded, more adventurous than he usually was when it came to matters of intimacy.

“You clean up well, dearie. Wish I could say the same for your dress. A wash will only do so much for it, but I refrained from throwing it into the fireplace. You’re welcome.”

“Good, as it’s not your property to destroy.” Beauty sat down, with a poise that betrayed her royal upbringing, and primly crossed her legs at the ankles. “So, Dark One, are you prepared to deal with me now?”

She had dealt with him dozens of times before, she had no idea why it all sounded so much like innuendo now. She couldn’t say she minded it.

“Of course, my dear. I’ve had time to think about our deal whilst you were splashing about in the tub.” His sing-songy voice broke, getting suddenly deeper for a second or two, as if he was struggling to retain his composure. “The vial is certainly a good start, but perhaps not quite enough. Now, I’m prepared to be generous given our long and fruitful history of dealmaking together, but I must also keep up certain appearances. So I thought I would also demand… an evening of your time.”

He tried to make it sound sinister, but she was past getting scared of him. At least in the traditional way. She raised an eyebrow, adopting a rather coquettish expression.

“And what would an evening of my time entail exactly?”

“Oh, well, you know. Companionship, perhaps a game of chess, some good wine, conversation and the like.”

She made a show of thinking it over before offering her hand, which he shook without delay.

“It’s a deal.”

Several hours later she had won two games of chess, one game of checkers, and was sipping from her third coupe of sparkling wine as she listened intently to a story about a deal the Dark One had once made with a king from a distant land. He was a gifted storyteller, engaging and funny, knowing exactly when to pause or gesticulate to keep the flow of the story just right. The king in his tale was rather unfortunate, in the sense that his hubris and arrogance had led him to make a deal with the Dark One that he did not understand. Most of Rumplestiltskin’s deals seemed to be like that, Beauty thought. And when he came to collect people dared be indignant that he demanded what they promised in the first place.

“The king was furious. Never let go of the grudge. Hired several assassins to try and kill me. A waste of gold, of course.”

He let out a trilling laugh, which soon proved to be contagious. Somehow, over time, it felt like their chairs had moved closer, because if she stretched out a hand she could easily touch him. Odd.

“Serves him right, for making such an open-ended deal. What a rookie mistake.”

She didn’t recall removing her slippers but she must have, because her feet were enjoying being pressed against the soft cushion of the chair. He made a gesture for her to lean close, which was a bit of a balancing feat, but she managed. Her heart skipped a bit when he leaned close too, almost pressing his mouth against her ear.

“You have no room to talk, sweet. You struck a very vague deal yourself, committing to an evening of conversation, chess ‘and the like’. That little turn of phrase is an invitation to all manner of sins, even the darkest and most decadent of debaucheries.”

He hissed the last part, making her shiver. Not content with letting him have the upper hand she turned her head so their lips were inches apart.

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

She could tell she had shocked him into inaction. Cocky Dark One, always in control of the conversation, always one step ahead of everyone else. It was nice to see him floundering, to catch him unprepared. Finally he gulped and put a little distance between them.

“Aren’t you the bravest little poppet.”

“My mother always said ‘Do the brave thing and bravery will follow.’ I’m a firm believer of the principle.”

Slowly, almost painfully so, both his hands clutched at the armrests of her chair, effectively pinning her to it. She knew she was supposed to be scared but she felt nothing but excitement, a buzzing just beneath the skin that made her strangely needy for something. Touch, perhaps, or more. The feeling was so overwhelming she did not realise at first that the laces of her dress were coming undone, as if invisible hands were painstakingly pulling them loose. She tried to make eye contact, but he ducked his head, pressing his face against the base of her neck, where it met her shoulder. She sighed, noticing how gentle he was, his touch feather-light, and discovering that she would not mind a rougher treatment. He was restraining himself, she realised, trying to be a gentleman. Sweet, but not what she wanted from him at that moment. Feeling bold Beauty carded a hand through his hair, pressing his face more firmly against her skin.

“Please, Rumple.”

Those two words seemed to have a magic of their own, producing a sudden and radical change in him. He moved too fast for her to see, wrapping her up in his arms and depositing her on the long dining table on the other side of the room. She did not know whether he used magic or simply moved inhumanly fast, but either possibility excited her, reminded her of the power of the creature looming over her, claws tugging at the unlaced bodice of her dress, dragging the velvet down to expose her undergarments. She was wearing the underbust corset he had provided over the snowy linen shift he had also left for her, so it was easy for him to simply tug the shift down a bit to expose her breasts. He leaned forward, nuzzling the space between her breasts, making a sort of satisfied purring noise as he sniffed up her clavicles and down her throat. Then, once he was happy with the level of squirming she was doing, he finally gave her what she wanted, closing his mouth, with all of its sharp teeth, around one of her rosy nipples. It was a strange feeling at first, more unfamiliar than pleasant, but when he began to suck it changed completely, little shocks of pleasure running from her nipple to between her legs. It was amazing, more than she had ever achieved with her own hands whenever she could get some privacy at night, and the feeling doubled when he grasped her untouched breast, his long claws estimulating the other nipple.

She sunk both her hands in his hair, fisting it in an effort to keep herself from squirming too much, feeling both aroused and impatient. She kept waiting for him to tire of her chest and move further down but when he was finally done sucking her nipples his head moved north, his lips blinding searching for hers till they were kissing. It wasn’t anything like any kiss she had experienced before, not even the unpleasant smack her former fiance had forced on her. Though it was just as forceful there was a wild quality to it, one she had never associated with the affectionate gesture. It was heavenly, the release of passion, far from cooling her down, setting her on fire, stoking her need for him till it felt like she would explode if he didn’t give her relief. 

He must have sensed it, her desperation calling to him like a siren song, because at some point he let go of her mouth to travel south, past her aching chest, and velvet-covered belly to where the skirts of her long gown kept her modestly covered. He wasted no time dragging the heavy fabric up, letting it pool around her hips along with the white linen of her shift. She did not have any other undergarments, having not been provided with any, so she was completely exposed to his gaze, from her milky things to her round hips. She squirmed, trying to picture what he must be looking at, the trim thatch of chestnut curls at the apex of her legs, obscenely drenched by this point and making a poor show of trying to hide the pink, glistening flesh beneath.

“What a lovely cunt you have.” His voice was dark, guttural, a monster trying to speak like a man. It thrilled her. “Let me drink from it, precious.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, choosing instead to simply bury his head against her flesh, his tongue rough and wide as it lapped at her field parting them to seek out the bundle of nerves that was throwing for attention. She arched her back, feeling like it was only her firm grip on her thigh and hip what kept her anchored to the table. She fell into a rhythm of sorts, her body seeking out something she could not find but his mouth striving to compensate, to give her what she needed. It was heavenly and seemed to last an eternity, the sensations building up till everything but them faded away, all sensations muted. She felt him move to, thrusting his hips against the edge of the table, making it rattle in a way that spoke of his sheer brute force. It was heady to have someone like Rumplestiltskin, who had always strived to don the mask of a gentleman around her, be so unhinged, so animalistic. More than anything it was that complete loss of control what drove her over the edge. She cried out, feeling her inner muscles coil and her senses spiral out of control, her orgasm leaving her dizzy. It seemed to last forever and not nearly long enough. She laid there for a while after the feeling passed, feeling satisfied and wanting at the same time. A few seconds later he also keened, slumping against her still-parted legs, his hair tickling the soft skin of her inner thighs.

They lay that way for what seemed like ages, while they scrambled to try and collect themselves. The afterglow did not feel awkward or uncomfortable, and it loosened up her tongue enough to venture out that she had hoped for an even more intimate act, a joining that was even deeper than what they had done.

 “A deal for such a prize would have to involve all my deepest secrets, my most valuable truths.” He paused, pressing his forehead against the silky inside of her thigh, like a penitent would. “One day, perhaps.”

...

“Do you want to meet? I think it’s time.”

The orgasm had mellowed him out, otherwise he was sure he would’ve at least panicked a little bit. But in the afterglow of what they had just shared, albeit virtually, a meeting did not seem like such a bad idea. In hushed voices they arranged the time and place, tomorrow at a café and bistro in Boston. Nice and public, for both their safety. They knew both lived near Boston, so it seemed natural to pick the city. The drive wasn’t too bad, and he hoped it wasn’t a great inconvenience to her either.

Reluctantly they said their goodbyes, both trying to prolong the moment a bit more till they were both close to nodding off. With a final, reluctant goodbye they both disconnected, leaving Gold to clean himself up and make his way home. With his rumpled suit, disheveled hair and five o’clock shadow it must have looked like the walk of shame. It certainly didn’t feel that way.

...

He woke up in a happy mood, perhaps the best in a long time. Far from feeling stupid or embarrassed about his little bit of roleplaying-turned-porn-session he felt smug, empowered by the notion that he had made a smart, desirable woman come with only his voice and imagination. He felt like he was on the brink of something, as if an exciting possibility was opening up for him. 

He went about his day with a bit of a spring in his step, though most citizens of Storybrooke would be pressed to notice. It was only when he saw the book on gardening he was due to return to the library that afternoon- his two Moth orchids had developed small water-soaked spots on the leaves and he had wanted to consult some verified sources instead of relying exclusively on Google search results- that his mood dampened somewhat. As nice as last night had been- bloody fantastic rather- it did make him sad, somewhat, to give up his crush on Belle French. However unattainable it was still nice to have it, that bit of feeling that did not need to be reciprocated to be real. It had been nice to feel something for someone for a change, to look forward to each smile and each small conversation. But it wouldn’t be right, and what he had now was more valuable in any case. Perhaps, with time, he would grow out of his infatuation with the librarian and they could be friends. That would be rather lovely.

He crossed the street towards the library around three o’clock, wanting to beat the rush caused by children being let off school, a busy time for one of the only kid-friendly places in Storybrooke. There were some patrons about, and the afternoon light made the library look truly beautiful. Miss French truly worked miracles with her limited budget.

He found her easily, shelving a few books in the poetry section, and tried not to preen when she smiled widely at him.

“Mr Gold, hi! Always a pleasure. Here to return a book?”

The librarian was always sunny and welcoming, but she looked even happier that day, an excited sort of energy practically rolling off of her in waves. Thank goodness he had decided to give up on his silly little crush, otherwise he might have buckled under the power of her brightness. 

“Yes. And you look particularly happy today, Miss French, if I might say so.”

The librarian smiled even more, if possible, and leaned close, as if to tell him a secret.

“I have a date tonight.”

It hurt, the slightest bit, the shock making him take a step back, but less than it would have yesterday. And perhaps, he reasoned, this would be good. This would put them both in the path of becoming friends, allowing him to leave his crush behind much faster. He forced himself to enquire politely after the lucky man, listening as she talked about someone she had been flirting with for a long time now, and it seemed like the relationship was finally ready for the next step.

“I’m really happy. And very nervous. It feels like such a risk, after all this time building something that could easily fizzle out with a first date. But I’ve always believed in doing the brave thing, and bravery will follow. It’s what my mother always said.”

She had turned back to shelve a book as she finished the last sentence, so thankfully she did not see his jaw drop and his eyes widen, his surprise so visible no one could’ve missed it. His heart lurched in his chest, sheer and sudden panic making it difficult to breathe. Fuck. Fuck. It wasn’t possible. Belle was Beauty. Belle was Beauty. He tried to contradict the notion in his head but he had known Beauty’s British accent was passable but fake, and it made sense for him not to have identified her voice when she usually spoke with her natural Australian drawl, something he associated so closely with her. Everything else he had ever found out about Beauty, in and out of the D&D setting, coincided with what he knew, or thought he knew, about the librarian, one of the reasons why he had developed a crush on her in the first place.

The initial shock was followed by a spike of elation and then a sinking feeling of dread. He needed to cancel. She would be disappointed, but more disappointed if he didn’t and she realised her crush was a man a good deal older than her that was known for being the town monster. It would be awkward and she would not be able to escape him after it, both doomed to meet each other often, given the small size of the town. He could not put her through that.

He stopped himself then, noticing the familiar dark turn of his thoughts, dipped in so much self-loathing it was almost stifling. And he wondered if he really was thinking about Belle or about himself. Being a coward, taking the easy way out. He thought about how he had woken up, the world full of promise and the future bright with the possibility of something great on the horizon. And how he had felt brave last night, to leap into something that had been so worth it. Perhaps it was time to be brave more often. Do something, however small. Put the ball in her court, somehow.

“I wish you the best of luck, then. Perhaps some other time, if you’re not too busy, you could pop into my shop. I have a few antique books I feel you would appreciate.”

It was a nice recovery, and he was happy to see her smile, apparently welcoming the proposition. Everyone knew Mr Gold’s shop was only to be entered when making deals. He didn’t really allow idle perusal of his stock and no one had the money or interest to buy his antiques. His business was conducted mostly with people from major cities on the East Coast.

“Wow, an open invitation to traipse into Mr Gold’s shop, that’s not something one sees everyday. What do you want in return? I hear only deals can grant you access to the shop.”

She made sure to make it clear she was joking, something he appreciated. Feeling emboldened by her kind gesture he adopted a slightly higher pitch and replied:

“Oh, nothing much. Companionship, perhaps a game of chess, some good wine, conversation and the like.”

Being close enough he got to see as it dawned on her, as her brain quickly processed what he had said and where she had heard it before. And he knew, knew because of the way she looked at him, as if she did not recognise him, as if he was a brand new person to her, that she understood the implication, what he had meant to tell her without actually telling her. 

“Hope to see you soon, then. Good luck with the date.”

He turned around before he could second-guess himself, feeling terrified by what he had exposed but satisfied at the same time. This way it was Belle’s choice to show up. For all she knew he had no idea that she was Beauty. She could make up an excuse and simply not meet her, and their worlds would never merge. If she did not want to pursue anything between them all she had to do is cancel the date, or not show up. He would respect her decision and never push for anything, or acknowledge their online relationship in the real world.

He sent her an email just as he was about to get into his car, letting her know that he understood that this meeting was a bit of a risk and he would understand if she backed out at the last minute. There were other things he could do in Boston, and he was not adverse to having dinner by himself. And they could still be friends, no matter what she decided. He was halfway to Boston when he heard his cell phone ping, letting him know he had a new email. As he expected, it was from Beauty:

“I’m on my way. Can’t wait to meet you! See you soon.”

He smiled.

[queenofnohr]

okay i was intentionally being rly vague about what went on last session bc i think some of it is major plot points for the Waterdeep Dragon Heist campaign and I don’t wanna spoil/ruin that campaign for anyone who is playing/intends on playing it BUT i’ll go into more details below the cut on like. what the fuck is going on lol

So, basic lowdown:

Fon & Roa originally got with the party under orders from the Zhentarim (evil mob-esque organization looking to put their ppl in power and pull the strings behind the scenes) bc the Zhents wanna find the Stone of Golorr bc it’ll lead to a bunch of money or some shit & the party was in contact with the son of the previous lord so the Zhentarim thought they might be the best lead

The Zhentarim is a splintered organization - aside from the fact that different areas have their own branches of the Zhentarim, the Zhentarim in Waterdeep has two competing factions - one under control of Davil Starsong (which the twins work for) and another under control of Manshoon and his goon, Urstul Floxin.

The Zhents that attacked the party on the mountain 2 sessions ago were from the latter group - Fon got the info out of one of them by intimidating them

But why were the other Zhents posted up and “guarding” a monk who could predict the future? (the party was visiting said monk for a prophecy about some coming evil)

Fon has an inkling that the other branch of the Zhentarim knows where the Stone is and posted guards up so no one else would be able to get that info from the monk

Fast forward a little bit - the event that kicks off the party having to confront Lady Gralhund is essentially a bomb going off on the street the party lives on. The casualties include members of the Zhentarim and a dwarf who had something taken off his body by a cloaked man.

Fon & Roa visit Davil Starsong like “uhhhhhhhh there was a domestic terrorist attack and some of the bodies found had Zhent tats” and Davil was like “those were not our guys. oh my god please clean this mess up” and because that’s an order Fon is now in Working Mode. They will pull a clean-up job, on god.

Party follows the clues around the city and eventually ends up on the nobleman part of town - Fontaine disguises the party with them being the nobleman Duke Genovese and the rest of the party as his retinue (it was a nat 20 roll btw)

The watchman at the Gralhund estate confuses the party as backup that Lady Gralhund must’ve called for and the party gets in without confrontation. Apparently the 1st floor has been overtaken by Zhents. Cue Fontaine ohshit.jpg

The party gets to the balcony and offers Lady Gralhund assistance. She’s like “uhhhhhhh who the fuck are you people we dont need your help”.

ALL OF FONTAINE’S SYNAPSES ARE FIRING AT ONCE. THEY ARE HAVING A FUCKING BRAIN BLAST. Why didn’t Lady Gralhund call the city watch? This must be something that can’t be made public until the event is over. Fontaine originally thought that the terrorist attack was a stupid move by the other branch of the Zhentarim. BUT because of all this weirdness they piece together that even the other half of the Zhentarim wouldn’t be that stupid and this is probably a coverup by Lady Gralhund in a deal gone bad. (Fon speculates that Lady Gralhund was probably working with the Zhentarim to get the Stone with like a 50/50 split deal, the Zhents found the dude who had the Stone, and she blew them up to try and get her hands on it before them)

In any case even though Lady Gralhund is a backstabbing piece of trash that shouldn’t have stuck her nose into underworld business, Fon also needs to clean up the Zhentarim shit anyway so they go back to the ground floor and help Lady Gralhund’s men take out the Zhentarim forces

This includes none other than Urstul Floxin. Party has a ROUGH FUCKING TIME CONFRONTING HIM but eventually manages to beat him.

Party now has to deal with Lady Gralhund. Fontaine has pieced together most everything together and has come up with a bunch of contingency plans - owing to their EXTREME PARANOIA due to what happened with Salem.

Fon’s priorities go: 1. Ensure Roanoke’s safety at all costs. 2. Complete the mission at all costs (The mission here being - wipe the Zhentarim’s involvement in this from the record) 3. Ensure the safety of those they have taken under their wing (i.e. the rest of the party)

Anyway. Fon’s Plan A is - negotiate with Lady Gralhund. Leverage their knowledge of exactly what happened to their advantage and offer Gralhund protection and a hand cutting ties with the underworld in exchange for her testimony absolving the Zhentarim of wrongdoing. Plan B - kill everyone in the estate and forge Gralhund’s suicide note indicating a massive tragedy wherein Xanathar’s gang massacred the household and not even the Zhents she paid for protection could save them.

So that’s where we are now.

[salamanderskin]

Five times Caleb didn’t let the Mighty Nein take care of him when he was sick... and one time he did (parts 1 and 2)

Critical Role, campaign 2, pure fluff. Sometimes spelling sneezes, sometimes not, who needs to be consistent when you can speed-write kink?

1. Nott the Brave

Nott and Caleb share a room. It goes without saying. The rest of party tends to split by gender but it has been established that the goblin girl and the wizard are a package deal. They have been sharing spaces with the rest of the Mighty Nein when needed, but it’s just more comfortable this way, especially when they are both worse for wear. A journey in heavy rain and a handful of battles with no more than short rests in between has worn them down. The goblin perks up as soon as the fire is lit and her damp cloak is off. Caleb does not.

He sits by the fire and stares into it. He hasn’t even bothered to undress, just sits and stares, shivering. Nott ignores him at first but the sound of his teeth chattering goes right through her and she is drawn to his side, to peer up into his face.

“Something’s bothering you. You’re very quiet.” She accuses.

Her own voice always has a rasp to it, but there is one in Caleb’s too when he replies, dryly “and usually I am so very chatty.”

There’s a funny expression on his face so she pauses to let his thoughts crystallise. Wait, that’s not it, more of a puzzled tilt to his brows. His lips part, quivering, before- “hepCH!”- a sharp sneeze. He manages to dip his head behind a sleeve before the next shudders through him.

Nott winces knowingly, golden eyes full of concern.

“Are you getting sick, Caleb?”

“Nein- I-“ a hand creeps up to hover weakly before his face, and he is overtaken by a few more. “HepCHssh!-hetPSch!”

“Entshuldigung...” he shakes his head groggily and fishes out a handkerchief from the pocket of his cloak for a quick blow. If any others of their party had been present, he might have been mortified, would have denied his state vehemently. But it was just Nott, who had seen the worst of him ten times over.

“I hope not, but this does not seem very encouragi- ah-“ He raises a hand to interrupt her before she can speak. “No a healing potion with not do much for this. If I am getting a cold, it will have to go away on its own.”

“Okay.” She twists her claws together uneasily as she sees how pale he is. She likes him, needs him, to be at the top of his game. For both of them. “You should take your wet things off, at least.”

“Ja. Yes, I will do that.” He acquiesces to her good sense and removes layers of wet clothing, arranges it to steam by the fire. Next he draws his books from his rucksack and lays each on the bed to inspect them for damage. The edges of a few are damp but none of the text seems to have bled, which is the main thing. Nott sits beside him on the mattress and attends to her own precious collection of coins, buttons and rings. She counts them out of the bag and then back in again, twice, and leans back in satisfaction.

Caleb relishes the little press of her back against his side as he reads. She is nice and warm. A ticklish cough bursts from his throat and throws him double before he can warn her. It is a loud, convulsive sound that seems too loud to come from the wizard’s skinny chest.

It makes Nott yelp and she skitters down to the edge of the bed like a cat with it’s claws out.

“Sorry! Sorry, you made me jump. I’m not used to you making sudden noises.”

“I cannot help-“ Caleb manages around the coughing. He draws a gulp of water from his flask which

burns his throat going down but quiets the cough for now. “You will have to get used to it. I do not wish to startle you every time I... ieh...”

With impeccable timing he hears his own voice go weak and needful with a series of hitching breaths. The sensation is so intense that tears gather on his lashes and though them he can see his goblin companion steeling herself for the explosion. He muffles three sneezes into his handkerchief and looks up at her apologetically.

“Bless you,” she says.

“I didn’t make you jump that time?”

“Oh, no, I could see it coming. You have a very expressive face.”

He snorts in amusement and that makes him cough again. She scoots closer and eyes him closely. She doesn’t like the pale cast of his face under the dirt, or the shadows under his eyes. The tip of his nose is becoming a sensitive pink.

“You look like shit,” she says sorrowfully. “Worse than usual. I could ask Jester if she cast healing on you, see if she can clear this up a bit?”

“Nott.” He says firmly, “Will you ease off, please? Listen. Healing spells aren’t good for common illnesses. The effect won’t last long enough to be worth the magic. Besides, I’m not asking Jester to cure a cold. I rely on her for healing pretty much every time we get into an altercation. The rest of this team are so much more-“ he searches for the word, “-durable- than your average human. It’s embarrassing.”

“Beau’s human.”

“Beauregard is a human tank. Do you see her needing healing left, right and centre?”

“Okay.” The goblin shrugs. It is difficult to get a goblin sick after all and her sinewy body can take quite a beating despite her size. “Okay, Caleb.”

He sees her concern and pats her fondly on the shoulder. “You worry too much. I am not delighted by the prospect either but such is life. Go on, my little friend, why don’t you go down to the bar and see what there is to eat. I will stay here with Frumpkin and see if all my books have made it through the weather unscathed.”

The cat materialises when his name is mentioned and curls comfortingly on the wizard’s lap, making it clear he isn’t going anywhere.

“Alright. Alright then. I’ll see you later.” She gathers her hooded cloak and returns the mask she uses to hide her goblin features. Anxiety always rises in her when Caleb is threatened, a ferocious mothering instinct coupled with the knowledge that he is her hope for the future. He is all she has. A drink will make the feeling better, so she makes for the stairs without a backwards glance and tries to enjoy the rest of the evening.

2. Fjord (and bonus Pumat Sol) 

“Caleb?”

“Caleb?”

He shakes his head and realises that Fjord has been calling his name for a while (a minute and forty-three seconds, the helpful voice in his head informs him) and the noise won’t stop until he responds.

“Ja?”

“You zoned out for a moment there.” His half-orc companion tells him. “Pumat is trying to give you your change.”

Ah yes, he is in the Invulnerable Vagrant and the familiar shopkeeper is trying to push a mix of silver and copper into his hands. For the ink and incense that he doesn’t entirely remember buying.

“Ja, yes, of course.” He takes it fumblingly and flushes red. What is wrong with him?

Fjord goes forward to pay for his own purchases. As he waits, Caleb notices how cold it is in the shop. His limbs prickle with goose flesh under his coat and he even shivers. Summoning Frumpkin the cat into his arms helps a little, but not enough. Why do the Pumats not use their considerable magic to heat this place better? He paces, trying to keep warm, but the movement jars the headache brewing behind his eyes.

Pumat number three’s loud voice isn’t helping the headache at all.

“Excuse me, Sir, we don’t allow animals in this establishment due to their being sensitive objects a magical nature…”

He turns to explain that Frumpkin is not, technically speaking, a real cat, but both Pumat and Fjord give him a strange look.

“With respect, you friend there looks a bit pale.” Pumat comments to Fjord. “Perhaps i could offer you one of our fine healing potions, for the road, because he looks like he might be needing it.”

Caleb tries to protest but Fjord adds, “You do look a bit peaky, gotta say.”

“It is nothing.” He insists. “Come Fjord, we have taken enough of Pumat’s time, I think.”

As soon as the heavy door of the invulnerable Vagrant has swung to a close, Fjord moves to block Caleb’s progress down the street. The human man always looks like he could stand a three nights of sleep and a good meal, but today he looks considerably worse. There are shadows under the blue eyes and the lids look so worn he can see the tracery of delicate veins there. He has less colour than Nott’s porcelain mask.

“Uh, not to be personal, but Pumat has a point. You look like death warmed up.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.” Caleb finds his words catch in his throat. Clearing it makes him cough painfully. He follows Fjord’s astute gaze to the fist he has pressed into his chest, and lowers it guiltily.

“C’mere, let me-“ the half orc grips his shoulder too firmly for him to squirm away and presses the back of his hand against Caleb’s neck. His eyes narrow.

“Bit of a fever there, I think. Where’d that come from all of a sudden?”

The action is businesslike but the attention makes Caleb’s stomach flip between pleasure and shame. He wants to shake it off, but the moment the touch is gone he feels lonely in the absence of it. “No idea.” He says honestly.

“Better go back and get some rest, and let Jester have a look at you.” Fjord advises.

Caleb squirms. No need to waste a spell when he can surely sleep this off. Besides, his head is pounding hard enough that loud, vivacious interrogation is the last thing feels like right now. “Maybe.” He compromises. “I will go to my room any case.”

He turns towards the direction of the Inn but the cobblestones waver and shift before his eyes. He reels drunkenly and the only reason he doesn’t fall is the sudden pressure of a strong, orcish arm against his elbow.

“Danke.” He whispers.

“No problem. I got you.” Fjord affirms, gently righting him again. “Are you, uh, gonna be okay to walk back on your own? You need a little company?”

“Oh, nein. I can manage,” He gently, but firmly removes Fjord’s arm from his own. He is flushed in the face now, the blue eyes are glassy and bright, but he is standing straighter.

“Are you sure?” Fjord presses.

The look Caleb shoots him is unexpected. There’s that streak of pure fire that they occasionally see in battle. Evidently their wizard has just decided that this is a battle, one he intends to wage without help.

“I said I can manage, thank you Fjord.”

“Okay, okay.” Fjord holds his hands up in surrender. “Off you go then.”

Fjord watches as Caleb makes his way down the street, just to be sure. He thinks he can see the man’s thin shoulder shaking through his coat, some deep ache in the bend of his back, but his step is steady enough after that initial wobble. He considers popping back into Pumat’s for the extra healing potion, then decides again it. Caleb is a grown man who has clearly seen some shit. If he wants to handle this himself, let him.

[mcsanders278]

Intro message / Mother!

I haven’t had a blog in many years and figured that the release of the film Mother! was the perfect artistic venture prompting me to get back into such. For those who know me it is not difficult to guess what my blogs will revolve around; for those who don’t, you’re in store for my thoughts/interpretations/whatnots about all things artistic. It will be heavy on film with some sprinklings of music, books, art, etc. There will likely be spoilers so you are forewarned.

Without further ado, I felt it was important to delve into the recent Darren Aronofsky film Mother! as after reading a slew of comments and reviews on the film it is quickly turning into one of the most polarizing and probably misunderstood films ever made. I have always appreciated Aronofsky’s style and have enjoyed all of his films to some degree, even if they are not the most re-watchable movies. Strangely enough, I have always viewed another one of his films, The Fountain, as a misunderstood masterpiece as well. On a side note, The Fountain is probably Hugh Jackman’s best performance aside from Prisoners (another underrated film) but I digress / that’s a subject for a different blog.

I analyzed Mother! pretty much all day yesterday after watching it and I think the first question a person must ask themselves before beginning to try and interpret such a film is whether you feel that cinema is a form of art. This may be a simple question with a simple answer for many of you but I feel it is a more complex question than one may think. I feel (and always have felt) that cinema is an art form just like a painting one views in an art gallery. The importance of this correlation is that a viewer of a painting in a gallery may not necessarily understand what is hanging in front of him/her and may downright hate it but that doesn’t make it any less art than the painting down the hall which is more aesthetically pleasing. 

Aronofsky is one of the few filmmakers today who reminds us that cinema is an art form and not solely for entertainment. Just like art, music, or books, a film’s purpose may only be to stimulate someone intellectually or emotionally or to challenge a person to think beyond the regular narrative construction. Mother! is one of the most challenging, thought-provoking films I have seen in years and I ate up every piece of it. Needless to say, as much as I loved the film I can completely understand people outright despising it. Of note is that the previews / marketing campaign makes it look like a horror film when it isn’t, which probably didn’t help with the outpouring of negative reviews. I supposed it could be group into “psychological thriller” films; however, even the “thriller” part is a stretch. If I had to categorize it, I would call it “psychological drama”. 

And now for the unraveling of my interpretations (with spoilers)...

From the opening scene it is quite clear that we are in store for a unique experience as Bardem’s character is placing an illuminating piece of glass on a display stand (more on this later). To quickly summarize the story, Jennifer Lawrence and Javier Bardem are a husband and wife (no characters are given names) living in a large house in some remote area. Bardem is a poet with writer’s block and Lawrence is on an ongoing quest to renovate the house to help Bardem focus on his work. Lawrence is in almost every scene of the movie and Aronofsky does a fantastic job of using close-ups for most of the film to convey a sense of claustrophobia. The entire film takes place in the house and the viewer is very aware of the house’s constraints early on. In my opinion, this is Lawrence’s best performance to date as the character shows a meek, vulnerable side which none of her other film characters possessed.

Very early on an unexpected guest (Ed Harris) then his wife (Michelle Pfeiffer) come to the house and essentially do as they please with no objection from Bardem’s character but to the chagrin of Lawrence. In the course of the narrative it is explained by Bardem to the unexpected guests that the piece of glass (mentioned earlier) was the only thing which survived a past house fire and in turn is a source of his inspiration. As the guests become more unwelcome in Lawrence’s eyes it is revealed that Pfeiffer’s character is an alcoholic and that Harris is dying of cancer. Even at the urging of Lawrence to not do so, the unwanted guests inevitably break Bardem’s glass source of inspiration.

There are some conflicts and happenings thereafter which leads to Lawrence’s character becoming pregnant and Bardem no longer having writer’s block. It is at this point that the film spirals into unconventional territory and likely lost most of the viewers. The last 30 minutes of the film is a complete cacophony which starts somewhat mild then falls into complete insanity. The house is overtaken by unknown people who start to tear apart everything Lawrence has worked on in the house and proceeds to have clans viewing Bardem as a deity due to the success of his newly published work. Lawrence has her baby amidst the craziness, which Bardem wants to show to the masses as almost a Christ-like figure. In a relatively unsettling scene, Bardem takes the baby from Lawrence, which the masses then proceed to tear apart and eat...

Now is probably the time to interject that the viewer needs to keep in mind that Aronofsky has clearly made an allegorical film but to what degree is the question. There have been many theories online that everything is a slight to religion but I have to disagree. My take on the film is that it is an allegory to the insanity of the creative process. Let’s breakdown what we know thus far...through the course of the film Bardem keeps citing to the visitors and other characters that Lawrence is his inspiration (along with the glass shard); however, my take is that she is quite literally Inspiration. As pointed out previously, Harris’ character is found to have cancer and Pfeiffer is an alcoholic and through their collective efforts they break the glass shard of inspiration. Again, allegorically, this is a direct relation of alcoholism and cancer’s (whether it be physically or emotionally; ie, doubt in creative abilities) effect on inspiration. Simply put, it kills it.

As harsh as the scene with the baby is, one must think what the baby represents in relation to the allegorical story. Seeing that we have already established that Bardem is the writer and Lawrence is Inspiration and knowing that Bardem is the father of the child it can be deduced that the baby is his physical piece of writing/his creative work. Through the unwinding of insanity scenes earlier in the film there are some key moments which can help the viewer establish what is outlined, for instance, there is a time where Bardem is going through the house and speaks to a group of people locked in a cage yearning to get out, to which he states, “I won’t forget you”. Although there can be many different associations of the angry mob of people in the house, in its simplest form, they are Bardem’s thoughts and ideas. He is telling this ideas which want to get out (presumably through the writing process) that he will keep them locked up until he is ready to put them on paper. Viewing it in this context of the baby scene, his thoughts (again, possibly self-doubt) and ideas tear apart his writing as he is not happy with the outcome. The ending of the movie only seems to further prove this interpretation as it ends with Lawrence setting the house ablaze due to the murder of her child and Bardem pulling the heart from her charred body...which ends up being the glass shard introduced at the start of the film. We are then interjected into what appears to be a cyclical story; however, the woman/Inspiration is no longer Lawrence but has the same opening scene (including dialogue) as Lawrence. 

For anyone who has attempted artistic creation on any level this film is an understandable allegory to the creative process as it is not uncommon to have the inspiration to create something (book, etc) but the creative process also requires tearing the work apart and changing things (even slightly; ie, at the end the new woman looks very similar to Lawrence and speaks the same words yet it is not her) to get the desired outcome. We are left with the impression that this “rebirth” of creation has happened multiple times for Bardem and will likely happen many more times before he is happy with the outcome. My closing thought on the allegorical aspect of things is that the clans of people viewing Bardem as a deity figure is presumably a stoking of his own ego during the writing process.

As I have suggested to others, this is not a movie for people who want their stories wrapped in a neat bow with everything explained when you leave the theater but if you are open to a challenging, thought-provoking cinematic experience for a film that can undoubtedly spawn hours of conversations, this won’t disappoint. I won’t presume that my interpretation is exactly what Aronofsky went for in making the film but it is how I construed it after hours of mauling it over and isn’t that really the point of art? What it means to you? 

[scientificdeliriummadness]

My partners and I are doing our own DnD campaign. Two of us will be playing two characters each while the other DMs. We’ve already played one session and got to know our characters a little better. Meet Snaggletooth, the Half-orc barbarian pirate who takes things way too literally, Pleiades the sarcastic brooding high elf, Saxon the human soldier WHO CAN SMELL WITCHES, and Legretta, the sexy gnome cleric who loves a good innuendo. Here are the backstories. (Long)

(by Belinda, DM) Welcome to Evermore. Our adventure begins in the country of Opas, possibly one of the largest landmasses on Evermore as well as the most diverse.  It is ruled by a King and Queen who make their home in the capital, Everrock, in the northeastern corner of the continent.  It is a bustling metropolis, well established as the trading capital of the world as ships come and go regularly from the city ports.  The kingdom has known peace for many decades following the Great Revolt where the underground-dwelling grey dwarves and dark elves both fought for the domination of the surface world and its many races.  After a sound defeat, both races fled into seclusion as their numbers were greatly reduced, and the surface was once again at peace.  Evermore breathed a collective sigh of relief after so many years of turmoil.  Militaries relaxed, dropping their numbers in favor of expanding trade and commerce. It is from this city that a great call to arms has been issued.  The monarchy seeks only the bravest fighters and adventurers to step within their castle walls and answer the call they have set forth.  Strange happenings have been reported from within the kingdom, and a great reward is offered to those who would join beneath the banner of Opas and fight to vanquish any darkness which threatens their peaceful existence. by Connie (Pleiades and Legretta)(I’M NOT A WRITER PLEASE DON’T JUDGE ME) The elf's copper blood filled her cheeks as she watched the gnome modeling her crummy, handmade accessory in the reflection of the water. Luckily, as often and easily as it happens, her embarrassment is masked beneath the faint burn permanently imprinted over her otherwise saturated azure skin. Despite spending so much time as a child outdoors in a typically bright, yet cool climate, her skin suffered no other naturally occurring blemishes other than the soft gradient of light to dark along the regularly exposed portions of her body. It still maintained the same pristine quality you would find from the icy terrain of her hometown, Geminight. Until relatively recently, she tended to dabble in a variety of activities her society had to offer. This was in a futile attempt to live up to all the possibile legacies of her seven preceeding sisters could have achieved had they survived a full gestation period in their mother's womb. No one but herself had expected this of her, but encouraged her to partake in something nonetheless. It seemed to give her some pupose and fulfillment. Although she was not particularly good at anything she picked up, she gained a fondness for it all and it helped her feel a closeness to the sisters she had never met. At the very least, she embodied the spirit of their assemblage and when she came of age, chose to engrain this into her identity with her choice in name: Pleiades. Traditionally, her society embraces the permanence of self-idenity with something a little more literal: a self-inked tattoo. Unfortunately, like with many of her interests, Pleiades lacked the finesse to create something other than a few dots around her left eye that had semblace of what was now her most symbolic constellation.Pleiades watched the gnome put the necklace she had given her around over her little head."There's a little bit of craftsman in everyone....manI love homemade things! They have so much character and love and there's always, like, some kind of special meaning behind it. Even if it's subconscious! I feel so special you let me have it even though you've only known me for literally, like two seconds!" The gnome gleefully giggled while stroking the pieces of the pendant now hanging from her neck.Pleiades appreciated the compliment, but uncharacterstically, she hadn't put too much thought into this particular task. Boredom had overtaken her and she swiped a long spiral shell off the beach and in its opening, stuck a thick rounded piece of weathered glass she found lying near the tavern that opened, in her opinion, way too early in the morning. The gnome had curiously approached her just as she was finishing wrapping the pieces together with some abandoned strip of twine. She was so enthralled by the little trinket that Peiades told her that it was hers if she liked it. Perhaps the gnome wasn't too far off; the blue tint of the glass did remind her of home..A pang of sadness stung her heart as it passed with the fleeting thought. She missed home, or what was left of it. Geminight had experienced a major ecological shift. It was no longer an icy haven, glistening in the sun that hung in theclear blue sky. The temperatures began creeping upward, weather fronts came more frequently and more varied. Vines, weeds, and other foliage broke free from the snow, the gems, and the ice; slowly domineering the region. While the changes weren't detrimental to the survival of the city or its people, the new environment felt entirely unsettling. On top of being unexpected and undesired, it felt dark and sentient. Pleiades did not want to stand by and watch her chilhood be tainted with this feeling. She decided to hold on to the nostalgia and venture out to new things. She had exhausted the petty hobbies her society had offered her and wanted toexperience something grander; a single legacy worthy of her and her sisters. When some vague propaganda from the Everrock government started to appear on bulletins near her, she decided it was time to leave. Her parents willingly stayed behind.The gnome watched Pleiades' expressions as they passed over her face one by one. She noticed a lot negativity and she supposes that's what attracted her to Pleiades in the first place. Gnomes were known tricksters, but she herself liked to focus on the lighthearted nature of her heritage and tends to get tunnel vision when she sees someone in distress. When she noticed the elf sitting alone listlessly on a crate of bait, she recited her motto of "When things look grim, find your grin!" and pranced up to her with a mission for fishin! For compliments. To give the elf." Y'know, I'm glad I saw you making this. It's so unique and I really appreciate that about things. I originally come over to you thinking of a mililon compliments to give you based on just your looks but I had no idea what to say since I'm sure you get complimented all the time...Just look at you! but yeah, you're pretty unique looking too now that I've had a good look..But I dunno, I just appreciate me a good trinket, y'know how us gnomes are."Pleides would probably not be considered epitome of the elvish ethereality that made them so intimidating. In fact, for an elf, she appeared quite neutral and approachable. Double takes were not uncommon when passersby took note her androgynous physique. The sun bleached blonde streaks in her dark blue hair gave it a green appearance if looked at in the right light and angle. And men and women alike also thought that her soft almond eyes suggested more than just the politeness of eye contact. And although her hands struggled with its intricacies, her hair always fell into place perfectly after she finished braiding it."I just appreciate you taking the time to go out of your way to say something nice to me. What's your name?The gnome grinned somewhat amused. She extended her furry hand and said proudly proclaimed "Ranandal Legretta Aaa Thawa Teffata Wata Gah! "There was a pause. "But you can call me Leggy! That's what the humans do anyway, but I grudgingly embrace it. The name “Leggy” works when I..." Legretta stopped for a moment and looked over Pleiades shoulder distractedly. Without a beat, she purposefully walked toward a tall, well built half-orc that just exited the tavern across the sidewalk. "EEeeeeeeyyyy! DAMN boooooooi. You're lookin FOOOOINE. I bet that grog gotchu all loosened up. You know what Leggy could do with a body that limber?" She asked as she flung one of her furry copper legs from her patchwork cloak and around his shin."Auuuughgh" The half-orc responded burping through his words, " nah, goway lil one, Yer so lil y'can't even reach. nainterested" He stumbled away until he reached the corner of the alleyway."Well, fine. I’m having more fun over here anyway" she scoffed over the muffled sounds of distant vomiting. Pleiades didn't even acknowledge the bizarre exchange she just witnessed and carried on "Well, I think the name Leggy might be reserved for someone a little more, um, promiscuous than I. So I'll just practice your nicknames and in the meantime, just stick with Legretta. My name is Pleiades Luaer. I couldn't help but notice, Legretta. You have a unique trait as well..." She said as she eyed Legretta's limbs. "They're really well....tamed" She struggled with the compliment. Legretta's eyes lit up as she stuck out a limb at a time, admiring her own handiwork. "Yeah! Y'know! boy gnomes have big thick beards that they can do whatever with! I even saw an old-ass gnome with a beard so long, he was able to shape it into a flying snake dragon! It's not fair! It' was so cool and I can't! Gnomes don't tend to keep their hair well kept and I wanna stick to the traditions of my heritage! I can't grow a beard..only some wispy tendrils... So I found a loophole.."Legretta had bright platinum blonde body hair contrasting her warm copper skin. It was quite thick and she had trimmed hairs on the legs into little hearts and the hairs on the arms into little diamond shapes. Pleiades grinned bittersweetly, "You remind me of my father. Elves can't grow beards either and he's always resented that fact. So he spent much of his life growing out his hair so long that he could be able to tie it under his chin into a ponytail. He was also quite a open about his sexuality with my mom and they’re always going out of their way to put me in the spotlight, so you also remind me of that. They really were quite embarrassing at times, but I suppose it's different coming from you." She lightly blushed and glanced at the poster that had beckoned her here. Legretta cocked her head to view the poster a bit more easily. "Ahh! Yeah! There's been some spooooky things have been happening here lately." she said as she tucked her face behind her wiggling fingers. "I've been kinda grumpy about the call to arms 'cause I think the strangities have kept this places more fun an interesting, but if you're going, I wanna go! I think it'd be fun. Maybe if we find out what it is, we can be part of it...It'll be fun to prank the traveling merchants, right?...I mean, I guess we can stop it, too. But now that I'm really thinking about it, the mystery is killing me. Can I come?!" Pleiades nodded. "YASSS. Be right back. I live under those sand dunes over there. Lemme go tell my mom." Legretta ran off for only a few minutes and returned with a small basket of sandwiches and her cloak's pockets overflowing with trinkets. She offered Pleiades some food, which she promptly accepted. The gnome walked a couple of feet ahead, looked back and up at Pleiades and said. "Castle's that way. Let's party." by Marty (Saxon and Snaggletooth) Saxon Bloodwulf- Human Fighter From the city of Nightmoor, in the kingdom of Ravenholde comes Saxon Bloodwulf. Once a member of the 13th Legion -the battalion that served as the King of Ravenholde's personal guard, this Captain had it all in his life, until the 13th Legion once arrested a witch who plotted to kill the King. The witch was sentenced to life imprisonment in the dungeons of Nightmoor, where she cried to the city that she swore revenge on Captain Bloodwulf as she was locked away. A fortnight later, Saxon Bloodwulf was seen creeping into the King's castle, and attempted to take the King's life. The King managed to avoid the attempted deathblow that came in the form of a knife and raised the alarm. Saxon was seen by the King's guard on duty that night fleeing the castle and retreating into Nightmoor forest.

The following week, Saxon was found in a village some 50 miles away and was arrested by the very 13th Legion that he was in command of. He claimed his innocence, swearing he had simply taken a holiday the day before he was seen attempting to murder the king, but mysteriously, no record was kept of his absence. Saxon was brought back to Nightmoor, where he was sentenced to death. He spent a single night in the dungeons, the night before his execution, where the witch hinted that she had something to do with Saxon's situation. Shacked and imprisoned in another cell, Saxon was unable to do anything other than vow revenge on the witch and others like her.

The following day, Saxon was to be hung in the city square. By chance, a few moments before he was to be hung, a gang of bandits stormed the city square. In the confusion, Saxon managed to free himself from his rope bonds and he fled Nightmoor, making all speed for the coast. It was at a harbour town that he met a group of pirates who were spending the night in the town, and agreed to take Saxon aboard their ship for a fee of 50 gold coins that Saxon had managed to retrieve from his old house before fleeing Nightmoor. This is how he met...

Snaggletooth- Half Orc Barbarian. Snaggletooth, a 32 year old Half Orc had been part of a crew of pirates known as the Jolly Robbers. This gang of pirates made the ship known as the Fearsome Scabbard their home. They sailed from port to port, taking what they could and giving nothing in return. The Jolly Robbers were actually number one on the navy's most wanted list, but the Jolly Robbers were able to escape the navy's clutches each time it seemed that they were able to be arrested for their crimes. One night, they met a member of the royal army, Saxon Bloodwulf. While suspicious of Saxon, they agreed to take him to the neighbouring continent in return for 50 gold pieces.

They set sail the next day, with Saxon aboard. It was during their voyage on this day that they encountered a freak storm. The storm, which hadn't been foreseen, due to the clear skies that day, tore the Fearsome Scabbard to pieces. Most of the crew died during the storm, but only Saxon Bloodwulf and Snaggletooth survived, thanks in no small part to Saxon's actions. The pair survived on a piece of the Fearsome Scabbard, and they drifted for days, until finding themselves washing up on the shore of the land they find themselves on now.

Snaggletooth, while a pirate, is grateful to Saxon for saving his life during that terrible day of the storm, and for now has decided to accompany Saxon, who has tasked himself with the burden of somehow clearing his name and has become a self appointed Witchfinder General as he is determined to ensure no person be victim to a witch or witchcraft ever again.

[niklaus-no-mans-son-blog]

Stay, Little Valentine, Stay

Who: Camille && Niklaus Where: Cupid’s Nest, where all the unfortunate speed-daters have flocked When: February 14, 2017, early evening. What: Our star-crossed lovebirds can’t seem to leave, but don’t know how to ask each other to stay.

Klaus: He watched Damon move along, feeling fonder of Valentine's Day than he had...probably since it had become a commercialized holiday. Before that, he couldn't honestly recall if it had ever made it on his radar. He usually did away with all of the trappings of the Christian tradition, unless it served him well. Today, it seemed to be serving him well indeed...Or, perhaps not? Camille took the seat opposite him, and he held on to his smug countenance by sheer force of will, and centuries of affected habituation. "Camille," he said, shooting for a confident tone, but perhaps the edges were a bit softer than he had intended. "It seems the third time really is the charm."

Cami: ​ So far so good ​, Cami thought as she left Stefan's table in search of her third date for the evening. Her only regret so far was in not managing to rope Uncle K into the festivities, even through ​ a classic guilt trip ​ sheer power of will. Neither of them entertained the possibilities of romance in their respective lives, but this event had still managed to lift her spirits to the degree she'd wished for him too. ​ And anyway, he- ​

But the blonde's thoughts came to an abrupt halt when she found number 82 - only to glance down at the man occupying the table.

Klaus. ​

- What was he doing here?!? ​ ... ​ Dating. People date, Cami. ​ ... ​ Right ​. -

She sucked in her breath and reached blindly for the chair, eyes running over his features before her own settled into a complacent smile. And damn it, his automatic charisma tugged that smile a little wider than she would've liked, considering the circumstances. Still, she had her words. "Betcha they don't say that one to people who've been struck by lightning..." A split-second pause. "Nice to see you, Klaus. And happy Valentine's Day."

Klaus: He hated it, the way his chest felt tighter when Cami smiled at him. So ​mundane​. Yet he couldn't help himself but to answer it with genuine pleasure of his own. Damn her. "And yet I feel no compunctions. You should know I spent the entire last three minutes planning how best to stab my last date, so you are an incredible improvement," he quipped, not kidding in the slightest. Then again, Camille would be an improvement over anything with a heartbeat (or without, but naturally that went without saying). He hesitated, suddenly feeling the weeks between their last meeting gape between them, before starting up again. "I...​apologize​ for not inquiring after you following the earthquake." Another somewhat awkward pause. "I had a difficult time locating my siblings and I'm afraid that took most of my attention." It seemed a paltry excuse, especially considering he was mainly referring to the sibling, in an eternal coma in a coffin, whom he had ​put​ there, and could no doubt last another day without much bother, but it was, nonetheless, true. Still, he found he wasn't satisfied with it, seeing her now, rosy-cheeked and smiling at him.

Cami: Cami shifted in her seat to get comfortable and fought a grin at his words. "Well you know what they say; ​ the course of true love never did run smooth ​ . Maybe that's a good sign; maybe you're due for some good karma any day now." ​ Or any date now, ​ She thought to herself quietly, though it didn't leave her lips. Instead, she waved away his apologies about not checking in on her after the Earthquake. "Oh, ​ please, ​ we're not- you don't owe me anything like that..." It came out a little tightly, as she thought of the last time they'd seen each other - and rushed to keep talking. "Are your siblings okay? Elijah?" Cami asked, pulling out the name of the one brother she'd met in person. It was true that she'd harboured no particular expectation that Klaus should think of her safety while New Orleans was in in the midst of a natural disaster; but if there was any reservation in her tone it was due to the weeks before the Earthquake and since their last meeting. He hadn't returned her calls, hadn't scheduled any therapy sessions... Fallen off her grid entirely.

That's what you get when you dance with your client to Aretha Franklin in your goddamn pajamas, another voice in her head reproached her stoically.

Klaus: ​We're not...​ Klaus' smile shuttered and like any coward, he sought refuge in the glass, brow furrowing just slightly at the implications. Of course they weren't. That was precisely why he had avoided her so avidly these past weeks. The sense memory of her falling into his arms, head thrown back in laughter sometimes caught him unawares, out of the blue, though, and he would find himself wondering if they ​could be​. Ridiculous. Shortsighted. Selfish, even. No, they ​were not. ​ "Elijah had fortunately left town on business just before the earthquake struck, and to my utter regret, Rebekah and Kol are well enough to cause me endless grief. "You did escape unharmed, though...? Your uncle was it? Your building...?" ​That​ he had actually taken care of personally. It had been the perfect opportunity to make her unfortunate landlord disappear, and the property had quite fortunately gone up for sale. Camille now had a rent-controlled apartment, information which she was unaware of, but really, it was superfluous information anyway.

Cami: "Every- everyone and everything's fine... Thank you." She replied gently, "Church has seen better days, but it's nothing a little bit of charitable campaigning can't fix. And considering that's the worst of it, I'd say we got off easy." Cami nodded before letting out a chuckle when Klaus acknowledged that Kol and Rebekah were around to cause him 'endless grief'. In the wake of such a disaster, they were - all of them - the lucky ones. But then the conversation tapered off and a few seconds' worth of semi-awkward silence elapsed between them. Cami hastened to fill it.

"So if you're afraid that I'm about to psychoanalyze you over some ​ Bordeaux, ​ fear not, I know how to pick my battles." Smiling, the blonde reached for one of the two empty wine glasses that sat between them before pouring some of the red for him. "Wanna play twenty questions, or do you wanna wing this?" She added, nodding towards the stack of cue-cards meant to help the conversation along between strangers, before setting the glass down in front of him.

Klaus: Klaus just looked at her for a second, wondering how they had gotten to a place where there couldn't even pass three minutes together without help. It hurt in a slow, aching sort of way that seemed to spread as if his silent heart was pumping it through his body, a little bit with every few seconds that passed. "Twenty questions. I'll start." His voice was uncharacteristically unreadable, short, but not hard. Not quite abrupt, but not forgiving either. Another beat of silence, his glass of bourbon, the single most important prop he had had today, was now discarded, forgotten but for the tap of his fingers against the rim as he considered. She looked... catching. He wouldn't use words like "beautiful" or "stunning" to describe her, though she was both. There was something ​more​ to her that defied his extensive vocabulary. Defied description at all. And he found he really didn't know what to ask her. ​Have you missed me? Did you enjoy our dance? Did you know I spend most nights on a rooftop four buildings down from yours making sure your sleep isn'd disturbed? Will you please New Orleans and not return? Will you remember me? ​ "And for you...? Is third time the charm for your today?"

Cami: She was pouring some of the Bordeaux into her own glass when he alluded to her other two set-ups today. ​ Yes ​ The answer was instant, instinctive as she watched the last two drops of alcohol drop into her glass, creating little ripples before replacing the cork on the bottle. "I can't complain; haven't wanted to kill anybody yet... Present company included." A sly, stolen glance at him before she let her eyes fall preferentially to the cue card he was holding between two fingers. There was a tension between them; too many unspoken ​ somethings ​, and she didn't want to be the first to acknowledge it - lest it give him extra motive to keep his distance when this date was over.

Why are you avoiding me? Do you think I was unprofessional? Who do you talk to? How've you been lately, ​ really been ​?... ​

Cami gulped down a sip of her wine before reaching for a cue-card herself. "If you were an animal in the wild, which would you choose to be?" ​ What the hell; might as well burn through the cue cards while the clock was ticking... ​

Klaus: That deep pulsing ache in his chest abates as they finally make eye contact. Her words give him hope, albeit not much. Still, not wanting him dead is a head start he doesn't usually have. "High praise," he murmurs, but his lips curl around the edges of the words in faint amusement. She read off the cue card and Klaus frowned in distaste. Such an absurd question. What would this tell her about him? "In the wild, hm? How interesting they don't allow for anything domesticated," he remarked, an ironic eyebrow raising in amusement. Domestic, he was not. Another reason why it was essential he stop this madness and send her on her way, before he got her even more entangled in a world she didn't understand. ​But don't change a hair for me, not if you care for me...​

A wolf, ​ was the thought that entered his mind before he had even managed to get the other words out. He bit them back, unsettled by the fierceness with which they had overtaken him. The overwhelming sense of rightness. But he bit them back, because such an answer was too raw. "Fine. An undomesticated cat then. Some panther or jaguar. I like to imagine I have the same sort of laconic charm." And equally sharp teeth. He picked up a card and didn't even bother pretending to read it. "How do you feel about modeling?"

Cami: If there’s even just the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, Cami’s quick to take note of it. There’s something about that smile that makes her willing – so willing, to let bygones be bygones; to forget the missed calls, the unanswered messages, the s p a c e . Weeks from now, months perhaps, she’ll realize that that blind-eye willingness is where the problem began; and that she is as much to blame in this – whatever ​ ‘this’ ​ is – as he. But hindsight is 20/20 and right now, right at this very moment, all she feels is a little lighter. So when she catches his subsequent frown from her peripheral as she reads her question, Cami ignores it decidedly. “Panther, huh?... How come? And while we’re on it, are you telling me your spirit animal would be a ​ tabby cat ​ if the question wasn’t so specific?” She grins, setting the cue-card aside. “I’d be a bird… Not for the whole ​ wings of freedom thing ​.” She adds quickly, “Because of the vantage point… They see the world from the outside, see the whole picture..” The blonde trails off, flicking through the cue-cards in search of another as Klaus asks his own question.

There’s a laugh, a roll of her eyes despite her amusement. “Ready and willing. Problem isn’t how I feel, it’s finding an audience. I haven’t googled ​ ‘Miss Delusion 2017’ ​ so I’ve still got a shot.” The blonde shakes her head at him, takes another quick sip of her wine before clearing her throat. ​ “What quality is most important to you in a partner?” ​

Klaus: "I rather like to imagine myself on the top of the food chain. Plus, they are rather majestic creatures. I should think the metaphor is obvious, Camille," he drawled, humor seeping through into his words. He couldn't very well tell her he ​was​ that the top of the food chain, all of them in fact, and the majority of the comparison was based on their respective lethality. He couldn't help but read into her own choice. "So... you prefer distance? Keeping things–" ​people?​ "–at an arm's length?" Perhaps that was why he could practically feel the tension hovering between them. He had given her the distance she desired, and now that distance was forfeit. "Easy. Willingness to model for me. I paint, Camille. I wasn't asking about the industry, it was a more personal inquiry," he said rolling his eyes, albeit fondly.

Cami: "I doubt the bottom-feeders share your respect," She teased, mouth curving into a grin upon catching his eye-roll. "Somehow, I can't picture a gazelle looking up into the jaws of Death and thinking ​ 'wow, that's goals right there... ​ So ​ majestic." ​

Still, there's something about the way he speaks... The tone, the cadence, the way he chooses his words... She's always made for a rapt listener, but when it comes to Klaus it's effortlessly captivating. And so, the last bit of tension unwinds itself in her chest as the female leans back in her chair; content to watch him as he thought, as he spoke. "No! Not distance, I just... I just want to see it all simultaneously... Eagle-eye view. When you're on the same footing as everything else, you just see what's directly in front of you. Kinda like a horse with blinders. I wanna see the whole picture... All of it."

But Klaus leaves her second question unanswered and instead presses his own. And at that, Cami levels him with a deadpan look as if to say ​ "really?" ​ But when his own expression remains expectant and unchanged, her own facade begins to falter. "Seriously, Michelangelo?? Why me?" And she tries to play it off casual, but the way her eyes slide back to the glass between her fingers, the slight uptick in her heartbeat - indicate it's no such thing.

Klaus: "You'd be surprised," Klaus murmured in response, lips quirking secretively. Danger was seductive, and he had no problem making use of it. When the stakes (for him) were low, anyway. In situations like this, however, he couldn't help but make certain blonde bartenders with a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time, the gazelle in this situation. This did not leave a nice taste in his mouth. "Have you ever thought about whether or not you'd like what it was you found?" It was a serious question; one he had spent perhaps too much time thinking about, and one he was relatively sure Camille didn't take seriously enough.

​Why her?​ It was such a ridiculous question, Klaus refused to entertain it. "That counts as two additional questions, Camille." His grin continued to grow, his pleasure at the idea growing the more he thought of it. It had burst forth without much forethought, but now that it was in his mind, it had taken root. Of course, he didn't actually ​need​ her to sit for him in order to paint her, perhaps in oil crayon, or no– pastels rather, something soft and complicated and too easily smeared by a careless heavy hand. "Wouldn't be long depending on the medium. A sketch would take maybe twenty minutes. Less even." He wanted to tell her he could make it up to her, buy her dinner, buy her a ​city​, anything she wanted. But he wouldn't. She would not get dinner with him, and he would not ask. He knew how this story ended, and Cami deserved more.

Cami: The mischievous smile that mirrored his, dimmed a fraction when Klaus asked whether she'd ever considered the possibility of not liking what she discovered about the world through that newfound perspective. "Aaah... No. Not really, I guess. Isn't it always better to know?" She asked, her mind inevitably traveling to Sean. "Facts are facts, no matter what I think of them. Better to know than bury my head in the sand, right?" She didn't know why she sought the answer in his expression, but it only lasted so long before her own solemnity melted back into a smile.

Why Klaus would want to paint such a commonplace subject was well beyond her, and yet still, Cami couldn't deny that she felt a little flattered. And she hoped the colour rising in her cheeks could equally be attributed to the red wine, as to the request she was still turning over in her mind.

- ​ What the heck; what was the worst that could come from it? ​ - ​ ​ Unprof-essional... ​ ​ Another voice in her head sing-songed. - ​ Excuse to get into his headspace. [i/] The first corrected.

Downing the last of her wine, Cami set the glass back on the table, decisively. " ​ Fine. ​ I make no promises, but I'll consider it... How's that?" Her eyes danced with merriment as she continued. "Only if you answer my last question though... Then ​ maybe ​ I'll let you ​ draw me like one of your French girls. ​ " She deadpanned with a grin.

Klaus: Klaus simply looked at her, incredible in her naiveté. In the world in which he lived, knowing inevitably made people dead, with very few exceptions, and even those would get there soon enough. How marvelous, how ​quaint​, it must be for her to live in a world where knowledge actually ​did​ equal power. "Perhaps, for those who can afford it, ignorance actually can be bliss." He doubted Cami would count herself among those who could afford it, but she underestimated herself. Or perhaps ​over​estimated herself.

He answered her grin as she laid out her terms. He couldn't resist the chance to throw her off balance once more. His mixed signals couldn't have been stronger or more contradictory. It truly was best for her if he stayed away, and he ​had​ but it seemed Cupid had other plans because he had dropped her practically in his lap (he could not deal with that particularly mental image) and he had never been a model of self-restraint in the face of temptation. "I'd like to remember your face," he said simply, knowing how much weight those words carried. One way or another, if it took a day, a year or eighty, they would leave one another behind, and a simple painting would be all he had left to remember her by.

Cami: Cami couldn't help the way her features scrunched up into a visible - if somewhat childish - grimace at his words. "God, I don't think I've ever known an expression that I hated ​ more ​ than that one." She would've said more, but decided at the last moment that this wasn't the time and place for such a rant. "... Just- do me a favour and don't use that one on me, okay?" Not that he would if he was ever of a mind to continue their sessions; after-all, therapy was exactly the kind of place where one generally opened up. As usual, the faintest smile on his part only incited the brightest, most unabashed grin from her. It was an instinct she couldn't quite help; the muscles around her mouth were tugged up to mirror his as though connected by a string. "Take a picture; it'll last you longer. You still haven't answered ​ my ​ question, by the way. Most important quality in a prospective partner?" Cami wiggled the cue-card she was still holding between two fingers. "Asking for a friend," The blonde added, mirth dancing in her eyes. "Goodness knows you'll need all the help you can get, Picasso."

Klaus: It was uncomfortable, and entirely unwanted, the inkling of guilt he felt hearing that. ​Don't use that one on me​. He comforted himself with the knowledge that it was a luxury only the blissfully ignorant would ask for. If she knew what she was asking, she would want the freedom of a night's sweet dreams, of living her life without fearing for it every moment of every day. He was sparing her. She would thank him, if she knew. He frowned in earnest as she insisted he didn't answer her question. Were he not utterly unflappable, he might have blushed at the information he had just given away, and freely at that. Perhaps his cheeks were a bit warm. He scowled and drank his bourbon. "Picasso was rather something of a womanizer," he pointed out wryly as he considered her question, yet another question he dearly wanted to avoid. What ​was​ most important to him in a prospective partner? The idea of a partner at all seemed rather daunting... so abstract he couldn't honestly imagine it. ​You make me smile with my heart​. Partnership... what a strange word to use to refer to romance. And yet, he could see the appeal. Trust, camaraderie, intimacy, reciprocity... "Loyalty, I suppose," he answered, making his voice deliberately bored as he lounged in his seat, swirling the damned glass of bourbon he couldn't bring himself to finish. Loyalty sounded so... distant. So cold. And yet, what else did he really want? What else was of any use to him?

Cami: "Is that where the similarities begin or where they end between Klaus and Pablo?" Cami fired back, before she could think to filter it. She blamed it on the alcohol; whereas her date had barely touched his drink, she'd leaned on it like a crutch. And if not for slowing the racing thoughts in her mind, then the glass served as something with which to occupy her hands as she listened to him.

Still, Cami wished it was a notebook in her hand instead, and that it was appropriate to scribble his answers down for safe-keeping. Would she remember them later?... ​ Loyalty ​ . The simplicity of his answer surprised her. And she wanted to pry, to ask him about it but was deterred by the absolute disinterest in his body-language. Afraid that she was losing him, Cami took another quick sip of her drink before tossing the cue-cards aside on the table.

"Okay, you win. And I'll bite, so- " But the sound of a buzzer cut her off mid-sentence and made her look up in surprise, before her gaze dropped back down to meet Klaus' a few seconds later. "... Saved by the bell?" Cami suggested, with a wistful smile.

Klaus: "You tell me, Camille," he fired back before reticence had the chance to stop him. Honestly, Fate was testing his patience. He hadn't must practice being ​good​ but he was trying for this ridiculous woman, trying to keep her away from his own ill-advised desires, ​and she kept talking to him​. What was he supposed to do with that? Compel her to never open her mouth again? She was insufferably charming.

He couldn't decide if the buzzer was a curse or a godsend. It seemed the more time he spent in her company, the harder it was to remember why it was absolutely essential that he avoid her at all costs, and yet, he burned to know what she was going to say next. "Me, or you?" he quipped, quite seriously, already knowing the answer. Still, he paid no attention to the next person lining up to sit across from him as he stood. "I think I shall spare St. Valentine's victims my company for the rest of the evening." ​I need to leave. You need to leave. One of us should go. Let me walk you home. Dance with me, Camille​.

Cami: “I wouldn’t know.” She answered just as quick, holding his gaze level. It didn’t come off as bitter as she’d felt on the onset of the conversation, but there was still enough meaning tucked away behind those words. A ‘gotcha’ of sorts.

Give me a chance to figure you out. Give me a ​ c h a n c e .

But the therapist had a much more definitive answer when he asked whether the buzzer was saving him - or her. “You. I was just about to get the big guns out. You know; marriage and baby names.” Cami teased, although it was far from the truth. When she’d put aside those cue cards it was in order to take the plunge; address the elephant in the room - address the missed calls, the distance. But the buzzer had robbed her of her courage in one, fell swoop.

You. ​

“Anyway, I should- yeah, I- me too.” A quick nod, a smile as she wondered how exactly they were supposed to part. A handshake seemed stupid, and yet the repercussions of a hug seemed twice as stupid. “Besides, speaking of Casanovas…” Her gaze roamed towards one side of the room, where she’d locked eyes with Marcel not too long before the third round. A broad grin, a wink on his part. “There’s this ​ guy ​. ​ Marcel ​ . More likely to hold a karaoke mic than a paintbrush but no less persistent.” Despite her sarcasm, Cami’s smile was fond as she watched him chatting up some blonde, whose face was obscured from her vantage point. Her eyes snapped back to meet Klaus’ unreadable grays. “I think I’ll disappoint him a little while longer. Are you heading out?”

Klaus: Her quick riposte caught him off-guard, and he found it difficult to break her gaze. When he finally did look away, it felt like an actual splintering, a cracking in his soul. ​I wouldn't know​. And wasn't that exactly how he wanted it? Well done, mate, mission accomplished then. He snorted as she followed it up with marriage, of all things. "Marriage is a bit fast, don't you think, love? This was only our second date after all," he said, eyes locking back on hers, brow raised, anticipating the challenge. For a second, he thought she'd actually bite, and then...

​​"Marcel?"​​ A hot flash of slick, oily envy washed over him, catching in a quick clench of his jaw. First his sister, then his city, and now his... stenographer? Teeth grinding, finger tapping against his leg, he thought quickly. No, this was good. He could ​use​ this. To escape from his own ridiculous sentimentality, which was already proving to be a weakness, and to get the upper hand on Marcel, from the area he'd expect it to come from the least. In a flash he had Cami whisked into the small side room where guests were invited to store their jackets for the duration of the event. ​"Actually, Camille, you won't disappoint Marcel Gerard any longer," ​ he intoned, watching her eyes dilate as the compulsion wove its magic in her mind. ​"The next time he makes an advance, you will encourage him, and eventually accept."​ It was better this way, wasn't it? At least it was on his terms, now. ​He​ controlled this, he decided this. Camille couldn't walk away from him if she never had the chance. ​"You will report to me any information you learn from him about his rule of New Orleans, about the witch Davina, and what he has planned? You will tell no one of this, and you will not remember I asked this of you. Do you understand, Camille?"

Cami: “Hey, one date would’ve been enough to shock and scandalize most of my ancient ancestors...Yours too. Count yourself lucky.” A wink, as she got out of her seat and contemplated - for a second time - her goodbye. Handshake? Probably a stupid handshake. But he mentioned Marcel just as she went to offer him her hand. “Yeah, you know him? He’s-”

But before she could choose a fitting adjective, Klaus had grabbed her without a second’s notice and whisked her into the adjoining coatroom. “What are you-...” But then her voice trailed off as she looked up at him, the green of her irises all but disappearing as her pupils dilated. Seventeen seconds later, she nodded faintly, solemn and wide-eyed.

But in a blink, the order was forgotten, and Cami glanced around at her whereabouts before turning her gaze back onto Klaus in surprise. “Wow, sorry! I’m eager to get out, but I didn’t mean to chase your tail in here... Don’t flatter yourself.” She added, full lips twisting up into a grin although it didn’t fully reach her eyes. ​ How quickly had she moved?? Goodness. ​ Looking around, Cami spotted her blue coat and moved towards it. “So!... When will I be seeing you next?” She ventured, aiming for nonchalance as she dragged her coat off of its hook.

Klaus: He could see confusion in her eyes and ran his tongue over his teeth to rid his mouth of his distaste. It was done. Still, her next words through him off, and he hesitated, mouth opening to respond but finding that he didn't actually know how to answer. He couldn't let this charade of flirtation continue on, not when it wasn't a charade, not for him. And especially not when he had just delivered her into Marcel's waiting arms. And association with him would become suspect, and the thought of seeing her with Marcel... the distaste refused to be removed this time by a simple swipe of the tongue. Knowing it would be the last time he allowed himself such a luxury, he reached out and stroked his thumb over her cheek, the tips of his fingers curling into her hair. A human wouldn't be able to feel the way her pulse beat beneath her skin, but he felt it in his bones, and committed it to memory. Then turned around and walked away, this time, not even taking the advantage of vampiric speed to create distance. No, this time, he counted every step.

[krogthebattleprince]

For the return of Krög and in the ramp up for Volume 4, I wanted to introduce everyone to some of the “background” essays I have penned over the years to help keep the culture and history of the Southern Reach straight in my own mind.  While these do not directly impact the story itself, they do help (in my mind) lend a degree of realism to a fantasy fairytale world.  Called “Essays on the Southern Reach,” I will slowly begin releasing these over the next few weeks.  They will ramp up to a new mini series called “The Four Winds Pursuit” that will function as a lead in to the next Krög release!

The first of these essays regards the Battle King lineage Krög comes from.  This is one of the oldest culture essays I wrote, so please excuse the fact that it is not, shall we say, grammatically or linguistically sound.  It has not been edited, I just thought I would share it.  While the kings I call “The Big Four” are mentioned with a degree of repetition (Röm, the First, Lödrek, the Conqueror, Ghömak, the Dragon Slayer, and Mögren, the Tyrant), this essay expands on the entire line of Battle Kings descending from Röm.

Two last notes before the essay itself: one, this is the longest of the essays, so while I do appreciate you reading I also realize how busy we all are... come back to this when you have a few minutes.  Second, I cut this essay significantly short to refrain from giving away critical plot elements in Krög’s story.  That said, it will end rather abruptly, so please excuse the pacing... and as I said earlier... all the spelling and language issues.  Enjoy!

Governance and Leadership within the Southern Reach: An essay on the lineage of Battle Kings

Understanding the reign of the barbarian lords of the Southern Reach, the most primitive and underdeveloped of the Three Known Kingdoms along the Swordsong River, requires an understanding of how their line established itself and came to power.  Despite the warmongering, hyperbolic nature of the title held by the sovereign, sole executor for the badlands kingdom, their lineage has largely broken the traditions of warlords taking their lands by force.  With few exceptions, most of the Battle Kings to lead over the Southern Reach, while certainly rough hewn and mostly uncivilized given the expansive cultures of their neighboring countries, accomplished their many legacies through measured, tempered management.  Even those individuals who reigned as traditional warlords, through intimidation, brutality and military influence, were still regarded as preferable leaders compared to the dictatorial councils of other kingdoms.  The culture of the land being focused less on wealth and more on exploration and, so called, adventure, seems to be the primary contributor to this break, but it may simply be the Southern Reach and her Battle Kings were simply a pointed exception to almost all the rules of monarchies during its, nearly, five hundred year existence.

To fully understand the rise of the Battle King line and the fourteen rulers to hold the title, one must first examine the origins of the Three Known Kingdoms on the Swordsong River.  The conflict known in the Western Empire as the Raltarian War (alternatively in some places The First Coming of Raltar and The First Raltarian Cycle) saw its early days in 1033 IA (Imperial Age) when a zealot to demon demigod hijacked a magic forge and created the legendary Raltarian Sword.  After more than two decades of growing his influence, the zealot declared war on the city of Colossus and in 1068 IA, following a twelve year siege the capital city fell and the Great Flight Across the Boundless occurred.  Post exodus, the timeline was rewritten as AC, After Colossus, and during the first year of this age, a great deal of refugees wandered desperately across the Boundless Sea in search of a new country to inhabit.  The first of the fleeing pioneers reached the Cape of New Hope early on in 1AC, and it did not take long before more of the refugees pressed further upstream.  Please note, there is some overlap between the first recorded years of the AC age, and the final recorded years of the IA age, as while the body majority of citizens from the Western Empire fled its shores, a good deal stayed behind to try to salvage their kingdom, and chronicled those efforts unto their last days.

Officially, the Southern Reach was first settled midway through year 1 AC with the establishment of the war camp, Fort Blaze, where it was overseen by a soldier named Röm.  While records indicate Röm may have been a low level officer, he was certainly not a strategic mastermind, but was described in many accounts of his fellows as being a resolute, calm, if often stern man who was looked to for strength.  It is surprising Röm managed to carry off such an even demeanor given his wife and three daughters were murdered by pirates preying on ships escaping Colossus before his arrival in the Southern Reach- such tragedy would be enough to break the spirits of most men.  Many believe the very spirt of the Southern Reach came from his persistence to carry on in the face of sorrow and adversity in those early days.

Röm was recognized as the first Battle King when Fort Blaze and the small surrounding villages it protected came under assault by troll army from nearby forested areas.  By this point, Röm had developed a personal council consisting of Brok, an aged, powerful former Steelblazer whose wisdom was only matched by his combat prowess, and Drake, a bunkmate from basic training who never left Röm’s side.  The two provided the Battle King not only with support and advice, but protection as well, and it is largely accepted this is where the tradition of the Senior and Apprentice Honor Guards was born.  After several crushing defeats which nearly spelled the complete annihilation of the peoples settling south of the Swordsong River, Röm lead a striking comeback campaign and conquered the trolls, cementing his legacy permanently.

Eventually, Röm would remarry a senior commander in his army and the first Battle Queen, Shay, gave birth to their son Rözar who ascended to the throne following his father’s death in 42 AC.  Exhausted by a life raised in the shadows of a bloody war, Rözar sought to expand his father’s kingdom, and his own influence, by engaging in exploration and encouraging frontiersman style settlements.  Sometimes called the Homeless Battle King, Rözar, whose actual epitaph read “The Explorer,” spent almost his entire reign on the trails and is credited for pushing the Southern Reach out of the forests on the south bank of the Swordsong River, and into the true badlands north of the Dragon’s Spine’s foothills.  The city of Brokus was built under his watch as an outpost to service the better established trade cities on the river, and the agricultural villages which had started to sprawl way from the woodlands.  Rather than live out his days in a throne room, Rözar amicably surrendered his throne to his son before setting out into the mountains one morning never to be seen again.

Nömel was a fearless risk taker completely overtaken with his father’s adventuring spirit but with a powerful love of warfare as well.  His nickname, the One Armed, came from a teenage run in with a Wild Dragon wherein the creature permanently maimed the, then, Battle Prince, but still fell to his sword all the same.  Nömel would go on to learn how to wield a gigantic war hammer in his left hand, and many accept the tradition of Honor Guards carrying similar sledges began with him.  While a stout and hearty man of some considerable strength, despite having only one arm, Nömel was a lax and disinterested leader, more focused on increasing his own holdings of trophies and glory than developing a kingdom.  At the time of his death in 99AC during a hunting accident, the Southern Reach had largely stagnated.

So came the rise of Lödrek, the Conqueror, the Southern Reach’s first proper warlord and military monarch.  In combat, Lödrek was without equal, though he was also resentful of his father’s unfocused reign and determined to use his prowess in battle to return some semblance of respect to the kingdom.  He got his chance early on when an insurrection lead by an ogre chieftain burned down Fort Blaze and raided a number of the Southern Reach’s northernmost outposts.  Refusing to be vanquished, Lödrek reestablished the barbarian hordes and a personal squadron he called the Warbrands and not only crushed the ogres, but lead a furious, bloody campaign against the rest of the giant kin and fell beasts living within the boundaries of his kingdom.  Lödrek flattened much of the forest along the southern bank of the Swordsong River in his conquest, chasing the majority of the trolls into hiding and permanently establishing his country as a military force not to be played at.  Until his death in 151 AC to infection of battle wounds, the Conqueror never halted his expansion and taming of the lands around him.

Drökun was a far more sedate and cerebral ruler than his father, and oversaw a long period of peace and prosperity in the Southern Reach, though many attribute this to the scorched earth tactics employed by Lödrek previously.  Far less interested in travel and exploration than his forefathers, Drökun saw the need to build protective holdings to keep the more vulnerable municipalities safe from further attack.  He earned his title as The Hall Raiser when he centralized the Warbrands in a giant fortress city, Ganithen, and created the Battle King’s palace and throne from one of the last standing trees after Lödrek’s reign.  After building the massive battlement to replace Fort Blaze and have a permanent, defendable outpost which served as gateway to the rest of the kingdom, Drökun finished out a quiet rule which he eventually handed over to his son in 180AC.

Following his father’s retirement, Slamdrö very reluctantly took over as Battle King of the Southern Reach without much fanfare or heralding.  Even more than his ancestor Nömel, Slamdrö has very little desire to oversee the fledgling kingdom, and did little to expand its borders in his time.  Indeed, the major contribution of the 6th Battle King was less his diplomacy or military prowess, but with his establishment of the legendary scouting corp, the Griffin Riders.  Preferring the company of beasts over men, Slamdrö was rumored to have stumbled out of a bar one night, take a look at a flock of griffins passing over the moon and proclaiming he would not only ride one, he would make them his family.  After domesticating the first clutch, Slamdrö had the tower aviary at Brokus raised where he spent the rest of his time as Battle King training the birds.  Easily the most removed of his lineage, his legacy is no less diminished as the Griffin Riders continue to the be lords of the skies wherever they fly.

The next in the line is a matter of some debate and there is a growing community which believes Slamdrö was, in fact, the final Battle King directly descendent of Röm.  This follows for a number of reasons.  Firstly, Slamdrö was a recluse who never took a wife or maintained very many friends, and there was no proof he ever sired an heir.  Secondly, the following Battle King who took the throne following his death in 208 AC, Töban, was even more infrequently seen.  Nicknamed the Bone Crusher and presumably possessed of truly legendary, impossible strength, Töban was storied for his unverifiable perfection.  By all written accounts of the lords and elders who supposedly served with him he was ridiculously mighty and boisterous, a true barbarian’s barbarian, but almost no accounts from his municipality confirm his existence.  There is even a total lack of record supporting the existence of his Honor Guard team.  The supposition goes after Slamdrö passed on without leaving a son behind, the regional governors and warlords fell into disarray trying to elect a suitable replacement, and created a mythological, perfect Battle King to keep the municipalities in line.  Whether he existed or not, the Southern Reach persisted and Töban’s “son” or successor was a far more visible leader.

In 252 AC, Förak the Blacksmith came into power.  Believing the Battle King line had become to removed from the people they both lorded over and protected, likely by the example of the reclusive Slamdrö and absent Töban, Förak sought to reestablish the position as a leader of people and frontiersman.  A talented craftsman, the 8th Battle King visited more of the outlying cities than any other of those who came before him and worked side by side with his citizens every single day.  He sweat and hammered with them, tended fields and built weapons to gain a greater degree of understanding and appreciation for the subjects living in the badlands away from the most direct protection of the Fortress City.  While Förak contributed little in the way of advancing the kingdom, he was instrumental in restoring the people’s faith in their warrior monarch who was as much their defender as he was their ruler.  Förak was one of the most mourned Battle Kings on his death in 283AC, legendarily having a wake which stretched for miles.

The lineage returned to form with Förak’s son, Makö, nicknamed The Mighty.  With a far bolder vision and ambitions than his father, Makö sought to once again expand the borders of the Southern Reach, wildly envious of the expansive Northern Empire and Eastern Collective, and madly inspired by the tales of Nömel and Lödrek.  The Mighty managed to fairly successfully marry the legacies of his many inspirations and pushed the edges of his kingdom farther southward where he established the outpost of Strömlan to keep back the hunting packs of Wild Dragons which lived in the caves of the mountains at their deepest border.  Makö was known to have hunted and killed dragons, trolls, ogres and the newly discovered cavelings and cliffbeasts in single combat just to prove his own strength and indomitable spirit.  Ultimately he failed to improve the Southern Reach’s standing among the Three Known Kingdoms very much, but did a great deal to reinvigorate the legacy of the Battle Kings.

Makö passed in 320 AC and the throne went to his son Ghömak who began one of the most legendary campaigns accredited to the Battle King line- the Grand Dragon Purge.  Believing the Battle Kings were more symbolic as myth forgers than they were effective as world leaders, Ghömak set his sights on passing into truly storied realms by cutting the most powerful, most revered dragons from the very skies.  By sheer volume and numbers, Ghömak the Dragon Slayer successfully tracked and killed more dragons than any of his predecessors or any of his successors had or would.  With an insane twinkle for want of glory in his eyes and a broad set of shoulders, Ghömak threw hundreds, if not thousands, of his barbarians into the hunt to slay the Grands.  It actually served to substantially weaken the Southern Reach’s footing in the world by not only depleting its military, but also making it look like a country totally obsessed with bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed.  The Dragon Slayer met his end facing down an extremely vengeful Grand named Yinlong who rallied the remaining of his kind to nearly scorch the Southern Reach right off the countryside.

In 344, Mögren took the crown and had to quickly conclude the war against the Grand Dragons victoriously or risk the entire country vanishing and collapsing.  By 352 AC, Mögren and his forces had cut the Grand Dragons to only a handful, or chased them completely out of the country, and in late 353 AC the last Grand burned itself alive with its own fire breath on the knoll behind the Fortress City, its ashes charring the hillside permanently and giving rise to the Scorched Hill.  Realizing his country was terribly weakened by the campaign, Mögren turned to an iron fisted rule to stabilize the region and drag the kingdom back from the edge of oblivion.  His consolidation of power and massive expansion of the barbarian military to the point of making five years service mandatory for not just all men, but all citizens in general, earned him the nickname The Tyrant.  Mögren damaged diplomatic relationships with his neighbors, especially the Eastern Collective through war hawking, but the blusterous display of power served to make the other two kingdoms extremely apprehensive about attempting to forcibly annex the Southern Reach.  Through brute force, Mögren turned the badlands country into a force to be reckoned with and the permanent military might of the region.

The second half of the Tyrant’s reign is subject to much debate and is shrouded in ferocious mysticism.  For one, Mögren lived an unnaturally long time and refused to surrender his throne until well into nineties after a nearly seventy years under the crown.  Popular legend goes he sold his soul for the influence and power to rebuild his kingdom, even going so far as to promise the soul of his firstborn son as well.  Additionally, the Tyrant not only was long lived, but ageless of body and died just as strong and broad as he was in his prime.  During his final years, he descended towards a place of madness, and was constantly spouting off about coming shadows to the land and how the young would always being paying for the sins of the old.  It is largely speculative Mögren might have been a kind hearted, caring ruler had he come into the throne under different circumstances, but hardship and determination drove him to a place of tyranny in order to ensure the survival of his country.  He made the hard decisions and took the staunch action needed for the Southern Reach to persevere and was largely damned for it.

Mögren only gave up the throne two years prior to his death in 413AC to his son Öx, an extremely strong and skilled combatant.  More than anything Öx was known for how close he was to his commanders and soldiers, and he was a greater, more talented swordsman than any of them.  In fact, the soft spoken, steady man surrounded himself with his Warbrands to the point of it being suspect- Öx seemed to be fearful constantly.  While even tempered and gentle, despite his immense size and strength, the Ironclad, as he came to be known for routinely sleeping in his armor, was always tinged with uneasiness as though afraid of something he never spoke on.  This only fueled the rumors his father had promised his soul to some unspoken power, and Öx entertained a relatively short rule before vanishing east during an extremely tumultuous period wherein his son had disappeared on a mission west.

With the familial line divided and one Battle King having wandered one direction and his eldest son missing in completely the opposite, the council of elders and warlords seized on the opportunity to attempt to reform the government of the Southern Reach more in the style of their rival, the Eastern Collective.  Desiring to reorganize the country as a loose confederacy of semi independent states, their efforts were halted when the Battle Prince Bröghue not only returned, but was stunningly supported by his younger brother Gögan to take the crown.  Öx’s apprentice Honor Guard, Xylus the Warbrand, also gave his resounding support to Bröghue which rallied the barbarian armies behind him.  Faced with a turning tide of public opinion to reinstate the throne, the council eventually relented and the crown passed to Bröghue in 437AC.  

Known to his subjects as The Wise, and his closest friends and family as Big Brö, the twelfth of the Battle Kings is largely revered as the second greatest of the lineage behind only Röm and ahead of more proven warriors like Lödrek or Makö.  A wanderer and adventurer of some repute as a Battle Prince, Bröghue immediately settled when taking the throne and went forward with immediately repairing diplomatic relationships with the surrounding countries.  He quickly established new and stronger trade and protection treaties with the Northern Empires and promised his son in marriage to the Merchant Lord’s daughter as collateral to the ends of an even tighter tie to their northern neighbor.  And though alliances with the Eastern Collective continued to suffer, more perhaps due to political upheaval within the eastern states themselves, Bröghue did manage to stave off outright war with them for the majority of his rule.  He was beloved by both his people, with whom he maintained close solidarity to, his armies, who saw him as an incredibly strong and potent warrior and for the most part his council who were glad to have their voices heard to a greater degree than under Mögren.