#she's pretty bad in anything that requires precise hand movement since her hands are more large claws that are completely useless in this

[blobbei-art]

Been very much in love with my new spider gal OC, whose colours are based off of a Monocentropus Balfouri Tarantula! 

She’s a witch who betrayed other members her own species (aka giant man-eating spiders) to ensure her own survival by helping some honeybees. 

Currently just trying to figure out her anatomy and shapes because staying on model with her is preeeeeetty hard,,,therefore her design may still experience small changes

[blue-mood-blue]

No one asked about the eye.

It wasn't something Peter Nureyev even noticed that he'd noticed, just another unnecessary piece of information filed away in the back of his mind for use later if he needed it. He was doing his best to stay out of Juno Steel's way, after all, ensuring that they weren't stuck in a room together alone and forced to make stilted, polite conversation; he rarely had reason to spare extra energy in observing the way the rest of their strange band interacted with Juno.

When he caught a glance at Juno rubbing his eye one morning under the patch, shuffling past where Peter was seated at the table and nodding along to whatever tangent Rita was prattling away about behind him while obviously retaining nothing, the thought occurred to Peter again: no one ever asked Juno about his eye. It went mostly unremarked upon entirely, even when "family dinner" devolved into "taking cheap shots at each other."

Like as not it was just good manners, Peter decided as he shifted his attention back to the tablet in his hand. It would be in poor taste to pepper someone with questions about a serious, visible injury, and if Juno didn't bring it up it hardly fell to any of the rest of them to bring it up for him. And Juno had been without an eye for some time - if he wanted a cybernetic alternative, he could have gotten one long before now. He could have listed it with his other requirements for working with Buddy's crew, even. That was his own business.

No one said anything about the eye - asked any questions, voiced any concerns, made any offers - and Peter put it out of his head. Peter put it out of his head when Juno forgot his patch and still seemed surprised to find an empty socket, when Juno’s depth perception still suffered despite the time he'd had to get used to it, when Juno took emptied cans from a meal and lined them up outside whenever they were somewhere with enough gravity to make it worth his while and practiced his shooting.

Juno went wide every time. And every time, Peter remembered his precise shooting from before, and felt a pang in his chest.

"He isn't getting any better." Peter wasn't sure why he spoke up, and to Jet, who seemed absorbed with whatever he was doing to the Carte Blanche while Peter idly watched Juno practice. He hadn’t meant to say anything, it was the kind of pointless sentiment that was best left in Peter’s head if it had to be anywhere at all, and it was a small mercy that he’d said so softly enough that Jet had plenty of room to pretend he hadn’t heard.

"He is not," Jet replied.

Should have kept his mouth shut, Peter thought, while continuing to not keep his mouth shut. "It's concerning that he hasn't improved by now, considering when he lost the eye. He might never get that sharpshooting back."

"He might not," Jet agreed.

"He could consider getting it replaced - the technology exists." Just because it would make their work easier, Peter justified to himself. The only reason he cared about Juno Steel's sharpshooting was because it might be necessary to save their lives at some point. Otherwise, he would leave well enough alone.

There was no reply from Jet, and Peter assumed the man had finally decided that the conversation wasn't worth continuing. He was surprised, then, when he looked up and found Jet regarding him seriously, that steady gaze unwavering.

"I do not think Juno would want such a thing. I would advise you not to mention it to him." Before Peter had the chance to ask what he meant, to figure out how Jet could have come to that leap of a conclusion when he barely knew Juno and certainly hadn't been there when he'd lost the eye, Jet stood up, collected his tools, and went back inside.

Peter watched another wide shot, lost in thoughts that didn't get him anywhere.

~~~

It was late, and the Carte Blanche was quiet, and Peter didn't know why he was awake.

It might have been that the bed felt too empty; a startlingly vulnerable conclusion, since Juno didn't spend every night there even after their conversation, but there was no point denying the possibility. More likely that he'd heard something, and the ability to wake quickly had saved him too many times for him to easily put aside the habit now. When he didn't hear it again, he rolled to the far side of the bed and resolutely tried to fall back asleep.

Five minutes later, with a put-upon sigh, Peter dragged himself to his feet. The idea of the empty bed had wormed its way into his head and he couldn’t stop thinking about the cold, extra space. It was ridiculous and mortifying that he was actually considering knocking on Juno's door in the early hours of the morning to ask for a space in his bed; worse that he knew he wouldn’t, and that he would never get back to sleep now that he’d allowed himself to consider it. Might as well find a distraction, since he was up anyway.

He'd already passed the living area on his way to the kitchen when he stopped, a delayed reaction to something sending a chill down his spine, and slowly walked back in. It was dark - the faint lights of the hallway filtered in and mixed with the ambient light from the windows, giving only just enough illumination for Peter to find what unsettled him. There was someone in there, on the couch, sitting straight as a mannequin who’d been positioned that way and whispering something in a low, unnaturally steady thrum.

Peter froze in the doorway. It was Juno.

He didn't seem right; it was a vague conclusion that didn't do the pit in Peter's stomach justice, but it was a hard thing to define besides a sense of wrong. The muttering and the blank stare told him that Juno was probably sleepwalking, or something like it; the rigid way he was sitting and his sharp focus on nothing implied something else. He hadn't reacted at all to Peter passing through the room, to Peter walking right in front of him and right past that focused, unfocused stare, and he didn't react as Peter quietly walked closer.

"Juno?" Nothing. Not a twitch to indicate he'd heard, not so much as a pause between the stream of muttered, whispered words. Peter crept closer, sat slowly down next to him on the couch, and as he was reaching up to touch his shoulder he heard what Juno was saying.

“Goodness-is-the-only-purpose-I-have-little-potential-for-Good-therefore-I-am-worth-little-the-Tower-has-great-potential-therefore-it-is-great-"

It all felt deeply, deeply unsettling. It was Juno's voice but not his words; the cadence was even and emotionless and mechanic, as if something else were speaking through him with no concept of how to be Juno. Peter's hand stopped because suddenly, foolishly, he was afraid to attract the attention of whoever it was sitting next to him. And just as foolishly, he was afraid to leave Juno alone and lost.

"It's a dream, Nureyev," he muttered to himself, disgusted that a simple act of comfort was beyond him, even momentarily. Juno was trying, and what was Peter doing? Sitting next to him, unable to touch him, useless to him. Ridiculous. "Just wake him up and maybe you can both get some sleep."

"Boss?" Peter nearly jumped out of his skin, and he jostled Juno next to him; in his focus on listening to what Juno was saying, he hadn't heard Rita walk in. She was rubbing sleep from her eyes, looking between Peter and Juno. "Boss, you feelin’ okay?"

"-systems-are-beginning-to-fail-Emotional-Danger-Avoidance-Protocol-has-been-deactivated-request-received-diverting-remaining-processing-power-from-pain-numbing-functions-"

"Oh." Rita didn't seem confused. Concerned, though, in a quiet way that was so unlike her it made Peter wonder what happened to people on this ship at night to change them so thoroughly. Or perhaps, not on this ship at all. “You better leave this to me, Mista Ransom. I mean, you could try, but he probably wouldn’t remember you and it’d get pretty confusing.”

The pit of unease at the bottom of Peter’s stomach was widening, quickly. He stared at Juno. “He wouldn’t… remember?”

“He gets a little scrambled when he gets like this - it’s not really surprising after spending all that time with someone talking at him in his head all the time, you know, he told me about what it was like and I don’t think I’d like it myself, someone tryin’ to tell me what to do -“

“What… what are you...” Peter shook his head. Not important. It wasn’t important for him to understand right now, while his questions would only leave Juno stuck in his own mind longer. “Can you help him?”

Rita smiled at him reassuringly, as if the situation had not left her terrifyingly out of her depth. All the better, Peter thought faintly, as he continued to sit by and be useless. “Oh yeah, I got him. You can go to bed if you want.”

Peter shook his head. He would not be sleeping tonight, not until Juno was well. He could think about what his inability to leave meant later.

"Must've been a bad day if you're dealing with this again, huh?" She was talking to Juno and he wasn't hearing her, so she sat on his other side and tapped him on the shoulder. He didn't react. "Mista Steel, it's Rita. You remember me, right? Rita's gonna get you outta there, don't you worry, boss."

"Ri-ta." He pronounced it like the sound was something strange and foreign, like he was making a first attempt to say something he'd never tried before. “Rita. Rita. Rita Rita Rita Rita...”

Suddenly, Juno's head snapped to look at her. It was unsettling; someone who was asleep should have been slower to react, but the movement was unnaturally swift. He looked right at Rita, and this time when he spoke, he almost, horribly, sounded like himself. He was smiling. "The net Good of: save the Tower and bring peace to every human in the Galaxy. Outweighs the net evil of: killing every person in this room, one by one, until you reveal yourself."

Rita just took one of his hands and patted the back of it. "Okay boss, that's real nice and all, but I'm sitting right here. You don't gotta lure me out, and besides we're not even there right now and we haven't been for a long time now. If you really wanna get back at me the only thing you can do is fire me, and we both know you’d never actually do that because then where would you be?"

The silence was so much bigger after her chatter; there was a tension in her shoulders that she wasn’t letting show on her face. And then the tension in Juno collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, and Peter heard a beautiful sound. "Rita?" He sounded exhausted, but that was unmistakably and mercifully Juno’s voice. "What am I... doing on the couch?"

Rita's smile was big enough to light up the room - big and genuine and relieved. Peter wondered if she would ever explain what he'd just seen, and somehow he doubted it. "You promised to watch a movie with me and Mista Ransom, boss! And since you're awake now anyway and you always say you're too busy to watch a movie in the middle of the day I just thought we might as well watch something in the middle of the night instead, since all you're ever doing then is sleeping anyway -"

It didn't seem like he was keeping up very well with what Rita was telling him, but the mention of "Ransom" must have caught his attention because he turned around to confirm that Peter was there. Snapped out of whatever trap of his own mind he'd been caught in a moment earlier, Juno just looked tired; Peter reached for his other hand and gave it a squeeze, smiling in a way that he hoped masked his uncertainty. "Might as well watch something until we all fall asleep, hm?"

Peter wasn't sure if Juno was too tired to comprehend what either of them were talking about, or if he was just comfortable enough in their combined presence that it didn't matter that he didn't understand; whatever the reason, instead of answering either of them or asking any more questions he lay his head on Peter's shoulder and was almost asleep already by the time Rita got back with her tablet.

~~~

It was only a voice, robotic and designed to be soothing. The message calmly explained the steps of the security procedure before the event during the elevator ride, and Juno reached for Peter's hand.

His grip was tight and desperate, like a vice, but he wouldn't look over to Peter. He wouldn't explain if he could, wasn't allowed to explain here even if Peter was allowed to ask and they weren't already in their characters for the latest job. Juno wasn't ready to talk about it.

Peter squeezed his hand and took a step closer, disguised behind a subtle shift in his stance. "Just hold onto me, love," he muttered under his breath, hoping Juno could hear. "We'll make it through."

~~~

It was garbage television, what Peter finally settled on while he worked his way through an enormous bowl of ice cream in the preciously rare, quiet evening on the Carte Blanche. He'd probably have joined the festivities planetside if not for the badly-sprained ankle and cracked ribs, and he'd probably have been more upset about the whole thing had Juno not volunteered to stay with him. As it was, he allowed himself to enjoy the evening for exactly what it was - quiet and calm that he usually didn't get, and alone time with Juno with blissfully few expectations for either of them.

Juno had settled him in, placed the bowl and the remote in his hands, and kissed the top of Peter's head before promising that he'd be back in a minute. Peter took advantage of his absence to find something really awful to watch, fully planning to use his injuries as emotional manipulation if Juno started to complain. Remote privileges were rare in their strange little group.

He'd settled on a conspiracy program before Juno got back, a recent special set in Hyperion City - ought to be good for a laugh for Juno, too, who'd probably spend the entire time arguing with the host about everything she didn't know about the city he'd grown up in. Peter had seen the odd article about it circulating the tabloids - New Town, home of experimental brainwashing that no one could prove. As unlikely as it was interesting, far-fetched as it was entertaining.

Juno walked in as the theme started to play, already groaning. "I have no idea why you like this show. It's such a crock of shit and you know it." The criticism was tempered by good-natured laughter.

"Some of us like a good story well-told, Detective, even if it's not quite true." He smiled as he looked above him, where Juno was leaning over the couch... and stopped when he saw his expression. "Juno?"

Juno was staring at the tv, looking for all the world like he'd just seen a ghost. The program opened on a scene of former Mayor O'Flaherty, giving a speech about good to an awed and eagar public, specifically about creating a better home; Juno stared, so still and yet hanging on every word.

"Juno, dear? Are you... alright?"

He shook his head and cleared his throat. "Uh, what exactly are you watching?"

"That 'New Town' conspiracy, the one with the brainwashing." Juno didn't say anything, didn't seem to react in any way Peter could see. "Juno. Tell me what's wrong, please."

Juno rubbed at his eye, first over the patch and then under it, still watching the tv. The footage had changed from the speech to a dramatic shot of New Town's grand opening, played in slow motion with tense, swelling music to make the moment appropriately dramatic. "It's... nothing's wrong." He glanced down at Peter, and cracked an uneasy smile when he saw exactly how much Peter believed that. "Okay, nothing's wrong right now. It's just..."

"Just...?"

"A bad memory. A few bad memories."

Peter wasn't sure if he should ask, wasn't sure if he was allowed. Juno had put so much work into being open; wasn't it his part to respect the boundaries where they were, and to trust that Juno would talk to him when he was ready? They'd invested so much time and effort in building something that wouldn't collapse and hurt them both. So instead of pushing, he asks: "Sit with me?"

And when he does, Juno asks him: "Did I ever tell you how I met Buddy?"

When Juno starts his story, honest and well-told, Peter turns off the television to listen to him.

[comehomeducklings]

Past [Part 2] (Obsession)

A/N: Some chapters will be named with either “Past,” “Present,” or “Future,” then their numbered part coming right after it. This is to confuse you less when flashbacks or anything happens. As you have probably noticed, it says “Past” for Part 2. This is going back near when Tom and her just met. Thank you for reading! <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Tom Riddle's Moodboard

Main Character's Moodboard

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

1940 - 3rd year

“Potions is not that bad, I swear. You just have to be good at measuring.”

At the table, my friends and I are discussing our classes this year. Potions being one of my favorite topics. Devyn absolutely loathes that certain class. We have to drag her there to make sure she doesn’t skip. Poor girl tries her best to not mess up but the cauldron always ends up blowing up. I even watched her do every step once, never missing a beat. The potion still ended up failing, even though she did everything correctly. She gave up after a while, who wouldn’t. I help her do extra assignments for extra credit to keep her grade up. She also studies with me to make sure she can memorize everything and pass her tests. Amelia is pretty good at the class, she’s luckily paired with Devyn most of the time. Carrying the potion to success, with a little bit of my secret help. It’s not cheating, it’s using your resources.

I’m resources.

“Potions is not that bad,” Devyn mocks me. “If it weren’t for you two I would have gone insane in that stupid class.”

Amelia just laughs at her while eating her hash browns on the plate. She reaches her hand out to take some more eggs.

“You were able to do it before. Not the way you were supposed to, but it worked,” Amelia says.

“Exactly, just start doing it your way at this point. I don’t think Slughorn will care how it’s done, just how it comes out.”

Devyn nods her head and points at me with a fork. Her mouth full of food so she settles for that response. My plate doesn’t have much other than some bacon and fruit. I’m not usually a breakfast eater. I get my appetite at lunch and dinner time. It’s just too early for a bunch of food smells, the smells make me kind of nauseous. I’ll eat though, enough to hold me off till lunch.

The chatter in the lunchroom rises by the minute. Everyone refilling themselves before their busy day. All energy levels rising while everyone wakes up from their groggy morning mood. While my friends finish eating we continue to talk about our classes and share the schedules for this year. Most classes we had were the same except for our electives. I tried taking as many electives as possible. My family back home never really did magic. I actually came a year and a half late since my family wanted me to have a normal school experience. I learned to do everything without the use of magic, the only thing my mom taught me was the floo network, creatures, and plants. I would often accompany her to Diagon Alley when she shops. I got an Owl for my 10th birthday. A cat would have been amazing if I wasn’t allergic to it. My owl is a brown and white-furred barn owl. Don’t ask me why I named it Bartholomew. I was ten okay, give me a break. Speaking of the floo network, my mom had to chase me through it quite often because I kept teleporting everywhere. I once ran into the Ministry of Magic’s building and got lost. They had to take me home to my parents. Their faces told me everything I needed to know about the punishment waiting for me.

Halfway through the second year is when I came to Hogwarts, a second letter coming that year asking my parents to let me learn more there. So when they finally let me attend, everything was pretty new to me. My mother was the magic one in the family. Her grandmother, my great-grandmother, before her had the magic gene. Going to school was the same experience as going from a muggle-borns perspective. The difference is, I knew more about its existence. I would look at yearbooks my mom had from when she went here. She earned a lot of titles, all the achievements being recorded down. I always wondered why she never wanted me to come here. Did something happen to me, to her? I’m guessing she just wanted a normal life with dad. He has always supported her through everything. A love, a bond like that is hard to come by. He would also learn about magic right next to me. At least, the stuff my mom allowed to let us know.

That’s why I want to learn as much as I can, of what’s available. Why learn math in the muggle world when I could be learning divination. Spells of all types, potions for everything of inconvenience. My chores could be completed with just a flick of my wand. I’ve lately been learning wandless magic, on my own. Albus has helped by providing me with material to study that type of magic. The only thing I’ve managed so far is a spark coming from the tips of my fingertips. Sparking hope that I could actually, maybe, achieve that level. Now I won't get my hopes up, but that can lead me to a certain advantage in dueling. That being one of my weakest skills. Always panicking, saying any spells that pop up in my mind, and making random movements coming from my wand. Often confusing who I’m up against, although they recover from that confusion fairly quickly.

Riddle, met him once. One too many if you would ask me. I dissuade ever wanting to speak to him. Arrogance and pride flow through his tongue like second nature. I do take pride in succeeding above him in 3 classes. He is 2 classes above me but, that’s not the point. I do admit, he’s attractive. Only a little though, how else would he charm his way through the professors and students.

“Alright, I’m ready to go. You guys done?”

“Yeah,” I say. Devyn and I start leaving our seats and heading towards the huge doors.

Amelia hurried from her seat, a few steps behind since she took some fruit with her to eat on the way. More and more students also started making their way towards the first period. Not wanting to be blamed for the loss of house points. This system causes so many fights, everyone’s competitive side getting the best of their common sense. I would be lying if I said it didn’t get the best of me before. Amelia being her usual bubbly self skips backward while chatting with us. Before we could warn her to stop, she pushes someone ahead of her. Both falling down, hitting the floor. She spins her head extremely quickly, her hair sticking in her mouth from the force of the wind.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she explains. Quickly trying to digest her situation. I make my way towards her and pull her up. I fix her robe and dust off any dirt on the cloth from the floor.

“Clearly idiot, can you not use those bug eyes of yours to see?”

Devyn and I make eye contact. We understand that there are witnesses here, and one of them is bound to snitch on us if we fight. A huge scene would probably make Amelia feel even more embarrassed as well. Instead, I guided Amelia by her back. We continue on to class while I comfort her. Devyn is staying back to “talk” to the guy. Lestrange is in for it now, any poor soul would be when in the fiery path of her anger.

Devyn’s loud yells could still be slightly heard when entering the potions classroom. First class of the year, and day. On Slughorn’s table, I can see a vial with the wideye potion contained inside. I set Devyn’s textbook on her station, turning to the page that contains information on the potion. Hoping to save her confusion and time.

“Welcome, welcome! Nice to see some old faces, and new ones,” he says with the biggest grin on his face. “Today we’ll be learning about the Wideye potion. Can anyone tell me what this potion does?”

I quickly raise my hand, rather eager. I did some reading about a lot of potions during the summer. Trying to get a headstart on my studies. This potion being one of them. Only 3 students raised their hand, one of them being me. The other, well, Riddle.

“Yes, go ahead and answer,” the professor looks my way.

I smile, “The wideye potion prevents the person consuming the liquid the ability to fall asleep. Which is often used in the medical field to wake someone from a sleep caused by a blunt force or drug.”

“Precisely! 10 points.”

I look back rather smugly at Riddle, rather happy I got chosen instead of him. I know, he could have easily answered that too. I’ll let myself bask in the small achievement for now. 30 minutes of class is just spent writing down notes, preparing us for the potion we will make. Note-taking is my favorite, especially the little doodles I get to make. We use a feather instead of the regular pen. I found it rather amusing and liked the certain feeling of writing with it. The dipping noise that the point of the feather makes when hitting the liquid ink is a very profound sound. No real writer’s bump forming on my fingers.

“That’s enough writing, I need you all to prepare your cauldron, gather the materials you need, and start your potion. If done correctly, tomorrow when we add the finishing touches and check on it the potion should be a blue/green color,” Slughorn comments. “You have 10 minutes to study your notes, then the rest of the class to make your potion. No looking back at your notes after those ten minutes.”

After scanning my notes, I stand up and walk towards the ingredients on the shelves. If I remember correctly my potion requires snake fangs, standard ingredient, and wolfsbane. I gather all that in my hand and set it down near my cauldron. Before I start, I take a moment. I’m missing something, I’m sure there was another ingredient.

Wolfsbane, check.

Snake fangs, six of them.

I have the measures of Standard ingredient.

There’s one more, I try to look around the room. Then I remember that we get an automatic failing grade if caught cheating. There’s no way I’ll let my grade drop like that. Over something so small and inconvenient too. Making my way to the shelves, I scan over the ingredients over and over again. Trying to see if any of the names pop out to me.

No.

Definitely not.

That’s an ingredient?

I don’t even want to know how that one was obtained.

This one, of course it’s this one. I even remember putting a star next to the name in my notebook. Dried Billwig stings, I believe six of them were needed. All that time wasted. Hurrying to my seat I get to work. The time goes by quickly, all that could be heard was the sizzling and whooshing of our potions. I almost knocked down my vials a couple of times. Someone actually did, their time spent on cleaning the glass off the floor. After heating the first three ingredients, I crush them together in the mortar. Then stir clockwise from what I recall, three times specifically. Finally, I wave my wand over then leave it to brew.

Just in time from the looks of it. I glance at Devyn to see how it went for her, and she looks pretty proud of herself. I take that as a blessing that it didn’t blow up this time of round. I’m guessing she took our advice and did it her own way.

A student raises his hand, “May we leave?”

“Oh yes yes, go ahead. No assignments for the first day, only the potion you made in class.”

Before I leave the classroom I examine Riddle’s station. He already left the room. His potion looks similar to how mine turned out, his workspace thoroughly cleaned. Everything used properly placed back to where it should be. Perfectly spotless, not a single speck of dust in sight. All done without magic too, surprising for someone born into the wizarding world. When I mentioned that I met him once, it wasn’t much of anything. The only way I know how he really acts is through other people. Much admire his intelligence and strong will. Others are jealous of the potential he holds for the future.

Girls are already trying to slip love potions into his drinks. I would feel bad if he wasn’t so rude to them. Only just before touching the disrespectful line. He almost drank one of their attempts before. Wouldn’t want to imagine how that turned out. Tom riddle, in love. That man probably doesn’t know the feeling of happiness, let alone love. I feel bad for his future girlfriend, she’s going to have to deal with a handful of baggage.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

“How much do you want to bet Nott will demolish him?” A Gryffindor girl to my left whispers.

Nott, part of Riddle’s group from what I’ve seen. They all eat lunch together and talk to one another so it’s a reasonable guess. Very talented duellist, one of the bests here.

“I hate to admit it, but he’ll definitely win this. I’ll still have hope for the other guy though,” I whisper back trying not to sound mean.

Nott and the other Slytherin boy are up right now. It’s a courtesy for the audience to stay quiet until someone casts the first attack or defense. From then on all you will hear is shouting of encouragement and the opposite. Nott’s eyes are focused, zoning in on the opponent before him. His wand is steady, mouth slightly parted to breathe through better. Whole-body alert and tense waiting for something. From what I'm getting, I believe he’s waiting for the Slytherin boy to go first. Nott casts spells quickly and thinks them through decently. Sometimes you're not able to create a counter-spell quick enough to defend yourself against him.

Riddle’s group and himself are near the corner of the platform. All seemingly analyzing every breath he inhales and exhales. I finally hear the whoosh of a wand and a whiz of light fly past the platform. The glow from the spell lighting our faces for a millisecond. Nott quickly counters that spell and moves to cast his own. Magic flies across the platform, all of our eyes going back and forth like a ping-pong match. The Slytherin boy starts breaking a sweat. He’s only been able to get a couple of offensive spells in there, most of his plays spent throwing off Nott’s. If he doesn’t turn the battle soon, the outcome will become very clear.

It is a little less exciting since we only know a handful of spells. So whatever you know from your own studies you use in these duels. When we move up the years the class will become more serious and dangerous. Right now it’s just to teach us how to counter and cast quickly. The proper etiquette and movement. You use spells that you know, they aren’t supposed to harm someone. Either stun them, make them fly back, or disarm. Most of those spells require a little of a higher level, most of us not even knowing of its existence yet. So what’s mostly cast between competitors is a basic spell to exert force. That force should be aimed for the legs, or the wand to disarm that way. The way someone can win here is to make their knees or hands touch the floor, or disarm their wand. As I mentioned, it will get more intense as time goes by. We're only just starting 3rd year right now, a lot more charms will be learned later on.

I shake my head to get rid of any lingering thoughts. My attention goes right back to the duel taking place in front of me. Nott quickly aims a spell at the knees and manages to bring the other boy to his knees.

“Mr. Nott wins this duel! Please step off the platform, we will evaluate your performance.”

During the practice duels today, you watch it, think of ways to help the person improve, and point out things they might have done wrong. At the end, the professor picks people raising their hands to allow them to give their feedback. Participating is part of the grade you get in here. I personally prefer giving feedback then dueling. I’m not the best at casting, I do give out good defense spells though. That should mean something, I hope.

“Let’s start with Nott, does anyone have feedback for him?”

A couple of people spread apart raised their hands. One by one they all ask questions and give feedback. They mention his feet and posture when he stands. Arms fully stretched out where it would have been more flexible to bend it slightly. When he casts he shouldn’t be walking backward. They shortly switch to the other boy’s questions and feedback. The way he never gave himself the opening to cast an offensive spell often. He would move around his area a lot. Almost slipping off the stage during one of those movements. Tom and his group privately discussed with one another. They’re probably giving Nott their own feedback and suggestions privately.

“Now, Riddle I want you to come up and…,” he scans the room for another student. After some time he points his finger at me. “You.”

I could have had a smooth sailing class. I was so close to not having to go up there. My hands start sweating a bit, my anxiety jumbling my thoughts together. Riddle’s already up there and soon to be on his side of the platform. Taking his wand out and wandering his fingers over the design. I gulp, a big toad stuck in my throat. I wipe my hands on my robe and start up the stairs. Riddle seems as unbothered as ever. We bow, turn, then walk ten paces back. During this time I try predicting who will cast first. I don’t know him very well, I’ve also never seen him duel.

I take my dueling stance and wait for the signal to start. Hoping, praying, that I don’t embarrass myself. Slipping up is not allowed, not when going against him.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

Taglist:

@empath-bunny

[aria-i-adagio]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Ship: Dorian x m!Trevelyan

Rating: T

read on A03 or below

(title from REM, 'Imitation of Life')

Meanwhile, in Haven.

Rhys has a list of sights he does not want to see as he’s dying. At the top (and a recent addition) are hurlocks - those are some ugly motherfuckers, and he suspects that they enjoy making death hurt. Most varieties of demons; although, perhaps a desire demon might not be too bad. Granted, he doesn’t know if the illusions they cast last up to the point of death, or if those are only good while being possessed. That might change the calculus a bit. One of the red lyrium crystal monsters the Templars were turning themselves into. A bear. He definitely does not want to see a bear while he’s dying.

As final sights go, the implosion of the Breach as the thing in his hand stitches the Veil back together isn’t a bad one. The outer edges turn magenta, then blue-violet. The cooler colors rush to the center, swirl together, drawing inward until there’s just a speck of black, more liquid than the darkest night. Then bright, morning sunlight pulses like a heartbeat from that center.

Rhys lets go of the breath he was holding. He thinks it worked, thinks the Breach is closed. It feels powerful enough - a wave of magic like fire and lightning pouring through him, in and out, like breathing in harsh, herbal smoke that messes with his head and makes the world swim, and at least, in his case, despite many promises to the contrary never makes him as sleepy as it just makes him keyed up and in want a good fuck.

The shockwave following the pulse of white light picks him up off his feet and sends him hurtling through the air and slamming him like a ragdoll into rocks and ice around Haven.

Still, the light is damned pretty. Until it fades.

He hears Dorian's voice through the ringing in his ears. “Rhys! Thank the Maker.”

Rhys hopes that he isn’t dead because if he is that implies that Dorian is dead too, and that would rather sad. The world needs Dorian smiling and making catty jokes. There’s been too much melancholy and death over the past few months. Rhys is getting tired of all the omens of doom and gloom.

There’s another little gap in time before his head recovers enough to remember how to open his eyes. When he does, Cassandra’s upside-down face greets him. Dorian's would have been a prettier sight, but there's something comfortingly familiar about seeing Cassie first thing after realizing that - despite there being every reason for him to be - he is not, in fact, dead.

Rhys's vision still spins, and his left arm feels like it’s burning from the inside out. Yes, he’s been here before. Best just to let go, disconnect from it, float a little bit. “Are you going to yell at me again?”

“What?” Cassie’s dark brows pull low over her eyes. “No!”

“Too bad. You’re kinda attractive when you look like you’re about to commit murder.”

“Herald!”

Cassie sounds scandalized. Rhys manages a grin. Not that scandalizing Cassie actually takes that much effort. Makes her easy to tease. Something to distract him from how much he’s hurting at the moment because pretending that the waves of pain radiating from his arm are the ocean doesn’t actually work very well. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been in the ocean since he was a small child. The memory of floating in warm waves until they send you tumbling into rough sand isn’t fresh enough.

“Keep talking like that, Lucky, and you might yet manage to die tonight.”

“Hey, Varric.” Rhys tries to lift his head and the bastard offspring of fire and electricity shoots from his shoulder to neck and then down his spine. The muscles in his back spasm and his head hits the ground beneath him, blacking out his vision for another moment and sending the ringing in his ears a pitch higher. “Did it work?” he asks groggily.

“You did good, kid.”

“So it -”

“The Breach is sealed, Rhys.” Solas’s calm voice is reassuring to hear. “Try not to move, this will hurt more before it hurts less.”

“That story -” He means to say ‘again,’ but Cassandra grabs his shoulders very firmly and maybe he shouldn't waste breath on quips.

“Dorian, be ready.” Solas does something, and that something rips the fire out of his left arm, which is - as promised - worse than just letting it settle in like some magical, fatal addition to the marrow.

“Motherfucking, son of a bitch, what in the name of Andraste's flaming arse -”

“Language.” Cassie lets go of his shoulders and reprimands him with a light cuff on the side of his head. “Oh let the kid blaspheme a bit, Seeker. He's earned it.”

Rhys sits up and rubs his hand. Above him, the sky is still marked by a line of bright green, but it’s a seam in the darkness, not a whirling, pulsating storm. His arm doesn't hurt now, but there's the same fuzzy numb wrongness in his wrist and palm that he's gotten used to over the past few months. That's on a good day.

Solas arches his eyebrows and looks amused. “You know I do very little in the name of Andraste's arse, flaming or not.”

“Whatever your reason -” Rhys experimentally stretches out his left arm and reaches across his chest to rub his shoulder. It’s still aching, but just the banal ache of falling a bit too hard. “Thank you."

Nearby Dorian finishes casting with an elegant - and probably unnecessary - flourish of his elegant hands. One of the trees beside the Chantry behind to glow with the green of a Veil Rift, then warming to a color closer to chartreuse.

“What is that?”

“You absorbed a lot of energy while closing the Breach. I siphoned off what I could at the time. But still, far more than a human body is supposed can contain and remain alive.”

“Right.” Movement of energy had been his theory for some time. Massive amounts of magic were required to open or close a rift in the Veil, and something had to serve as a conduit. Whatever happened at the Conclave had left him as that conduit, but each time he felt the power come closer to burning through the bonds that held him together, made him human. Which was precisely why there was a stack of farewell letters sitting on the desk in Rhys's quarters. He hadn’t expected to live through whatever it took to close the Breach.

“Dorian and I pulled off some of what remained and redirected it. It's a rather beautiful effect, albeit transient.”

The tree turns to a brilliant brilliant gold and then quivers and collapses into a pile of shimmering dust. Rhys swallows hard. Not expecting to live isn’t quite the same as getting a glimpse of how you would have died. Or maybe a human body was messier than a tree. Typically were less graceful than plants. “I see.”

“Right then. Let's get you freshened up and then get some liquor in you.” Dorian grabs his forearms and hauls him to his feet. Face to face with the other mage, Rhys feels transparent. Like a plane of glass that can't hide fears and flaws. It's terrifying. Electrifying. “Everyone else has already started the party.”

Even nearly nose to nose with Dorian, Rhys still can't tame the small voice in the back of his head that says he's reading Dorian all wrong, that the man is just friendly, that there's certainly no way someone so beautiful and refined would be interested in a mudlark.

He hopes that voice is just being stupid.

Dorian slips him a flask of brandy as they walk away. Rhys flips the cap off and sips gratefully from it. His legs feel loose, off-balance, like he’s drunk already, and he suspects he would be staggering but for Dorian’s arm around his waist. The linen undergarments beneath his leather coat and woolen sweater are soaked with sweat and chilly even beneath the layers; he’s content enough to let Dorian drag him to the small cabin he’d been given. Really, actually, it is too much for a single person, much bigger than the room he had at Ostwick. And frankly, far too cold with only a single person’s body heat in the space at night.

He stumbles past the partition to the room in the back, trying to decide if he’d rather fall face-first onto the bed, or dig out a new base layer and go enjoy the party he can hear the rest of the Inquisition beginning outside. Leliana and Josephine will probably show up if he chooses the latter and drag him back out with a lecture on keeping up appearances and rallying the people. They might even be right.

Maker, he hopes his part in all this is over. Let Cassandra and Leliana continue trying to remake all of Thedas. He just wants to go home. If he has a home to go to.

“Oh look at this!” Dorian exclaims from the front. “Antivan red. And a halfway decent vintage. You’ve been holding out on me, Rhys.”

“Talk to Josie.” Rhys undoes the buttons down the front of his coat. Too many buttons, especially with hands that are stiff from the cold and shaking from an overdose of magic. He tosses it over the foot of the bed and takes off his sweater. He’s rather fond of the sweater actually, it’s nice and warm and the good kind of scratchy. The kind that kept you in the present place and time. “She’s not lying about her family connections.”

“Not sure she likes me. Yet. She’ll come around.”

“I’m sure she will.” Rhys smiles a little and cautiously - sometimes he has to recalibrate just how much magic to use after closing a Rift - casts a spell to melt the ice on the pitcher of water. Closing the Breach hadn’t done anything to improve Haven’s climate. Maker, why do people choose to live here? He splashes still chilly water over his face and leans his hands against the table, trying not to yawn so hard that his jaw cracks off.

His linen shirt is soaked to his skin; he has to virtually peel it off. It gets tossed to the floor, something that can be dealt with later and by someone else. He soaks a bit of toweling at rubs it over his chest and shoulders, glancing behind him, at least somewhat hoping that Dorian is surreptitiously peering around the partition.

He isn't. He’s turned away from the opening in the partition - polite, Rhys supposes - holding the stack of letters in his hands and shuffling through them. “Rhys. What are these?”

“Just... I need to burn those. They were just in case, well, you know, this wasn't exactly the guaranteed outcome.” He didn’t even know if half the people he had addressed them to were still alive, much less where to find them, but he assumed that Leliana would be able to figure that out if she needed to.

“How late were you up writing them?”

All night. “A while.”

“You were sitting here last night, by yourself, writing these because you thought you might die - Rhys, why didn't you say anything? You didn't have to sit in here drinking and contemplating death alone.”

“I thought the chance closing the Breach would kill was generally understood.” Just the kind of thing that no one talks about in polite society. Rhys combs his fingers through his hair and tries to put it into something akin to order and not just hanging unattractively lank around his face. Kind. Dorian might have a vicious tongue in his head, but he’s also kind when he wants to be. “Open the bottle if you want. If I was saving it for a special occasion, I think this qualifies.”

Rhys sits on the edge of the bed and undoes the buckles down the sides of his boots, tugging them off and rolling down the first of three pairs of socks. The other two are tucked under his trousers. Clean socks will be nice. He gets his trousers off - tight leather is really annoying. Decent armor. A good look on him too - even he can recognize that. But annoying to get on and off.

He finishes washing up quickly and dresses again, listening as Dorian pops the cork out of the bottle and the sound of wine being poured. Hopefully, it’s a decent vintage. He’d hate to disappoint.

Dorian is sitting in one of the chairs with his feet propped up on the desk. Rhys does it all the time himself; it’s a bizarrely satisfying act of delayed rebellion against the librarians who scolded him for doing the same thing in the Circle. The letters have been set aside in a much tidier stack than the one in which he had left them. He pulls the second chair out from the desk, sits down, and picks up the wine glass that Dorian isn’t twirling in his elegant hands.

Dorian stops him as he raises the glass to his lips. “Don’t drink it yet, silly. A red needs to breathe.”

“Right. Yes. Anyway, thanks. For saving my life back there. What is that, like the fiftieth time.”

Dorian raises his eyebrows, smiling over the cup in his hand. “Bad form to let someone die. Especially someone you rather -”

Bells begin clanging outside, interrupting whatever Dorian was about to say. He swings his feet from the desk to the floor and sets the cup violently down on the table. “Oh, Andraste’s quaking quim, what now?”

Rhys grins. “You’re getting as bad as a Ferelden.” Even if the bells are unlikely to signify anything good, he can enjoy a little humor.

“Worse, I think.” Dorian throws back the cup of wine as he gets up from the table, and Rhys follows suit. Yes. It is a more than decent vintage even without enough time to breathe, and he grabs the bottle as Dorian pushes the door open because whatever is about to happen will probably merit alcohol. Cullen is standing outside, still in full armor and fur and with the grim expression that Haven seems to have frozen on his features.

“We’re under attack. Grab your staves. Meet me at the gate.”

“Void take it.” Dorian takes the bottle from him and drinks. “Come on, Rhys. Looks like fate hasn’t given up fucking with us yet.”

Well, fuck.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

The Stripping Point

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E (explicit sexual content) Word count: 6387

Happy Birthday, @spiderman-homecomeme​!

Summary: Peter's ready to turn his new hobby into a profitable sideline. Unfortunately, he writes down his very first client's address incorrectly and shows up at the wrong house.

MJ opens the door to find some guy dressed as Spider-Man and decides the best way to mess with him is to let him stay. Almost immediately, she loses the upper hand.

Quarantine puts people out of work. A lotta people at first, then less, but never Peter. He keeps shooting for the Bugle, lugging his camera all over the city (instead of squeezing onto buses and subway cars that never really get that much less crowded) while he breathes heavily through his mask. He only takes pictures at outdoor spaces to try to avoid both crowds and loners who hassle him for taking preventative measures during the pandemic. They’re stressed, he gets that, but Peter doesn’t wanna be anywhere near conflict. Spider-Man, on the other hand… Well, when he puts on that mask, it’s pretty much business as usual. He appreciates his face covering more than ever and, hey, it’s cool to do a job with social distancing built in.

His gratitude for the web-slinging side-gig only increases as the weeks of pandemic life stretch into months and Jameson starts ordering him back into situations that are just plain stupid from a health perspective. Never mind that he got kinda accidentally stabbed the other week. It’s a totally different set of dangers. Peter resists the new assignments and because Jameson’ll be in deep shit if his number one Spider-Man photographer makes a fuss about working conditions (and because people are getting so desperate for employment that he can pay a new hire even less than Peter’s paltry freelancing rate), the Bugle shells out for another photographer to cover the work Peter won’t do. Good for Peter’s health, bad for Peter’s bank account―which is already whimpering with hunger pangs from sitting near-empty after paying rent. This gets him thinking. It might be time to turn his early-quarantine hobby into his mid-to-late-quarantine money-maker.

Yeah, pandemic hobbies! By April, it seemed to him like everybody was picking something up. Bread-making, yoga, sewing masks for healthcare workers left criminally under-equipped. The hobby Peter picked up, well… it’s a little different. He began practicing it indoors (obviously), by himself, and with skills gained from reading and watching material on the internet. In those ways, it’s a lot like other people’s hobbies. In some other ways, it’s very, very different. Like, instead of putting on specialized clothing like an apron or yoga pants, Peter’s hobby requires taking clothes off. It’s stripping. Peter’s hobby is stripping.

A few things led to him picking that over sourdough or Sun Salutations. Peter loves not only old movies but also old music. Old movies with iconic dance scenes? That’s, like, the perfect combo. He spends a lot of his downtime playing music in his apartment and, when he’s not wiped or injured, dancing along. He figures it’s good for his mood as well as his fitness. Seriously, he can only do so many chin-ups on the metal bar braced in his bathroom doorframe (which is starting to crack). Patrick Swayze’s solo routine from the end of Dirty Dancing is way more fun, even if Peter did tear the knees on a couple pairs of sweatpants because of it. The more music he listened to, the more he started freestyling his own moves in between those of leading men. It was that―trying to create something good of his own―that helped him understand the routines he watched. He figured out the balance between precision and sex appeal and somewhere in there, he realized he was performing for an audience in his head. And what this imaginary audience wanted wasn’t always the goofiness of acting out Risky Business and sliding across the short strip of bare floor between his kitchen and living room in socks, underwear, and a white shirt. Sometimes, the audience wanted him to lose the shirt.

At that point, Peter was once again wandering out of what he knew. He was comfortable with movie dances, had a little of his own repertoire, but he lacked this extra element of storytelling; it was the one that took him from fully dressed down to boxers and socks without tripping and struggling and falling into his meager possessions. That was when he turned to the internet and confronted the fact that he wanted to learn how to strip. If he happened to stumble into related tutorials on how to give a lap dance, who would know? Who was there to judge Peter as he performed for an empty kitchen chair, dragging his hand along the back and body-rolling to buck his hips towards where someone’s face would be? Yeah, it was kinda embarrassing while he was learning, but he had the endurance to try a move over and over until he nailed it, the strength to draw out isolated movements like twitching his hips to keep his butt drawing circles on the lap of his invisible patron, and the overall coordination of, well, Spider-Man. Which ends up being the most important piece of all because, when Peter decides to take his show on the road (or at least out of his tiny apartment), his ‘stage�� name requires about a second of thought. Spider-Man. He’ll go by Spider-Man. He laughs his ass off when he thinks of it. It’s fucking genius! Spider-Man stripping as himself is the last thing anyone would ever suspect!

Naturally, Peter can’t use any of his actual Spidey suits. Those would probably give him away. Also, he’d feel weird about having Karen’s voice in his ear while he flexed his abs next to somebody’s head. Fortunately, after a little digging―which turns into a lot of digging and leaves his room a mess of comingled clean and dirty clothes―he finds his original suit. The zip-up hoodie plus sweatpants one. Yeah, its technological capabilities are basically zero, it’s a little grimy, and too tight, but he doesn’t need it to do anything besides come off. The wear-and-tear will lend genuine-fake authenticity to his character and the snugness around his more developed muscles (it’s been a decade since he wore it last) will make it… sexier? He guesses? The most important thing is the mask, which is the only part of his costume he won’t strip off. Apart from his underwear, obviously. He’s not that wild.

He gets to work cutting a vertical line up each leg of his sweatpants, then sews in snaps. Boom, tearaways. They look kinda shitty, but if he’s any good at all, whoever he dances for shouldn’t be staring at loose threads.

So Peter has his moves, his costume, a few songs in mind, and no engagements. Oh, he thinks he can figure out how to get jobs, it’s just that he somehow keeps coming home, sitting down to compose his ad, and then doing something completely different instead. He’s truly scared witless. Nobody’ll see your face, he chants in his mind to psych himself up every time he’s heading home to his apartment. Still, he freezes at his laptop. There’s nothing about his body that he’s ashamed of―he uses it every single day to help people as Spider-Man. Maybe it’s that, this time, he’d be using it to help himself. Is he a monster for making a buck off his superhero persona? Peter holds onto that question for about a week until the date to pay rent is approaching and his bank account shudders in horror. Ok, money’s tight and he hasn’t been hit by a car lately, so he won’t freak anybody out with road rash or bruising or more of his hand-sewing to close gashes. With a little self-pedicure here and hair-removal there, Peter looks at himself in his bathroom mirror and decides this is as good a time as any.

He advertises online and his hands are still trembling when he gets a call from an unfamiliar number ten minutes after his ad goes live. The ringing phone actually makes him jump. It’s probably a telemarketer, or a wrong number. Nobody would call him with a job this fast. He was counting on having at least a day to sit with the choice he made. Peter fumbles for the phone and answers. For the next minute and a half, he struggles to hear the woman’s voice over the blood rushing in his ears. She thinks he’s the Spider-Man Stripper. He is the Spider-Man Stripper. This is hilarious and terrifying and oddly similar to the brief moment of freefall between slinging one web and the next as he darts around Midtown. Her friend’s birthday party, she tells him, two days from now. Something else she planned (Peter’s adjusting his sweaty, slipping grip on his phone and misses the details) fell through and if he can be the entertainment for a half-hour or so it would save both the party and her friendship. Not to add extra pressure, she jokes, laughing. The sound Peter makes is a weak echo. So can he be there? Is there space in his schedule? He pretends to check that ‘schedule’ so she doesn’t think he’s a total amateur. Yep, yep, he has an opening for her. She has an opening for him, she flirts back, making his eyes go wide as he clutches the phone. God, why couldn’t his first gig have been for some 22-year-old’s bachelorette instead of this middle-aged-sounding woman who possibly wants to eat him alive? By the time she’s telling him her address, Peter’s hands are shaking worse than ever, he can’t immediately find a pen, and she reels it off to him way too quickly. He’s scrawling the address on his arm and right as he opens his mouth to ask her to repeat it, she hangs up. He peers at his arm doubtfully. Should he call her back for confirmation? No, he doesn’t have the guts. Anyway, he can figure this out. The street name was Woodman, right? Or was it Woodlawn? And the number was 712. Or 271. There was definitely a 7 in there somewhere. And his client’s name was… Lisa? Lana. Maybe Linda?

Peter cradles his face in his hands and groans. When his phone starts ringing again―different number―he frantically declines the call, then deletes his ad. One job at a time. Even that, he now thinks, seems ambitious.

―

MJ’s glad she’s not the one throwing this party together. As Liz’s best friend, it’s Betty who took the reins, organizing and then scrapping everything more than once as New York moved from phase to phase during this pandemic. The end result is still less than what MJ knows Betty wants; ideally, there would be more than a handful of guests and things like shiny helium balloons and fancy desserts would be hand-delivered to Liz’s front door on the day of the party. Instead, MJ sits on the arm of Liz’s couch as she inflates yet another latex balloon the good old-fashioned way: blowing it up by mouth until she’s dizzy.

Cindy stomps over and plops down next to her, snatching a balloon from the party pack of 50 (and Betty insists they need them all). She’s been banished from cupcake decorating. MJ would offer a word or two of sympathy, but balloon duty has the prior claim on how she spends her breaths. All she can do is toss Cindy a plastic tiara (Betty bought one―just one!―reading ‘Mom-to-Be’ for Liz, but the online shop screwed up her order and sent two dozen ‘Birthday Girl’ tiaras in its place) after tying off her finished balloon. MJ’s already wearing one. Meanwhile, the tiara-less Mom-to-Be is being driven around the block a million times by her cousin because they’re having the party at Liz’s place and Betty wants the decorations to be a surprise. Liz’s husband, more simply, was banished for the entire day. MJ originally thought they could’ve put him to work, since it’s pretty hectic, but she’s too oxygen-deprived to worry anymore.

Finally, Betty declares from the kitchen that she’s frosted her final cupcake. MJ begs for a reprieve from balloon-inflating and Betty, feeling accomplished and generous, agrees they probably have enough balloons now. Cindy casts her half-inflated one away in disgust before going to help Betty clean up baking ingredients and do dishes. MJ does her best to shoo the balloons to one side of the living room, then carries spare chairs in because their couch won’t fit everyone. Fortunately, they’ve all been recently tested for illness and been vigilant hand-washers and mask-wearers since then, so at least she doesn’t have to find a way to keep every seat six feet apart. She’s just positioning a final chair, still a little out of breath from the balloons, when the doorbell rings. In the kitchen, Betty screams.

“IT’S STILL A MESS IN HERE! STALL HER!”

“’K!” MJ agrees.

She kicks a couple stray balloons out of her path and goes to get the door. They weren’t supposed to come back to the house until Betty texted, but maybe they got tired of driving around, or Liz started feeling carsick. MJ knows she’s been pretty delicate her entire pregnancy with twins floating around in her uterus like a pair of nausea-inducing astronauts.

As she opens the door wide, she sucks in a deep breath to call out a sarcastic ‘Surprise!’ But it’s not Liz and her cousin. It’s… a guy? In a red and blue costume. She thinks it’s a guy. She can’t even see the person’s face, but when MJ reaches up to self-consciously adjust her ‘Birthday Girl’ tiara, they tilt their head and seem to follow her movement.

“Oh! I’m here for you! You’re… not what I was expecting.” It’s a masculine laugh. Young. Nervous.

She crosses her arms suspiciously.

“You’re not what I was expecting either,” she accuses.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “I guess it was supposed to be a surprise.”

What? Betty might have planned a few surprises for today, but MJ does not recall a dude in a mismatched sweatsuit being one of them.

“Guess so,” she says slowly.

“Sorry, I’m, uh, Spider-Man.” He gestures to the costume. Well, she can kinda see the very distant resemblance to what the real Spider-Man wears; there is a crudely-drawn spider on the chest.

“Uh huh.”

MJ’s suspicion is shifting into amusement―this guy really seems to think he has an invitation―when Cindy comes up behind her. MJ darts a look at her friend and is glad Cindy’s no longer sporting her own tiara. No need to confuse this poor… Spider-Man impersonator.

“What’s up?” Cindy asks, poking her chin over MJ’s shoulder, happier now that she’s fled the tasks Betty continually assigns.

“Hey,” says ‘Spider-Man’. “I, uh, I was hired to, uh, dance for the, um…” He gestures at MJ’s tiara. “…birthday girl.”

At ‘dance,’ MJ’s eyebrows shoot up. She looks quickly at Cindy and realizes she’s going to say something. Cindy will handle this how she handles any inconvenience or anomaly: with forthrightness and concision. She’ll have this faux-venger hitting the road before MJ can blink. With a short, friendly laugh towards Spider-Man, MJ angles herself to block Cindy from view and locks eyes with her friend. Cindy’s face says, What are you doing? We don’t know this guy. MJ’s counters with, Let’s see how this plays out. Cindy rolls her eyes, but nods, so MJ steps away from her again.

“As long as you haven’t traveled outside the country in the last fourteen days or experienced symptoms of fever, etcetera etcetera, come on in,” Cindy invites, gesturing Spider-Man through the doorway. “I’m so sorry, but we were running a little behind with the food, so I have to disappear back to the kitchen. But why don’t you get started for her?”

“Cindy,” MJ hisses as she closes the door. “You have to stay.”

“I believe the man said he was here for the birthday girl.”

Cindy smirks and they both glance over to see that Spider-Man has found the speaker and connected his phone. Something catches MJ’s eye and her gaze skims down his leg. What’s up with the side of his pants?

“I’m not the birthday girl,” she reminds Cindy in a panicked whisper. “There is no birthday girl.”

“Well, in her absence, it looks like you’re the one getting her presents. Careful with that one.”

“Because it seems fragile?”

“Because I feel like it’s the kind that comes with a big package.”

Cindy pokes MJ hard in the side and flees when she squirms away. MJ glares after her. Yes, she’s curious about what the hell this impersonator’s doing here in that crappy costume, but it’s so much easier to be curious when she can observe something unfolding without actively having to participate. What she was thinking was that he’d come in and the three of them―Betty, Cindy, and herself―would see how far this went before something either gave them away as not being the people who ‘hired’ him (so he claims), or the guy crumbled under the quavering weight of his own anxiety. Nothing about his look or his manner announces experience. Now, MJ’s on her own as she takes a seat in one of the chairs she brought in. She crosses her legs, bobs her foot, and hopes to hell that Spider-Man’s a breakdancer.

“Listen…” she begins to say, leaning forward to address him, but as she speaks, he turns up the volume and her uncertain voice is drowned out by chimes tinkling above throbbing bass. Oh no.

It’s the tempo that scares MJ. She thinks she could deal with a rabbiting drum intro or the bright squeal of quick fingers on an electric guitar. This song is tauntingly slow and it’s obvious, by how Spider-Man turns in her direction and walks to her with measured steps, that what she’s about to experience will look nothing like handstands or the worm, nothing youthfully, recklessly acrobatic. It’s also clear that she’s in this alone now because the guy putting his back to her and swirling his hips with agonizing slowness as the gravelly vocals come in is in some kind of zone she can’t follow him into.

When I look in your eyes… the song goes. …I can feel the fire.

Nope, MJ’s outside of this, in the real world, where she hears him lower the zipper on his sweatshirt. When he rotates to face her, taking his time, she finds her hands are gripping the seat on either side of her thighs.

A see-through disguise can’t conceal desire.

Spider-Man’s disguise is hardly see-through―seriously, he must’ve been sweltering in those sweats on his way here―but it’s open now, from his clavicle down to where the band of his pants grips his taut abdomen. He probably can’t hear the groan that pushes out of her mouth when she’s just trying to exhale. God, please let the music cover it, MJ thinks. His hood’s still up as he steps even closer to her chair, subtly twitching his hips in her direction, and the ends of his sweatshirt dangle, flashing glimpses of more chest, more abs. MJ swallows and reminds herself that this is all kind of a joke. That she’s the one indulging him and they’ll laugh when this is over. She’ll apologize for the mix-up and he’ll shrug it off as he accepts monetary compensation for his time.

I’ve been readin’ your lips… the singer announces in a louder growl. Spider-Man abruptly strips the blue sleeves from his costume, leaving his torso bare beneath what’s now just a hooded red vest. He’s a fake superhero, but those arms are the real deal. Wow. …they don’t need no translation.

He widens his stance, drawing her eye down to his solid-looking thigh, then slides his hand across her shoulder to grip the back of her chair. His hips roll forward and she instinctively uncrosses her legs. With the extra room, Spider-Man briefly presses his thigh to hers. It scrunches the hem of her dress up before dragging it back down as he retreats. It’s reasonably innocent, likely not even intentional, but heat flares up MJ’s face like one of the candles she might blow out if this were actually her birthday. Honestly, she keeps forgetting it’s not.

They want more than a kiss, I come to make my donation.

Ok, she feels more than just thigh when he glides higher on her lap. MJ automatically flicks her gaze lower, because he’s a stranger and right in her space, and it lands on his groin. Spider-Man bucks suggestively and MJ immediately raises her eyes from the bump in the front of his close-fitting sweatpants. Jesus, is it warm in here? Somebody should do something about that before Liz gets home, fiddle with the thermostat or, or something…

So turn out the lights! the singer’s voice rockets up and goosebumps ripple up MJ’s arms as Spider-Man’s hands smooth down them in his fingerless gloves. He bounces low into a crouch and can’t be more than an inch away from the fabric of her dress as he rolls up her body, face in her lap for, I’m goin’ down slowly. Her pounding heart and rapid breathing almost push her boobs into his forehead when he reaches her chest.

Don’t tell me what’s right, just tell me you want me.

When their heads are level, Spider-Man surprises her by sitting lightly on her lap, nearly chest-to-chest. He takes her hands in his―MJ’s sufficiently stunned to allow him to break her grip on the seat―and guides them to his head, making her push his hood off. It’s strange to feel the mask under her palms. Wondering what his hair looks like really shouldn’t be a main concern right now.

Oh, tell me you want me. Just tell me you want me, want me, want me!

The more insistent the song becomes, the more persuasively Spider-Man gyrates in her lap. Sliding a hand over his head shouldn’t be this seductive without visible hair to push his fingers through, but the way his arm bulges with the motion makes up for it, in her opinion. MJ doesn’t know what to do with her hands. They hover in the air between their bodies.

Let’s make it, baby! the song explodes as he thrusts forward powerfully, throwing his head back.

Well, let’s make it, baby!

His hands go to his shoulders.

Well, let’s make it, baby!

He works his vest off, revealing the rest of his chest.

Let’s make it, baby!

He flings the vest toward the sofa. MJ doesn’t know whether or not it lands there. She doesn’t turn to look. This is… more muscle than she’s ever seen in person on a single human body. Once more, he takes hold of the back of her chair, but it’s with both hands now and his forearms squeeze her in, compelling her to lean forward as he grinds across her lap, forward and back, to, Come, come, come a little bit closer. His face angles into her neck; she feels his nose brush her skin through the mask. She can hear him breathing and it electrifies her. The only reason she clamps her thighs together like she does is to give him more room to straddle her. Really, it’s for his comfort, as a professional. Because this is all just… very professional.

She hasn’t determined where to lay her hands, which is fine because he has another use for them.

I wanna play doctor, the singer drawls while Spider-Man brings her hands to his pecs. Is his heart beating as hard under there as hers is right now or is she imagining it? He effortlessly takes gentle hold of her wrists and encourages her hands down his body. She doesn’t even notice when he lets her go to peel the gloves from his hands and push his sneakers off, leaving MJ to trace the thick, defined ridges of his abdomen.

It keeps gettin’ harder, harder, harder to keep it away!

With the end of the line, Spider-Man rips the sweatpants off―a series of metallic popping sounds too close together to count. Not that counting’s on her mind. Eyeing the cherry-red boxer-briefs that are even tighter than the sweats, she swallows. She can’t remember how to exist on the outside of this. She can’t find the door. Believing that this guy―who’s not really Spider-Man, just like she’s not really a birthday girl―understands, that they’re sharing the scorching intimacy she suddenly feels, is naïve. MJ is not naïve. She just can’t exactly explain why what should be an obvious (skillful, but obvious) pantomime of sex is working on her like real foreplay.

I wanna taste the sweat…

She swears he’s breathing harder than the dancing alone can explain when he palms her knees and pries them apart. Her legs are slack and willing. She is sweating.

…that’s runnin’ over your body.

Tucking his fingers into the backs of her knees, Spider-Man jerks her forward on her seat. It raises her hem to mid-thigh and her pulse to low orbit. He hikes her legs around his hips and she crosses her wrists behind his neck without guidance as he stays in what has to be a strenuous squat to body-roll. Everything comes forward in a delicious wave, from his shoulders to his crotch. From lots of angles, it probably looks like he’s fucking her into Liz’s kitchen chair.

In actuality, there’s no contact between them―not anyplace interesting―until…

Get the sheets all wet!

MJ doesn’t know if his hips nudge between her legs accidentally or intentionally on an overzealous roll. She’s never been given a lap dance before! Is this right? Is this permitted? He seems ready to run with it, repeating the action with greater certainty.

Yeah, I wanna make ya feel nau-nau-nau-nau-nau-nau-nau-naughty!

When the singer quits stuttering out the word, Spider-Man lifts MJ right off the chair into his arms. She inhales hard, desperate for air as the song returns to, Let’s make it, baby! And let’s make it, baby! Well, let’s make it, baby! And let’s make it, baby, baby! He has one hand grasping the underside of her thigh, the other clutching the middle of her back. He thrusts toward her through the chorus, shy of nudging the way he did before. The motion sways MJ fairly gently, thanks to his sure grip and ability to carry her weight with ease, but she might as well be tumbling around inside a washing machine for all she currently knows of up and down.

The animal urgency of the chorus drops down to the slow lull of instrumentals and Spider-Man sets MJ on her feet. She just about rolls her ankle and plans to never admit this made her weak in the knees. As irregular drumbeats keep her on edge, he sneaks around behind her and takes her wrists, raising her arms over her head as she fights the instinct to turn and stare at this guy’s mostly-naked body. She hasn’t dated anyone since before the pandemic, but it’s more than that. While she holds her arms up there, Spider-Man rocks against her from behind, the inside of his thigh rubbing the outside of hers, messing up her skirt, confusing her heartbeat. His hands clamp down on her hips and work them in a circular motion with her ass pressed directly against him.

Wait.

―

Peter’s hard. Of all the things that have definitely gone wrong (having to make up a routine from scratch after blanking in the face of a woman 20 years younger and 500 times more beautiful than who he expected to find) and probably gone wrong (he hasn’t shaken the exhilarating feeling that he’s almost certainly at the wrong house), this is the most serious. He’s in so, so far over his head and sinking deeper, metaphorically, as the woman he’s wrapped around cautiously returns the pressure, pressing his erection.

He was so nervous after meeting her that he went straight to setting up his music and forgot to ask for her name. It’s not like he can casually ask now. It feels like things have gone too far for that. Wasn’t he supposed to feel some layer of detachment, doing this? Stripping’s supposed to be a part-time job, like taking pictures for the Bugle. Maybe he’s too used to caring about people to set himself apart from this. Maybe it’s the shock of her youth and the feeling of touching a real-live person after practicing with an empty chair over months of physical distancing.

Maybe he’s just horny.

The instrumental section goes on and on and Peter yearns. This is a job, he thinks, running his hands up to her waist and back to her hips. As the musical intermission’s finally drawing to a close, he improvises again, scooping the woman up into his arms in a bridal carry just to eliminate the sweet friction against his dick. Where does he go from here? He knows what the tutorials told him, what really gets the target of a lap dance/strip show going. Could go with the couch and push his red vest aside, but the soft rug underfoot beckons.

Now turn out the lights! Bon Jovi rasps as Peter moves gradually to his knees and nuzzles his masked face into the woman’s chest because, at this point, why the hell not? She smells so good. He hears her gasp, then her fingers dig fleetingly into the back of his neck like she wants to hold him there. But she lets go and he lays her on her back in the valley created by leisurely-migrating silver balloons. The light refracted on the woman’s face is crisp and ethereal.

Don’t tell me you love, love me, no… Just, just tell me you want me.

Peter springs on top of her, arms braced and locked, and performs an exaggerated horizontal roll, his hips close above hers. This is the million-dollar (or, like, twenty-dollar) move. The one that unambiguously mimics sex. Though it’s so overstated, so dramatic, the tutorials claimed that, by this stage, the person being performed for would be so wound up, so aroused, that they’d just about believe it was the real thing. He watches the woman’s shaky breathing and flushed cheeks, feels her hands caress his abs, and thinks he’s doing pretty damn good. Too bad he can’t count this as a performance. The desire he feels when he lowers himself closer to her is not an act.

Don’t tell me you love me.

The skin-tight front of his underwear skims her dress. And, though she should really keep her legs out straight to do her part in preserving the distance between them (because he’s fucking failing), she slides her foot along the floor, raising her knee. Peter snatches hold of that knee with the feeling that they just signed some kind of contract and grinds himself against the fold of skirt between her legs. The woman’s chest heaves as she pants. His balls ache for him to stop playing.

Oh, tell me you want me, want me, want me, want me, want me, want me, want me! Bon Jovi and Peter’s sex drive demand, from a rumble up to a scream. Let’s make it, baby!

The woman beneath him tosses her head and bats away a balloon that clings to her hair. Her birthday crown’s askew.

Well, let’s make it, baby!

Peter’s hand is on her ribcage, too near her breast.

Well, let’s make it, baby!

He huffs, loud inside his mask, as he thrusts against her like she’s not some accident, like she asked him to meet her here. For this.

And let’s make it, baby!

Distinct lyrics burst into a high, expressive shriek of noise that sounds enough like a woman being pleasured to send a tingle up Peter’s spine. He grinds down hard, gripping the woman’s hip. By the second shriek, her back’s bowing, her hands commandingly squeezing his arms. By the third, she’s moaning as she rocks against him, tearing an appreciative grunt from him in response. The fourth shriek finishes her right before the song. Peter’s breathing hard on top of her, on the jaw-clenching edge of climax himself, feeling her writhe as the music fades out. It just leaves the two of them here, damningly entangled.

After a long silence, his playlist moves on. Peter stares down at her another few seconds as she strokes her fingers across her mouth, then her eyes snap to where she can’t see his through the goggles.

“Oh shit,” he mutters.

The woman laughs awkwardly like those two words are an understatement for the degree to which this has not gone as planned. She didn’t even know the plan, but anyone would know this was not the intended conclusion―a stripper dressed up in a novelty Spider-Man costume should excite, entertain, inspire lust. But he should stop short of dry-humping his client to completion. Yeah, that has to be an unwritten rule someplace. Peter really shouldn’t have needed to read it to know better though. This has just gotten incredibly out of hand and he has no idea what to say or do.

“LIZ IS ON HER WAY!” a female voice yells from the back of the house, maybe the kitchen that the other woman vanished into earlier.

Peter jerks to his feet, still rigid in the front of his underwear. He thinks the woman he just, uh, danced for is requesting help up, but she’s actually pointing. He looks and sees the bathroom just off the stairs.

“I’m good,” she says. “Go before Cindy sees you.”

Snagging his pants from the floor and the vest portion of his sweatshirt from the couch, Peter bolts for the bathroom as the woman sits up from the rug. Inside, his hands quake with adrenaline as he zips his sweatshirt and refastens all the snaps on his pants. He does his best to adjust things so his waning erection’s not too obvious. For a minute, he yanks the mask from his head and stares at himself in the mirror as he breathes. This is not the side-hustle for him. This was his first and last gig as the Spider-Man Stripper.

Mask back on, he returns to the front room to find the woman he was grinding all over standing with her arms crossed protectively as her friend appears to grill her under her breath. They both look at him as he stuffs his feet back into his shoes and grabs his gloves and the blue sleeves of his sweatshirt. He’ll just carry them. If he stood here and began redoing them, he’d probably die from mortification before he got the last snap snapped. He collects his phone, stopping the music mid-song. He doesn’t know what’s playing. Could be his favourite song in the world and he wouldn’t be able to hear it right now over the volume of the look his ‘birthday girl’ is giving him.

“I’ll just, um, show you out,” she offers, shepherding him away from the woman he takes to be Cindy. She doesn’t volunteer anything about the other person, Liz, who they seem to be expecting.

“Great.”

He’s thankful that Cindy gives them a little space and doesn’t follow. They pause in the entranceway. The woman presses two fifties into his hand, avoiding eye contact. Peter clears his dry throat and nods, closing his fingers over the money because he’s more uncomfortable about the idea of prolonging this with a back-and-forth over him saying it’s too much while she insists than he is about the idea that she’s kinda paying him for sex, even if thinks she doesn’t mean to.

She pulls the door open and Peter jumps aside for two women, one very pregnant. There’s a flurry of voices all of a sudden and when he slips outside onto the step before someone can ask who he is and what he’s doing here, he doesn’t expect the birthday girl to come after him.

“MJ,” she blurts out.

He grins under the mask.

“Peter.”

He never gets to tell people that when he’s in disguise, but she doesn’t know he really is Spider-Man. The honesty feels good.

“So, that was…”

“This wasn’t supposed to be… Um,” he starts again, swinging his arms slightly. “That was my first time. Doing this. I’ve never done a routine for anybody before, so I want you to know I haven’t, like, done that with a bunch of people. I’ve never done this. And I think, uh, based on what happened in there, that I probably shouldn’t.” Peter’s laugh is strained. “I really don’t―”

“Do you want my number?”

He chokes.

“What?”

“I… thought I might as well ask,” she says, clearly self-conscious, looking prepared for rejection.

“No, of course I do,” Peter tells her quickly, holding out his phone. “Please.”

“Ok.” MJ gives him a quick smile, then looks at his screen as she adds herself as a contact. He’s grateful she’s the one putting the numbers in. He really can’t be trusted with that. Peter’s not nervous now, just excited as he thinks about using the money she gave him to buy her dinner.

Though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer, he says, “This isn’t the right house, is it?” as she hands his phone back. She laughs.

“No.”

“Yeah, I… kinda had a feeling.”

“Hey, whoever she was, her loss was my gain,” MJ says bluntly, then blushes hard. Peter chuckles to himself, looking down.

“Ummm…”

“Well, I should get in there. Baby shower.”

“Right, yeah, sure, you gotta.”

“But call me.”

“I will. I definitely will.”

“Maybe you can even show me what you look like without the mask,” she says.

Peter nods, body nothing but a cage for a butterfly swarm, then turns. Behind him, he hears Cindy’s voice as MJ steps back inside.

“Did you just give him a hundred bucks?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what you owe me for going in on the stroller!”

“I’ll go to the bank and take out another hundred right after the party if you want,” MJ offers, sounding unconcerned.

“But a hundred bucks? MJ, he was here for ten minutes!”

“Trust me, Peter earned it.”

“Peter?! That’s Spider-Man’s name?”

“Cindy, come on, he’s not actually Spider-Man.”

The door shuts. Of course he’s not. Peter could no more be Spider-Man than he could fall half in love with a woman simply because of the way she smelled and the fact that she wouldn’t let him off the hook for a lap dance. He starts down the sidewalk with a skip, smiling wide beneath his mask.

[queencarolinemikaelson]

A Mystery Never Fully Explained

//Klaroline AU Week// - Day 1 - All Human AU

x

There really was no two ways about it, Klaus Mikaelson was a diva.

A prima donna, even.

There was an urban legend in the theatre industry that once, while rehearsing his role as Beast in Beauty and the Beast, Klaus opted to sit his dressing room, rather than ‘save’ his leading lady from the wolf attack at the beginning of act two.

“I was just throwing the moron to the wolves,” Klaus allegedly said smugly, to the rightly irate director.

Yep, he was biggest drama queen in the theatre industry.

All who worked with him agreed Klaus was actually a soprano in a baritone’s body. Though they would never say it to his face. Nope, to his face, all were perfectly lovely.

Because, no matter how many three-year-old-esque tantrums he threw, or crazy demands he slung at a company, or assistants he fired, Klaus Mikaelson was still the best.

Contemptuous he may have been until the very last second, but once he was under the spotlight, he was magic.

No note, nor line was missed. His honey voice caressed every ear like a lover. His impeccable acting could bring to life every character from King Herod to Jean Valjean.

So naturally, when casting for a reinvigorated West End production of Phantom of the Opera, whom else was to set to play the titular character?

Rehearsals certainly weren’t easy for the crew.

The nature of the show meant already two divas needed to be cast for the roles of Christine and Carlotta. How were they to cope with a third.

But they had managed to make it to opening day without too many scuffles until – 

“What the bloody hell do you mean Bonnie’s in the hospital!?” Klaus roared. “Who is going to do my make up?”

“Have some compassion, Niklaus!” Elijah, Klaus’ brother – who also happened to be his manager, (and what was more pertinent, the only one who could make any sense of a tantrumming Klaus) – sighed. “She is in the hospital, after a car accident!”

“We are opening in three and a half bloody hours, Elijah! I refuse to have my Phantom butchered by some blonde-bimbo-beauty-school-drop-out, playing face paint, just because Bonnie decided to have an accident!”

“Oh be reasonable,” Elijah snapped, though made the mental note to tell Ms Bennett just how indignant Klaus was about working with anyone else. Surely that was some vote of confidence? “She was hit by a car!”

Klaus glowered, but didn’t return fire. Even Klaus, diva or not, knew car accidents were bad.

“There are two options,” Elijah said, after both men had a moment to calm themselves. “You can have your makeup done by the associate head of make up. This will require you to leave your dressing room, and join some of the other cast members.”

“I don’t mingle with the peasants, Elijah,” Klaus pouted, petulantly. “They chatter and natter about inane things, and I cannot focus on what is important. Which is the work!”

“Fine! The second option is you trust Bonnie’s substitute. A Ms Caroline Forbes, currently the head of artistry on Broadway’s Phantom of the Opera.”

Klaus rolled his eyes intensely. He hated Broadway. He hated working on Broadway. And with people who worked on Broadway. And just people in general, but that was beside the point.

“Brother, my feelings about Broadway aside, I’m not sure if you’ve seen a globe recently. But this is London. Not New York City.”

It was Elijah’s turn to roll his eyes – honestly maybe it was time to quit, and live as far away from Klaus as possible.

“I’m well aware of the geography, Niklaus,” Elijah groaned, rather uncharacteristically. “Ms Forbes, an old friend of Ms Bennett, is currently visiting London. Had tickets for tonight’s show, in fact, so is very well placed to aid us tonight.”

“Fine,” Klaus grumbled, after a moment of contemplation – though there wasn’t much to contemplate, no make up was so bad that he would endure the blather of other cast members. “This Broadway woman will have to do. But I refuse to be pleasant to her.”

“I would expect nothing more of you, Niklaus.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door of Klaus’ dressing room.

 “Ahh, that will be her.”

 “You did not just approve her to come backstage before consulting me brother!” Klaus growled.

“Well,” Elijah said, buttoning his suit jacket as he stood up, an air of finality in his tone. “As you so eloquently put it, brother you’re ‘opening in three and a half bloody hours’, there really isn’t any time for your arguments.”

Elijah strode away from the sulking Klaus, and greeted the woman on the other side of the door.

“Ms Forbes,” he said politely. “Please come in, and thank you so much for this, the company is indebted to you.”

“Please, call me Caroline,” Klaus heard a bright, cheery voice say, though she was still blocked from his sightline. “Anything for Bonnie!”

“And how is she after the accident?”

“Shaken,” the woman said, her bubbly voice suddenly laced with worry. “Her injuries are mostly superficial, but her arm will be in plaster for the next few weeks.”

“I see,” Elijah said, before they both came round the corner, and Klaus was able to get a good look her for the first time. “This is Niklaus.”

“Hi!” she said, smiling a smile so bright, he should have been wearing sunglasses. “Caroline.”

She held out her hand for him to shake, but Klaus just looked spitefully at it, before looking away.

Klaus couldn’t believe his misfortune. She was a blonde bimbo.

“Right,” Caroline said, a little disheartened, as she withdrew her hand.

“Anyway, Miss Forbes, I’m terribly sorry, but I have to dash. The world does not cease for Niklaus, although he’d like to believe it would. I’ll catch up with you both later.”

The two of them chuckled together, much to Klaus’ chagrin, and then Elijah left, the same way Caroline had just arrived.

“So,” Caroline said, sitting herself daintily beside him. “You and Bonnie have been working on some pretty cool techniques for your look.”

Klaus said nothing, just stared pointedly at her.

“She took me through her plans for tonight, anything you –”

“We actually open very soon, and I would very much appreciate it if you just got on with it,” Klaus snipped. “Though try not to talk, love. It will be a bit painful otherwise.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” she said, as she raised her eyebrows coolly. “I was just going to ask, if there’s anything you wanted to tell me before you get started. Latex allergy, warm ups that need doing, that kind of thing.”

“No, nothing to share,” he muttered. “And as if I would need to do warm ups.”

“Okay!” Caroline said brightly, trying to ignore his cockiness. “Then let’s get –”

“I do warm up, but not near the help,” Klaus interrupted. “If you want a free show then go back to Broadway.”

“Yep, I get the picture. I’m just going to –”

“Urgh, the quality of Broadway is nothing on the talent of those of us on West End.”

“Mmhmm, I understand, Broadway is the worst. But please –“

“In fact, I swear Broadway casting directors just goes to Times Square and nab any old riff-raff street performer to make up their ensembles. It’s lunacy _”

“Uh huh, I get it, Broadway suck, but Klaus I really –“

“I’m literally the best in the country. I have won multiple tony awards, even a grammy award. I have more original cast recordings under my belt than –”

In years to come, Caroline would swear herself black and blue that it was an accident. That it was a mere, yet mildly severe, slip of the hand brought about by loss of concentration because of Klaus’ continual ramblings.

And she would never live it down. But she would also be revered by many because she actually managed to make Klaus Mikaelson shut the hell up for once in his life.

For, at that exact moment, Caroline’s deft hands wiped fast drying liquid latex over Klaus’ mouth, and Klaus, who was completely stunned by the movement, did not move quickly enough before the latex dried.

Sealing it completely shut.

“Oh my god, Klaus, I’m so sorry!” Caroline said, with all the correct emotions. She certainly sounded convincingly mortified, until she followed up the with a quirked eyebrow and the comment, “though, try not to talk, love. It will be a bit painful otherwise.”

And, to Caroline’s amazement, Klaus stopped squirming, stopped trying to form words when his amplifier was completely blocked, and Caroline was finally able to get to work.

“What a happy little accident,” Caroline said, jovially, now a little more at ease that he wasn’t being so obnoxious. “Might just snap a little picture, I’m sure Elijah would appreciate it.” 

Klaus narrowed both his eyes at her.

“Oh? Don’t like that idea?”

Klaus just remained stock still, the menacing look still etched on his face.

“But you are so cute when you’re not talking!” Caroline joked, before quickly realising what she said, and going a lovely shade of magenta.

Somehow, Klaus managed to smirk, even without full use of his mouth.

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” Caroline said, with all the bravado of someone trying to dig themselves out of a hole. “You know you’re cute, why deny it?”

Klaus just shrugged, and dismissively inspected his nails.

“Fine, let’s get on with it,” Caroline said. “And if you’re a good sport, I’ll dissolve the latex before it’s time to sing!”

xxx

“All done!” Caroline beamed, happily inspecting her work.

It was a little under two hours since Caroline began Klaus’ transformation, and a little under twenty minutes since she freed him from his gag.

In the past twenty minutes, even though he had the option of railroading her for having the audacity to seal his damn mouth shut, Klaus found himself, funnily enough, keeping his damn mouth shut.

Experiencing Caroline as she worked was rather mesmerising.

She certainly wasn’t anywhere near just a blonde-bimbo-beauty-school-drop-out as he feared. She was very talented, extremely precise, and had an almost unparalleled eye for detail.

But further than that, at any given moment, her face was liable twist and change, letting him know exactly what was going on. It was rather endearing.

She filled the silence in with bits of chatter, about the different steps she was up to in his transformation, about her life, and just about many inane things really.

And, though Klaus despised the inane, coming from Caroline it felt natural and a little bit lovely.

“You do look fantastic,” Caroline said, proudly, spinning him around in his chair so he could more closely inspect her work. “Definitely like a weird dungeon dweller who’d fall in love with beautiful young things who sing to you!”

“Then you nailed the brief love,” Klaus quipped. “I don’t recognise myself.”

“Well, I would be worried if you did!” Caroline giggled, squeezing his shoulder briefly. “Then you would have to admit to me that you’re a weird dungeon dweller who’d fall in love with beautiful young things who sing to you!”

“I’d never admit it, love,” he said nonchalantly. “Though, I have to say sincerely, your work is impeccable. Bonnie’s work is excellent, but you’ve provided just an extra spritz of something else.”

“Not bad for a Broadway babe, huh?” Caroline winked, nudging him with her hip.

“Not bad at all.”

In that moment of eye contact that so often follows a tease, Caroline was stolen by the glint in Klaus’ eye.

“So umm,” she said, looking away. “Where to next for you, Mr Phantom, sir?”

“Warm up, last minute director notes, back here for a costume and touch ups.”

“I’ll stay here until you’re ready for your touch ups.”

“I look forward to it.”

And with a wink, Klaus was off.

xxx

A few hours later, Caroline was back in front of Klaus’ face, tenderly wiping away the residual make up.

The show had gone off seamlessly. And honestly, Klaus was so completely on cloud nine by how it all went, he was actually being pleasant to those around him.

And now he was with Caroline again, and that was a joy in and of itself. Though he’d never ever admit it to anyone.

Klaus couldn’t help noting how soft and delicate Caroline’s fingers, and the stroked along his skin at different places.

“Nearly done,” Caroline murmured, concentrating on removing a particularly stubborn strip of latex. “Nearly done.”

“Not a problem, love,” Klaus said, absently. “This is the most relaxed I’ve felt in months.”

“Opening night behind you,” she replied. “That’s got to be a relief.”

“Mmm.”

He shut his eyes, and felt himself get mildly lost in the sensations, until –

“Klaus,” she said, softly.

“Mmm?”

“We’re finished.” 

“Oh.”

“Umm,” Caroline said, searching for something to say. “I guess I’m done for the night, unless…”

“Unless?” Klaus prompted.

“Well, I’m really hungry, but I don’t know where is any good around here…”

“Are you asking me out?” Klaus smirked.

“What! No?” Caroline blustered. “I mean, I am asking you to go out, but not out. Not like on a date out.”

“Glad to hear you’re so indignant at the idea of a date with me,” Klaus teased in mock offence.

“I’m not indignant! Dating you would be fun, I think! But this wasn’t a date! I’m just hungry, and I thought you would be too!”

“Dating me would be fun would it?”

“Oh shut up. I’m leaving.”

Caroline grabbed her coat and huffily stalked from the room.

“But you’re hungry, and don’t know where to eat,” Klaus grinned, hurriedly gathering his own things so he could follow her out.

“I can google it, I just thought company might be nice,” she snipped. “Glad you arrested me of my illusions so promptly.”

“You wound me, love!” he laughed, catching her hand in his, and stroking a thumb along it gently – apparently her skin was as soft under his hands, as it was on his face. “Come on, let me take you to my favourite post show hang out. You’ll love it.”

Caroline stopped walking, and narrowed her eyes at him.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“Not a chance, love,” Klaus quipped.

Caroline couldn’t help the wry smile stretch across her lips.

“Fine.”

And so it was, the two went to that post show hang out that night. And the night after that. And the one after that. Until Caroline had to leave, back to her home, back to Broadway.

And, in a mystery never fully explained, Klaus put aside his distaste for the iconic New York creative hub, and somehow ended living in New York, reprising his role as the Phantom on Broadway, only a few short months later. Before going on to perform many more incredible shows there.

It was a mystery.

Unless you were familiar with Caroline Forbes.

Then it wasn’t much of a mystery after all.

 xxx

This prompt came from ~somewhere~ literal years ago! “You’re the one person who can do my elaborate stage makeup so every night you spend half an hour in close proximity to my face and I am distressed”. I started writing this in 2015, and it finally was in a state that was nice and shareable. Hope you enjoyed! Happy AU week klaroliners!

[legacyofourlives]

nina.

didn't mean anything. 

i tried not to think too much into what happened on halloween. it's a bad habit that i have been indulging in too much lately. i've wasted too much of my time rehashing the past over and over again, trying to see what i could have said or done differently, trying to find hidden meaning where there is none. it never changes anything. i just get stuck in my head while everyone moves on around me. not this time. this time i'm not going to drive myself mad trying to figure out what he was thinking. just going to brush it off and move on.

my routine went on unchanged. in fact, things started to get a little boring. the same thing day in day out. thanksgiving went by uneventfully. and honestly, i was a little disappointed. there was a small part of me that was hoping for some excitement. something unexpected? but there was nothing. even mom behaved herself. it was all very mundane. 

***

Dee and i sat on mom's bed as she rummaged through her closest. Neatly placed piles of clothes next to her open suitcase. "i'm going to be gone until winterfest eve. four weeks." mom said as she began packing with the precision of a seasoned traveller. not exactly the something unexpected i was looking for. "i know it's a long time but we've managed before." 

yeah we have managed. dee and i. we practically raised ourselves since we were old enough to use the microwave unattended. Mom is a flight attendant and not the most maternal by nature and so we just took it into our own hands. we had each other and that's all we needed. but this would be the first time she would be gone for more than a weekend since don had moved in. 

"make sure to take care of don. he gets a little lost without me sometimes," she said looking at dee rather than me. i get it, i wouldn't trust me either. 

***

"how did you get all the graceful genes!" i teased dee as i struggled to keep up with her poses. her movements were much closer to the video than mine. 

"how are you struggling so badly!? you call yourself a dancer?" she exhaled smoothly like a true yogi - completely at peace. 

"i'm the bartender! standing there and looking pretty does not require this much upper body strength." i huffed and collapsed into the sofa. "i really need to get into shape." 

"you are perfect and beautiful the way you are." dina beamed at me. 

she really is the light of my life. she makes everything better no matter how bad things get. 

"you're sweet but when i can't even do the child's pose without breaking a sweat - we've got a problem." i laugh. 

"why don't you ask don. he works at the gym right? surely he could help you?" a string tightened inside my stomach at the suggestion. prolonged periods of alone time with don lothario getting hot and sweaty. i'm not sure about this. but i do need to get out from behind the bar if i want to start making the real money and to do that i need help. 

"he's probably super busy. i mean he clearly knows what he is doing. the dude's jacked." i said looking over my shoulder through the window overlooking the backyard. don was out on the patio sparring with the punching bag. the repeated grunts and groans were becoming increasingly distracting. "personal trainers who look like that are always busy."

"just go ask him." dee insisted calmly, transitioning into a salute to the sun. 

i pulled my knee to my cheat and rested my chin on it. mom had only been gone a few days and i didn't want to seem like i was swooping in because of that. 

"look - he is finishing up now anyway. now's your chance"

i glared at her.  "fine. he's going to say no anyway."

i pried myself off the couch and made my way out to the patio. don was glistening under the porch light. struggling to take off his boxing gloves. "here, let me help." i offered, taking his hands in mine and undoing the straps. 

"thanks. i'd have been stuck out here helpless all night without you." he joked before leaning over to pick up his water bottle and carelessly pouring it's contents into his mouth. 

i froze. it was happening in slow motion, like a scene from a telenovela. next minute  he would be pulling me into his chest and telling me to run away with him: mi amor. but he didn't, he just wiped his chin and looked at me questioning. "oh right, why am i out here? um well - don." i cleared my throat, suddenly stuck for words. "i'm in the market for a personal trainer and i thought, you know - because of proximity, that i'd ask you?" 

he smiled watching me struggle. it was second nature to roll my eyes at his smugness. "i mean, i could just do it myself but you seem to - um - get results." i stammered, unconsciously staring directly at his eight pack of abs. "you're probably super busy - got client's up the wazoo."

wazoo? be cool you fucking dork. what is wrong with you? this was so awkward, i can't stay standing here like an idiot a second longer, i've got to get out of here. 

he laughed and touched my arm gently, stopping me from walking away. "hang on, i didn't say no." his eyes met mine for far too long to not mean anything. "i'd love to help." he let go of my arm and i become aware i'd forgotten he was holding me still. 

"but you've got to know, i'm not going to go easy on you. it's going to be a lot of hard work." a smirk forming on his face. 

i felt my cheeks start to flush. "i'm not afraid of hard work." 

[saiilorstars]

The Girl in the Forest

Chapter 19: Among the Battles

// Story Masterlist //

Fandom: The Originals

Pairings: Klaus Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Pronunciation of OC’s name: Ma-leh-nee

Requested tag: @queenmj10​

~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~

Chapter Summary: Maleny must put her feelings aside in order to help her friend keep her body from being taken over, thanks to Esther!

The next morning in the compound was filled with tension. Finn and Kol had been forced to stay the night shackled and were now sat at a formal breakfast table. Elijah was looking over them while Cami and Hayley stood several feet away - Hayley none too pleased to see either of them still alive. She'd brought them in to see revenge, and instead they get breakfast catered to them?

"So, I don't quite understand what we're doing here," Cami slowly said to Hayley in concern of the two Mikaelson warlocks. She actually expected more violence than what she was seeing.

"Neither do I," Hayley mumbled,"I think it's about time we were joined by the others, don't you think?" Cami shrugged and so Hayley went on her way.

~ 0 ~

Klaus felt like putting an end to the peaceful morning would be like a sin, and while he was usually inclined to commit these faults this precise one didn't seem so tempting. It was half past eleven and the pretty blonde was still fast asleep beside him on his bed. He, on the other hand, had gotten up and changed but she still hadn't made the slightest of moves. It amazed Klaus how she could still be so...normal in the middle of so many supernatural creatures. But, then again, that had always been Maleny - the village girl surrounded by vampires and a witch. She had stayed true to her 'girl in the forest' title for so many centuries he wondered if she was truly ready to become one of them - one of the dead.

Klaus pushed away those thoughts and focused on the good he had in front of him. He reached for Maleny's hand and gently dragged it till it was between them. He held her hand and turned it over, lightly rubbing it with his fingers. He was barely beginning to consider the idea of waking Maleny up when she took in a deep breath. She shifted a bit before languidly opening her eyes.

"It's too bright..." she mumbled, her voice hoarse from sleep.

"That's because this isn't your room, love," Klaus knew his voice would put her on red alert for a short time before she remembered anything.

Maleny's eyes snapped opened and blinked rapidly as she took in the hybrid beside her, "Klaus?"

"Maleny?"

"I'm...I'm in your room..."

"Yes, you are."

"...on your bed..."

"Correct."

Maleny pushed herself up into a sitting position and pushed her hair from her face to get a clearer look of the picture, "I don't...I don't really..." and then she remembered, and gasped, "I fell asleep here! And you let me fall asleep here!"

"Only by a couple seconds," Klaus shrugged, "I felt you fall asleep and while I did consider moving you back to your room my mind may have shut down before I could carry the idea out."

"You asked me to stay here with you till you could fall asleep on your own," Maleny recalled his request last night and looked at him, still mildly alarmed.

"Thank you," Klaus smirked, "I don't think I have slept so peacefully since...well, since our village days."

Maleny looked away, blushing, "Don't start please."

Klaus laughed, "What? I'm not saying anything wrong, am I?"

"You know damn well what you're doing!" She tried hitting him with a pillow but of course he would easily dodge the blows and take it altogether from her.

"Don't scowl, you're far prettier when you smile."

Maleny mimicked Klaus as she got up from the bed. She made straight for the door but as soon as she opened it she bumped into Hayley.

"Mal...?" Hayley's eyebrows raised upwards in shock.

Maleny shook her head, "It's really not what it looks like, I promise."

"It's really not," Klaus agreed from the bed, looking very amused at the show he had across him.

"Be quiet," Maleny pointed a finger at him, to which she received a miming of him zipping his mouth.

Hayley passed a hand through her hair and focused on what she came for, "Look, you guys do you but right now you both need to come downstairs."

"What's downstairs?" Maleny asked.

"Finn and Kol."

Klaus shot up from the bed and walked up to them, traces of plafulness gone, "How are they here?"

"I helped bring them in last night," Hayley explained, "But, for some reason, Elijah said not to bother you till today...now I know why."

The crooked smirk on her face had Maleny blushing again. Hayley stepped to the side and motioned Klaus to walk out first.

"I'll see you in a bit," he said to Maleny and left.

Hayley stood by her spot and smirked at Maleny. The blonde rolled her eyes "Be quiet, Hayley."

"Oh give me this, I haven't had a good moment in forever," the brunette hybrid chuckled.

"Sorry to say, my love life is not for anyone's amusement."So, how the hell Finn and Kol here? Last time I heard, Kol wasn't even in the Quarter."

"Marcel got him in the end," Hayley replied, "Though I doubt Davina is going to take that lightly."

"I don't want to talk about her right now," Maleny shook her head, still overly irritated with the teen, "Kol's deserved all that's coming for him. Finn, Finn is another story."

"So, you wanna see them?"

"Definitely, but I have to get changed first," she gestured to her sleeping clothes and led Hayley out of the room. Hayley happily smirked and went after the blonde, already coming up with ways to tease Maleny.

~ 0 ~

Klaus was content seeing how his morning was getting better and better by the hour. First, it had been realizing Maleny spent a night beside him, asleep, and hadn't been upset by the matter either. And now, Klaus felt like it was an honor to see two of his brothers, Finn and Kol, shackled by the wrists, and forced to sit across him at the table - neither able to do their precious magic.

Yes, it was a very good day so far.

Maleny thought the same the moment she saw the scene when she entered with Hayley, "Ooh, you should've woken me up earlier," she smirked and sauntered her way up to the table, taking up a piece of sweet bread.

"Mal," Kol looked at her with a devious smile, "you think you can convince my brother here," he nodded over to Klaus, "to take this nasty things off?" he held up his shackled wrists.

Klaus rolled his eyes and held his tongue at the lame attempt of Kol. He preferred to see how Maleny would react to that, or even better Hayley herself.

"Perhaps," Maleny pretended to think about it and went behind Kol's chair, "but I don't think I want to attempt. You weren't nice to me. And you Finn," she shot the silent witch a glare, "tried using my good friend, Amarrah, for something I would assume is bad."

"Technically that was Finn," Kol tilted his head up to the blonde, "So, c'mon?"

"Oh shut it," Maleny stuffed her sweet bread to his mouth and walked back to Hayley, "Where's Elijah?" she looked around for the other Original.

"We needed someone else for today's plans," Klaus replied and reached for glass, "Of course none of it would be required if you two," he looked at the two warlocks, "forget your animosity toward Elijah and myself. Instead, join us against Esther who truly deserves your ire- our mother. Do this, and we will welcome you with open arms."

"Might want to revise the last sentence," muttered Hayley who crossed her arms and sent glares of daggers towards both warlocks.

Klaus smirked, having heard Hayley, "Of course, if you continue to oppose us, a denial of pastries will be the least of your concerns."

Kol finally spit out the bread from his mouth and wearily looked at Klaus, "If all you wanted was my allegiance against Mother Dearest, you should have said so! Save me a night shackled to the wall."

Maleny snickered, "You had him shackled to the wall all night?" she looked at Hayley.

"Hey," the brunette hybrid gave a light shrugged, "if it had been up to Elijah, he would've removed their limbs, one by one, until they complied. Thank God he had Cami and I."

Klaus had to laugh at the antic. He rose from his chair and addressed his brothers, "We've-we've no desire to torture you. Provided you vow to stand beside us!"

"Brothers…" Finn spoke up for the first time, and his tone implied no sudden movement of sides, "Does that word even apply to us? After all these centuries of betrayal? And, has loyalty to you ever rewarded? If so, tell me, Niklaus- where is our sister, Rebekah?" the question left Klaus quiet for a minute, allowing Fin to continue, "She was blindly loyal to you for a thousand years, and now? Nowhere to be found. Where did our sister go? And, how did she escape your vile machinations?"

Klaus had turned over to Hayley and Maleny, clearly suspicious of Finn's indications. Was it possible Esther already knew Hope was alive? Well, none of the trio would let them find out if they didn't know.

"You have a big mouth that won't stop," accused Maleny, walking up to the table again, "Your mother is a thief, a liar. After all, she did make you what you so long hated."

"She was trying to make us mortal again!" Finn argued with her in frustration, "And I wouldn't be so quick to blame my mother for this - have you forgotten you also took place in our curse?"

It took a moment for Maleny to be able to answer without guilt, "No, I remember what I did...and had I known what your parents had in mind I would have never accepted," she glanced back to Klaus, her voice growing softer, "I wouldn't have. She tricked me," she repeated solely for him.

Klaus gave her a nod and joined her side, putting a hand on her back and looking at Finn, "This conversation has reached to an end seeing you choose to stay with our mother. However, turn this against Maleny another time and I may just consider Elijah's idea of torture for you."

Finn raised an eyebrow, not surprised by the threat, "You two may have declined the proposal, only showing how far you've fallen...but I expect Rebekah will have a different response to her proposal. See, unlike the you, she always did cling to her humanity."

"Rebekah is off-limits to you. You pursue her, and you will suffer," Klaus didn't fail to warn in his dark tone.

"Don't both making threats, Klaus," Hayley walked over to the edge of the table, "We all know Rebekah doesn't want to be found."

"Hm, Esther is quite determined," Finn challenged her calmness, "She's been searching for Rebekah since the day she returned. I imagine it's only a matter of time.

"So then what?" Maleny decided to speak up, sensing both Hayley's and Klaus' worriment for their daughter, "You try to force Rebekah into this proposal? Because that's exactly what you've tried doing here. This isn't a 'proposal'. It's an ultimatum in hiding."

"Hey, you've gotten smarter," Kol remarked with an air of sarcasm.

"Don't be fooled, brother," Finn cut in, "She did blindly accept a curse with no forcive action."

Maleny pursed her lips, taken down momentarily. A cellphone went off and figuring it was his, Klaus walked off to the side to see who it was. Rebekah's name on the ID couldn't mean a good thing so he decided to go even further to get away from Hayley's super-hearing boundaries. Meanwhile, Hayley decided to go in and defend her friend. She walked to Finn and promptly bit into his neck, making the warlock yelp in pain.

"Hayley!" Maleny had been startled by the action as well.

Hayley pulled away, showing her golden hybrid eyes, "What? He had it coming."

Maleny sighed and shrugged, "Well, thanks, but I don't need it. I'm not sorry for what I did, nor do I regret it. Because of it I stand here today to see such...wonderful things," she genuinely smiled, "Because I took the curse I met Cami and Hayley, two friends - no, family - that I love to death. I have learned that I am not as weak as I once thought I was. So yes, Finn, I did 'blindly take a curse'," Maleny leaned on the table wearing a wide smirk, "but I have lived in many ways that you have not. Isn't there a coffin you almost barely left?" Finn glared at her but didn't say anything back.

"Hey," Cami came into the compound, looking worried for some reason, "Um, Hayley?" she went directly to the brunette, dismissing the scene before them.

"What is it?" Hayley caught onto Cami's worried looks a lot quicker than one would think, "Who's in trouble now?"

"Em…" Cami's eyes drifted over to Finn, letting Hayley know not much could be said in front of them at the moment.

Hayley looked around and saw Klaus returning from his phone call, "Mal, I have to go apparently," the blonde nodded and motioned for them to leave, "This can't be good, is it?"

"Nope," Cami shook her head and hurried out with Hayley, rushing into the story of her frantic wolves.

Maleny went over to Finn and grabbed a cloth for his neck, "She was right you know, you did have that one coming," she told the warlock while cleaning the blood off.

"And yet here you are," Finn smirked and looked up at her.

"Finn, believe it or not, your crazy family was like my own family back in the day. You do remember, no?"

Finn rolled his eyes and looked away.

Maleny sighed and put the cloth on the table, finally noticing Klaus' face, "What is it now?" It wasn't even noon and things were going bad again?

Klaus motioned for her to follow him away from the table and quickly she did. He stopped around the threshold of the living room and told her Rebekah was basically on the run from Esther.

"You need to go, then," the blonde wasted no time in saying, even ushering him to get a move on.

"And leave you here with those two?" and at that, Klaus had a good laugh.

"They're shackled," Maleny reminded with an indignant scoff, "You think I can't handle that? Do not forget I am a witch as well."

"A bit out of practice, love. I am all for you practicing again but not when it's with my two oh-so-clever brothers itching to escape at all costs," he made a point and motioned for there to be silence to think, "Elijah can go. If he comes back here he'll probably kill them by nightfall."

"I will look after him, Cami will help," Maleny assured him, "I think after months Hope just needs her father."

"What she needs- what we need- are allies to help us defeat my mother. Finn and Kol must be turned to our side. Without their help, there will be nowhere left for Hope to run."

"Don't stand there and act all...indifferent," she waved a hand at him.

"I am not indifferent to the matter," he corrected her, "There are pressing matters I need to take care of before I can give myself the luxury of seeing Hope again. Getting Finn and Kol on our side can benefit her as well as you," Maleny blinked at that, "If we can get the location of your previous body then we can end the curse and…"

Maleny put her hands on his face, sadly smiling at him, "Thank you for that. But I...I can't ask you to give up your own daughter just to look for my corpse."

Klaus took her hands from his face, holding them tightly in his own, "Mal, I would have thought by now you would see how important you are to me…"

"No, I...I do know," Maleny assured him, "Believe me, after yesterday I don't...doubt you one bit. But you remember what I said before, right? I shouldn't be over your daughter, and I don't want to see that even now."

"I'm not, I'm compromising," Klaus clarified her, "Today, let's make it safe for you and her. Tomorrow, we see her - together."

Maleny's eyebrows raised upwards and couldn't help smile almost instantly, "Okay…" she whispered, allowing him to lead her back to the awaiting brothers who one way or another would be giving up information.

~ 0 ~

Cami was in the bayou with Hayley who was having a tensed talk with Aiden and Jackson. The blonde vampire would've joined had it not been for a call from Elijah. Apparently he was to be meeting Rebekah but Hayley was not supposed to know just yet. Cami assured Elijah she would maintain the secret until told otherwise. Her task now was to keep Hayley preoccupied until her next task came in.

However, it appeared things were no better with the wolves as they out-rightly refused to listen to Hayley. After setting a meeting with them through Aiden, Hayley returned to Cami holding a leather bound book.

"Is Jackson okay?" Cami had to ask when she saw the other wolf drowning beers down like there was no tomorrow.

"The wolves are getting antsy," Hayley sighed as she skimmed the pages of the journal, "Aiden set up meeting with them. This is the chance we have to get them on our side."

"Not to be a downer or anything, but as long as Esther can give them power through those rings, it'll be really tough to get them on our side."

Hayley briefly looked up at the blonde, "Thanks for not being a downer."

Cami sheepishly smiled, "Sorry. So, what's that?" she pointed to the journal.

"It hopefully has something we can use for the wolves. But we have to read it all."

At that, Cami beamed and held a hand for the book, "Give me. I'm a psychology student, I've got tons of experience on reading - and fast," Hayley gave her a look, "I crammed a lot," Cami explained and motioned for the journal.

Hayley handed over the journal, "Get to reading then, student."

Cami playfully rolled her eyes and opened the journal up, getting for her task. Hayley followed the blonde silently for a better reading atmosphere. She still cast a glance back for Jackson, worried over the man. It wasn't every day a wolf pack turned on you.

~ 0 ~

Whilst Klaus went to retrieve a missing part of their supposed plan, Maleny waited in the ballroom with Kol and Finn - both still whom were shackled. The blonde witch had a bowl of berries in front of her and wearily munched on them while thinking...outloud.

"If I were Esther where would I put a corpse that didn't belong to me?" her blue eyes cast over to the two brothers, "Any ideas?"

"Even if I did know you wouldn't know," Kol shot at her, then smirked, "Unless you'd remove these things from me," he raised his wrists.

"I didn't take you for an idiot, Kol," Maleny bluntly said and earned a glare from the teen.

"Oh, you're only angry with me because I chose not to help Klaus save you. Let the past go, Mal."

Maleny put a finger to her lips and pretended to think, "No, that's not what my anger is about anymore. You were helping Davina kill your own brother, therefore putting her against me as well. I lost a friend because of you."

"Davina hated Klaus long before either of us showed up, sweetheart," Kol pointed out a very honest detail, "So time to let it go."

"I'll let it go," Maleny leaned back on her chair, "Soon after your mother let's go of my corpse which I know she has."

"Took you long enough," muttered Kol and earned a glare from his brother.

"I so knew it," the blonde crossed her arms, "Where is it?" she demanded yet neither brother answered her, "Where is it!?" she nearly shouted the next.

"There's no need to know of its whereabouts," Finn began but Maleny had reached her breaking point with them.

"Yes there is!" she shouted that time, "Because of this little important detail: it's mine!" she slammed a hand on the table, "And I need it!"

Finn released a smirk which indicated nothing good was about to be said, "You can get it back after you accept my mother's offer. She'll break the curse for you."

"I have two hands I can do it on my own!"

"It requires magic you no longer have access to."

"Then Amarrah can do it," Maleny quickly inputted, "How I break my curse is none of your business. Your business is to hand the corpse over."

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Klaus into the room, Marcel coming in right behind them.

"Mal, I apologize for keeping you waiting with such bad company," Klaus walked over and helped the blonde stand.

"It's okay, we talked and I remembered how they're both jerks," she shot them both a look.

"And I suddenly remembered how you annoyed me at times," Kol returned the favor with a smirk, "Tell me, do you ever grow tired of whining and complaining to my brother?"

Maleny tensed and glared at him, but this time stayed quiet. She knew he was right, she just never liked to think about it too much. It made her feel less guilty.

"Marcel, take your pick," Klaus looked at the man in waiting, his voice edgy from Kol's comment.

"Oh," Marcel immediately beamed, "That's easy…" he walked up behind Kol's chair, "First, you messed with Davina. Now, I hear you wanna drag Rebekah into all this. Uh-uh. Not happening."

"See if you can get anything about a corpse that Esther's keeping," Maleny said, ignoring Klaus' surprised look on her, "Or you could just leave Esther's side. Either way I will get the location of my previous corpse - no matter who has to be tortured."

~ 0 ~

After separating Kol and Finn into two rooms, Klaus took Maleny into the living room, getting straight to the part of Maleny's corpse's whereabouts. Things only got worse when she told him just how she discovered Esther possessed it.

"You visited Esther on your own!?" the shout Klaus gave had Maleny flinching.

"Calm down, it was like for 10 minutes," Maleny tried dismissing the issue but of course it was too big of a problem for Klaus to forget about it.

"Maleny, what were you thinking? Did you miss the part where my mother is evil? Out of her mind?"

"I'm desperate, okay!?" Maleny walked off a bit, "I had my suspicions and I followed them through. I was right."

"You could have been hurt! Or worse, taken as leverage against us," and of course Klaus was correct in all his thoughts. Esther was that twisted in using love against her own children.

"I know that," Maleny grumbled, crossing her arms, "But I wasn't gonna drag you into it when you had bigger problems to deal with. Kol's right, I whine and complain to you 23 hours of the 24. I don't want to rely on you for everything."

"Well, then we have a problem because I don't want you taking stupid risks - especially ones where Esther is involved," Klaus walked up to her and turned her around, letting her see he was dead serious.

Maleny softened up as the frustration got to her, "I just want to be free…"

"Then let me help," Klaus nearly pleaded her, "I can keep you safe, Mal. Let me."

"I'm sorry I went behind your back," Maleny glumly apologized, feeling he deserved that much, "I make no promises that it won't happen again because you know...it's me."

Amused, Klaus smiled, "Yes, I know it's you. But a little notice, that wasn't always you."

"I've had a good teacher," Maleny shrugged, smirking a little, "And he also taught me how to get what I want. It may not be the most moral way but it gets the job done. And I want nothing more than to use it on your brothers - all offense can be taken at this point."

But no offense was taken. Instead, Klaus laughed and took her hand into his, "I look forwards to pleasing you, then."

"See if anyone was outside that could've been taken in a completely different context," Maleny laughed, sporting a blush on her cheeks. She sobered up while gathering courage to speak the truth that was becoming more of a burden for her than anything, "Do you think that I'm whiny? And that I complain to you a lot?"

"No," Klaus said instantly, making Maleny believe he hadn't even thought about to spare her feelings.

"C'mon, Klaus, just tell me the truth. It has a point, I promise."

"Mal, I am telling the truth," Klaus insisted with a small laugh, "You've only asked of me two things in the whole time you've been here: help you break the curse and help you acquire your previous corpse. Now, what's your point?"

"Do you like me even when I actually do complain to you all bloody day? Or how about when I ignore your requests and go out on my own?" Maleny asked and stepped forwards, "Cos I irritate you a lot and you know it. Do you still think you could like me like that?"

"Mal," Klaus chuckled and once more took her hand, gently rubbing its back with his thumb, "I don't think I could ever stop being fond of you."

Suddenly, it became difficult to stand on her feet under Klaus' intense stare. Maleny couldn't come up with a response then, but two seconds later it wouldn't be a problem anymore.

"MALENY!" Her French friend, Amarrah, came in from the courtyard and was screaming at the top of her lungs, sounding furious, "MALENY!"

Maleny and Klaus shared a look of confusion, Maleny regretting the interruption of their conversation. She ran past Klaus and came up to the banister, seeing her dark-haired friend standing below, the fury in her screams matching the look on her face.

"Where the hell is Finn Mikaelson?" Amarrah demanded from Maleny.

"I don't...understand," Maleny said slowly and glanced to her side as Klaus came to join her.

"Looking for my brother, dear?" the hybrid studied the French woman he hadn't had a chance to properly meet yet, "I'm afraid he's a little tied up at the moment…" and he chuckled at the irony.

"Spare me your annoying sarcasm and tell me where the hell you put him in?" Amarrah snapped rudely at him, surprising Maleny as she'd never seen a side of Amarrah like that.

"Ams, what's wrong?" the blonde nervously inquired.

Amarrah angrily turned her back to the two and lifted her black hair into a pony tail, allowing a brief glimpse of scars running down from her neck, "I am going to kill that stupid warlock!" she screamed again.

~ 0 ~

While Hayley didn't want to say anything of the boredom she was in waiting for Cami to finish reading Jackson's journal, it was clearly evident in her pacing manner and languid kicking of rocks on the ground. Cami sat on a rock busy studying the pages as best as she could and knew she was losing the patience of Hayley. She didn't want the hybrid moving away and thus learning her daughter was going to be back in town.

"Ooh, wait a minute," she had finally caught something interesting in the journal and was deeply grateful for the streak of luck. Hayley looked up from her fascinating game of rock kicking to see what Cami was talking about, "Look at this," Cami motioned for Hayley to come closer, "There's this thing about marriages and vows…"

"I'm not looking for marriage history, Cami," Hayley said, losing interest in the news.

"N-n-n-no, just listen," Cami smiled brightly, "You'll want to talk to Jackson about this, c'mon!"

She pulled Hayley off to go in search of Jackson for a better clarification of the mythological marriage. On their way, she explained the basics of it to Hayley and got the hybrid excited for the possible solution to her wolf pack.

Jackson was chopping firewood near his trailer when the two women found him. Hayley took the journal from Cami and walked ahead, "You wanna stop playing mountain-man and explain why you kept this from me?" Jackson looked up from his work and sighed, already figuring what detail she'd want to discuss with him, "Why don't I jog your memory?" she flipped to the page Cami had bookmarked, "The werewolves' power can be traced back to the myth of the Unification Ceremony, a ritual that bestowed certain unique abilities onto every member of the pack."

"Is that true?" Cami asked from her spot a couple feet behind Hayley, "It sounds a bit mystical…"

"I didn't at first," Jackson admitted, "And then Ansel swore he saw it with his own eyes. And then he dies, and I found out he was resurrected from a thousand years ago, which means he was alive to see it!"

Hayley closed the journal and shook her head, "How did I not know about this?"

"You didn't grow up out here," Jackson reminded her, "Yeah, every kid grows up hearing the stories. Back in the day, werewolf bloodlines were all distinct, right? Some had speed, some had strength, some could sense enemies from miles away. Now, to evolve, we would perform a ritual. A shaman would marry the alphas of each bloodline, and then the special abilities of each would be... inherited, mystically, by everyone who participated in the ritual. See, after a few centuries, everybody had the same abilities, so alpha marriages became political. They became about... power, about territory."

Hayley thought for a minute and looked at her hand, "But I have a unique ability. Because I'm a hybrid, I can control when I change! So, if this mystical marriage thing works, then- then our people get my power, and they can ditch the rings!" she started smiling at the idea, "Which means Esther no longer has a hold over them! Jack, this is exactly the answer that we've been looking for! Let's find a shaman, we'll say some vows. Hell, we'll make it a party!"

"It ain't just a party," Jackson almost snapped, looking far too unhappy with the solution than anyone else would be, "If the vows ain't honored, it doesn't work."

Hayley stiffened in her spot as she realized what it would mean for her.

"It's gotta be a real marriage, in every way, for the rest of our lives," Jackson continued, wanting Hayley to see just what she would be getting herself into, "Are you up for that?" but of course, the hybrid remained silent, "Didn't think so," Jackson bitterly returned to his wood work.

Hayley glanced back to Cami, looking torn and in quite need of help. Cami felt awful for ever picking out the excerpt in the journal. She felt like she had given Hayley an unnecessary burden of guilt. If she didn't do the marriage, the wolves would continue to work for Esther...but if she did marry, she would marry a person she didn't love.

~ 0 ~

Maleny and Amarrah were heading to Kieran's secret apartment in search of of a better explanation of the puncture wounds Amarah bore on her back. They were certainly not expecting to find Cami and Hayley lurking inside the secret room.

"What are you two doing here?" Maleny asked her blonde cousin.

Cami instantly looked to Hayley, unsure if the hybrid wanted to reveal their true purpose. Hayley was considering the marriage but things were still confusing for her so they opted for a further explanation of this mystical unification.

"I needed help with something wolf related," Hayley settled for in the meantime. She'd been glad to learn that Cami had a copy of the apartment's key, thinking they would avoid coming face to face with the others for a while...but apparently she was wrong.

"And you?" Cami asked Maleny, noticing the look on Amarrah's face.

"We have a witch problem," Maleny sighed.

"I hardly call this," Amarrah turned her back on the three and raised her hair to show the puncture wounds, "a 'problem.'"

"What the hell are those?" both Cami and Hayley asked together, horrified.

"I'm pretty sure it's a body changing spell," Amarrah turned back to them.

"But I suggested we get some more information," Maleny added in, really hoping Amarrah was wrong, "So we're here…"

Hayley looked around and growled in frustration, "This is all Esther's fault!" she exclaimed and kicked a shelf, startling the others.

"Hayley, what's wrong?" Maleny questioned, finally taking notice of her distressed demeanor.

Hayley didn't answer right away, the issue still told complicated to say in a simple answer. But when she started to speak, it only became more simple for her… she knew what she had to do.

~ 0 ~

By the time Maleny and Amarrah returned from the secret apartment, they were more than convinced Amarrah was to become the next body Esther was plotting to jump into. To say Amarrah was furious was an understatement. She was on the verge of losing it and ensuing a murder plan on Vincent and Esther. Maleny barely contained the French woman after barging into the room Finn was being kept in.

"I'm gonna kill you!" she shouted her threats to the prisoner and struggled to get free from Maleny's hold, "And don't think I'll make it fast, no! I'll make it slow and painful until you beg me to release you and kill you!"

Klaus, who'd been short from losing it against his brother mere minutes before the two women entered, looked more awed than confused, "Mal, I like your friend."

Maleny shot him a glare, "So not the time! Help me," she was barely keeping her hands on Amarrah's arm by now.

"I assume you were right in the body changing spell, then?" Klaus went on to ask Amarrah in a completely calm manner.

"Esther has done some bad things but to use my own friend like this?" Maleny said to Finn and finally released Amarrah when she seemed slightly more calm, "What the hell goes through that woman's head?"

Finn sustained a glare at the blonde, "My mother loves us all," but Maleny's scoff intervened, as well as Klaus', "She did," Finn assured, "If you only knew through the trouble she had to go through just to have us."

"We don't want to know," Maleny dismissed him with a hand but that didn't stop him.

"She was barren. She grew so desperate for a family that she begged one of the most powerful witches in history for help- her sister, Dahlia. Of course, Dahlia's price was high. She agreed to make our mother fertile, but in exchange, she sought the first-born as sacrifice. Having no other choice, our mother gave away our beloved Freya."

For a minute, Maleny almost believed him. However, Klaus was more apt to refuse all his brother's words, "Our sister died of plague."

"Esther gave her away. Think about that. The pain, the grief."

"She is a demon," Amarrah declared seconds later, "Mal's told us all about Esther but I really had doubts. Now I know she really is the devil."

"The quicker you learn that the better chances of survival," Klaus sarcastically pointed at her.

"She loves us more than you realize," Finn snapped at him.

"And is love the reason she wanted my child dead?" the hybrid turned on him angrily.

"She was trying to protect you from Dahlia's curse!"

Klaus lost all patience and screamed, "WHAT CURSE?"

"Dahlia demanded the first-born of every generation. Had your child lived, she would have paid the price! And, if anyone had tried to protect her, Dahlia would come and destroy us all."

While Klaus had all death glare on the brother, too frazzled to think, Maleny to consider the value of Finn's words. Hope lived...and if Dahlia was real...would she be coming for them right now?

"Can I have a word with your brother?" Amarrah's cold tone broke through the silence in the room, "I have a bone to pick with you and your mother," she glared at Finn.

Klaus could care less what the woman had in mind at the moment. He motioned for her to go ahead and went for the doors, "Stay far away from him," he warned Maleny who nodded just to keep him at ease.

"Alright, Finn," Amarrah was now in front of Finn, her arms crossed, "What the hell, man? I meet you for two weeks," she raised her index finger, "and you plot to convert me into your mother's vessel?"

Finn looked confused for a minute, something Maleny easily saw, "Unless...was that not the plan?" she slowly asked.

"My mother wasn't preparing you for herself," Finn began, "She was preparing you for Rebekah."

Amarrah's eyes widened at the revelation, although somehow she felt a little more relieved to know it would be Rebekah who could enter her body rather than the demon Esther was.

"But why her?" Maleny asked, sparing Amarrah a glance, "No offense - but why her, Finn? You've been here for months now and you go with the French woman who barely arrived to the Quarter?"

"My mother sent me to do the task but I couldn't find someone to fit the category," Finn explained, "And then you showed up," he looked at Amarrah who continued glaring, "You were foreign, and you had nobody."

"And if I refuse to allow such a thing to happen?" Amarrah challenged, "Do not forget my family is one of the most powerful covens there are."

"By the time you reach them or they reach you it will be over and Rebekah will have taken your body," Finn calmly said, seeing it was obvious.

Distressed, Amarrah ran her hands through her black hair, "No! Absolutely not!" she exclaimed, turning to Maleny, "Mal, I've grown to love you ever since I was a little girl and learned of your story...and I know your friend Rebekah wouldn't want to hurt me but I would rather die than let her take over my body."

Maleny could understand the perspective in which Amarrah saw the whole situation. After all, it was the other end of her cycle, the one she felt overly guilty about to that day, "You will not have your life stolen," she put a hand on Amarrah's arm, "I promise you. We'll find a way. If I have to take Esther's deal myself to get you out of this I will."

And she meant that. Completely.

Maleny would never forgive herself for allowing someone else to take her friend's body like she'd done so many times in the past. This time, she could prevent it...and if it meant taking Esther's deal for herself then so be it.

Maleny's thoughts were broken by the loud sound of doors breaking. Immediately she looked around the room to see if it had been something by Finn's hand until she remembered he was still perfectly bound to the magic-cancelling shackles. Amarrah too became intrigued, and partly scared Esther had already begun to do part of a spell against her.

"What the hell is that?" Maleny mumbled to herself as the sounds continued. The more minutes passed by, the better the noises were reconfigured to those of...fighting.

"This is part of Esther's plan, isn't it?" Amarrah hurried up to Maleny, "Oh my God, is it starting now?"

Maleny had no idea what it could be but she was going to go find out. She ran out the ballroom doors with Amarrah behind her. They both came into the courtyard where sure enough there was fighting - Klaus and Davina. Marcel had been knocked out by the stairs, thus allowing the fight to continue.

"What are you doing!?" Maleny horrifically shouted to the two who took no notice of her nor Amarrah.

Davina's head was oozing with blood while Klaus had less blood on him yet with pieces of wood in his clothes from assumed attacks.

"Stop it!" Maleny ordered but her tone implied she was more desperate than anything. She didn't want to see either get hurt, specifically the weakest - Davina - who could easily die.

"Mal…" Amarrah too grew concerned as Klaus flung Davina down a hallway, causing the teen to bleed from an arm.

"Klaus, stop!" Maleny cried and made to run for them when Amarrah grabbed her by the arm.

"You'll get hurt, are you crazy?" the French woman hissed.

"Such hubris!" laughed Klaus, "And from one who bleeds so easily!"

Davina had risen from her spot on the floor, smirking at the hybrid across her, "You talk such a big game, but you couldn't even kill Mikael when you had the chance! He was right about you, you know? You're weak."

Losing his temper, Klaus sped towards her and grabbed her by the hair, getting ready to sink his teeth into her neck. Davina screamed in pain at the contact but it didn't last long before Klaus felt something weird in his throat. He let her go as he choked, gasping for needed air.

"Davina, stop!" Maleny tried shaking off Amarrah from her but now it was the French woman who had a tight grip on her arm, "Both of you!"

Her cries were of no use as Klaus fell to the floor, unconscious and Davina stood straight, triumphant over her apparent victory.

When Amarrah felt like it was over, she promptly released Maleny and so the blonde dashed over to where Klaus was. Amarrah slowly went to follow and joined Davina's side, "What exactly did you do to him?"

"I channeled dark objects through my blood to poison him," the teen shrugged, not at all guilty for her actions.

"Well reverse it!" Maleny ordered her angrily, now beside Klaus' body, "I swear to God Davina I will forget every ounce of friendship we have right now if you don't reverse the spell."

Davina furrowed her brow in confusion, "You would seriously make me bring him back after all he's done to me?"

"I am so tired of the same stupid story!" Maleny rose to her feet, startling Davina with the loud boom of her tone, "I get it, Davina, and I am so sorry for all that he's done to you - I really am. But you have no right to kill him. What would that do to you, hm? How the hell is that supposed to help you in any way?" she deeply sighed, "I am so tired of you two and this stupid hatred."

"Well, I'm sorry," Davina crossed her arms, genuinely feeling bad for putting Maleny into that position. After everything, Davina still cared for the blonde witch and just wanted her to be safe and happy...if only that happiness didn't depend on the hybrid.

"I'm sorry too," Maleny nodded, seeing Kol coming out from his prison room without the shackles, "Because you're gonna find out what it's like being in my position fairly soon, I imagine."

Confused, Davina stared at her until Kol sneaked up behind her, "Hey!" he greeted her and made her flinch in surprise.

"How did you get free!?" she turned to him in excitement.

"Oh, it's a long story," Kol shrugged and looked down at his older brother, "Better question is, if he's not dead, then what are you gonna do when he recovers?" he'd heard of Davina's actions as he'd came for them.

"Nothing," Maleny said before Davina could, "She's going to do nothing."

"Mal-"

"NO!" the blonde finally snapped and screamed at the teen, "I am done with all of this. You have tired me out," she accused Davina, "just like he has," she pointed to Klaus.

"Mal," Amarrah gently grabbed Maleny's arm and tugged her to her side, "It's okay," she said softly and looked at Davina, "Look, I get your head if full of this revenge stuff but I'm gonna need you to let it go - not for her sake," she nodded to Maleny, "nor for yours, but for mine."

"Why?" Davina frowned.

"Because Esther has prepared my body for Rebekah Mikaelson to jump into and I need witches to help me. In the end, sweetheart, you always help out your kind."

"Mal, I swear I didn't know about that," Kol quickly raised his hands in neutrality towards the blonde, "That...was not my task."

"Yeah, I know," Maleny mumbled, still too affected from the earlier fight, "It was all Finn. So, since I suppose you're with us now - otherwise you'd still be tortured - you're gonna help Amarrah."

"What!?" Davina was now glaring at Kol for what she'd just heard, "You're with them now?"

Around that time, Marcel came around and quickly rose to his feet as he gathered his bearings. Seeing Klaus on the floor and unconscious, he figured what had happened and walked to the group.

"He's with us," he assured the two women, "And we're going to be going up against Esther, assuming Klaus is... upright."

Kol tried withstanding Davina's look on him as he tried to explain himself to her, " Look, Nik is a pain in the ass, but, well... she's a problem for us all."

"Klaus is the problem! I don't give a damn what happens to Esther," Davina angrily snapped and promptly heard the clearing of Amarrah's throat.

"Hello," the French woman waved a hand, "I kinda do and I'll put this to you in terms you can understand: you're going to help me because you're going to help me. Don't make me reverse the spell myself because that would only complicate things between you and her," she once again nodded to Maleny.

Davina sighed and looked around, knowing she was easily going to lose there and then. This was her victory and they were taking it away from her!

Maleny had enough and stepped forwards, "Davina if you do this to me you would be the biggest hypocrite," she pointed to Kol and forewarned him, "I'm sorry," before she looked at Davina again, "Kol is no angel either. He slaughtered a near village every now and then."

"Hey," Kol muttered, unhappy this had somehow turned on him.

"Making a point," Maleny snapped before she continued, "Even Marcel had a tyrant air in this Quarter and don't you dare say no," she warned Marcel before the man even opened his mouth.

"I can't believe you're playing this card on me," Davina said, frowning deeper.

"I can't believe you're making me," countered Maleny, "You know I'm right so do it. I don't want to have to explain to Amarrah's mother why her daughter was overtaken by someone else due to my friend's inability to get past her revenge plan."

Amarrah hugged herself, slightly nervous, "Exactly how long do I have until Esther starts?" she asked Kol.

"Well, now that Esther knows where Rebekah's hiding... not long. The only way to stop it is to stop her."

Amarrah then raised an eyebrow at Davina, "Seriously? You're gonna leave me hanging here?"

Davina gave in with a deep sigh, "No, of course not," and she couldn't turn away an innocent who needed help.

~ 0 ~

Hayley and Cami were coming towards the chosen meeting place of the wolves. After talking, Hayley had decided she was going to marry Jackson. It wasn't something she was completely excited over but it also wasn't something she was despising.

"So…" Cami cleared her throat, feeling awkward for a reason, "...you sure you want to do this?" she asked Hayley slowly.

"Well, I outweighed the problems with the goodness and I think this can work," Hayley said, slowly feeling more sure of the plan.

"You mean for the pack or...between you and Jackson?" Cami spared her a glance, "Because let's be honest, Hayley, you're not in love with him."

Hayley came to a stop and turned to her, "No, I'm not. But maybe I can grow to be."

"Are you sure that's what you want, though?" Cami turned to her as well, making a face at the idea, "I always thought getting married should be because you're already in love with your fiancee."

"For us," Hayley gestured between them, "that's not what happens. Fairytales are for humans, Cami - something neither of us are."

"I'm not trying to talk you out of it nor push you to do it," Cami clarified, "I just want you to be completely sure. I don't want you doing something just because you feel there's no more hope...for anything."

Hayley tilted her head and soon enough realized Cami had been hinting at Elijah, the topic having become almost a taboo for the hybrid since lately.

"Cami, I feel like lately we've become closer - I like to think of us as friends…"

Cami lightly smiled, feeling the same, "Yeah, I think so too."

"So, as a friend," Hayley placed a hand on Cami's shoulder, firmly speaking, "and as a decent woman, I am telling you face to face that I did hold feelings for Elijah but that's in the past, I swear."

Cami instantly blushed and backed off, "I-I never...ever...said anything about that," she stuttered to speak freely, "And if you do like Elijah then you should go for it - never mind me."

Hayley was very amused by the blonde's demeanor, "Oh, I think even if I wanted to it wouldn't matter anymore. Besides, that's in the past and it's gonna stay there. I had my chance and I didn't take it."

"Doesn't mean there's anything blocking you right now," Cami raised her hands, "I'm not, I mean...I'm like…" she stepped to the side, gesturing, "...moving away, okay?"

"Cami," Hayley was unable to hold in her laugh, "Really, it's okay. I don't mind if you want something with him-"

"I don't!" the blonde defensively exclaimed, growing redder by the minute.

"Ooh you're gonna be fun to tease," Hayley beamed and began to walk again, "Just like Mal."

"Hayley!" Cami, exasperated, rushed after her, "I don't understand, and…"

"Well I'll make it clearer for you," Hayley stuffed her hands in her jacket's pockets, "Any feelings I had for Elijah are slowly dying and I'm okay with it. I know that there's something brewing between you two and I'll honestly be happy for you."

Cami was horrified to hear all that but at the same time couldn't help feel slightly relieved.

Hayley looked at the blonde with an expectant smile, "And I hope that you will be happy for me at my wedding."

Slowly, Cami calmed and smiled back, "Of course. But I'm telling you right now when Maleny finds out about this she's gonna make a big deal about this. I'm talking about big wedding dress and party."

"Well I say after living a thousand years never getting one for herself she deserves to plan one," Hayley said, "But I'm setting this straight as of right now: nothing pink. I hate pink."

Cami laughed alongside her and the two continued towards the meeting.

~ 0 ~

Maleny walked back to the breakfast table where Kol and Davina were, Kol hungrily picking at the different foods from the plates.

"Amarrah's waiting," she announced then coldly added, "Kol."

Davina sighed at the purposely left out name of hers, "I get it Mal, you're angry with me. I woke Klaus up already, lighten up."

While it was true and the hybrid himself was busily preparing something for Finn with Marcel, Maleny refused to let it go. She meant what she said: She was tired.

"Kol, Amarrah would like to discuss more things about this vessel spell," she said instead.

Davina sighed louder, "Mal, c'mon."

"Kol?" Maleny expectantly waited for the teen.

"I'm on it…" he nodded, "...right after I have myself a well deserved breakfast."

"KOL!"

"I'm hungry!" he argued, "I'm like you now remember? I need actual food to survive. Amarrah can wait another ten minutes."

"Can she really?" she challenged but even her glare didn't work on him.

At that moment, Klaus entered the room looking far more content than earlier, "Provided you're not busy concocting a new paralytic to use against me, I'd like a word with my brother," he addressed Davina firstly.

"Well, to be honest, I can't stand being around you anyways," she rolled her eyes.

"Mal, I happened to have heard a phone call from your bedroom," Klaus glanced at the blonde but received the same silent treatment as Davina had, "Might have been urgent - it went off three times."

Maleny ignored him and picked up an apple from the table.

Davina couldn't help smirk, "She's doing it to you too, ha."

Klaus was less than amused, "Maleny, this is no time for petty cold shoulders."

Maleny spared him a glance before biting into her apple and turned to leave. Kol snickered and took a seat at the edge of the table, "Ah, the cold treatments from Maleny were the most amusing thing about her. Glad I'm not on the receiving end," but just before he was about to take a bite from his meal, something hit him on his temple.

An apple. A bitten apple.

"Hey!" Kol frowned as Maleny glanced back.

"Keep it up and you'll be on the receiving end, I promise," the blonde snapped and went on her way.

Kol rolled his eyes and returned to his meal, but not before remarking to Klaus, "You sure know how to pick them, don't you?"

Before Klaus could respond back his phone went off, and seeing it was Rebekah he left the room to go answer. He didn't need either of the teens hearing anything suspicious.

~ 0 ~

Maleny had retreated to her room where she checked her cellphone and sure enough it had rung three times like Klaus had told her. They all belonged to Hayley, but no voicemail had been left. She wondered what her friend could need now. She surely didn't seem alright after telling them all about mystical marriage she was considering.

Perhaps she should call back…

But then someone knocked on her open door.

"Maleny, it's urgent," Klaus stepped into the room, his voice exhibiting the urgency he spoke about. Things had gotten worse and he really could do without the silent treatment of the witch.

Maleny continued scrolling down her phone as if he weren't there.

"Mal, it's Elijah," he tried again and this time at least got her to look at him, "Rebekah called and told me Elijah slaughtered a dozen people in a diner."

Maleny's eyes widened in horror, that wasn't the Elijah they all knew.

"Esther's torture must have affected him more deeply than I'd realized. We need to go to them now. So please, leave behind your senseless anger-"

"My anger is pretty justified," Maleny cut him off there and then, "I told Davina and now I'm telling you: I'm tired. I am so done with the hatred between you two. This fight could've been the end of Davina or yours."

"She came looking for me," Klaus reminded, growing angry himself, "and I gave her what she wanted."

"And look where that had you? She tricked you and I'm pretty sure her plans for you afterwards involved chaining you up somewhere," Maleny threw her phone to the bed, frustrated, "Dammit! I care for both of you and I just want you both alive, don't you see? Why can't I live in a world where my boyfriend and friend…" her voice trailed off when she realized what she said and quickly corrected herself, "Where my friend," she pointed at Klaus warning him to stay quiet, though his smirk spoke a thousand words, "and my friend can get along…"

Though Klaus struggled to keep his mouth shut concerning her slip up, he spoke without a trace of it, "Mal, I'm sorry you were put in this position - honestly the last thing I want is to hurt you. But please, can you accompany me somewhere?"

Suspicious, she stayed where she was, "Where to?"

"To see my daughter of course," Klaus shared a smile with her, "I'd like for her to meet you."

Maleny felt the air leave her lungs, now completely turning to him, "A-and Hayley?"

"Well get her on the way. But will you come, please?"

"Amarrah…"

"Will be taken care of, I promise. As much as Davina hates me I don't think she would turn her wrath on the innocent witch."

Maleny pursed her lips together and gave a small nod, "Okay. But don't think you're free of the scolding you deserve," she warned and took his hand.

"Oh I wouldn't dream of it," Klaus rolled his eyes, "I'm sure you'll be taking care of that throughout the drive there," but he would rather hear her scolding and shouting than the silent treatment she so perfectly gave.

[rika-kihira]

Countdown to the dream - Rika Kihira interview with Quadruple Axel

Q: Last season was your senior debut. You achieved a wonderful success. Personally, if you could give yourself a score how many points would you give?

R: I experienced a lot of good and bad things, I think it was a season where I developed my confidence, so about 70 points.

Q: What kind of aspect was not enough for the remaining 30 points?

R: At Japanese Nationals and Worlds I was unable to adjust my boots properly, so I could not perform the programs like I wanted to. But recently I managed to adjust my boots by myself.

Q: That is a big accomplishment. How are you able to grasp something like the feeling of sensitivity?

R: I have been told many times about "sensitivity", but for me it’s more like this kind of feeling “If I can’t jump then I can only switch them” *laughs* On the contrary “I'm not concerned about it”, it’s something that can't be understood. 

Q: So do you experience the same condition while wearing normal shoes?

R: Not at all. When it comes to normal shoes any kind of it would be fine *laughs*

Q: At Worlds, it must have been considerably hard to adjust your boots, right?

R: Yes, I ended up wearing different boots in SP and FP. I used new boots in the SP but they were ill-fitting for me; in the FP I skated using the old ones I usually wore up to that time.

Q: Looks like it would be better if it was a bit improved. This off-season, are there any kind of other activities you are spending your time on?

R: I performed at Stars on Ice, went to Colorado for choreography, I sort of trained every day without resting for even one day. Even though it was called "off-season" the way I am spending the time doesn't change from when I am in the middle of the season. Or more precisely, now I am training much longer than in the middle of the season.

Q: Right now what kind of training are you focusing on?

R: I am setting up the jumps properly for my SP and FP. And then training for 4S and 3A.

Q: And what’s your feeling about the 4S?

R: I think it it’s quite improved. In a sense, even if there was underrotation, I am able to jump it several times in a day. Even when I feel, physically, that in the jump “the rotations right now are off”, the times that I was told that "that one now is a clean jump" gradually increased.

Q: Do you plan to put in the 4S during the season?

R: That's the plan. Right now I am practicing in runthrough by jumping 3S but onwards, I want to successfully put the 4S in.

Q: Looking forward to it. This season's SP, Breakfast in Baghdad is really a great song to dance to.

R: Shae-Lynn presented several programs to me. I wondered if I could express something I have never tried before, and I chose it. The choreo was done efficiently, it is an upbeat and intense program, physically it is pretty exhausting *laughs*. But I think after skating it repeatedly I developed the energy along with it. From now on I want to train with the thought that I strive to do well no matter what song they gave me. 

Q: Looks like there is no time to even take a breather.

R: In previous programs, after I finished a spin there was a moment to take a breather like "huff", but in this SP after the spin ends transitions are inserted so it is a busy program *laughs*

Q: Is it difficult to get the jumps’ timing too?

R: It was really hard at the beginning, it took me about two months to get the timing successfully.

Q: Even the 3A?

R: This is something I realized recently, but, regarding 3A, the percentage of landing it is higher with uptempo songs. At the beginning, I thought “I can't do it, it's too pressing”, but on the contrary in the FP with a slow tempo song, more or less I experienced more difficulties. Before I jump, the longer I hold the set up, I lose control and it’s hard to maintain the axis. Maybe my timing is a bit fast, that's why I think faster tempo suits me more.

Q: It's the first time you collaborate with Shae-Lynn, what are you thoughts on the actual choreo process?

R: The choreo process took time, about 5 days, but it was hard unlike anything I have experienced before. I tried different patterns countless times and because it has many difficult movements I had muscle pain everywhere *laughs*. But she guided me intensely through the detailed parts, I really learned a lot.

Q: What is the reason you requested Shae-Lynn's choreo for this season?

R: I watched Wakaba-chan's (Higuchi) 007 Skyfall and Rika-chan's (Hongo) Kill Bill and thought “Ah, these choreographies are nice”. From the middle of the previous season I was thinking “I want to try it once”, “What happens now?”. As a result it became a new challenge for me, I think it's good that I made that decision. I felt that in those 5 days I got a lesson that changed my own skating.

Q: Since she is a teacher coming from Ice Dance, there are a lot of things that should be learned from her, aren’t there.

R: Really fascinating skills, she is a teacher who has high ideal skating standards. She showed me how to actually use my entire body to perform. I understand it well, it means that “I want to let out that kind of intensity”, it was really manageable.

Q: On the other hand, the FP 'International Angel of Peace' is choreographed by Tom Dickson, what kind of program is it?

R: The songs of several faiths from around the world are used. I am expressing an angel who unifies them, and the theme of the program is 'To Hope for World Peace'. I really like this, even though there are some difficulties, such as the fact that each scenery requires me to portray different movements and expressions.   Q: Turns out it is a program with a heavy theme, in what way was the choreo introduced to you?

R: I was told the tale numerous times, it was conveyed to me that I should view the theme of the program as an important one. The movements to express the anger against war are filled with the thoughts of a peaceful world. There is a meaning in each part of the choreo. I want to express it respectfully. Like in the beginning of Yuzuru Hanyu's Seimei, there is also the presence of Japan in the choreography, matching the arm movements to the sound of Shakuhachi (Japanese bamboo flute).

Q: So the expression also changes according to each song.

R: The means of expression (t/n: on and off ice) are respectively different. Even if you can move your hands and shoulders well on land, you must grasp the balance while doing it on the ice, I think it is really difficult. I want to fill up my training until I can do such moments in the season.

Q: Your programs match the music wonderfully. How do you feel about your own musicality?

R: There are a lot of people who are better than me *laughs*. As for me, like singing the song inside of my head, I think of the movements I want to do on some melody. Since I was young I am conscious of matching my movement with the music. If I was told “this movement for this melody” while getting the choreography, I want to be able to match that melody. Even if I am not told so, I think of “let's match this melody”.

Q: You really have good sensibility to music too. About the costumes, have you decided on both the SP and FP ones?

R: To match the up tempo movements in the SP I think bright colours would be good, so I prepared a red and a blue version. I think the design will give off a mature vibe.

Q: Is it a pants-style costume? 

R: No, it's a skirt. What I was wearing at FaOI was the EX Costume for "The Greatest". The SP costume is not finished yet, so I wore the black pants.

Q: Is that so. What kind of image does the FP costume have?

R: The designer just told me the imagery, the colour is light green with sparkles, it is tailored to match every scenery on that program.

Q: You performed at FaOI with Yuzuru Hanyu. Did you receive any influence from him?

R: There is the collaboration with ToshI. While ToshI was adjusting the music Hanyu-san was standing in the rink and doing some image-building. I can't perform on the actual day without checking practice numerous times. But Hanyu-san can build the image of the program inside his head; I want to learn that aspect gradually. I also want to learn from his ability to focus.

Q: Well then, you also have the ability to focus.

R: My problem lies with my sleep. If I don’t get enough sleep I lack the power to concentrate. It's like, by lacking sleep even the content of my program changes. I'm influenced by the quality of my sleep. The more I think of “I can't fail” “I definitely want to jump it”, I can't sleep well. I must do something for it. I think it would be nice if I can overcome this somehow.

Q: It has been decided that your GP assignments are Skate Canada and NHK Trophy this season. What kind of competition do you want to do?

R: During last season's GP Final in Canada I was able to get a good result and it left a good impression on me; at NHK Trophy there will be no time difference so I think it's nice and it's easy to adjust to. 

Q: What is your goal this season?

R: In any kind of competition, I want to get high scores in both SP and FP, I want this to be the season where I would be able to increase my personal best score. If I can compete at Worlds, I think it would be nice if I can stand on the podium.

Q: Kihira the athlete is aiming for the gold medal at Beijing Olympics. In this moment, do you have any concept, while imagining the things you are going to do?

R: No injuries until the Olympics. I think I want to challenge the Olympics while having a “leeway” in my mind. Taking the completed form (t/n: sort of like her final form) with me during these remaining two years. During the last season (before the Olympics), I think it would be nice if the state of my mind can be more like “a little bit, maybe I can water down the elements of the program” “competitions are fun”. For the sake of that, I think “from now on of how much training I could do, how much experience can I accumulate”. I don’t want to have such days where I feel relaxed like “maybe today I should take it slowly”, I think I want to go through this by staying completely focused.

Q: Are you going to stay on your guard?

R: Losing focus for a little bit leads to injuries. As long as I am skating, by staying focused I can spend my days by thinking of things like “I wonder how I should go through to perform the best program at a competition” I think I must compete with my own self. Q: About wanting to get into your “completed form” in the remaining two seasons, Are you going for the challenge of inserting 4T in next season?

R: I won't have any leeway in my mind if I could not jump two type of quads. The elements of the program will be more flexible and there will be more range of choices, like jumping one type of quad 2 times. I want to complete 4T too, but really I’m not too good at Toeloop, so looks like it would take some time. First I'd like to attempt it while re-evaluating my 3T.

Q: What's the difficulty of the 4T?

R: I can do the rotations, but the axis is off. I think if the axis is straight it can be executed well. There is no other way but to maintain the axis and training to get a higher rate of success. 

Q: Thank you. Lastly, please give your message to the fans.

R: Thank you very much for always giving me a lot of support. This season I'm going to challenge the 4S. Both in SP and FP I will also face a challenge I've never experienced before. I will do my best to have better results than in the previous seasons, and try to improve gradually for the Olympics.

[popsicletheduck]

secrets written in our blood

A Sanders Sides Fantasy AU

chapter three: to catch the unsaid In which a prince, a bard, and a healer live, lie, and leave.

pairings: none chapter warnings: implied/referenced character death, blood mention words: 3092 check reblogs for link to AO3

When Patton woke up, he was cold. Not like what was around him was cold, but that he was cold inside himself. Like there was snowmelt settled around where his stomach and heart and lungs were. It wasn't an entirely pleasant sensation, but it was better than the constant aching burn and warring chill from before. Curling into himself, he groped blindly for some source of warmth. A moment later, he felt rough wool brush against his hand and the weight of a blanket spread on top of him. "Lie still," a stern voice said. "Your body requires rest after the trauma it underwent." Patton complied, mostly, but he did crack an eye and crane his neck to try and see where he was and who was speaking. The room was dark, with just a faint line of sunlight peeking through a set of heavy wooden shutters. The dark expanse of a sod roof stretched overhead, stone walls around. A few rough pieces of furniture were arranged around the single room: a long table, two chairs, a single cupboard, and the thin bed Patton was lying on. A long rack of drying herbs hung from the ceiling, the air suffused with their medicinal smell. A spare set of dark clothes on a peg near the bed, a few pots and dishes stacked on the mantle, barrels of provisions and neat stacks of wood in the corner. There was only one other person in the room, an older man sitting in one of the chairs near the embers in the fireplace. He was handsome in a severe sort of way, all sharp angles and corners. His hair had one likely been dark but was now speckled salt and pepper and carefully brushed back, save for a single strand that curled near one temple. A small pair of glasses was perched on his nose and a book sat open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. His rather intense gaze was fixed on Patton. "I told you to lie still," he said.

"I am, I just needed to see." He’d been pretty sure he hadn’t been dead, but it hadn’t hurt to check. If this was the afterlife, it wasn’t anything like what the tapestries and stained glass showed, so probably not, Patton thought with a scrunch of his nose. "You are in my home,” the man said, as if he could read Patton’s thoughts. “Your companion brought you here after your unfortunate run in with bandits." Patton let his head fall back against the pillow. "Is he okay?" "My assistant saw to him, I am certain he is fine." A strange little laugh escaped him. "You know, I didn't even get his name. He saved my life, and I don't even know his name." The healer shifted in his chair. "Any necessary gratitude can wait. You need more rest." "I can't even thank you?" With an abrupt snap he closed the book and stood, turning away to tuck it away deep inside one of the cupboards. "I simply did my duty as a- as a healer. No thanks are required." "I didn't know magic was part of the bag of tricks of ordinary healers these days." Patton saw the man stiffen, his shoulders tensing and the line of his back straightening ramrod straight. He didn’t turn around as he spoke, the words flat and lacking any sort of emotion. "Magic is illegal.” “I know, but-” “Do I appear to be of the criminal sort?” “Well not really, but-” “Then I would advise you to refrain from such accusations. Your wound appeared far more severe than it was. Please do not insult my skill by insisting on a supernatural explanation.” Patton let his head fall back against the pillow. “I didn’t get your name either,” he said softly. A long moment passed, heavy with a tension that Patton was far too familiar with. Uncertainty weighed like empty pockets and empty fists. “Logan,” the healer said finally. “And you are?” “Patton.” “You need to sleep, Patton.” “I know.” Already his eyes were beginning to grow heavy. Like magic. When he slept, it was deep and dreamless. But when he woke again, this time to an empty room, something lingered around the edges of his consciousness. An itch in the back of his brain, an awareness he didn’t have words for, a shadow where there hadn’t been any light before. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but was strange, and as Patton fiddled with the edge of the blanket, he wondered about laws and magic and empty buildings with barricaded windows.

Logan missed writing. Parchment was far too expensive all the way out here, and his homemade ink was poor quality. No longer did he have the luxury of writing to sort the thoughts in his head or recording any passing fancy. But he could not entirely leave his past behind, even if he was now forced to hide from it. So by the light of a single candle, he carefully opened to a half filled page in one of the three precious books he still owned: a gelaerath lachnun, roughly translated as a guide of healing. It had been luck he had been carrying it with him that day, the accumulated knowledge of several lifetimes, but as Logan recorded in precise shorthand his recent procedure and effects, he once again could find only the most bittersweet gratitude that the book remained in his possession. It was no longer meant to be his. “Who are you writing to?” Patton asked. Logan glanced up sharply. He’d believed his unexpected guest to still be sleeping since his home had been quiet, and Logan was quickly learning that the bard was only quiet when he was sleeping or eating. Indeed, his speech was slurred in the way that suggested he’d just woken, eyes blinking blearily. “Myself. Or,” he added, a touch bitter, “possibly no one.” “Why do you write to no one?” Logan set his quill aside, making sure the ink wouldn’t drip onto the table. The question had been an honest one, if a bit sleep touched, and honest questions deserved careful answers. “The preservation of knowledge for future generations is vital, even if no one reads it,” he said. “The act of recording is the important thing, connecting us to a chain that stretches back to the earliest humans exchanging information by oral tradition.” Patton was quiet after that, probably fallen back asleep, and Logan picked up his quill again. Patient appears to have suffered no ill effects, but continual monitoring will- “Have you always been this lonely?” This time Logan didn’t stop writing. “I am not lonely. My work requires solitude for a clear mind. Interruptions are a detriment. It is… better this way.” “Wouldn’t it be even more better if you could actually talk to people instead of writing to no one?” The memory of watching Jeul in the laboratory, deep in examination of a cadaver, the spark of investigation clinging to their fingers and fascination in their eye. “No. It’s better this way.” The best lies always contained a piece of the truth.

It was three days before Roman was allowed back on his feet again, under watch by a surprisingly stubborn Florrie and her equally watchful aunt, Imayn. Not that he was unoccupied during that time. Imayn was caretaker to all eight of her late sister’s children, and there was always something around the house that needed mending or fixing or scrubbing, and every hand was needed. But after a particularly disastrous attempt at sewing, Imayn had simply looked at him and shook her head. After that, Roman was put in charge of keeping an eye on the three youngest: Emelyne, who was five, Col, who was three, and Tom, who was two. Sitting in the sun in front of their small house, Roman taught them games he’d once played with his brother and told them stories his mother had once told him and smiled even when he felt like crying. The fourth morning, Roman woke in the dark hours before dawn, nightmares clinging to his skin like saltwater. But for the first time in fourteen years, it hadn’t been his brother’s dead face staring up at him with reproach. It’d been Patton’s. He’d asked, of course, when Florrie had tried to pull him away, tried to protest. But the girl had just set her shoulders and answered bluntly, “He’s gonna die. But my ma died two years back and he, Master Logan, don’t want me to see it again. So I’m looking after you and you’ll not complain.” And his heart had ached at losses new and old and he’d let himself be led away. Roman told himself he’d already known the outcome. He told himself he’d done everything he possibly could’ve. But in the predawn chill, the burn of his failure scalded. He couldn’t save anyone. And he was supposed to be king? Sick of the constant pricking of tears behind his eyes, Roman shoved himself up from the pallet in the corner. For a moment he thought his leg would give out again, but he steadied himself against the wall and the weakness passed. The hour was earlier enough that even his minders were still asleep, and he was tired of waiting. He’d say his goodbyes and he’d put this town behind him and he’d be the best godsdamn king Cerenth had ever seen, Merina fucking bless him. Stormheart nickered at him as he saddled her, stopping occasionally to lean against her to take the weight off his bad leg. “Shush,” he whispered, “Imayn will have my head if she knows I’m up. But we can’t stay here forever, can we?” The horse didn’t answer him, of course. But she didn’t make any more noise as he led her around the back of the village, cutting through gardens and struggling up the side of the hill when necessary. Roman didn’t exactly feel like announcing his departure. But there was one place he had to stop first.

In the gathering dawn, the symbol for a healer, one of the deity Gati’s ravens, painted in white on Logan's door seemed to nearly glow against the dark. Roman didn’t hesitate, knocking as loudly as he dared. He knew he would be waking the healer, but he didn’t care. He had to know what had happened to the body. A moment where he stood alone in the silence of the world, the only breathing thing in the stillness. And then the sound of movement from inside, footsteps on packed earth, and the door opened. Roman felt all the air leave his body at once. “Oh, hi!” Patton whisper shouted. “I’m so glad you came by, I didn’t get a chance to thank you before and I was worried you might’ve left town already.” Roman replied dumbstruck, “You’re alive.” He smiled, as genuine as when he had been bleeding out in the middle of the road. “I sure am! Thanks to you, and to Logan.” As if on cue the healer stepped up behind Patton, straightening his glasses. His prim mannerisms reminded Roman of stuffy, overly pompous nobles from his childhood, made even more ridiculous by his uncombed hair and nightshirt tucked into a pair of breeches. “May I enquire as to the nature of this visit? It is still quite early.” “Why didn’t you tell me Patton was alive?” He could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck, the flaring of a temper that had on more than one occasion led to a brawl in the inn yard. His heart clenched and his hands along with it. The bard’s eyes flicked quickly between him and Logan. “Why don’t we all step inside,” he suggested, “to have this conversation?” Logan nodded sharply. “A good idea. Close the door behind you.” Roman complied, even as every fiber of his being rebelled against being told what to do by some village nobody. But the pleading look Patton shot him had him biting the inside of his cheek and not quite slamming the door. Logan gestured for the two of them to take the room’s two chairs. Patton plopped into one, while Roman stubbornly remained standing, though his injury throbbed. Logan raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, loosely steepling his fingers in front of him. “My apologies for not informing you on Patton’s condition,” he said, infuriatingly cool and composed, “I had deduced that the two of you had merely happened upon each other on the road and as such you had little to no concern for his well being.” “He nearly died in my arms! I would’ve at least like to know that he wasn’t dead!” Roman was trying to keep himself from shouting, but it was only halfway successful. He wanted to hit something, to shatter Logan’s stupid little glasses right off his face. A soft touch against his arm, like cool rainwater fizzling against hot embers. Patton looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve found you. That was an awful way to repay what you did for me.” “I don’t blame you,” Roman said, at the same time Logan remarked, “It would’ve been inadvisable for you to leave bed.” An unreadable glance passed between them, an acknowledgement neither wanted to acknowledge. Roman turned back to Patton instead, asking,“You really are okay?” The little bard put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. “Fit as a fiddle and ready for the road!” he declared. It was Roman’s turn to raise a skeptical eyebrow. “You nearly died not even four days ago and you’re ready to go back to traveling alone, where you’ll be just as enticing a target for more bandits?” Patton had deflated as he spoke, and now glanced up sheepishly, scuffing a foot against the floor. “Well, since you’re here now, I was sorta hoping I could travel with you?” The feeling that fluttered through Roman’s chest was unfamiliar, a sensation he didn’t have words for, but decidedly not unpleasant. “Of course! That is, if you are good to travel.” Logan exhaled a long sigh through his nose. “More time to rest would be optimal, but if you are determined to set out today, you should take it slow and rest as often as you need. Do not push yourself.” “Thanks, Logan,” Patton smiled. “You know, you should come with us.” The abrupt change startled a “What?” from Roman. Logan appeared similarly puzzled, his brow creasing as he stared at Patton as if he could discern an answer by sight alone if he looked long enough. “I don’t even know where you’re going,” he said slowly. “I have a life here. I can’t just leave.” “You just seemed so lonely, and I thought that maybe…” Patton trailed off, as though a thought was finally occuring to him. Turning to Roman, he asked “Where are we going?” Oh. Oh. Why had he never thought of an answer to that? True, he hadn’t expected to have any companions on this journey, but someone had been bound to ask eventually. He should’ve prepared for this. “I have family in the Greyspines, and I just got word that my uncle died because there’s some monster out there hunting them so I’m going to help.” Not the worst lie he’d ever told. Probably not the best, either. Patton’s eyes were wide with sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry, you were already dealing with all of that and then I dragged you into this.” “No, no,” Roman hurried to reassure him, “I couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?” His eyes flickered to Logan, and suddenly he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. The man’s gaze was distinctly calculating. Logan knew, Roman felt with sick certainty, that he was lying. He waited for an accusation, for a demand for the truth that Roman decidedly couldn’t give. His hand tensed, straying towards where his father’s sword hung at his waist. He watched Logan’s gaze follow the movement, a shift in the healer’s expression that for the life of him he couldn’t read. “I’ll go with you,” Logan said suddenly, breaking one of the longest moments of Roman’s life. “You will?” Patton gasped with delight, hands flying to the sides of his face. “Yes,” Logan replied, absently straightening one of his sleeves. “Florrie is well trained enough in herbcraft to serve the needs of the village, and if the beast in the Greyspines is killing people, there will likely be those injured who need a skilled healer.” Roman wanted nothing more in that moment than to grab the older man by the shoulders, shake him, and demand to know what was going on. He had been so certain Logan had seen through his lie, but if so, why double down on it? They were both near strangers to each other. What did Logan gain in helping him save face? “I do insist, however,” Logan continued, and here it was, some sort of deal, a price for keeping his mouth shut, “since we will be traveling together, that you tell us your name, since you have neglected to do so before.” “Oh. It’s Rey.” Logan nodded, apparently satisfied. Patton smiled at him again. Could it all actually be that simple?

“Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, He will slay you with his tongue, oh lei, oh lai, oh.” Patton’s clear voice rang out in the sunshine as he strolled and strummed his lute, somehow keeping perfect time even if he wasn’t quite watching where he was going. Logan walked just behind, seemingly lost in his thoughts, but every now and then he would reach out to nudge Patton away from a particularly large stone in the path. From atop Stormheart’s back, Roman could see the miles ahead of them, winding off into the horizon. But now the long stretch didn’t hold the menace it once did, the wind battered landscape no longer quite so dreary, and he found himself smiling. In the light of day with friendly faces at his side, it was easy to believe that everything would work out just fine. “There will come a ruler whose brow is laid with thorns, Smeared with blood like holy oil, oh lei, oh lai, oh lore, Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, Smeared with blood like holy oil, oh lei, oh lai, oh lore. Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lore, He will tear your city down, oh lei, oh lai, oh.”

[razieltwelve]

Swords (Final Effect)

Commander Jane Shepard (promotion currently under consideration) ducked behind a wall as another hail of projectiles hurtled down the corridor. In the aftermath of the Reaper War, space pirates and raiders had become for more bold due to the losses the major powers had suffered. It was up to her and other elite agents to deal with them since the major powers were still struggling to recoup their losses.

It had gotten bad enough that the Systems Alliance had asked the Empire for assistance although they had been careful about rewording it as ‘cooperative training exercises’ for the press to avoid inciting a panic. Personally, Shepard would have been perfectly happy telling some of the more overzealous members of the Empire to go nuts since they apparently had a long-standing grudge against space pirates. However, the higher ups did not want to appear weak with negotiations underway.

Honestly, it was ridiculous. Even if the Systems Alliance had been at full strength, the Empire could have crushed them without breaking a sweat. Oh well. At least dealing with space pirates took her mind off the fact that she would soon be swapping her armour for her dress uniform since she was, apparently, someone the Empire had come to respect greatly, and her superiors wanted her to participate in some of the negotiations.

“Can someone clear those pirates out?” Shepard asked over the comms. “I’d rather not stick my head around the corner and get it blown off by a rocket launcher.”

In response to her words, several glowing spears flew down the corridor, turned the corner, and then hurtled into the pirates before exploding. She rolled her eyes. Honestly, Celeste was just showing off now. The pink-haired Dia-Farron had the ability to create Aura construct in just about any shape she wanted that she could manoeuvre with incredible speed, accuracy, and precision.

“Consider them cleared out,” Celeste murmured as she walked past Shepard. The hamster on her shoulder squeaked a greeting and rubbed his paws together in glee. Knowing him, he was looking forward to looting the corpses. The pirates might not have advanced technology, but the Dia-Farron had made a point of collecting any technology they encountered. “Are you coming?”

Shepard laughed. “Right behind you.”

“Of course.” Celeste inclined her head. Like most Dia-Farron, the power armour she wore was dominated by shades of pink, orange, green, and blue. It looked a bit odd, and it was absolutely lacking in anything even approaching subtlety, but she doubted Celeste cared. “Do you want a weapon?”

Shepard grinned. This was why she loved working with Celeste. “Twin swords, monomolecular edges.”

Celeste waved one hand, and a pair of glowing swords with monomolecular edges appeared. “There you go.”

Shepard heft the weapons, and her grin widened. Celeste had weighted them to feel just like real swords. “Some covering fire while I close in would be appreciated.”

Celeste snapped one finger. A series of glowing blades thundered into the makeshift barricade the space pirates had tossed up. The barricade came apart in a shower of mangled metal, and Shepard gave a savage smile as she raced forward. There was nothing quite like fighting the enemy face to face.

As she ran, Shepard took a moment to appreciate her armour. The Dia-Farron had worked on it. They had, apparently, only used technology that the Systems Alliance was capable of replicating in the near future, but the suit was far, far, far better than it had originally been. It seemed to anticipate her movements, and the servos built into it amplified her strength without hindering her speed or agility. Without her suit, Shepard was one of the deadliest humans alive. With it? She was a living chainsaw.

She struck the pirates in a blur of motion. One sword whipped up and forward, and the pirate - a Batarian - was cleaved in two. Using her other sword to relieve another pirate of his weapon - and the arm that was holding it - she spun and decapitated a pair of pirates that had tried to sneak up on her. Fully immersed in the thrill of combat, she pressed on, ducking several shots, before she leapt, twisting in mid-air to kick off the ceiling and land right in the middle of the next group of pirates.

With terrifying ease, she sliced and diced her way down the corridor. The glowing Aura construct blades seamlessly cut through everything they encountered as she decided to put some of her lessons with Celeste to work. The Empire placed a far greater emphasis on melee combat than most factions, and the moment she’d found out that Celeste was considered a master of several dozen different weapons, she had immediately badgered the other woman into teaching her whenever she had the chance.

The ultimate objective of all weapons forms in the Empire was to become formless, capable of adjusting to any situation and exploiting any weaknesses or flaws in the opponent. However, attaining formlessness required absolute mastery of form. Celeste had picked out several styles that she thought would suit Shepard best, and Shepard had worked tirelessly to incorporate them into her fighting.

Her favourite form was the one she was using now, something Celeste referred to as the Intercepting Blade. It was a style that relied on speed, precision, and above all anticipation. The ability to read the opponent’s movements and then react, striking before they could react or adjust was crucial. Given how quick Shepard was, as well as her instinctive grasp of combat, it was a style she had quickly grown to love.

A slight twitch of her next opponent’s arm gave his moves away, and she used her superior speed to kill him before he could do anything more than start his attack. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a trio of pirates, and she guessed their intentions. She threw herself sideways and let the devices built into her boots grasp onto the wall. Running sideways along the wall, she parted one pirate’s head from his shoulder and then let herself fall, rolling under a shotgun blast before springing up and bisecting the shooter as she soared over him and landed behind the final pirate. He turned, knife flashing toward her throat, but she was ready. She parried the blow with one sword and then gutted him as he skidded past.

Silence reigned for a moment in the corridor before one of the pirates, who had somehow managed to survive being cut almost in half, raised his weapon in trembling hands - only to be pinned to the wall by an Aura construct spear through the eye. The weapon dropped out of his hands, and Celeste chuckled.

“You missed one.” At Celeste’s feet, her hamster was busy scanning the pirate’s equipment and packing it away into one of his subspace pockets. When one of the other pirates twitched, the hamster squeaked and fired a thin beam of electricity into the downed Batarian. Shepard had learned the hard way that war hamsters were deadly even without transforming. Celeste’s lips twitched. “And was all of the flipping and twirling really necessary?”

Shepard chuckled. “Not all of us can just point and have a storm of swords impale our opponents.” 

Celeste shrugged. “I won’t argue with that.” She summoned a glowing sword for herself and leapt to cut a hole in the ceiling. Several corpses tumbled down. There had been pirates crawling through an air duct. “But this facility really does have a lot of pirates in it. It’s rather aggravating.”

“It’s easy pickings with so few ships able to patrol at the moment.” Shepard knelt beside one of the bodies and frowned. She’d seen quite a few pirates wearing these badges. The last thing they needed was for the pirates to organise into proper groups instead of haphazard raiding parties. “By the way, you never did tell me who devised the Intercepting Blade.”

“Oh?” Celeste grinned. “The Intercepting Blade is a style that is heavily based on the techniques and tactics used by Saviour. To be honest, you really need some form of precognition or prediction to use it to its full potential.”

“Saviour?” Shepard’s brows furrowed. “As in the Semblance the Fleet Admiral has?”

“Yes. Maybe you'll get to see her use it someday, but I doubt there’s anything in this galaxy strong enough to warrant it.”

“Not even a Reaper?”

“Oh, she could kill one of those easily enough with her Semblance, but we’ve got other things that can do that too as you know. However, there are things back home that we do need Saviour to kill. Hopefully, none of those show up.”

“Let’s hope so.” Shepard shuddered. Some of the stories she’d heard about the Grimm made the Reapers seem positively pedestrian in comparison. Swarms numbering trillions of Grimm, some of which could consume solar systems? Insanity. “So are there any more pirates around?”

Celeste shook her head. “I’ve had my drones scan the rest of the facility. There aren’t any living pirates around. However, there are some personnel holed up in one of the more remote wings of the facility, so we should go tell them it’s safe to come out.”

“Ah. Right.” Shepard glanced at the two glowing swords she was holding. “Thanks for the swords, by the way.”

“It’s fine.” The swords vanished, and Celeste began to walk down the corridor with her hamster perched on her shoulder. “Weapons are meant to be used, and you looked as though you were really enjoying yourself. I’ll have to see if i can get you a plasma sabre.”

“A plasma sabre? I’m assuming that’s basically a sword made of plasma, right?”

“Basically. I won’t get into the specifics, but that’s pretty much correct. You’re not technically supposed to get one since it’ll be a while since your people get close to developing any, but I can handle the paperwork to authorise it.”

Shepard couldn’t wait. “You know, Liara thinks I’m becoming even more obsessed with weapons now that you guys are around.”

“I’m a Dia-Farron. True, I come from the more sensible side of the family, but I can hardly complain. When I was growing up, my cousins spent most of their free time building weapons that could smash cities. By the time I was an adult, they’d moved up to constructing planet-cracking weapons that were, technically, illegal but it wasn’t like anyone else in the family was going to say anything because everyone else was doing it too.”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

A Shepard’s work is never done.

You can find me on fanfiction.net, AO3, and Amazon. Please check out my newest story on Amazon. It’s called Monster Whisperer.

[darkpoisonouslove]

Since you asked, I'm all too happy to oblige and send you a few more since these have been amazing! (Feel free to ignore it if I managed to pick a number you've done already xd) But 3, 25, and 26 :)

I feel like this took forever to write (even though it obviously didn’t) but anyway, enjoy all the words since I went way overboard with these.

3 – final

All the times they had met on the battlefield had had her terrified that it would be the last one, the final time she saw his face. Even their last kiss or last embrace hadn’t left her so paralyzed with fear. Maybe because she’d known what they’d been, for she’d planned her escape. But the uncertainty of every battle left her shaken with the question when one of them would die, putting an end to the messy affair between them. And that was the last thing she’d wanted. For she’d never wanted to leave him in the first place.

The final time she’d seen him, which had only become clear in retrospect, had hurt with the fact that she knew it wasn’t final. They were both still alive. He was trapped in the ice but he was alive. And it couldn’t end like that. A story like theirs could never end like that. She knew in her heart that he’d be back. The final time she saw him couldn’t be in her memories or dreams.

Seventeen years and it still hurt to see him. The pain hadn’t changed just like he was exactly the same as she remembered him. Full of rage and out to get her. She couldn’t escape from his wrath even if she wanted to. She’d left him once and he wouldn’t let her do it again. And as she lost consciousness from his attack, she knew that wasn’t the last time she’d see his face, for he wouldn’t kill her.

“My face will be the final thing you’ll ever see.”

The words rang in her head long after she’d been freed from her cell and he was dead. He hadn’t been wrong. She still saw his face. And that would be the case until the very end. Their story had been interrupted before it could reach its final form and it would never leave her alone. It was never finished, and he might have taken his final breath, but her love for him hadn’t perished yet. And no end was in sight until then.

25 – return

The book lay abandoned on the couch–open no less like she never left them because it hurt their spines–as she paced around the room waiting for his return. He was late and she couldn’t concentrate on reading when she felt the heaviness in the pit of her stomach and her heart racing to compensate for the slow movements of the hands of the clock. Something must have gone wrong. He could be in trouble and she could do nothing because his mothers hadn’t let her go with him. She wasn’t even told where he’d been sent, otherwise, she would’ve been there already. But the Ancestral Witches had been separating them a lot lately, claiming it was not necessary to have both members of their strongest team exhausting their energy for a job that could be done by just one of them. And so far their tactic of utilizing their resources had been working but Griffin knew something was bound to go wrong at some point. And she’d dreaded the moment, hoping they’d realize that Valtor and her were better off having each other’s backs since that reduced the risk of injuries and failures. But they’d kept it up and now…. she hoped it wasn’t too late to fix the mistake.

It was a little more than half an hour after his estimated time of return that she felt the enormous whirl of magic accompanying the opening of a portal. It was in the other end of their base and bursting chaotically with no sense of direction. He hadn’t been in the proper mindset to concentrate on a precise location and the magic had spat him out at a random place.

She let her own magic seek out his and whisk her away to him and she was soon teleporting herself. She ended up in one of the smaller corridors of their base, somewhere she didn’t go often but she didn’t have time to think about that.

Valtor was standing in front of her, doing his best not to fall over as he held his ribcage with one hand, his other arm limp at his side and sporting a cut that, thankfully, wasn’t deep. It was just a surface wound unlike the injury to his chest. By the expression on his face that was all bruised and swelling she could tell he was in a lot of pain. More than when he had a cracked rib. He had at least one broken rib, possible internal bleeding and multiple smaller injuries over his entire body. His clothes were dirty and ripped as he’d probably been tackled to the ground where he’d struggled with his opponent. Or, more likely, opponents. She doubted one person could beat him up that badly.

She approached him slowly, resisting the impulse to throw herself at him, for he could barely support his own weight currently. Her quiet steps could do nothing to drown out the sound of his harsh, ragged breaths and it pained her to see him like that, gathering himself and all the strength he had left in order to just move through the base. The battle and the following use of his magic to open the portal must have drained him completely.

It took him some time to raise his head and he only noticed her when she was making her final step and stopped in front of him. He didn’t even look her in the eyes before the arm hanging at his side wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer. He drew in a hissing breath through his teeth at the motion, the cut on his bicep probably burning, but he held on to her, pressing against her body despite his injuries.

She wrapped her arms around his neck since that was pretty much the only affection she could provide without irritating any of his injuries and hurting him more. She was torn because she wanted nothing more than to offer him comfort but he needed to have his injuries checked. Every second they wasted could be vital.

She pulled away to tell him all of that but the words died in her throat when she caught his eye. He was looking at her like he was seeing her for the first time, with so much relief in his eyes that it had her weak in the knees, her hands shaking as she reached for his face.

“Valtor,” her voice was shaking as well and her eyes filled with tears when she touched his skin, cupping his cheeks gently. She had to reassure him that she was there and she was real, that he was at home, in her arms, and the only way to do that was to touch him. Even if it made him wince. It was better than the thoughts that had been running through his head, better than the pain of thinking he would never see her again. Shivers ran down her spine at the realization how bad it had been.

He ran a hand through her hair before pulling her into a kiss, his lips parting hers and his breath filling her lungs finally had her breathing. He was alive. He was safe. He’d come back to her. And that was all that mattered in the world.

“Valtor,” Belladonna’s bark was like a whiplash making them jump apart, Griffin’s insides freezing. She was standing at the other end of the corridor and yet, the chill of her presence could be felt from all the way across it. And she wasn’t even alone. Tharma and Lysslis were standing at her sides like they always were and they all looked furious. “You were supposed to come to us and report about the mission.” Frost started creeping up the floor and walls towards the two of them, making the temperature in the closed space drop quickly and significantly. Griffin was shaking again but not just from terror this time and she instinctively reached for Valtor for support even though he probably needed that more than she did.

“That’s where I was headed, mother,” Valtor’s voice was steady but still respectfully quiet and his head was bowed down as he avoided eye contact, adopting submissive attitude. He didn’t let go of her hand, though.

“And it took you forty minutes?” Belladonna asked even though she was well aware he was just coming in. If Griffin had felt the portal, there was no way the Ancestral Witches hadn’t. They just wanted to force him to admit his failure so that they could lash out at him. She’d seen them do it before. And she knew what would follow. She couldn’t let it happen. “Report. Now,” Belladonna’s tone got sharper, deadlier as the frost kept making its way through the corridor and was now close enough to bite at both of them as soon as the news of the mission left his mouth.

“He needs to go to the infirmary first, Mistress Belladonna,” Griffin cut in, keeping her head down to avoid challenging them any further than was strictly necessary and keep her courage. She was still shaking on the inside and wasn’t exactly sure how much of that was visible on the outside as well. “If there’s internal bleeding, every second could be essential.” She dared a quick glance at the direction of the ancient witches and that was enough to have her swallowing, her voice dying in her throat. If they required a reply from her now, she wouldn’t be able to give it and that would get her a punishment as well.

“But he found the time to get all romantic with you,” Tharma said, her voice seemingly controlled but the rage was burning in it steadily and insidiously and it was a good thing Griffin couldn’t talk currently because anything she said would be the wrong answer.

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Lysslis spoke, her words full of cold, soulless curiosity that was like a knife poking at their open wounds and cutting through every nerve in its way. “You’re letting her fight your battles?” The way Lysslis referred to her crushed every last bit of hope Griffin had that she and Valtor could reason with them. They’d been praising her for her strategies when she’d first joined them and won them some huge victories. But lately all she did was get frowned upon. Especially if it concerned Valtor in any way. “You can’t speak for yourself and you can’t complete missions on your own. Are you co-dependent on her now?”

“That’s not-”

“That was a rhetorical question,” Belladonna’s voice was loud enough to break the ice crust covering the corridor in pieces as she interrupted him. “She speaks out of turn to us and you come back empty-handed. The answer is crystal clear.” The cold flushed over them, making their muscles shake so hard it was impossible to keep holding hands and their teeth chattering which she was sure the Ancestral Witches could still count as disrespect and punish them for that, too. “That partnership was bad for you.”

“We’re your most successful team,” Valtor argued, looking her in the eyes, heat pulsing out of him and warming Griffin up enough to have her muscles relax. Steam filled the corridor as the frost melted off. “We’re unstoppable together.”

“You still need to be able to function as an independent asset.” Belladonna snarled, more frost creeping their way. It couldn’t reach them with the heat coming off of Valtor but that was because she wasn’t trying to reach them. She wasn’t controlling the process. It was happening subconsciously. “Yet, all we’ve gotten is proof of the opposite.”

“My mission failed because the Company of Light had sent word the king to warn him of my attack and the guard was five times what I expected.” Of course it had. The Ancestral Witches didn’t let her plan much anymore, leaving their fingerprints all over everything they touched and giving away their plans to the Company. They were a force to be reckoned with but they lacked any subtlety in their planning, relying on brute force instead of stealth and that could cost much. It’d almost cost everything today and they still hadn’t realized it. Even the might of Valtor’s Dragon Fire wasn’t enough against too many opponents. “I still defeated them all and managed to escape.” If they’d captured him… Griffin didn’t even dare think of that. The Council had no mercy against any random dark magic user that was caught doing anything they considered wrong. There was no telling what they would’ve done to him.

“You still came back empty-handed,” Tharma stepped in, the wind swirling around her feet and destroying Belladonna’s frost, making small pieces of it start spinning in the air. If they’d been any thicker, they would’ve been dangerous like glass shards. “And you dare talk back to us?” Electricity crackled around her and a lightning aimed at Valtor left her form.

“No,” Griffin summoned a magical shield that stopped the attack from reaching its aim. Valtor’s hand was immediately on her hip, squeezing warningly to snap her out of it. She couldn’t oppose them like that and she knew it. But she couldn’t let them torture him either. “If you attack him now, it will take him more time to heal and go back on the battlefield,” she tried to be logical about it which had about fifty percent chance of just angering them more.

And it looked like that was the case with Tharma who was seething, more electricity crackling around her, but she still waited for Belladonna to react first. It was Lysslis who spoke instead.

“So you’re just thinking about the Coven?” she asked, her voice soothing, lulling you into false security as she slithered in front of her sisters and ever closer. “Our little strategist,” the words finished in a resentful hiss.

Griffin knew better than to open her mouth. She just stood still, looking at Lysslis’ general direction but not into her eyes. She wasn’t suicidal.

“Very well then,” Lysslis’ praise was like a slap in the face but she stood her ground as the ancient witch stopped in front of her. “We have a mission just for you. And you’ll either come back victorious or you’d wish to never have come back at all,” the threat was quiet but impossible to miss. Especially with Lysslis’ magic plunging her directly into an illusion, making the feeling of Valtor’s touch disappear.

She was wrapped into darkness, unable to hear or see anything, before a flash of white searing agony sliced through her mind and she couldn’t even feel herself react. She could’ve screamed or fell to her knees but all her brain registered was the pain and nothing else.

“You’ll bring us what we want no matter how much blood you have to spill,” Lysslis’ voice reached her, making her misery worse. That was a part of the problem. She was trying to leave as few victims behind as possible. It was better from a strategical point of view but they were taking it as misplaced mercy. Though, any mercy would be misplaced by their standards. Even when bloodshed clearly wasn’t the answer. “Otherwise, I will personally pull your mind apart piece… by… piece…” every word echoed in her head, bouncing off the corners of her consciousness, hitting it with brutal force and leaving bruises behind.

The illusion ended as abruptly as it had begun and left her out of breath, the memories of terror and suffering fresh in her head, but at least she could feel Valtor’s hand on her again. It seemed like she hadn’t had any external reactions, for he hadn’t tried to pull her out of it. Or maybe he was just being cautious, playing along with their reign of terror. It was possible that he just didn’t have enough strength for anything left, too.

“Get him to the infirmary and then come find us to receive information about the mission,” Belladonna’s voice cut through her but she was grateful for it also cutting them lose from that confrontation. It was over.

She wrapped an arm around Valtor’s waist, relieved that it didn’t cause him pain or even discomfort, and opened another portal. He probably wouldn’t have enough strength to even walk the short distance to the infirmary. And even if he did, she had no desire to go past the Ancestral Witches who were blocking the corridor. So she focused on the map of the base in her mind and helped him into the portal, letting her anger at his mothers feed her magic. She’d finally recognized their current location. It was in the part of the base that the Ancestral Witches had to themselves and he’d been going to them to report about his mission despite the seriousness of his current state. If his return hadn’t drawn her to him, they would’ve hurt him even worse than his mission.

26 – protection

This is a continuation of the storyline from the previous prompt.

Griffin stood in front of the door she’d pushed open so many times with her hand rested over the handle and her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn’t understand her own hesitation. Over the last couple of weeks she’d only lived with the thought of that moment and now that it had arrived after countless sleepless nights and wrecking her brain without rest in order to complete one of the hardest–and most brutal–missions in her life, it was finally here and she couldn’t make herself open the door that would lead her home.

She shook her head and exhaled slowly to collect herself and banish all worries from her mind. The worst was behind her. She could breathe now. And she could see him.

She pushed the door open and walked in, her eyes immediately finding him. He was on the bed, resting, and just that sight made everything she’d been through worth it. His face had gone back to normal, all of the bruises gone, leaving just the familiar features. She couldn’t quite tell about his ribs even though they had to be almost healed by now as well.

“You shouldn’t have tried to protect me back then,” he said, halting her step and leaving her wounded in the middle of the room. After all these weeks they’d spent apart, that was the first thing he had to tell her? Something that would keep her away before she’d even managed to kiss or touch him. “You put yourself in danger.”

She stood in her place, holding his gaze. She’d done the only thing she could’ve lived with in that situation. He could reprimand her all he wanted, she wasn’t going to apologize for caring about him.

“You know the real reason why they keep us separated isn’t saving resources,” he said in a softer tone this time and extended an arm to her which she quickly took, the warmth of his skin entering her veins and spreading inside her to chase away the memories of how awful the weeks without him had been. “It’s because you don’t sleep in your own bed anymore.” Well, they’d made sure she’d have to when they’d forbidden her to see him. Not that she’d had any time to, planning carefully and doing other missions to get the Company off the trail of what she was actually after. “It’s because I laugh more.” The admission made her smile and she tried not to think about how his weeks of recovery had gone. At least his mothers had been focusing on her which must have kept them mostly off his back for the time being. “It’s because we fell in love.”

Her eyes filled with tears against her will and she leaned in to kiss him and as their lips met and the teardrops falling from her closed eyes left cool tracks on her cheeks, she was washed over with relief. She was finally back in his arms and they were unstoppable together. So she hated it when he pulled away.

“I heard your mission went well and you came back with everything they wanted,” he said as he cupped her cheek with the hand that wasn’t holding hers and she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes to enjoy it. “That’s good considering your behavior after my failed mission didn’t do you any good.”

Her eyes snapped open and she was ready to protest but he didn’t give her the chance.

“You stated that you were loyal to me and not to them loudly and clearly,” he raised his voice a little, startling her. He usually didn’t do that. “And that can be good as long as I am loyal to them but you’re still unpredictable enough to be a problem.” She would normally smile since that was something she prided herself on. It was what being a witch meant. But his expression made the heaviness in her chest return. “There are two ways this can go from here. Either they’ll put us back together as a team or…” his hand dropped from her cheek as his gaze left hers.

“Or what?” Griffin asked, her voice cold and harsh as she squeezed on his hand to draw his attention back to herself. She wanted to hear it. She wanted to be certain what awaited her if the Ancestral Witches deemed her more harmful than useful.

“Or they’ll kill you,” Valtor said, his voice quiet, causing her hand to get pulled out of his as her arm fell limply at her side. “Which is why I want you to be ready to leave,” he continued as he grabbed her shoulders, shaking her slightly to make sure she was listening. She was. She just couldn’t comprehend what she was hearing.

“Leave?” she hissed as she grabbed at his forearms, holding on for dear life. “How am I supposed to leave? They control this place. If I try to open a portal, they can just close it and I won’t be able to do anything.” Her magic wasn’t strong enough to defeat theirs. Not to mention that she didn’t want to go anywhere where he wouldn’t be. She couldn’t leave him behind. That was out of the question.

“Fairy dust can open a portal that they won’t be able to close,” Valtor said, his voice frantic and his words an absolute madness.

“Where am I supposed to get fairy dust?” Griffin cried, gripping at him tighter. It was madness. All of it. It was madness that they had to go through that because they were in love and his mothers were afraid of that. And it was madness that he wanted to send her away. How was that supposed to work out? She’d be alive but without him she wouldn’t be living. She couldn’t leave him.

“I’m certain you can find one fairy,” he held her gaze adamantly as if trying to communicate the answer to her through telepathy. Faragonda. He wanted her to reach out to Faragonda. It was a genius plan. The fairy would help her even after everything she’d done and she could count on her protection no matter what it was that she had to face. But that would mean never being with him again. “Please, Griffin,” Valtor said as if he’d read the thoughts in her head. “I need to know you’ll be safe.” His hands cupped her cheeks and she covered them with hers, soaking up the feeling of his skin on hers. It was possible she wouldn’t get to feel much more of it.

“Okay,” she nodded, tears spilling from her eyes again. But the ache in her chest was better than the thought of how much he’d hurt if he had to watch her die. He was not only willing to let her go to ensure her safety but he was also telling her to get in contact with Faragonda. It couldn’t have been easy on him and she didn’t want to make it any harder. But she still held hope that none of that would be necessary as she pulled him into a kiss.

[journeysintowebcomics]

Worm Liveblog #104

UPDATE 104: Dragon Hits Hard

Last time Skitter, Regent and Imp had managed to find Heckpuppy, who was fighting a suit that regenerated endlessly. They manage to convince her to run away, so now they’re leaving, or at least that was the plan until they stumbled upon the suit they feared a lot. How shall they face this? How is the suit even like? Let’s see.

From what I’m reading here, it seems like this Azazel suit looks more...organic than the rest of Dragon’s suits? More lifelike, so to say. The hide even gets wrinkles in the right places, and the insides are so tightly-knit it’s impossible for her bugs to do anything. This was the work of two weeks yet the rather competent team of Armsmaster—I mean, Defiant, and Dragon managed to make quite the feat!

Ah, looks like Taylor somehow deduced how that was possible!

A thought dawned on me.  It was a half-formed thought up until the moment I devoted some attention to it.  Then it clicked.  Tinkers had a knack, a specialty, be it a particular field of work or something they could do with their designs that nobody else could, and I knew Dragon’s. She could intuit and appropriate the designs of other tinkers.

Soooo what I’m understanding here is that Dragon managed to intuit and appropriate Defiant’s tinker techniques and used them to accelerate the building process so they could make the suit the Azazel suit. In that case, if they have enough resources and materials, it should be rather easy for them to make more and more suits of excellent quality. They may actually have a chance against the Slaughterhouse Nine, especially since Dragon is, well, an AI and therefore is never in direct danger. I hope to hear about how she and Defiant tries that, it should be interesting!

Skitter thinks about it all in ways that show how Dragon has been using other tinkers’ inventions, and that it was why she had joined the heroes. It not only gives her access to the Protectorate’s tinkers, she also can get her digital, most likely inexistent hands onto any villainous inventions the Protectorate confiscates. We should all be glad she’s not part of Cauldron or even remotely affiliated to them or she’d have access to even more tinkers and their skills. I can’t imagine any situation she’d accept being part of Cauldron, thank goodness.

This realization makes Skitter feel like she’s against a very invincible foe, but it’s not like they can afford to lose. Either they defeat Dragon oooor...well...then everything they worked for is useless. Coil won’t be happy about it and Dinah will be still captive. What’s more, I think the Undersiders and the Travelers would have reasons to fear for their lives, given their failure would mean Coil’s plans would vanish into nothingness. Hmmm...this isn’t something his powers could stop unless the last time he used his power was a couple weeks ago or so.

Also, the Slaughterhouse Nine’s visit was just two weeks ago. Boy does time move in mysterious ways in this story.

If I was even close to being right, then Dragon was the incarnation of why tinkers were so dangerous.

It really is. She’s feasibly the result of a tinker’s work, given she’s an AI and I doubt she materialized in a random hard drive one day, so she really is the incarnation of everything a tinker is capable of. Quite the fearsome enemy for the Undersiders.

As expected, the first thing the Azazel suit does is counter Skitter’s bugs, because by now that’s a requirement when Skitter is in a fight. How shall it be done this time?

Turns out I was wrong, the suit isn’t immediately countering the bugs. What it’s doing is use Defiant’s trademark nanomachine supercutting to set up arenas and limit the target’s movements. No word on how tall these barriers are, but I suppose they’re reasonably tall, enough for pretty much the above average villain to not be able to go over them. Skitter’s giant beetle is likely to not be around and even if it was, when it approaches the suit would take measures to squash it. It has been...what, three seconds? And Azazel already has the advantage. Figures.

That wouldn’t stop Siberian though. What technologies had I seen that they might use against her?  Or was it a technology I hadn’t seen before?  There were some ugly possibilities there.  Something long ranged that could take him out before he could get to cover?  A microscopic form of attack that could fill the air and debilitate him if he wasn’t in an airtight container?

Well it’s true these barriers won’t be effective at all against the Siberian’s form, but they sure would be very effective against the Siberian’s real body. By now I’m sure they know they have to track down the real body in order to really be able to do anything.

“Just don’t touch it,” I told her. “Not even in a joking way.  You’re likely to lose your finger or your hand before you realize something’s wrong.”

Now that I think about it...the Azazel suit wouldn’t have any compunctions about killing, no? Because it’s made to go against the Slaughterhouse Nine. Otherwise I’d consider how feasible jumping into the barrier to put yourself into mortal danger is, to stop the attack. Then again, that likely would end with the loss of a limb, a hand or something, and that’s just not worth it for a quick ‘hey gotcha’ unless you can get a quality prosthetic that’s better than the original limb.

Seems to me like the idea of putting themselves in danger did at least cross their minds. It’s ruled out precisely because of what I had said, because these machines are made to be lethal against the Slaughterhouse Nine, but they think they’re holding back anyway. Maybe because the Undersiders aren’t as big of a threat as the Slaughterhouse Nine. True, our dear villain protagonists have made quite a name for themselves but they’re dangerous to Brockton Bay, not to the entire world.

“So what do we do?”

“It’s still a machine, a well made machine, but it’s a machine.  We can break it, given an opportunity.  But our number one goal is going to be keeping it from catching us out of position and walling us in.”

I don’t think breaking it is going to be much of an option, given their shortage of offensive options other than Heckpuppy’s dogs and Shatterbird’s glass. The dogs may have a bit of a chance, but the glass...that may not. True, Shatterbird hasn’t been with the Slaughterhouse Nine for a while already, but maybe they have a counter for that already.

Their options to move the fight somewhere else are kind of limited. Thankfully, looks like they have a lot of time to discuss because the suit is doing nothing? Sure there’s a lot of conversation going on! Either way, going to the rooftops is something she’d like to avoid, as that makes it pretty difficult to get away. I think I can see the logic. At least when she’s on surface level she can have some hiding places in buildings and alleyways.

Heckpuppy’s henchmen are left behind because this will be an important fight and therefore it’ll be Undersiders only. Going in! So of course, the universe has to throw a curve ball. The suit that deploys drones is approaching. Hmmm...kind of redundant. Both Azazel and the drone suit seem to specialize in limiting the opponent’s movement. But hey, it’s still bad news.

Facing a choice about what suit to encounter first, Skitter decides Azazel is the one to face right now. They move towards it and...well...turns out maybe the suits are trying to round them up together, most likely for ease of capture. I saw that coming, really.

Drones incoming! Nanomachine barriers incoming! A potential route is open, from what I can tell I believe Skitter’s idea was to limit the suits’ movement, because she got into a dilapidated minimall. Some drones follow her and Heckpuppy, one of them reaching our dear valiant protagonist. Bam! Iii hope she has a plan because this isn’t good at all. Her suit’s going to defend her against the drone’s electricity, but any distraction or moment of weakness will be her doom.

Being in this minimall didn’t stop Azazel, though. It shone, and then barriers came out of the ground. Oh goodness, this went pear-shaped faster than I thought it would. We’re not even halfway into this chapter! She’s surrounded by Defiant’s nanomachines technology, and it’s looking pretty damn fatal to me.

Tentatively, I commanded some of the bugs out from beneath my costume.  The insulation had protected some, luck and sheer durability had saved a scant few others.  They died the second they moved more than an inch away from my body, vaporized.

So she pretty much has no space to move at all, and it was already proven these nanomachines can vaporize so much stuff. This sounds like an accident waiting to happen, doesn’t it? A wrong move can end pretty badly for anyone who moves a little too much. It doesn’t seem to me like Dragon and Defiant are in the ‘cause as little harm as possible’ mindset anymore.

There comes Azazel! Veeery slowly. It’s even taking the time to not crush stuff around, while Skitter is hanging from her hand and in danger of falling down onto vaporizing hedges. Apparently she has more faith on her own strength than I do – holding your own body weight with one or both hands is pretty tough, you know – because she’s not that worried about falling, even taking the time to test something.

“I’m going to fall!” I screamed.

I could sense Azazel lunging forward, crushing a store display as it hurried to the opening, its mouth opening. It directed a blast of superheated air at the ground, so it cut through the lowest portion of the disintegration hedge, clearing the area beneath and around me.

Oh, okay, it still intends to not cause fatal damage to the targets. Good. Still, what’s the machines’ plan here? Keep the villains trapped in one place while the PRT agents come to spray them with foam? Capture her in like a cage or something and haul her to the PRT building? Wait for Defiant to arrive? I’m not entirely sure.

Time to think of a plan. The situation doesn’t look good at all, all of her allies are busy with their own fights, thanks to the drones the other suit is throwing around. Even if any of them was free to help, what could they do? Azazel was right there, standing right above Skitter. The dogs may not think twice before lunging through the disintegrating hedges, and needless to say, that’d be very harmful for them and Heckpuppy would be outraged. It’s starting to seem to me Skitter will have to rely on herself and only on herself. How do you outwit a machine, though?

“This statement is false,” I told it.

“I’ll go with true.  There, that was easy,” Azazel replied.

Damn.  Wouldn’t be able to shut it down with paradox.  Dragon apparently had a sense of humor.  The reply sounded canned, a recitation.  Or she had a liking for popular culture I wasn’t aware of.

It would be incredibly pitiful if Dragon’s state-of-the-art suits could be defeated by a simple paradox, hah! Besides, looks like the suit is not obligated to respond to anything the captured villains say. Even if Skitter brings up a more complicated paradox Dragon maybe didn’t make a canned response for, it’s not like it’ll work or even provoke a reaction. Sooo what options are there?

Bugs are a no go, obviously. Skitter’s baton and other stuff aren’t likely to endure the disintegration effect, so batting away the branches of the hedges won’t work. Heck, even if Skitter had an EMP right now I don’t think it’d work, as I’m sure Defiant would engineer his nanotechnology in a way that protects it from EMP. As I see it, her only hope may be to attack the suit. Perhaps if the suit is defeated, the hedges will disappear or deactivate?

It’s possible the nanomachines are vulnerable to fire. Right, that’s a possibility, but as I see it, if they have a vulnerability then Defiant and Dragon must be aware of that too and therefore would have equipped Azazel with something to counter it. Maybe it has a fire extinguisher equipped, for all I know. Right now, given the situation, Skitter may have only one try before Azazel does something that’d trap her for real.

I wonder why it didn’t douse her with the containment foam? Perhaps the suit got too confident when the hedges were erected? It just seems a tad reckless to be giving your target enough space to be moving. You can’t give a parahuman enough space or time to think, that’s just tempting luck.

Skitter’s train of thought about her options is kind of like mine in that everything she has won’t work, but then she thinks of something that’d have never crossed my mind.

What other tools did I have?

My voice.

I’m not really certain where she’s going with this, I’ll say. Azazel is not required to reply and it’s not like a well-timed paradox will defeat it.

Dragon was smart.  Smart enough to write an A.I. that wouldn’t crumble to a simple issue with paradox.  But the A.I. wasn’t necessarily brilliant.  It had leaped to my defense when I’d said I was in danger.  Either it wasn’t smart enough to discern truth from a lie, or it wasn’t allowed to when a life was potentially in danger.

So Skitter plans to exploit the suit’s protocols, the ones that are supposed to keep her alive. That’s going to be difficult to do when all you have is your voice. The scenario about leaping to her defense was because there really was a very real danger. Unless Skitter plans to be saying ‘I’m touching these with my head, watch me!” while bending towards the hedges then crafting a scenario where she’s in danger will be difficult.

Regent and Imp are given the order to hide, so Skitter has the time and space to work. Outwit that machine!

Why’s Azazel programmed to talk and respond? Seems a bit superfluous for its main function. If/Once this suit defeated, the 2.0 version better not have the ability to respond!

“What if I told you that you were putting a human life in grave danger?”

“I have no reasonable cause to believe that.”

So this will work only if there’s reasonable cause. Any scenario Skitter can craft here would have to be something the suit can take a glance at and decide ‘oh that looks dangerous’. That’s going to be pretty difficult to do when you can’t even stand up.

It seems the scenario she’s making up relies on Imp having a second trigger that makes her invisible even to technology. That sounds plausible, in a theoretical frame. Judging by what happened to Grue, the second trigger augments or adds new powers that are related to the existent one. Either way, she says Imp is here, possibly brought by Trickster. Ah, that’s why she told Regent and Imp to hide.

“Imp could not be in this room. As of two minutes ago she was recorded at a distance of .4 miles away from this location.  She could not return here in that span of time unobserved.”

Alright, this scenario pretty much states in these two minutes Imp had a second trigger event, or she had one some time ago and all this time she was willfully letting herself be seen by the machines’ sensors. Seems to me like a bit of a flimsy scenario. True, second trigger events don’t necessarily require a lot of time to happen, but it’s flimsy nonetheless. Thank goodness the suit seems to be falling for it.

Imp may be right now on Azazel, Skitter says. Given Azazel’s current position, any kind of movement could make her fall onto the hedges that are underneath the suit, harming her gravely. No opening the mouth, no moving the head or a wing – that ensures Azazel shouldn’t be able to shift positions to get away from the mortal danger. Even if it had a way to stop someone on the machine, such as a force field or something, that doesn’t change that this fictional Imp could fall and die. For a scenario that was thought by the seat of her pants it sure is surprisingly solid once you ignore the flaky foundations.

“Maybe I should be more specific,” I said.  “I told them to help in general.  They might not be helping me, so it’s very possible that any other suit might be in immediate proximity to Imp.  Be careful you don’t accidentally crush her.”

I love how she’s turning her teammate into Schrodinger’s Imp. To me this seems like it’s stretching the scenario to its breaking point, as it could give the machines enough ground to take calculated risks as the probability of Imp not being in immediate proximity is much higher than the probability she is there, given the number of suits and that there’s only one Imp.

No visible reaction to this statement. Skitter is pretty damn lucky, seriously.

“Now,” I said, picking my words carefully, my pulse pounding, “I’m going to light a match and try to burn this thing away.”

‘And you better not counter it or else Imp will fall and die’, is what’s between the lines. Skitter takes out the matches and hesitates, deciding to use her bugs to make some sort of net. Very thick net. The drones that are still hovering nearby don’t react to the net that’s being formed up in the ceiling. Once the preparations are made, Skitter gets in position to run and lights up a match, getting it close to the nanomachines.

Wow, those things are really weak to fire.

The nanomachines are gone, therefore the danger of falling onto the hedges is gone too, Imp be damned. Azazel moves as fast as it can, spraying containment foam around. The drones and the suit are countered by the net Skitter made, she’s using it to hold the foam and turn it back onto the machines. She even manages to make the foam expand right on the suit’s jaws. Oh boy, when Defiant and Dragon check any recordings or datalogs about how Skitter defeated the suit...I hope their reaction is shown. Just to see what they’d think about all this. Skitter defeated the suit specifically made to defeat them and the Slaughterhouse Nine, just with her words and a net.

Skitter evades the foam and doesn’t evade a grappling hook, she’s forced to hide behind a large structure to avoid being pulled by the hook. She holds her position, hoping Azazel’s battery won’t last long enough to do much more, and soon it’s proven she’s right. Iii’m not sure I like this part about the grappling hook, but okay.

Other than opening its mouth to spray the foam and turning its head, Azazel hadn’t budged from its position.

It’s still operating under the assumption Imp may be around and therefore moving may crush her. Alright! This suit won’t be dangerous as long as you don’t get close enough to be sprayed. Either way, the suit has been defeated, pretty much. All that’s left is wait for the rest of the Undersiders and Travelers.

Everyone is now here – except Imp and Trickster, who stay hidden because if any of them is seen the deception Skitter concocted would be null. The dog that had been trapped is cut free, thankfully with zero description of the rotting meat suit it’s leaving behind. The team brags about how well they did against the suits. At least three suits were destroyed, and once Sundancer drives a small sun into the suit that uses technology that’s very flammable, that makes four destroyed suits.

Although I’m glad to see a victory, I’m not entirely certain this arc was a good idea. Dragon is a threat to the Undersiders, yeah, and here she went all out with more than half a dozen suits, yet they all managed to defeat four – at least four. Kind of makes Dragon look less like the threat she is. It’s a tad disappointing, honestly.

“We got lucky,” I said.  “What with Imp being able to force Piggot to shut them down, and the way I could exploit it’s A.I. to lock down its movements. Maybe you can make a program versatile and leave yourself open to the program using loopholes to work around any safeties you put in place.  Or you can make it heavily restricted and leave it open to vulnerabilities like what I exploited there.  I guess we’re a ways off from an A.I. being smart enough to work around those limitations.”

Makes you wonder if Dragon is a smart enough AI for that. To me she is. She even chose to cooperate with Armsmaster out of her own free will, even though it’d be, you know, cooperating with a criminal, even if he wasn’t officially indicted in a court of law. Despite her own self-imposed limitations, Dragon is a very versatile program.

“It’s a matter of time,” Regent said.

“You’re such a pessimist,” Imp retorted.

“And I’m so right.”

Damn right!

There are four suits left to defeat, and since the Azazel was one of them, the rest may be a tad easier. Everyone barely gets to leave the minimall before Skitter’s phone starts ringing, communications are back.

Tattletale: “Phones are back on.”

“Why?  Is she baiting us?  Trying to get us to reveal our positions?”

“She’s gone,” Tattletale replied. “Suits leaving the city, satellite phones are working.  Few factors at play, there.  I got word back from the Dragonslayers.  Paid them a few million bucks to tell me how they keep getting the upper hand on Dragon, tell me how she’s relaying commands to her suits.  With that, I had some squads plant C-4 and knock down cell towers. That slowed her down, cut her bandwidth, so to speak, and limited her ability to reprogram them on the fly. I’m guessing you guys took out one or more suits?”

So it’s a victory! They defeated Dragon – again! From what I’m understanding here, Dragon usually would have the ability to reprogram the suits, most likely so they’re not stopped by things like Skitter’s theoretical Imp scenario. Being unable to do that, the suits were left to their own devices, controlled only by their own AI. But yeah, once the Azazel was definitely out of commission, it was clear Dragon was at a disadvantage.

I wonder if the Slaughterhouse Nine would figure the Dragonslayers’ methods too. I don’t imagine they have a few million dollars to spare, so they’d have to figure this out by themselves. Maybe the suits do have a chance against the Slaughterhouse Nine.

“That cost the Protectorate a good chunk of cash, and it’s detracting from Dragon’s primary mission, which is the Nine.  My guess is she’s zeroing in on them.  Better to have a few suits closer to where she thinks they are than to leave them here in the city for you guys to keep breaking.  So she thinks, anyways, and the bigwigs that are footing the bill seem to agree.”

I mean, it costed you millions of dollars, Tattletale. Seems to me the big loser in this whole debacle is everyone’s wallet. Hey, maybe she can pass the bill to Coil and say it was a necessary expense. Better for this to be his money spent than the Undersiders’ money, haha! Besides, I’d say the humiliation of having so many suits so soundly defeated without any losses on the Undersiders or Travelers’ part is even more important. How can the heroes really consider themselves on top when things went like this? Say, what was it Piggot had said?

“The Azazel.  Note that there’s no version number.  It’s a fresh design, crafted to go up against the Nine and put up a serious fight.  The first truly original suit she’s made in four years, and I assure you that Dragon has advanced her skills in that timeframe.  If that isn’t enough of a pedigree, the Azazel was created by Dragon working in tandem with her new partner, a fellow tinker.”

Armsmaster.

She saw the reaction from us, smiled a little.

“Yes.  A new partner.  It was his suggestion that we park the suits here when they aren’t needed.  And even though I know he’s a new cape, nobody you’d know, certainly nobody who’d have a grudge,” she smirked a little, “I think it’s a safe bet to say he had you in mind when he was building it.”

After saying something like that Piggot and Defiant sure have some serious egg on their faces. Piggot had seemed so confident about the Azazel and about how it’d put up a serious fight against the Undersiders. I mean...technically it did, it very much did! But then it was defeated with the power of theoretical scenarios. I really doubt that was how Piggot or Defiant imagined the best suit of the lot would be defeated.

Things are actually looking up! The Pure is gone, Faultline’s crew – oh, right, they exist on the sidelines – are not here either, and the heroes were walloped once again without even being able to give much of a fight, except for Dragon. No matter how you look at this, this is a victory. The only enemy group that’s around is Hookwolf’s group, no? Fenrir’s Chosen. Although...given Hookwolf isn’t with them anymore, maybe they’re not that much of a threat anymore.

Coil better give them a nice bonus for all of today’s work, by the way! Without Dinah to give the probabilities, he must have been rather uncertain about the optimal strategy to accomplish this. Show some gratitude, Coil!

Tattletale is saying it’ll be a while before Dragon strikes again, and next time she’ll do it only because she’s certain she can win. Oh, goodness, just what the future needed: Dragon being a bigger threat. I hope so, at least. That’d be fun.

So, with this, Brockton Bay is now under Coil’s control. This is just Monarch 5, though. It’s still kind of early to close this arc. There must be enough fuel for one or two chapters more, lately the arcs haven’t been as short as just five chapters. Perhaps the heroes have a last final move?

Either way, Coil gives orders: everyone shall take days off and won’t be wearing their costumes. Aw, damn, that’s going to make it difficult to deal with everything in Skitter’s territory. She can’t go in there without her costume and start giving orders around. Charlotte is the only one who knows who Skitter is, if I recall correctly. I guess Skitter could give orders via phone, but it’s just not the same than Skitter and her swarms walking around the neighborhood, doing some restoration work.

“We’ll talk later,” she said. “Gonna go see if I can get more details on what happened.  Betting someone blew their top when they realized you guys demolished two of those suits.”

Speaking of someone blowing their top, what happened to Piggot? They didn’t leave her to wander the ruined alleyways and return home all by herself on foot and with handcuffs and a gag, did they? As if things weren’t humiliating enough for her with this defeat.

We’d won.  We’d cost the PRT too much in resources, pride and money, and they’d apparently decided it wasn’t worth their time to uproot us.  I hated the bureaucracy, the fucked up mindset of the institutions, but it was clearly working in our favor here, at least.

You know what would be even more humiliating? If, under the villains’ rule, Brockton Bay really recovers noticeably and at a faster pace than it was doing under the heroes’ benevolent watch. It sure would make them look ineffective, maybe even uncaring about the civilians’ plight. It’s already pretty good they drove out groups that had no concern other than their own profit and survival, so now Brockton Bay is under the benevolent care of the Undersiders and the Travelers.

Which in theory isn’t really that good of a situation. I’m sure for the majority of the population it’d be real hard to think of the situation as ‘their benevolent care’, given they’re dangerous villains.

Besides, Coil is still a threat. He says he’ll make the city work well and prosper, but I sure don’t trust Coil as far as I can throw him. I really can’t say if his presence is good for anyone.

So, this is the end of the chapter. Nice! Let’s stop here for now.

Next time: in three updates

[preserving-ferretbrain]

The Precise Moment I Stopping Reading City of Bones

by Wardog

Wednesday, 24 September 2008

Wardog is probably a bit patronising.~

Like all inflexible people, I like to think of myself as being relatively open-minded and, therefore, in the spirit of open-mindedness I recently got round to reading (or rather attempting to read) Cassandra Clare's City of Bones. I wanted to like it, no really, I genuinely did. Cassandra Clare, for all those who have been living under an internet stone, is a pseudonym of a pseudonym, but Cassandra Cla(i)re, back in the day, wrote fanfic, the very popular Very Secret Diaries and The Draco Trilogy, which seems to be no longer available on the internet at the request of its author (interesting that, hmm?). Well, when I say no longer available on the internet, what I mean is ... not available unless you spend about five minutes looking, which I might have just done. For the record, said trilogy is beautifully decorated with anime-style Draco Malfoys and black roses. Awww. She also has a hefty set of pages over at the Fandom Wank Wiki (trust me, if anything needs a wiki, it is fandom wank), which are suitably, painfully entertaining in a "for what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?" kind of way.

Anyway, background cheapshots and raised plagiarism eyebrows aside, I really have no strong opinions on either fandom or Cassandra Cla(i)re, but I quite liked the idea that a popular, moderately competent fanfic writer managed to break into the publishing world. Fanfic is a difficult beast to comprehend unless you're right there in its mouth but, as far as I see it (and, bear in mind, if you do write fanfic this is probably going to sound like the simplistic flailings of an outsider), there are three possible attitudes, or at the very least a spectrum with some definable stopping points on it:

1) Fanfic is art, man, art and there is ultimately no difference between If You Are Prepared and Bleak House. They're both pretty damn long for starters.

2) Fanfic is like original fiction but not as good, and is basically written by people who can't get their own stuff published

3) Fanfic is entirely different from original fiction

Since the first one is clearly non-viable, and the second is actively rude, I subscribe to the third. Writing for fans and writing for publication is vastly different, and to assume that the one aspires to the other is rather to miss the point (and, arguably, the pleasures) of fanfic. Even so, I would have thought the gulf between fanfic and original fiction to be eminently jumpable. I mean, the ability to string a decent sentence together is a transferable skill, right. Right? Well, evidently not. To be fair, my problems with City of Bones a are not about the sentences (although they are of questionable quality), they goes rather deeper than that.

The truth is I actually couldn't read the damn book. I had to give up. It's not that it was, y'know, bad as such, although it occasionally was, it just didn't - to my mind at least - make the leap from fanfic to original fiction at all successfully. I know attempting to draw a distinction between fanfic and original writing is likely to get me shot at dawn but it's the only hope I have of articulating why City of Bones just doesn't work.

As far as I could tell from the sliver I read, City of Bones is young adult urban fantasy. The heroine, Clary Fray, (and let's not even ask why an author who calls herself Cassandra Clare decided to call her heroine Clary) is exactly the sort of spunky young thing you would expect of a modern heroine. She's out at a nightclub with her best friend Simon when she happens to witness a supernatural murder. Demons yadda yadda vampires yadda yadda Shadowhunters yadda yadda sardonic attractive blonde yadda yadda yadda wise old mentor with bird yadda yadda. Look, truthfully, I don't really have any idea what the plot is because I only made it to page 63.

And this is the exact moment when I snapped.

"In the distance she could hear a faint and delicate noise, like wind chimes shaken by a storm. She set off down the corridor slowly, trailing a hand along the wall. The Victorian-looking wallpaper was faded with age, burgundy and pale grey. Each side of the corridor was lined with closed doors. The sound she was following grew louder. Now she could identify it as the sound of a piano being played with desultory but undeniable skill, though she couldn't identify the tune. Turning the corner, she came to a doorway, the door propped fully open. Peering in she saw what was clearly a music room. A grand piano stood in one corner, and rows of chairs were arranged against the far wall. A covered harp occupied the centre of the room. Jace was seated at the grand piano, his slender hands moving rapidly over the keys. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, his tawny hair ruffled up around his head as if he'd just woken up. Watching the quick, sure movements of his hands across the keys, Clary remembered how it had felt to be lifted up by those hands, his hands holding her up and the stars hurtling down around her head like a rain of silver tinsel."

Let's skim all over the things that are awkward about this passage ... wind chimes only make sounds when they're stirred and piano music doesn't sound like that anyway ... how can wallpaper be faded with burgundy ... can a skill be desultory but undeniable ... why does it have to "clearly" be a music room, surely it is just is one ... how many times can you say "hands" in one sentence ... how does she know he's barefoot, he's playing the bloody piano ... and what the fuck is with the rain of silver tinsel...

But, yes, skim all that and riddle me this:

Wouldn't that whole scene be so much better if it turned out be Draco Malfoy sitting at the grand piano?

There's a technical name for what's wrong with this passage. In the industry we call it "blowing your load prematurely" (question is, what industry). Seriously, though, we're on page 63, we've spent all of 20 of them in the company of this character (and, let's face it, he's a pretty, sardonic, wise-cracking faintly angsty type very reminiscent of Cla(i)re's take on a certain slytherin): why the fuck should we be even remotely interested in the sight of him at a grand piano? It's a very senses-heavy scene: we have the sound distant music, the wallpaper beneath Clary's fingertips, and the lovingly detailed description of the ruffle-haired eyecandy sitting at the piano, so there's this self-conscious build up, deliberately (albeit not entirely eptly) evoking something of the fairytale, and what's the pay off? Up until this point the tawny-haired Jace has been a rude and snippy, so it's clear that this little scene is meant to show us a different side of him but character revelation scenes only function when you know the character well enough to experience it as a revelation. This is just ... information, excessively presented. It's like being hit over the head with a neon sign saying: "you should fancy this character now." And for the record, he's a demon hunter, not a concert pianist so there really is no reason to have that scene there except as drool-footage.

Possibly I'd feel differently if I was a teenage girl but I hope I'd have more taste.

What the scene did for me, aside from inducing me to throw the book across the room in disgust, was exemplify the subtle sense of wrongness I'd been getting throughout the previous 62 pages. Essentially City of Bones reads like fanfic - and I don't mean that as kneejerk indicator of poor quality, I mean that it reads like something constructed for a different purpose, functioning on a different ruleset. Leaving aside any criticisms of the actual style, this scene would probably work - for me - if I read it as fanfic. It's visually and linguistically striking - the juxtaposition of scruffy boy and fine old instrument (sorry), the hint at aspects of a character hitherto unknown, the touch of submerged melancholia (playing the grand piano to an empty room is a lonely hobby), all this would be fine if the mysterious pianist turned out to Draco. I mean, playing the grand piano is one of the things that one could potentially imagine Draco being able to do. Well, if you stopped and thought about it for a moment, probably not, because surely wizards have ... like ... magical pianos, or house elves to produce their music for them. But given that Draco is a repressively raised posh kid, it seems to me at least credible his parents made him have piano lessons, even if he hated it. And Draco, being the wizarding equivalent of genetically modified, would probably be reasonably good at it regardless.

I truthfully have no idea what it is that makes fanfic work but it seems to me to have something to do with potential plausibility. Scenes of certain characters doing things they never explicitly did in the books (even if this is fucking each other) resonate with you because it feels both novel and familiar - to continue the musical theme, if I presented you with Remus Lupin playing the electric guitar you might raise an eyebrow because he's far too bookish and quiet, but it would totally suit Sirius Black for example. Or even James Sodding Potter. And such scenes require no build-up because the reader already knows the characters being written about. Equally, dwelling on the details, and presenting very visual, senusous scenes, seems less purple than it does when you do it in original fiction because it helps to establish a familiar character in what may be an unfamiliar setting: for what's it worth, I can picture Draco Malfoy playing the grand piano very vividly. Pale hair, slender fingers, whatever. Fan fiction, even if you're looking at a 100,000 word AU fic, seems to be all about the establishment of moments, which need not necessarily (and probably don't) exist as part of a continuum of moments.

This is absolutely the opposite to a book.

The scene of Jace/grand piano has utterly no resonance for the reader because, well, partly because it's rubbish and partly because no time has been given to properly establishing the character so it's essentially meaningless, but mainly because it has no real sense of its place in a connected, developing narrative. Although the 63 pages I read did occasionally have moments of genuine mediocrity that made me suspect I should try to be more generous with the text, the whole reading experience felt so ultimately hollow I couldn't bring put myself through it. There's nothing inherently wrong with something reading like fanfic - fanfic reads like fanfic and I quite enjoy the stuff - but City of Bones is a work of original fiction, it's a book that I paid real money for (more fool me) In essence, then, it's original fiction without the necessary underpinnings, and fanfic without any of the characters you like. Worst of all possible worlds.

Comments:

Dan H

at 12:57 on 2008-09-25So I've started reading it now, to pick up where Kyra left off (nearly at good old Page 63).

I actually don't think it reads that much like fanfic (at least not like *good* fanfic). There's way too much exposition (fanfic tends to assume that everybody knows what's going on) including some truly wonderful scenes with people actually saying things like "surely you recognise a girl, your sister, Isabelle, is one" (Isabelle, it should be pointed out, is *right fucking there*).

Favourite line so far: "Her hair was almost precisely the colour of black ink".

What colour would that be, exactly? Black, perhaps?

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Arthur B

at 15:32 on 2008-09-25It strikes me, actually, that while most of us have a good idea of what "bad" fanfic is like, good fanfic must by its nature vary widely in style, because at least part of the point of fanfic is to produce something that is reminiscent of the source material, so good Lovecraft fanfic will read different from good Firefly fanfic, or good Pratchett fanfic.

(Which would mean that, say, "good" Cecilia Dart-Thornton fanfic is a contradiction in terms: if it's good, it's no longer reminiscent of the source material.)

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Dan H

at 18:38 on 2008-09-25I think Lovecraft fanfic is a special case actually, because it borrows Lovecraft's ideas rather than his characters. Lovecraft fanfic (and, to borrow Arthur's term, peerfic) is all about eldrich horrors from beyond the void, it's not like anybody writes Herbert West/Charles Dexter Ward slash.

Actually they probably do.

By contrast, I actually think with most fanfic the style is fairly consistent between fandoms (although I admit to limited experience here). Part of Cassandra Cla(i)re's big plagarism debacle, indeed, was the fact that she regularly borrowed lines from Buffy for her Draco fics.

In further updates on City of Bones I've now got past the point reached by our intrepid editor and have the following to add:

Holy Crap the wise old mentor dude is a lot like Dumbledore. There's a bit where he asks the heroine if she wants anything and I *totally* expected him to offer her a sherbet lemon. And if you don't read "Muggle" for "Mundie" every time you're a better man than I am.

Also, some exposition from earlier in the book which I found particularly awful:

"Demons," drawled the blond boy, tracing the word on the air with his finger, Religiously defined as hell's denizens, the servants of Satan, but understood here, for the purposes of the Clave, as any malevolent spirit whose origin is outside our own home dimension."

"That's enough, Jace" said the girl.

"Isabelle's right," agreed the taller boy, "nobody here needs a lesson in semantics - or demonology."

As you know, I *almost* applaud the bare faced cheek of it.

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Arthur B

at 00:38 on 2008-09-26

I think Lovecraft fanfic is a special case actually, because it borrows Lovecraft's ideas rather than his characters. Lovecraft fanfic (and, to borrow Arthur's term, peerfic) is all about eldrich horrors from beyond the void, it's not like anybody writes Herbert West/Charles Dexter Ward slash.

To be fair, there aren't that many recurring characters in Lovecraftian fiction except for the Old Ones themselves, who get reused all the time. And I've lost count of the number of times I've read stories about long-lost offshoots of the Whateley clan or where yet another dozy protagonist realises they come from Innsmouth stock.

I agree, though, that the Lovecraft-tribute scene is pretty unique; I expect this is partly because Lovecraft was one of the first authors who genuinely encouraged people to write stories set in his mythology, to the point of sending them detailed letters showing them how to boost their fanfic to peerfic. Having essentially established the core of his own fandom before he died, that core went on to set the norms for Lovecraft tribute works forevermore.

By contrast, I actually think with most fanfic the style is fairly consistent between fandoms (although I admit to limited experience here). Part of Cassandra Cla(i)re's big plagarism debacle, indeed, was the fact that she regularly borrowed lines from Buffy for her Draco fics.

I would suggest that this may be the result of people writing to indulge the sort of mores that have grown up around fandom-in-general, as opposed to writing to emulate the original work.

Which might explain why City of Bones exists. Once you don't care what the background to what you're reading is, so long as it has shipping and mary sues and whatnot, it becomes easier to accept the idea of fanfic-like work which is fanfic of nothing in particular - nothing, that is, except fanfic itself.

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Montavilla

at 01:55 on 2008-09-28

I truthfully have no idea what it is that makes fanfic work but it seems to me to have something to do with potential plausibility. Scenes of certain characters doing things they never explicitly did in the books (even if this is fucking each other) resonate with you because it feels both novel and familiar - to continue the musical theme, if I presented you with Remus Lupin playing the electric guitar you might raise an eyebrow because he's far too bookish and quiet, but it would totally suit Sirius Black for example. Or even James Sodding Potter.

Sadly, you made me immediately start wondering what Remus would play in James Potter and the Silver Marauders band. He might, ala George Harrison, play lead guitar. (Sirius would be play rhythm guitar and James would play the bass). Peter, of course, would be on drums. Which might explain why they put up with him all that time. It's hard to find someone who's got their own drum set.

Favourite line so far: "Her hair was almost precisely the colour of black ink". What colour would that be, exactly? Black, perhaps?

To be fair, comparing hair to ink is a difficult image these days because we only really see ink in the stems of our ballpoint pens. Perhaps it might have been better to say, "Her hair was almost precisely the color of laser toner. In a really old printer. You know. The black-and-white kind."

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Dan H

at 12:18 on 2008-09-28

To be fair, comparing hair to ink is a difficult image these days because we only really see ink in the stems of our ballpoint pens. Perhaps it might have been better to say, "Her hair was almost precisely the color of laser toner. In a really old printer. You know. The black-and-white kind."

Hee hee.

In all seriousness, though, it's not the comparison to ink that bugged me, it just strikes me as elementary that if you're saying "X was the colour of Y" then unless you're doing a Blackadder style joke "Y" should not include reference to a specific colour. "Her hair was black as ink" "her hair was black, like ink" "her hair was ink-black" would all have been fine. So for that matter would be "her hair was like black ink". "Hair the colour of black ink" is like something out of the Bulwer-Lytton contest: "Her hair was the colour of black ink, her eyes the colour of a blue crayon, and her dress the colour of a dress made out of red silk."

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Wardog

at 14:16 on 2008-09-29

Since we're playing Favourite Lines, my personal shoutout goes to: "He had electric blue dyed hair that stuck up around his head like the tendrils of a startled octopus..." I guess it's just the awkwardness of the construction coupled with that startled octopus...

Arthur: I would suggest that this may be the result of people writing to indulge the sort of mores that have grown up around fandom-in-general, as opposed to writing to emulate the original work.

I'm not sure emulating the original work has ever real been the goal, well, not unless there's specific stylistic feature *to* emulate if that makes sense - like Lovecraft. I mean, you want to make your characters sound like the characters they are but ... well ... to indulge a bit of JKR bashing just because that's what we do here, most of the Harry Potter stuff I've read has been stylistically objectively better than the author.

"Her hair was almost precisely the color of laser toner. In a really old printer. You know. The black-and-white kind."

Hehe!!!

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Arthur B

at 15:47 on 2008-09-29

I think direct stylistic mimicing is, as you point out, actually rare, especially since a lot of fanfic is written about TV series, so you're translating a visual format into a literary one. But at the same time I think that the aim of a lot of fanfic is to emulate the source work in the sense that the writer's trying to tell a story that is a) reminiscent of the source material, in that it establishes a mood and tells a story which could recognisably fit within the source, and b) features the characters behaving in a manner recognisable from the source (unless the explicit point of the fic is something like "What if Captain Lolcats got possessed by a brain worm?"). At the very least, a lot of fanfic authors seem to want to produce something where the reader would look at it and say "Yes, that's very much how it would have happened on my favourite show if the screenwriters had only had the courage to write an episode where the ship's doctor and the robot owl consummate their love".

I say "a lot of fanfic" because I've seen the occasional piece (generally AU fics) where the premise is so utterly far removed from the source material that I start scratching my head and wondering why the author bothered retaining the link to the source material in the first place. Sure, perhaps the characters retain scraps of their personality, but they're in such an utterly different scenario it becomes a stretch to call them the same characters; to my mind, at least, characters are at least partially defined by context. Being a cheeky black marketeer on Deep Space 9 is a very different proposition from being a cheeky black marketeer in Blitz-era London.

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Wardog

at 16:01 on 2008-09-29

We are now mainly haggling over semantics, dear boy.

So instead I would like to play the "Her hair was" game.

I submit: Her hair was almost precisely the colour of one of those motorola telephones, the ones with that come with a gloss finish not matte."

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Claire E Fitzgerald

at 16:32 on 2008-09-29

Her hair was almost precisely the colour of a grey cat in a room that was totally dark, such that the colour of the cat was indistinguishable from black.

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Arthur B

at 16:59 on 2008-09-29

Her hair was the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel.

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Wardog

at 21:20 on 2008-09-29

Oi! Minus three points from Slytherin for being meta.

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Arthur B

at 00:26 on 2008-09-30

“Minus three hundred points for turning the comments section into Harry Potter fanfiction," muttered Harry, glowering at his Nintendo DS. He was pretty sure he was on the right track in this Phoenix Wright episode, but the game was being evasive about precisely which investigative avenue he should pursue. Harry was not looking forward to the half hour he'd have to spend looking for the plot, but he supposed he couldn't complain: he normally had to doss about for half a year before getting anything done in real life.

"How's my hair looking?" asked Ron, anxious about his big date with Hermione. He had spent the last six hours smearing his skin with Hackiburr's Very Useful Ointment in order to conceal the telltale marks of gingerness, and was now in the process of rubbing the stuff into his scalp. Harry glanced at his bare-torsoed chum and then returned his attention to his game.

"Your hair is all carroty," quipped Harry, "like someone was just sick in it."

Draco giggled and ran his hands through his hair, which was bright yellow like artificial egg yolk.

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Rami

at 12:17 on 2008-09-30

I think these are still worse, but you're getting there ;-)

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Guy

at 04:26 on 2009-07-24

Her hair was almost precisely the colour of light with a frequency of 590 nm and a wavelength of 526 THz, and as she moved the angle of its inclination to her scalp seemed to undulate with a regularity that spoke softly to his soul.

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Rami

at 04:41 on 2009-07-24

a frequency of 590 nm and a wavelength of 526 THz

I think you got the wavelength and frequency swapped around ;-)

A redhead, eh? Why is it that female protagonists never seem to have violently ginger hair?

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Guy

at 08:34 on 2009-07-24

Oops, so I did. I could pretend that it was a deliberate attempt to further enhance the awfulness of the sentence, but no, I just muddled it up. :)

It would be kind of interesting to see some kind of frequency histogram of female (and male) protagonists and the wavelengths of their hair colours... but I suspect nobody would be mad enough to actually do the work to make such a thing.

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Michal

at 05:29 on 2011-09-29

And I only stumbled on this when I found out Cassandra Clare will be one of the instructors at the 2012 Clarion Writer's Workshop.

Suffice to say, I won't be applying. (Jesus Christ guys, you had Neil Gaiman and Ellen Kushner and Particia C. Wrede and Gene fucking Wolfe as instructors and now you've had budget cuts or what?)

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Arthur B

at 11:25 on 2011-09-29

Well they also had Orson Scott Card.

I guess it's like Hogwarts. Not everyone can be a Griffindor or a Ravenclaw. They also have to recruit Slytherins (Card) and Hufflepuffs (Clare).

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Michal

at 13:30 on 2012-11-18

There's a movie now.

I think I caught a half-second glimpse of Henry VIII at one point.

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Arthur B

at 14:05 on 2012-11-18

Urgh, they actually say "mundanes".

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Ibmiller

at 15:05 on 2012-11-19

It's like they learned nothing from Golden Compass...

Also, are they deliberately trying to recreate the "awkward teen significantly older British actor" Twilight vibe?

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Wardog

at 15:36 on 2012-11-19

Oh no, that's Jamie Campbell-Bower. Officially the drippiest boy in Hollywood.

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Arthur B

at 15:44 on 2012-11-19

Also, are they deliberately trying to recreate the "awkward teen significantly older British actor" Twilight vibe?

I suspect they are going to mimic Twilight/Potter as closely as copyright will allow. It's got that "clinging to the underbelly of the bandwagon and trying to scrape as much gold as you can out of it" look. (Of course, this is likely to lead to jibbering incoherence due to Potter and Twilight being two different bandwagons...)

The extent to which Blonde Love Interest looks like a reject from the Draco Malfoy auditions is hilarious.

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Fishing in the Mud

at 16:51 on 2012-11-19

The extent to which Blonde Love Interest looks like a reject from the Draco Malfoy auditions is hilarious.

Hey, at least they got that right.

[moczothe1st]

Let’s Play Fire Emblem IV: Genealogy of the Holy War, Part 10: Yarrrrrrrr!

Part 9

Welcome back to FEIV! I was originally not planning to update this week, since my appendix ruptured last weekend and that’s actually pretty incredibly awful to experience. I figured I earned a week off. However, I did not consider one thing: when you’re basically required to keep yourself in bed for 90% of the day, you have a lot of time to kill. After the first four or so days of pain and eating very little, I started playing Genealogy because frankly why not. I did have to wait until I got off the IV, mind you, because industrial painkillers and strategy do not mix. Not unless you want to get all your units beaten to death by pirates.

Speaking of.

I feel like I should just point out that last week they were worried about me coming up north to attack ­them, and yet they willingly start a fight here, even opening up a bridge for me to reach them.

Given that our army has, at this point, defeated two entire countries, I think we can handle a bunch of pissed-off sailors, thanks. Though the first members of the group actually take their shots by going northwest after Bridget.

This exact same battle happens three more times. Bridget is awesome.

The rest of the pirates do go South, but Dew is holding the bridge and they literally can’t hit him. They’re axe men and his dodging is amazing. So they don’t even try, just walk to him and stop.

Sometimes smart AI is really annoying. When our phase starts up, some familiar faces come with it.

Taillte: Just look around! There’ll be pirates all over us if we don’t get moving!

Claude: Be at peace, Taillte. This was quite the fruitful journey! Lord Bragi has answered my prayers and revealed to me the truth. It is precisely as I had thought. Not to mention, I even found House Edda’s long-lost sacred heirloom within the tower: the staff of Valkyria.

Taillte: What, that grubby little cane?

Claude: … Taillte, please. Try to mind your manners. This is a legendary magical staff with the power to restore life to the deceased. It is usable by only the direct descendants of Saint Bragi. That is to say, me alone.

Taillte: Huh. So what you’re saying is, with this rod you could bring my sweet old grandma back to life?

Claude: Alas, most likely not. Valkyria is limited in many particular ways, and so cannot be used on just any lost soul. You see, all mankind is born bearing a life force called quintessence, which-

Taillte: Yaaaaawn… er, what’s that? You lost me. Why are you still talking about this anyway? We’ve gotta get outta here!

Well. This will be interesting, at least. Now, before we show off our new characters, there is a conversation to be held. Ethlyn, you haven’t made me angry in awhile: take it away!

Ethlyn: Here. Take this.

Quan: A spear? …. What?! I-isn’t this Gae Bolg?! Why do you-

(Yes, Ethlyn. Why do you.)

Ethlyn: Your lord father entrusted it to me, Quan. He thought it prudent for you to have it at hand in case our battles grew too fierce.

Quan: Even just holding it, I’ve never felt so strong! Why did you wait until now, though?

(YES, ETHLYN. WHY DID YOU?)

Ethlyn: With the spear, your lord father also passed onto me its tale… I’m so sorry…

Quan: … Ah. Gae Bolg bears the baggage of a truly sad legend. But that is all it is: a legend.

Ethlyn: But-

Quan: Ethlyn, trust me. Triumph is within our grasp this day. I’ll not fall victim to an old myth. I’ll not let it stop me from returning home. Our dear little Altena still awaits us, and I’ll not allow some fairy tale to disappoint her.

Ethlyn: Yes… Quan, no matter what happens… we’ll never lose each other. Right?

Quan: Ah, you’re concerned about Deirdre, aren’t you? There’s nothing to worry about. It won’t be long until we find her.

Ethlyn: Yes…. I want to believe she’ll be okay, too. I wish I could. But…

Quan: Ethlyn? Come now, dry your tears. Do you truly feel so bad about this?

(… Okay, I’m still angry at Ethlyn over her withholding the Omni-Spear from me the whole game, but she kind of has a point here. Her sister-in-law has vanished. It would be kind of weird if she wasn’t worried, Quan.)

Ethlyn: Yes… knowing th-that Sigurd and Deirdre may never meet again… they love each other so much… why, Quan? Why did this happen to them?!

Quan: Ethlyn…

Deep breath

Okay, let’s look at our new stuff. Simplest first.

Quan now has the Gae Bolg, his Holy Weapon, like Eldigan’s Mystletain and Claude’s above-mentioned Valkyria. It gives him +10 boosts to Strength, Skill, and Defense while holding it; he was already a nigh-unbreakable juggernaut, so take that ‘nigh’ off and you get the idea. It also does ten more points of damage per shot than the Silver Lance even without the strength boost, while weighing only slightly more.

So. You know.

THANKS FOR KEEPING THAT IN YOUR POCKET THIS WHOLE TIME, ETHLYN. YOU BITCH.

Now, the new characters.

Claude of Edda is basically Aideen: Part 2. Same class, similar growths; his Major Bragi Blood (+20% HP growth, +20% Magic Growth, +20% Luck growth, +40% Resistance growth) push his in a better direction for their class, but she’s leveled up so great she’s basically his equal anyway, and he has fewer levels left than her to take advantage of them. He’s also promoted, so he can use offensive magic in addition to staves… but he didn’t bring any, so that’s not much of a comfort.

And his gear at the moment is just plain not great for the situation, i.e. alone with a teenager fighting pirates. The Fortify Staff is the best healing staff in the game, giving a huge amount of health back to not a specific target, but to everyvunit within 10 spaces of Claude. Amazing… but it only has ten charges. The Valkyria staff, meanwhile, is basically a one-use get out of jail free card if someone dies: Claude can use it in the main castle to revive them, at which point it will break and require a stupid amount of money to repair for one more use. So it’s nice to have as a fallback, but if you rely on it you’re going to end up bankrupting yourself in short order.

Taillte is… a unique character. On paper, she’s quite good; her growths are solid, bolstered by Minor Tordo holy blood (+20% HP, +30% skill). She can only use Thunder magic, but that’s okay, because it’s the second-best kind of magic and she can use it up to A-rank, and even comes with the A-rank Thoron tome, meaning she joins us with the equivalent of a Silver weapon in her chosen weaponry class. And she also has a very nice personal skill, Wrath, which turns all her attacks into guaranteed criticals if her health is below half, basically taking her already ‘glass cannon’ status and allowing her to upgrade to a much bigger cannon if she’s willing to take some extra glass on board. And her stats are quite good for her level!

Which is to say, for level 3. When the rest of the army is in their late teens at the lowest.

So, we clearly need to get someone over there to help those two, because Taillte is most definitely not going to be able to hold off all the pirates in her area alone, and Claude can only heal her ten times. But whooooo is nearby to go saaaaaave them?

sniff

Oh, Bridget you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, Hey Bridget. She’s also a little underleveled, being only 12, but she’s a pre-promote like Sigurd so if anything her stats are a little higher than most of the army; in particular, she actually has the third highest Strength stat of anyone in the army, after Quan and Lex. And a low level actually gives her more levels to gain bolstered by her Major Ullur Blood (+40% HP, +60% luck). She’s gonna be surprisingly durable for an archer class, with luck making her dodgy and plenty of hit points, on top of Strength, Speed, and Skill which are already enough to carry her the whole game. The only skill she has is Pursuit, but if you’ve been paying attention that’s the most important one for an offensive unit to have anyway, soooooo.

Let’s do this shit.

Bridget immediately begins moving west along the peninsula towards Taillte and Claude, who move toward the pirates around them to start working on things. Neither is, unfortunately, close enough to any enemies to make an attack… well, Bridget is, but she can’t run and shoot at the same time, and even the best Archer of all time can’t fight at melee. If she gets surrounded, even she’ll be in trouble. Everyone else, in turn, begins to move towards the units holding the bridge, while they themselves defend with all they’ve got.

Yeah, no, the bridge is going to fall. Horribly. The Orgahil pirates are so pitiful in comparison to Agustria that we might as well ignore them and go knit. The rest of the level is going to be entirely about Taillte and Claude’s survival. End turn!

Continues knitting

And over with Claude, Taillte takes a single hit, but survives. This leaves her in a somewhat dangerous situation because she’s fragile and will die at any slight brush now, but Wrath is now enabled and she one-shots her attacker in reply.

The rest of the pirates in her area are out at sea and will be coming ashore slowly, letting her engage them one at a time on her own terms, so. Picture that sequence of the Death Star getting ready to fire, and you have an idea what I’m about to do with Taillte. Bridget continues to move toward them as well, the edge of her movement range leaving an enemy in her sights.

Get used to screens like this.

For the bridge team, I actually don’t do any fighting this turn, because Dew is a perfect blocker, and he isn’t going to take a shot at anyone. Rather: Aideen is broke and his money is maxed, so he can’t rob any of these guys! I have her move forward to stand next to him reassuringly, and he in turn gives her 49,000 gold. I wish I had more friends like Dew.

Much better. Killing off all these idiots would have cost me so much money if I hadn’t done that. Dew will likely be right back to max money by the end of the map. The pirates, in addition, can move very slowly on water squares and some of them do go around Dew to reach other units.

Their next of kin will be reminded of the dangers of swimming. On our turn, it’s mostly movement. Quan and Ethlyn move toward our home castle, everyone else moves toward these dorks again. The dorks in question, mind you, are doing very well. I actually have Lewyn run back towards a castle because I don’t need him to hold these dorks, and his Elwind is about to break from overkilling. Instead, Jamke moves up to take a shot in his place.

For the pirates, this is kind of like saying ‘I send the killer bear home because his stomach is full, and replace him with the killer lion.’ Dew moves forward, continues robbing shit, and levels.

You know, he needs defense so badly I will take this. I have Ayra move up to back him up and soften the newly poor pirate up with her weaker Bolt Sword…

… and of course she uses Astra and kills it. I would have really liked Dew to get more kills, Ayra, he’s about to promote. Please try to be caring of me. Taillte also reaches her first victim.

“You may fire when ready, Commander.” End turn!

Dew… took a hit. From these idiots. How… why! You little jackass, your ability to make me money and your ability to dodge are your only good points right now! You better proc Sol next turn and get some of that health back, quicksmart, or I will be furious. More furious.

I also almost lose Taillte because I didn’t realize she was in range of the enemy, but unlike SOME PEOPLE she pulls off the dodge and destroys her enemy with extreme prejudice, gaining her first level. Not great, but she at least got Speed and since she certainly can’t take a hit, making her better at avoiding them is helpful.

Our turn takes over and Bridget continues to run towards the Dynamic Duo, her rage steadily building. Dew and Ayra team up to take out the first pirate in line…

And since I’m bored, I have Holyn run into this new empty space in the line and smack the guy behind it.

sigh

Holyn, I’m taking a fucking risk by putting you on the front lines. You could at least try. But on the bright side, this does open another new spot in the line for Jamke to move up and take a shot at the enemy commander.

Okay. Teach. Jamke, you ready to learn?

Yup, Jamke has totally learned fear.

Jamke also gets his personal little trinket, the Leg Ring, improving how far he can move each turn by 3 spaces. Jamke doesn’t get a horse, so he’s not a terrible choice for this, but I’m not totally sure if he’ll be keeping it or not. It’s definitely in high demand by units all over.

Erin, off on her own doing her own thing, stops at another of the villages.

Stranger with Candy: Don’t be shy. Drink up! Well, how about it? Feel the might swellin’ in yer muscles! Oughta make yer work out there so much easier.

Erin gains +3 to her Strength, another boost she sorely needed. You’re also probably realizing why I ignored most of the villages on the map; there are a lot of little gifts to be gotten on this one, and I wanted them to go to specific people. There’s still one left meant for Claude, in fact.

On the enemy phase, Jamke provides an assisted suicide and reminds me that all levels these people gain will be either flawless or the worst.

sigh No other combat happens other than some pirates missing Holyn with hand axes, and our turn begins. First, to the home base… Ethlyn, care to not disappoint me for once?

The first magic she’s gained all game! I also send Quan right into the top tier at the Arena, using his new toy. Let’s see how it goes.

Holy Weapons are the best.

Back up at the real war, I continue to break the pirates a little.

Nothing super impressive, but at least the bridge is now mine, so that battle is over and this team can start moving to flank the jerks chasing Bridget. Bridget herself has also reached Claude and Taillte; the general idea now is that she will be their tank, dodging 90% of all melee attacks and slaughtering the occasional archer while Taillte stands behind her doing her best death ray impersonation. End turn!

… I think the pirates are losing hope, you guys, this one definitely had targets to go after who wouldn’t have killed him as terribly as Holyn. Come on, pirates don’t give up! You can’t go out like Agustria!

Our turn begins, and the team that took Silvail begins to reach the pirate fight, turning it from a one-sided fight to a one-sided fight. Lachesis also gains a healing level.

I… really should have given her that Paragon band. At least Dew won’t need it much longer.

He gained a level from this battle, but I missed the stats. +1HP, +1STR, +1SPD, solid enough I won’t have to scream at his face. Aideen also levels from healing him.

… Kind of bad, but she’s gotten so many great levels on this map I don’t really care. End Turn!

… Nothing happens! A sword guy misses Bridget and an axe guy misses Beowulf.

On our turn, Lachesis gets home, and I send her into the Arena with her new Earth Sword to see if it helps her a little.

cue beating

Nope! But the fun part is that now there’s nothing to stop me from just having Ethlyn heal her and trying again next turn, so I’ll let you know if RNG turns her favor at any point.

Over to the west, my two little nukes begin their blasting away at the crowd pressing against Bridget.

Those two sword guys are the most dangerous; they’re not very strong, but are accurate enough to regularly hit Bridget. Most turns Bridget won’t actually be attacking, but I want those two dead ASAP. End turn!

WHERE THE FUCK DID HE COME FROM?! DEEP BREATH Well that scared the shit out of me. I had no idea there was a ranged enemy close enough to reach Taillte. If she hadn’t dodged I’d be up a reset. But, on the plus side, fine level! On the next turn, they both take their shots…

… For the second time this update I missed the stat screen. Bridget gained a level. It was +1HP. I would be furious if she wasn’t already basically endgame quality without any stat gains at all. Taillte is doing okay, though! And then Claude heals ‘em up.

There we go! And better yet, he instantly gains 85 experience from this; Fortify is a pretty rockin’ staff. I start moving the others toward them again; Erin is now close enough to help out next turn, and the others should arriving to reinforce soon.

Though they don’t need it, really, Taillte is dodging everything and its mom. Our turn begins again, and… slaughter?

Yup, slaughter. The enemy phase is basically just Taillte and Bridget continuing their brutal ascent to dominance.

Welp, there goes the enemy’s archer brigade. At this point the rest of the army is basically only heading their direction because I’d like Bridget and Taillte to get some trophy husbands. On our turn, Sigurd and a few others test the defenses of Orgahil itself.

It is not a test they pass well.

The western team continues their just… rampant slaughter, it’s almost humiliating…

You know, barring the horrible level. What is with you this run, Erin?! You started off so perfectly, too! Well, on the plus side, I also realize I completely forgot Ethlyn had Arena levels to challenge too, and she’s a Paladin now. Let’s see how this rolls out.

Ethlyn: Up to seven wins, gained one level: +1 HP

……………… I hate you so much, Ethlyn.

You fucking guys!

……. I want to leave Agustria.

Okay, I’m frustrated so I’m going to take Orgahill now. The boss is nothing special beyond holding the Strength Ring; I’m gonna try to give it to Sigurd, actually, since his Strength stat is actually somewhat on the low end for how high his level is. Luckily he’s a sword dude fighting an axe moron, so it shouldn’t be hard to arrange.

Yeah, this will be over quickly. End turn, and Duvall once again seeks to destroy us with all his skill and power.

See how much he needs that Strength? Duvall should definitely be dead by now. On our turn, it’s… basically… just kind of a pitiful slaughter again, you know the drill.

And Sigurd finishes off Duvall, ending his 27-minute reign as cap’n and gaining himself a sweet +5 to strength.

Welp, might as well end the turn here. Good times. The few remaining pirates all take swings at Bridget and… all hit? How the… no. No. Not engaging. Her defense is good enough it doesn’t matter, and they…

Will not be taking any more swings. One more turn of the same and the enemy army is gone forever, with Erin leveling.

If I had another Pegasus Knight to use she would be so fucking benched right now.

Anyway, there are no more enemies on the map, so from here it’s a matter of just cleaning stuff up. Like this village of ungrateful bitches!

Bitch: Why are you even here? We’ve absolutely nothin’ to do with Agustria or Grannvale! If you’ve really gotta fight, take it somewhere else, you thoughtless sod.

Take a close look at her village in that image. A section is burned, meaning we literally ran in and saved it from being slaughtered by pirates. Next time, we won’t.

More importantly, Aideen finally meets Bridget. Were yooooooooooou paying attention…?

(D’aaaaaaaaaaaaw. Yup, Aideen mentioned her sister Bridget way back in Verdane, and we finally reunited them. Heart: Melted.)

Aideen: Surely you recall me?

Bridget: What? How do you know my name? Hang on… you look just like me! Aideen, huh… it sounds kinda familiar. But where from…?

Aideen: Bridget, listen well. I am your twin sister! We lost you to pirates years ago, when you were just five years old. I’ve searched for you for years. I never lost hope we would meet again!

(D’aaaaaaaaaaaaaaw!)

Bridget: This is all so sudden… no. Weird feelings aren’t enough. I need proof!

Aideen: Proof, you say? Here. Draw this bow.

Bridget: Huh? Okay, a nice bow and all, but what’s it gotta do with anything? Well, I’ll humor you. So I draw it, and… Whoa! Wh-what’s going on?! The hell is this? This… weird feeling boiling within me… are these memories? Ah, my heart is on fire… Aideen? Yes… you’re Aideen... my sister...

Aideen: Oh, thank the gods! You remember! That bow is your birthright, Bridget. It is Yewfelle, the sacred bow of Jungby. Legends tell that the exalted weapons of this land, such as this one, can only be wielded by a single heir per generation. For House Jungby and Yewfelle, that rightful heir is you, Bridget.

Bridget: Oh, Aideen, come here… Let me get a good look at you. How is our father doing? And our brother… Andre, right?

Aideen: I’ve so much to tell you, too… Bridget. My sister.

Well. That was adorable. And Bridget also gets a hold of Yewfelle, which gives her a +10 to Strength and Speed, along with the natural ability Renewal to heal her a small amount per-turn. Not quite as great as Gae Bolg, but frankly Bridget doesn’t need much help to start with so this turns her from unbreakable to super unbreakable. From here it’s mostly last-second healing and warping around, to get Claude to the one village he still needs to get his holy butt to, and to have everyone else start moving the new dudes toward the arena.

Though Aideen does hit 20! Probably won’t promote her this chapter, though, I have no way to get her home quickly. And next, I trigger the secret event by moving Dew over to the sacred tower… no, once again, no hint to do this…

Dew: Mmm… nope, nothin’ over here. Over there, maybe? Aw man! What a boring little dump.

Strange Voice: Who… are you…

Dew: Huh?!

Strange Voice: … State your business…

Dew: Heh, maybe if I pretend I can’t hear it…

Strange Voice: How dare you… defile this sacred ground… BEGONE!

Dew: Kyaaa! S-sorry! Please don’t hurt me! Hah… hah… what just happened?! Hang on… a sword? What’s it doin’ sitting around a place like this? Eh, who cares? Guess I’m getting’ something outta this after all!

Dew gets the Wind Sword, a magic blade like Ayra’s bolt sword and Ethlyn’s light brand, and it will be put to good use over time. Also he’s an awful person. I kind of wish the event had been the ghost eating his soul and joining our army instead.

Over on the other side of the map, Claude grabs the final village:

Cool Old Dude: We can’t thank you enough, but mayhap this magic staff will help. They call it a Restore staff. If yer allies’ve been put t’sleep or silenced, one cast of this staff’ll get ‘em back on their feet.

See, village of northern bitches? This is how you thank the people who stopped your home from burning down.

Now, the last two things. First arena runs:

Bridget: 7 wins, Gained two levels: +2 HP, +1 Strength, +1 Luck, +1 Defense

Finn: Up to 7 wins, did not gain a level.

Erin: Up to 7 wins, gained one level: +1 Speed, +1 Defense

Dew: Up to 4 wins, did not gain a level. I shouldn’t have used him. 

Taillte: 7 wins, Gained three levels: +2 HP, +3 Skill, +2 Luck, +1 Resistance

In addition, a few of the new recruits have conversations with Sigurd.

Claude: I’m glad Taillte was close at hand. We may not have survived, if not for her magic. More importantly, Lord Sigurd, my prayers to Saint Bragi were answered.

Sigurd: You have the trust of all this, then?

Claude: That I do. As I thought, Duke Reptor is behind all of this. On his orders, it was Duke Langbalt who killed Prince Kurth. The two then framed your father, Lord Byron, for the crime.

(Noooooooooooooooooooo, ya don’t saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.)

Sigurd: As we thought…

Claude: The pair’s treachery runs deeper still. The murder of Isaach’s King Mananan was also the handiwork of Duke Reptor. He feared a peaceful end to the war would end the sole excuse for the conquest of Isaach, so he had the king assassinated.

Sigurd: Is that so… Reptor’s filthy hands are all over this mess…

Claude: Not entirely. In the shade of his avarice, there’s something else at work. Something unsettling and terrifying. Not even Lord Bragi could scry this evil presence, obscured as it was by its great power.

Sigurd: An evil presence? Could it be that dark priesthood? … Wait! What of my father, Claude?

Claude: Lord Byron yet lives, but he is weak. I fear he is not long for this world…

Sigurd: Father… this can’t be happening…

Claude: I’ll hasten back to the capital. His Majesty needs to hear the truth. Lord Sigurd, for the time being, stay here and restrain yourself from rash action.

Sigurd: Understood. I can’t thank you enough, Father Claude. I beg of you, do everything you can to save my father and clear his name.

Sigurd: The villages told me of a woman who leads the pirates of Orgahil, and of her devotion to aiding the poor and weak. That would be you, correct?

(“Also you’re identical to my childhood next-door-neighbor, who has an identical twin named Bridget, so…”)

Bridget: You must be that Grannvale man… Sigurd, right? Guess this is it. Come on. Just get it over with.

Sigurd: Oh, no, you’re mistaken! I’m certainly not here to kill you. I just want to talk. I’d like you to ally with you. We’d love to add your strength to our own, to help us better fight the pirates. What say you?

Bridget: Wait. You really want me, of all people?

Sigurd: Certainly! You’d be a tremendous asset.

Bridget: You’re a strange little man, Sigurd…

Oh, Bridget, You have no idea. Let’s get the Hell out of Agustria!

Sigurd: Oifey, would you please gather our troops here? Now that this is all over, I’d like to ensure that everyone’s alright.

Oifey: At once, sire.

Langbalt: Seize these vile allies of Byron, accomplices to his murder of Kurth and his bid to take over our kingdom! It is the will of His Majesty! No mercy for enemies of the state!

Reptor: To think, he personally put an end to that miserable prince and nearly killed Byron as well… I’ve never seen such a bold ploy! And with Arvis using His Majesty’s trust, it all worked flawlessly! Convincing the king of anything is hardly a challenge, but to succeed with a tale of this scale takes quite the storyteller… and here we are, with the entirety of House Chalphy framed for the crime! Heh heh… our victory is all but assured. The throne of Grannvale shall be mine, one way or another. I’ll leave no pest who dares interfere with me alive…

(……. I’m going to assume Langbalt is loudly shouting to the army and Reptor is just thinking to himself. Otherwise, I got some questions.)

Sigurd: What in the blazes is this?! I’ve been declared a traitor and a Grannvale legion waits at our doorstep to arrest me?!

Oifey: Sire… and to think, the war here was over at long last, and you were about to go search for Deirdre.

(“YES, OIFEY, THANK YOU FOR REMINDING ME”)

Sigurd: Gah… how could His Majesty believe Reptor’s lies? That my father, of all people, would kill Prince Kurth?! If only Father Claude had reached the capitol before they struck… Why?! Why is this happening?! I fought a pointless war! I let Eldigan die! And now this! What have I been fighting for all along?!

(The one and only time it will be a relief to see neutral units.)

Mahyna: Queen Rahna bade my corps and I to come and retrieve you. We invite you and your subordinates to retreat with us to Silesse, until your good name has been cleared in Grannvale.

(Lewyn’s mom! Finally, our habit of collecting lost royalty has paid off!)

Sigurd: … Queen Rahna of Silesse, you say? Why is Silesse willing to give aid to an alleged traitor like me?

Mahyna: Please, sir. Time is of the essence. The Grannvale assault is sure to begin at any moment now. My Pegasus knights will escort you across the sea to safety in Silesse.

And there we go! Grannvale, our ambiguously evil home, has outright turned against us. Reptor and Langbalt are in control, and the king thinks we killed his son. The only option remaining is to flee across the sea and regroup.

… We probably coulda solved the issue by having Lewyn stand near the enemy, but this is more dramatic.

Anyway, see you next week in the shining northern lands of Silesse, where I’m sure nothing will go wrong!

Part 11

[evolutionsvoid]

The desert is an incredibly harsh place (big surprise), which means that those who live in it must be equally as hardy and rough. In a land that sees searing temperatures in the day and feels freezing chills at night, one cannot live a quiet, simple life. The species you find here will be coated in armor or thorns, while others may be designed to last for weeks without essential resources. On one hand, it is incredibly interesting to observe and study these creatures, as their adaptations are simply amazing. On the other hand, though, it's miserable. Just everything is miserable to deal with when you are working in the desert. The heat, the dehydration, the freezing nights and the endless amounts of hard rock and irritating sand. It certainly isn't all sun naps and root soaks there! I feel that study in the desert, for me, is just as difficult as studying sea life. Both of these environments are hostile towards land plants like myself, and both are filled with amazing creatures that do everything in their power to evade my sight. So many serpents and fish down in the depths that I can never see! It's infuriating! Almost as bad as that infernal salt water that practically burns me at the touch! Why must the pursuit of knowledge be so rough? Anyhoo, back on topic, which is funny now that I think about the mention of fish. It is quite fitting that I brought up sea life, because this  entry is on the Sand Angler, and it looks like a creature from the ocean that got very, very lost. Though found solely in desert environments (as you would imagine with such a name), Sand Anglers require specific conditions to fully thrive. Mainly they need a desert that contains large quantities of sand or possesses loose soil. Places where the ground is too solid or is primarily rock will not work for them. This is because Sand Anglers spend most of their lives underground, using their claws and hardened snouts to burrow through the soil at startling speeds. With the right conditions, these creatures can swim through the sand and dirt like a fish in water, which is one of the reasons why their many common names often refer to them as such. The many appendages that line their body sport tough claws that can work in tandem to dig their way through the earth. On the tips of their snouts are armored plates of bone that push away soil and protect their heads from sharp rocks. Their prominent lips will create a seal that will prevent sand from entering their mouths as they dig. Further down their body are two mantles and long tendrils, which can move in a pulsing fashion to further push them along. The large dorsal fin on its back, and the smaller ones on its forelimbs, can collapse and hug tight to their bodies, further streamlining their form. With all these parts working together, Sand Anglers can outpace many creatures that walk above ground, which is perfect for them. Though they may hide beneath the sand and dirt, Sand Anglers are the kings of their desert homes, and those who tread on their land should do so with extreme caution. While the Sand Angler is burrowing its way through the sand and soil, it is ever vigilant of the surface world above. Any movement that happens up above causes minute vibrations, which the Sand Angler can detect. Its membranes and tendrils are sensitive to these vibrations, which allows them to figure out the location and speed of prey. When motion is detected, the beast will go into full hunt mode. It will dig rapidly to the source, hoping to get beneath them before the victim notices. As it closes in, it will monitor the movements of its target in order to figure out the best tactic for taking them down. If prey seems oblivious to their presence, then they will slow down and slowly position themselves below the target. In a flash, they will surge upward, unseal their mouth and swallow the victim whole as they burst from the earth. If prey is still and wary, they will go for a long range attack. With this, they will use their famous weapon that has given them the "angler" name. Hidden in the orifice on their head is a long boneless tentacle that ends with four flexible "fingers." While they dig, this tentacle is retracted and coiled in their body. When it is needed, the Sand Angler will swim up to the surface and position itself so that only its dorsal fin and tendril is exposed. The tentacle will emerge and the beast will whip it forward towards prey. Though blind, Sand Anglers use vibrations and sound to track prey on the surface. With this information, they can strike in the direction of prey, which often is enough to get the job done. If the tentacle hits home, the fingers will wrap themselves around the body or limb of prey and hold tight. While they may look thin, their grip is like iron and is almost impossible to dislodge. If the attack misses, the Angler will whip the tentacle around in sweeping motions in an attempt to locate and grab the missed target. Once a grip is established, the victim will be pulled off their feet and yanked into the waiting maw. In the last case scenario, if prey is alerted and running, the Sand Angler will give chase. With its mastery of digging, it can keep up with many desert dwellers, following close behind as they seek an opening to attack. When such a chance rears its head, the Angler will surface and lash out with its tendril, hoping to either grab the victim or trip them up. If the unfortunate soul falls, the Sand Angler will be upon them and drag them down below. In most cases, prey will simply vanish beneath the dirt, leaving little evidence of their demise. Some theorize that the Sand Anglers are the reason why the fear of quicksand is so prevalent, despite the fact that such a substance is quite rare.

     With its stealthy underground lifestyle, precise sensors and lightening fast tentacle, the Sand Angler is the apex predator of the desert world. By living beneath the sand, it is safe from any surface attackers and has the perfect cover to ambush prey from. It's digging speed and sensitivity to vibrations makes it a master of targeting unwary prey and rushing in for an attack before they even realize the danger. Even if baited to the surface, the Sand Angler is a terrifying opponent. While their claws are meant for digging soil, they can easily cut through flesh and hide in a pinch. Their collapsible dorsal fin also possesses sharp spines, which can be thrust upward if an opponent is standing above them. Their long "fishing" tentacle can lay out paralyzing strikes and can knock foes off their feet in the heat of combat. What also helps make it top carnivore is its jaws. While some may expect a meat eater to have a mouth full of fangs and daggers, the Sand Angler's mouth is actually coated in broad, stubby teeth. We are not talking about a single row of chompers, what I mean is that the mouth of this creature is covered from bottom to roof with a layer of wide, flat teeth. Think cobblestone road, but the stones are teeth and the mortar is made of gums. While such a maw is poor for cutting flesh and slicing through muscle, it is excels in crushing prey into a bloody pulp. Victims who are swallowed by these creatures are not torn apart or shredded, they are pulverized into paste. These bizarre jaws are useful in two different ways. One is that the underground lifestyle makes up-and-down chewing impractical and awkward, while the back and forth grinding of flat teeth works in such tight spaces. Second is the fact that the toothy layer protects their mouth from spines and nasty thorns, which many desert creatures possess. With very little gum and flesh exposed, a Sand Angler could grind a cactus into juice in its mouth and be no worse for wear. With this, this beast can consume practically any prey it encounters, which is perfect since the Sand Angler is not a picky predator. They will pretty much attack anything that moves, be it man, beast, plant or tumbleweed. Since their maw can crush anything, they don't care what they swallow. Sand Anglers will even eat Desert Dryads if they catch them, hardly affected by their sharp spines and thorny limbs. So if you find yourself in their territory, do everything you can to leave it, because they will be coming and they will be hungry. For Sand Anglers, there are hardly any differences between the males and females. Females tend to be bigger, while the males possess enlarged vibration sensors on their necks so that they can track down potential mates. When breeding season occurs, the males will scour the lands in search of a viable female. The females in turn will let out a constant, low-pitched rumble that can be felt for miles around, tipping males off to their presence. The bachelors will lock onto the signal and zero in, rushing to be the first to the prize. If more than one male arrives to claim the female, they will fight over her. This battle involves them ramming into each other as they swim through the sand, looking to force the opponent towards the surface. In order to win, the fighter must shove the other male out of the ground and onto the surface, and only then can he claim his mate. The winner must than defend his claim on the female, as more potential bachelors arrive. During this time, the dominant male will remain on the surface, letting out guttural bellows to intimidate lesser Anglers. Once all suitors are driven away and the two have time alone, the female will go off and dig deep down into the earth. She will go as far as her claws can take her, and there she will lay her thick-shelled eggs. They are placed here so that they are not in areas that Sand Anglers normally travel, since they would totally eat them if they came across them. Once they are laid, the female will leave and never return. It is up to the young to fend for themselves, hatching from their eggs and ascending into the hot sandy layers above. Due to their aggressive hunting style and their willingness to eat anything that moves, Sand Anglers are an incredibly dangerous species. There is no telling how many explorers, wanderers and nomads have been lost to their pulverizing jaws. Every creature that calls the desert home fears these beasts, and they will do anything they can to avoid treading where they hunt. In some cases, some may not have a choice and must brave the treacherous dunes. Some species have adapted a special way to move in order throw off the Sand Angler's sensors, while others stick to the good ol' run-like-mad-and-pray-you-make-it-to-the-finish-line method. To travelers who must walk through the lands of these creatures (and I say "must" because there is no way a sane person would willingly go through such a place) I have a few pieces of advice. One is to stick to rocky areas and places where the ground is hard, as that will prevent the Anglers from attacking from below. Do note that this does not make you impervious to them. When prey scrambles up onto boulders or hides on ground that is too hard, the Angler will surface and use its tentacle to try and snare them. Once prey is grabbed, they can be reeled back into the soft earth and crushed. The other piece of advice is to walk lightly. Try to send out as little vibrations as possible. If you can pull it off, you can either slip by unnoticed, or make the Sand Angler believe you are smaller prey. If it thinks you are a small morsel, it may try a simpler approach to the hunt, which may give you a chance to escape their jaws. If you can't do that, then take you gear and lash it onto a few small sleds. Tie them into a train and drag them behind you. By doing this, you will create multiple targets for the Sand Angler, forcing its attention away from you. In hopes of being stealthy, the Angler will go after the sled in the back. In its mind, it sees such an arrangement as a mother leading a line of her offspring. In such a scenario, it is best to start at the back and silently suck each morsel into the sand so that no one notices until it is too late. Instead of a young one, though, it will be eating a mouthful of inedible equipment. When this happens, the rope you tied to yourself will go taut, alerting you to its presence. At that point, cut the swallowed sled free and start running. It will take a moment for the Angler to realize its captured prey is not food, then it will give chase. Hopefully it will go after your remaining sleds first, allowing you time to escape. Two things to note, though, is that you need to be ready to cut yourself free whenever a sled is eaten. Its no use if you wind up getting dragged down below with it. The other thing to keep in mind is that you should load the last sled with the most useless and replaceable gear you have. It is practically guaranteed that you are going to lose it, so don't pack it with valuables. Now some of you may be expecting some story from me about my encounters with these beasts. "Surely, the great Chlora Myron has a tale to tell with these fantastical creatures!" you would say (Oh how you flatter me!). Well, the truth is....I don't. In all honesty, these things creep me out. I have not seen one, nor do I have any wish to. The best encounter I have gotten is through the stories I have heard from Desert Dryads, and they are enough to make my bark crawl. Tales of friends and family being pulled down below, gone in a blink of an eye. Frightful tellings of mad dashes to safety as spiny fins slice through the sand behind them. It is horrible just to think about it, especially with the violent end you know all the victims faced. So no way was I going to go near their territory. I was perfectly content camping on the solid rock and stone, hearing only the bellows of these monstrous creatures as they stood upon their sandy throne and challenged the world.     Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian