#sickle-gnome

[quasieli]

[ID copied from alt text: A stylized geometric digital drawing of Ingot (he/they), Saube (she/they), Whitlock (he/him), and Kempa (she/her) set against a light green background. Each character is contained within a triangle piece, a line art sickle between each piece. Up top is Ingot, a gray tiefling with long dark blue hair and a pair of large wings. He is wearing a white shirt, dark red pants, and brown boots. He has his longbow in hand and has a neutral, if somewhat grumpy, look on his face. Next is Saube, a red tiefling with short purple hair. She is wearing a green, purple and gold dress and has gold cuffs on her horns. She is sitting with her knees to her chest and a pensive smile on her face.

Next is Whitlock, a brown complexion Gnome with dark brown hair pulled up into a bun and shaved on the sides. He is wearing a shirt, pants and boots, all in shades of brown, and has his greataxe at his side and his cane in hand. He is looking back over his shoulder with a confident smile. Last is Kempa, a large bronze Dragonborn. She is shirtless and wearing only green shorts. She has one clawed finger head up to her chin and has a curious smile on her face. End description.]

A commission from the awesome @crayfishcoffee of the party formally known as SICL! It's been a little over three wonderful years with this group of goofs and I love them so dearly and wholly. Happy (late) anniversary y'all!!

[syncopein3d]

The Warm One 7: Wrath

Part 6: Spring Campaign

CW/tropes: living weapon, nonhuman caretaker, female whumpee, intimate/nonsexual touch, servant caretaker, traumatic restraints, nonsexual nudity mention, gore, blood, slaughter, extraplanar abomination/monster. Fair warning, this one's going to be gory and gross and weird. After all, what good is a living weapon story if you don't get to see the weapon being deployed?

The Field of Thearn has never been tilled.  Boulders lie scattered across a knee-deep growth of bracken and heather. The crows and ravens that follow the army circle above it now, more immanent than the distant hawks. The winter heather is still in flower when the army starts pulling it up in organized squares. Space is cleared for tents and latrines, and now there is fuel for the campfires.

The camp of the Elves lies some distance away, fireless, lit by little glowing spheres that hover above it. Their snow-white faces flit across the twilight above their mail.  They’re not pink-skinned, like the Ifrits, but their ears are just as pointed.

Aldo the Orc helps pile up heather, and then goes to wash up in the stream with the maids. He recognizes a tiny gnome girl called Gella crouching beside him.

“Why are you so afraid of her, all of you?” he asks, nodding toward the black wagon with the gilded bars across the back. “Has she hurt you? I’ve never heard her be harsh.”

“Not me,” Gella says. “But we all know what happened to Merrly.”

“What happened?” Aldo asks, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“The Wrath of the King slipped out of one of her bracers and tore her into pieces. The biggest thing they found was a hand,” Gella says, glancing sidelong back at the wagon as one fingertip surreptitiously shapes the holy sickle for protection, curve across and curve down. “If the Master hadn’t stopped her she would have killed everyone. I didn’t see it, but he told Merrly’s family when they gave them the ashes. I heard him because I was dusting.”

“Terrible,” Aldo said.

“Terrible,” Gella agrees. The look she gives Aldo before she scuttles away is one of intense pity.

That night, as he brushes out the weapon’s thin hair in the cushion pile in her tent, he thinks about it for a while. Then eventually he asks,

“Do you remember a maid called Merrly?”

“Oh, yes. Human,” the Wrath of the King murmurs sleepily. She sits on Aldo’s thigh with her face resting against his chest, facing outward so he can brush with one hand and hold her steady with the other. A bony elbow digs slightly into his big soft belly. His liniment seems to be helping. She can actually tie the soft robe closed over the scar that covers much of the front of her.

“She died from falling into one of the arcane fires, the Master said. Odd thing. They only had ashes to give the family. Why?” It’s not often the Orc asks questions.

“He told the maids something different,” Aldo says.

“How strange,” she says. “Why would he bother? He doesn’t care what the servants think…” She is nodding off. Aldo doesn’t think she is lying. He’s never known her to make the mental effort to be circumspect, let alone to try and deceive him.

The next day, the maids dress her in a plain linen robe dyed the color of old blood. The kingdom’s sword and sickle is not embroidered, it is smeared in black paint on the front and back panels. Aldo wonders at this as he helps hold her up. Usually she is swathed in layers of buckram, wooden stays, heavy brocades with elaborate embroidery. Usually her hair is piled in pins and gold combs and sticks. Today it’s a simple braid with a black ribbon. She has always been weak and listless, but today she trembles with a strange nervous energy he has never seen. A fervid spot of color mounts each pale cheek. She seems to blink less often, brown eyes held wide.

“What happens today, Milady?” he asks her.

“You’ll see,” she says, voice raw and stretched. “Until you look away. I won’t blame you. No one watches but him. Just be there when it’s over, all right?”

“I will, Milady.”

“And bring the gray robe.”

“I will, Milady.”

Aldo’s voice is deep and clear and firm, like always. The weapon grieves that that must change today. When he sees what is really inside her, he will never wish to see or speak to her again. And he will not be able to go. He will hate her and be stuck here with her forever. But that grief is a painful, twanging tune beneath the symphony of hunger and want. She knows what’s coming. No amount of shame or disgust can change that she was made for this.

The general and his captains have their last diplomatic parlay with the Elves early in the morning. By the time the Master comes to get her, the military men are back again, stepping over the white chalk line poured onto the dirt as a corporal furls the white flag.

“Well, gentlemen?” the Master says. “Have they elected to surrender?”

“No. Send the weapon,” says General Izath, a rose-skinned Ifrit. Butterfly-wing ears curve back beneath his red-plumed casque. He doesn’t look at her. He only makes the sign of the sickle as he passes.

The Master smiles. His blue eyes are unblinking and intent as he steps behind the weapon and lays his hands on her shoulders. Aldo can see him all but inflate with pride in his own work, in the power he is about to wield. The two of them begin a strange litany, one voice oratorical and measured, the other high and trembling.

“In the name of Malacien, Hearth and Huntress, She Who Wieldeth the Sickle, hear thou the Word of Retribution.”

“In the Name of Malacien, She Who Chooseth the Slain, I hear.”

“In the name of the Eight Good Gods, in the name of the Kings now and past, I abjure thee. Thou shalt harm none who dwell behind this line, but all who lie in front of it are thy prey. Avenge thyself upon the foe and return to thy form of birth. Swear thine obedience.”

“By Morith, He Who Keepeth the Slain, I swear it.”

“Shouldst thou disobey, the bonds of thy keeping shall slay thee. Swear again thy fealty.”

“By Mighty Serne, King of Gods, Hunted and Risen, I swear it.”

“Before this line, before all assembled, I loose the Wrath of the Kings. Return when nothing of his enemies draws breath.”

“I am loosed,” the weapon practically screams, and the Master takes his hands away. It’s the first time Aldo has ever seen her run, stumbling barefoot through the heather, heedless of thorns or sharp stones. He winces for her feet. Across the field, the Elves are forming up lines of battle, spreading the two wings of cavalry that have proved so deadly to the armies of other would-be conquerors of these isles.

They don’t even see her at first. She has a long distance to cover for a small, sick woman past her first youth. Aldo half expects her to be slain by an arrow when they do spot her, but it is now evident to him that they don’t know what is about to happen. Spycraft has failed them, or previous encounters have left no sane survivors. There is no real disturbance in their lines as they begin their slow movement forward toward what appears to be a foolishly disordered foe behind this one little sacrifice.

A few desultory arrows flit into the bracken around her. She stops, swaying, and raises her arms in their golden bracers, spread wide as if inviting an embrace.

Even at this distance, Aldo hears the sound of flesh tearing. He knows it must be the scar, the one that never really heals. He doesn’t expect the snap of bones breaking as she folds backward practically in half. Her arms dangle, eyes rolled up into her head. Aldo is aware of everyone but the Master turning away, making signs, murmuring prayers. Only he and the Master see the arms unfurl, tendrils like a polyp starting at the width of a hand but widening as they lengthen until they are bigger than tree trunks. The weapon’s body simply shreds, crushed beneath the weight of the ever-growing knot of slimy black branches. Only the two little arms in their bracers remain, flat and dead-looking on either side of the thing’s base until they, too, are covered and crushed by the mass.

As the horror expands, Aldo can see suckers on one side of each tendril, discs as big as his head. Every one has a barbed hook in the center of it. There the resemblance to anything in nature ends, for now the arms are sprouting more arms yet, and now some have horns and eyes. He can tell they’re eyes because they are Human, round-pupiled, brown. Brown like hers. They ARE hers, he realizes, as one looks directly at him and a pupil the size of his fist expands with recognition. Wet, glistening lashes flutter, and then the thing twists away from him in its eagerness to get at the enemy.

“I think it recognized you,” the Master says beside him, his voice amused. “You should be grateful for the line. It’s come within a hair of reaching me before the pain stopped it before.”

“She would eat us, Milord?” Aldo asks. His tone is dull. It’s hard to imagine any more horror than what is now happening among the Elven lines. Aldo has seen war, lost someone precious to it, been forever marked by it. He’s never seen an Elf and a horse torn into gobbets of gore and stuffed into the toothy circle of a black maw. There are now innumerable mouths among the coils, lipless, silent.

“Oh, yes. Did you think you were the first in your preset position, Goodman Aldo?”

Aldo is silent. He can’t tell if this is another lie, or what the purpose of such a deception could be. The screaming is too loud now. He sees a single Elf on a horse try to flee up the hill behind the camp, to carry word of what is happening here, or perhaps just fleeing in panic. A tendril snaps out like a whip-crack hundreds of yards long. The Elf falls from the saddle in two directions, top half and bottom, and the horse is snatched into the air to be torn and engulfed with the pieces of the rider.

The Wrath of the Kings rolls over the distant camp. Aldo prays silently that there were no children there. He now understands that the reason this tactic keeps working is that there will be no bodies. The thing does not discriminate between flesh and armor. It’s far away now, but he can see it ripping up tents, too. Everything goes into its horrid jawless orifices.

It’s only minutes before it’s over. The sun has scarcely moved overhead. When at last there is silence, the nest of arms and eyes and mouths slithers back toward the line. It’s bigger than a house. It’s almost bigger than a castle. It fills much of the distance between the two camps. When it comes close to the line it is a writhing wall that fills Aldo’s world, towering into the orange sky. People in the camp move farther away from the shadow that has fallen over them. They cover their heads and whisper more prayers. Many brown eyes fix upon him. Some look at the Master, too. The mouth that opens in front of the sorcerer is taller than he is, drooling blood, stinking of charnel. As Aldo watches, it pulses open and shut, edging further from himself and nearer to the Master. This close, he can see into a throat of incomprehensible, impossible depth, lined with rows of teeth like a hagfish that stretch down endlessly into the darkness.

The Wrath of the Kings is still voiceless. The only sound is the glutinous slither of its movement and the awful click of many, many teeth. From the corner of his eye, Aldo sees the man’s shoulders heaving, face empty of color.

A tiny tendril, as thin as a finger, quests right up to the line, waving to and fro in front of Aldo’s face. Up close, it isn’t really slimy. It’s covered in tiny armored scales, black and shining. He can see the little hooked barb on the tip. It might be white bone like the sucker-hooks, when it isn’t bloody.

The whole mass of the thing shudders. It ripples and twists and begins to curl inward on itself, little arms folding into bigger arms, horns and teeth shrinking and withdrawing into flesh. As Aldo watches, still unable to look away, it gets smaller and smaller. Now it does make noise. There are many hissing exhalations as air is expelled from its vanishing mouths. He is half surprised that the thing actually breathes. He can’t imagine how the form of woman can re-emerge after he watched it so thoroughly destroyed. He watches with a kind of sick curiosity, hands clasped behind his back in an unconscious parade rest that hasn’t been meaningful in his life in a decade or more. The tendrils twist and twist and shrink, and as they fold around each other they sculpt one another into a human shape, at first writhing in all its components, then slick and black, then suddenly blending and fading into lighter flesh, scales smoothing away as if they were never there. At the last, the thinnest of them fold away into a jagged mouth lined with more teeth, and then that shrivels crookedly away and becomes a red scar branching over a naked woman’s breast and belly and thighs. It’s a slightly different shape than before. Of course it is, Aldo thinks. It's a new body.

The golden bracers are the same. She could not, it seems, remake herself into a form without them, however much she must have wished it. They’re not so loose as before. Her body is still thin, but less thin than before now, pink and blushing as she lies gasping in the flattened heather. The battlefield is crushed down flat over all of its width. Black steam rises and sublimes away as the moments pass. Over the fading stench of blood and death there’s a strange and unearthly smell of something Aldo can only describe as perfume, but it’s no perfume of any plant he has ever smelled. It doesn’t smell real or right. The ravens are descending, but there won’t be much for them to find.

“Well, go on and get her,” The Master says. “Be careful. She’ll be heavier.” He turns away to stalk back to his tent. He’s still smiling slightly in Aldo’s last sideways glimpse of him, but the Orc is already kneeling with the robe in his hands.

“Milady,” he says. She opens her eyes, still panting. Her hair is dry and braided. That detail bothers him more than a lot of it, for some reason.

“Oh, the robe. Yes. Thank you.” Her voice is almost normal. It’s stronger than usual, in fact. He helps her into it and then picks her up carefully in his arms. She’s heavier than usual, but not by much. She turns her face into his shoulder in the familiar way.

“How do you feel?” he asks, as he carries her into her tent. He can’t completely keep emotion out of his voice. Is this the same person that he has served and held and warmed with his body? Is it a new one every time?

“Good,” she murmurs. “It’ll be good for a little while, except for the mark. Aldo, do you – can you - ”

That note of worried self-loathing is certainly familiar. Aldo relaxes. He has his balance now. Nothing he saw will ever leave him as long as he lives, but here, now, in this tent, he is with the same person he has been with for months. Nothing that happened out there has changed that. Nothing about her has changed at all. He just understands her better now.

“Of course,” he says softly, no more “Milady” now that they’re alone. “I have my liniment still. Be easy.” He lays her in the pillow pile and turns to get it. When he turns back, she reaches for his arm. Her hand is as cold as he remembers. He lets her hold onto him, looking down in puzzlement for a moment until he realizes she is testing to see if he flinches, eyes unblinking on his face. Her hand holds him so tightly that she shakes.

He sets down the liniment for a second so that he can sit down beside her and lean over and pull her into his lap. He is still very careful. He will always be careful. He lays his arms around her and holds her face against his shoulder again, lightly, so that he doesn’t press hard on the scar.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re still you. That’s enough.”

“How could it ever be enough?” she asks lowly.

“He said there were others before me,” Aldo said. “Is that true?”

“No,” she says. “What a strange thing to say. He never even offered before you. I never asked.” He feels her sigh. “Aldo - ”

“You knew me,” he said. “You wanted to eat him, but just him. I don’t think he realized.”

She snorts into his tunic. “Of course.” There’s a silence in which he gently strokes her back over the robe for a little while. Eventually she says, “I remember everything. None of it is outside of my control, do you understand that, Aldo? I can’t disobey him because he’ll kill me, but – I know that I choose to obey. That’s important for you to know.”

“I think I understand that,” Aldo said. “You’re not really able to eat properly in this form, are you? This is only part of you.”

“Yes. All of me is – well. You’ve seen,” she whispers. “You didn’t look away. But I won’t be hungry for a while after the campaign is over. Then – the winter becomes long. He likes that, watching me get hungrier and hungrier.”

“It’s not right,” Aldo says very quietly.

“Nothing about it has ever been right,” she says. Her voice is fading now in a familiar way. She might be a little better fed, but it’s still been a busy and exhausting day, flailing about annihilating an entire army and destroying and remaking her own entire body. Perhaps this way of thinking about it is a little mad. Perhaps Aldo is a little mad now, too. He can’t examine that too closely. There’s work to be done.

“You’ll feel better for a rest,” he says. “Let me take care of everything. It’ll be all right.” She sighs deeply. After a moment she kisses his shoulder over his tunic very lightly. “I might fall asleep while you’re applying the liniment,” she says. “That’s all right, dear.” “You won’t leave me tonight, will you?” “I will never leave you,” Aldo says. He probably wouldn’t be allowed to. But right now, he doesn’t care about that part. He means what he says.

[wuxiaphoenix]

Writing Inspiration: How (And Why) Will You Fight?

Odds are if you’re writing genre fiction, at some point things are going to get scary, and maybe even physical. So... how about a few things to inspire the physical side of fighting, and how people are likely to react to anything scary enough to need to fight?

Deadly Bling: Stunning Swords & Daggers in History

Ooo. Just ooo.

Ahem. The bit about Tutankhamen’s dagger being effectively stainless steel because of the high-nickel content of the meteorite source was Really Cool. Heck, you could see that spawning a “magical” reputation for such lucky weapons; not only did the metal fall from the sky, it won’t rust! Have a built-in legend for your story, and an explanation why they can steal a sword from a centuries-old tomb and still use it.

The Most Uncomfortable Looking Sword & Dagger Handles

Ow. Ow ow ow. Even looking at some of these hurts. Seriously, what. What were some of these people thinking? The coral sword could have actually been cool, bling-y, and useable, if they hadn’t done that with the handle. Yikes.

I do think the spine swords and jaw knives would work for a necromancer, maybe? Better if you could use animate objects and/or have spirits possess them to fight for you, though!

How Should Halflings / Hobbits / Gnomes be Armed? (Over-Thinking Fantasy)

Now I can’t shake the image of a quaint cottage garden in the Shire, a genteel hobbit-hole in the background; full of greenery, colorful vegetables, and flowers, where a prim and proper halfling matron is using her sickles to neaten up her hedges....

And just behind the edge of one hedge, you can see a toes-up pair of Very Large boots.

16 Personalities Surviving the Night in a Haunted House

Now here’s a useful guide to possible character reactions to the scary! I mean, sure, if the scary thing is a man-eating killer spider instead of an actual harmless (if annoying) ghost then disbelief is not the way to go, but it’s a good look at how people might start out reacting in an extreme situation.

And related to that....

Which of the 16 Personalities Would Die First In a Scary Movie?

Now this is helpful for figuring out who to set up as your bad guy in a thriller type of setting! And no, he didn’t miss one.... *EG*

16 Personalities as the Last Person on Earth

Exactly What It Says On The Tin. What is your character like when there’s no one left to judge them?

The plot twist at the end! Hee hee hee.....

[tsunflowers]

my family has an injoke about communist gnomes so we got everyone gnomes and pinned slogans and hammer and sickle pins to them and everyone put them on their heads

[one-sadistic-bitch]

My friends, I have made a DnD character

This is Phabio, he's a Gnome Warlock that strips on the side (he had to provide for his family when his dad left him), he has Freddie Mercury's face, lustrous blonde hair, and a full-sized sickle. He is on a quest to find his father ✊️ Respect

[werothegreat]

One issue is that the word "race" is used both for the differences between actual meatspace human beings (this is almost entirely a cultural construct; it's basically impossible to make rigorous, genetics-based distinct groupings of humans, all attempts to do so are basically eugenics, we are all the same species) and fantasy world humanoids/near-humans/"builders" (these are clearly separate species with distinct physiologies).

Mixed-race humans are treated differently because society places importance on those cultural constructs - you don't actually have any significant genetic variation by being from one race or another, nor does being from one race or another predispose you to being particularly "strong" or "intelligent" or "dextrous". Yes, some ethnic groups have a higher incidence of certain specific traits, like sickle-cell anemia among people of African ancestry, or epicanthal folds among people of Asian ancestry, but this isn't really that much different than families passing down certain traits, like red hair or hemophilia or an increased likelihood of prostate cancer. None of these are anything that would show up in the big six attributes of a D&D character. Given enough time (read: millions of years), and geographic separation, it's possible that these "ethnicities" might speciate, but currently this is a normal level of genetic diversity within a single species.

Mixed-race fantasy humanoids would have distinct traits, because they are different species. Depending on the pairing, they might be sterile, like mules or ligers, or they could be perfectly fertile. Some pairings would be patently impossible, like a Tabaxi/Kenku couple - they might have fun in bed, but they ain't makin' any babies.

The issue with allowing half "races" is multifold:

How do you decide which pairings are allowed?

Do you make every single allowed pairing mechanically distinct?

What is a "half-elf"? What's the other half? Is it always human? If not always human, why is the elf part so dominant? Ditto "half-orc".

Then there's the worldbuilding end. If half-races are possible, and they're not sterile, why are there "full" races at all? If elfs can breed with humans can breed with gnomes can breed with dwarfs can breed with orcs can breed with hobgoblins can breed with halflings, we would expect a spectrum of fantasy "race", not these distinct, discrete categories. And in that case, where did all this genetic variety come from in the first place, if not speciation?

Now you could argue that it's a social restriction - half-races are taboo, thus don't happen often. But then you've got a whole new system of racism in place.

And it doesn't help that the half-orc origin is based in racism. Half-elf is pretty innocuous, that's basically just lifted straight from Tolkien. But half-orcs are canon the result of one species, the orcs, being a big bunch of rapists who are encouraged to impregnate as many of the other races as possible. Surely we can leave that bullshit behind as much as the idea of any one race being singularly evil should be left behind.

tldr: this is complicated, and I can understand WotC preferring just not dealing with it over having to make a mechanically distinct and coherent system for it that isn't just eugenics in disguise.

ive been looking at the new dnd stuff and my conclusion is im glad bg3 was made when it was and not now lmaoooooooooo

[consequencesofargentdawn]

Hello COAD, question.

What do you know of the Sparkforge and Boomtech guilds? I noticed they removed the PCU tag, but if they were to approach my group for RP should I be wary?

From our understanding BOOMTEC INC left the PCU in the latter part of 2023 and have distanced themselves from the PCU, and importantly removed the branding used to indicate they are a PCU affiliate.

Sparkforge likewise appears to have been made from former dwarf and gnome players who were in PCU guilds at one point but now have left.

Removing the symbols and banners of the former totalitarian regime, be they a swastika or hammer and sickle is an important step in disassociating and disavowing of the past. The PCU cult is no different. As we previously stated a few days ago if the pursuit of roleplay, of making stories and developing characters, was genuine then it would take nothing for the PCU members to quickly assume new names and titles and hide away.

Of course as for many it is not genuine, they cannot help themselves but make it clear who they are and what they are about. In the case of Sparkforge and BOOMTEC however we have had no reports of PCU like behavior from them since their departure, no harassment cases, no signs of extremist politic peddling, no incel-ry.

So for that we'd be willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and say that they are making a new path for themselves.

[obsidiinium]

Chapter 2: The Festival of Tyr

Part 1

———

Zythraul and Humility find themselves at the entrance to The Knight’s Eye tavern.

“I need a drink and a bath after those goddamn bugs. Shall we?” Zythraul motions to the inn.

“Sure, yeah! You do look awful. Drinks on me.”

“Huh. That’s a first.”

There are a few patrons sitting in various spots around the bar and the bartender - a gnome woman - is sitting on the bar chatting to one of them. She looks up at the door as Zythraul and Lilli walk in and bursts into a smile, waving exuberantly.

“Oh hey there! Hail and well met travellers! Welcome to The Knight’s Eye, the finest tavern this side of the Neverwinter river!” She stands up on the bar and bows. Humility skips up to the bar and Zythraul follows behind, glancing around at the patrons and the bar. The tavern is well-kept; not ornate but solid and homely. A fire rages to the left and wooden tables and chairs are scattered around. The bar appears clean and the glasses sparkle with the sense that they are well-maintained. There is a tapestry of a knight embarking on an adventure hung across the bar above a shelf that holds various trinkets; an urn, some vases, some other knick-knacks.

“Hail! we are here for the festival and require lodgings for the evening!” Humility says.

“And drinks.” Zythraul adds. The barkeep nods,

“I can of course accommodate you. Just the one night?” Both Zythraul and Humility nod in unison. The barkeep begins pouring them both drinks.

“For now. We are unsure of our movements from tomorrow.”

“Excellent. For just the one room including food, 8 silver!” Lilli hands the her one gold. She takes it and flicks it up into the air with glee.

“Keep the change.”

“So generous! I will have someone point you to your room once you are ready. You look like you could both use a quick nap before partaking in the festival, no?”

“Please. We didn’t catch your name, either. I am Zythraul and this is Humility. We are grateful for the lodgings.”

“Of course! I go by Heswyse and I am the face of this wonderful Tavern!”

Once they are ready to be shown to their room Heswyse shouts a “cooee” through a door behind the bar and a figure emerges; a half-orc man in a simple linen shirt and brown pants.

“This is Benney, my assistant. Benney, would you show our new guests to an available room?” Benney nods, walks around the bar and up a set of stairs to the left, motioning to the travellers to follow. They do.

The room is nice; there are a few beds and a small window that looks over Neverwinter. Benney opens the door for Zythraul and Humility and then leaves them to it.They rest. Zythraul removes their armor, remaining in just their clothes, resting their glaive and scalemail on their bed. They still strap their bag, cloak, and sickle to their belt. Lilli takes her violin and holsters her rapier. After their rest, they can see people heading into the festival and so they follow the crowd.

The Festival of Tyr is held on public park land near the Blue Lake. Every year, the trees that encircle the park are adorned with mystical dappled lights that swirl gently with the light breeze. Bards dance through the crowd, performing on various instruments in a cacophonous and yet somehow harmonious symphony. Delicious smells waft past of smoking meats, with rich herbs and spices that tingle the nose. The crowd rumbles in laughter and joy. Children rush past with small paper crafted visages of Tyr and various other gods of the Faerunian pantheon. Further in, the sound of clashing swords and cheers of victory can be heard. Market stalls line one side of the market boundary and their owners wave down the passers by with temptations of bargains and rarities. Races and professions of the whole world make up the crowd; more dragonborn and tieflings, humans, orcs, halflings, gnomes, dwarfs, warforged; you name it, there was probably one roaming around.

Humility walks in and stops just in the entrance, eyes wide, taking it all in.

“Marvellous…” She breathes, looking around at what to do first.

“Zee, isn’t this wonderful! We haven’t had fun like this in aaaages. Let’s go let loose! Go play some games!” Humility grabs the dragonborn’s hand to tug them towards the festival games.

Muscle-bound beings of all sizes gather around a table where an elf and a dragonborn have their arms clasped, sweating and grunting. Nearby, a small stage with a single light pointed at it hosts a flamboyant looking halfling waving his arms, deep in a fantastical story. On the other side, a single Aarakockra perches on a rug with three cups in front of them, hood pulled over their head. Behind it all, a puff of dust erupts from the ground as two unarmed combatants slam each other into the ground attempting to pin one another.

Lilli takes one look at the arm wrestling and turns to Zythraul, making a suggestive eyebrow at them.

“Wanna put those massive biceps to good use for a change?” She winks. Zythraul sighs.

“…Sure.”

“Wonderful!” Humility nudges Zythraul forward into the waiting crowd. It’s not long before a serious looking drow is victorious. An orc man with a striped velvet shirt and loose pants applauds along with the crowd, calling for another participant. It appears as if the drow man has been there a while as no one rushes forwards to challenge him. Lilli pushes Zythraul forwards and they take their place on the seat opposite the drow, who simply grins maliciously before placing his elbow back on the table. They clamp his hand and immediately he tries to slam their arm down to the table. Zythraul they remains unphased, holding strong and then retaliating. The drow’s arm leans precariously close to the table and a flash of worry crosses his face. There is a moment of struggle as he attempts to hold off the Dragonborn’s brute force, but Zythraul slams his fist onto the table with a loud thud! The crowd cheers, and the drow huffs, standing and dusting themself off. Zythraul stands and attempts to shake his hand but he spins away and stalks off.

Next, another dragonborn - of bronze descent - takes a seat. Zythraul looks them over; they don’t seem too powerful but nonetheless, they sit down with a determined look on their face. Zythraul takes a moment to touch their fist to their breast and bow slightly in acknowledgment of another Dragonborn. They nod slightly and smile. They set up and begin. The Dragonborn takes Zythraul surprise and pushes their hand closer to the table, but moments later Zythraul rights the balance and the two Dragonborn are evenly matched, hands in the centre of the table. It is only another moment before Zythraul slams the bronze dragonborn’s hand to the table. Zythraul can hear Humility whooping in the crowd.

Next, a dark-robed half-orc. He grins and holds up his arm. It’s a struggle for a moment before Zythraul’s hand slowly starts to make progress against the half-orc. The grin that had stayed on his face until his hand started to bend backward now starts to fade and he snarls at Zythraul. However, their hands start to reorient to the middle, and the snarl returns. Zythraul feels a bead of sweat roll down their back. They feels their arm move backwards just a bit more, before Bam! Their hand hits the table. Defeated. The half-orc stands up and cheers. Zythraul also stands. Taking a moment to adjust their shirt they hold their hand out at the half-orc, who just laughs and turns away. The half-orc goes on to win two more rounds before being taken down by a halfling, which makes him even madder. The halfling wins the round of wrestles and the announcer turns to Zythraul, handing them two gold for coming third, which they pockets. Humility claps them on the back in commiseration.

[heylinhenchman]

Last Thursdays; BG3 part 3 w @oflostinfound

Jurge feeling AT HOME in the Underdark. For a second, he could've almost been free of these strange Urges. Even a Bulette could not deter him, though he was happy to keep his distance, throwing potions to his team mates from a ledge (injuring Shadowheart with the glass in the process oNCE, sorry girl). That Bulette showed up much more than he was expecting though.

Jurge continues to keep his distance from the majority of the group. Gale tried to pry him for a magic item once and was met with stern disapproval. But shortly after inviting Astarion along, he came to hear of the mans power thirsty nature, and it does admittedly inspire some interest.

Things surely would have gone smoother, in his opinion, if they hadn't stopped to chat with the Myconids. Getting threatened, only to be dragged into their battles. He would've been happy to just steal the gnomes boots and be gone, but, he hadn't been willing to approach her in the first place. Instead Eath made work of asserting their services in a little slaughter. At least there was a silver lining…

Astarion is……. exactly the nuisance Jurge expected him to be. Walking into traps, alerting mephits, getting them dragged into battle. Aghast, Jurge puts his hands to use with something distracting: Music. Brouge hours for Asty. Didn't even bring him into the Duegar fight, when they got there.

But before the Duegar, Jurge demanded Focus. He wanted into the Underdark for a specific REASON. Multiple reasons. And they came first, in his single minded authority. So before they headed lakeward, they headed toward the glowing boughs of the Sussur tree. Jurge had, unexplained, a certainty of direction when it came to what he wanted. It was near the tree, down low, near poison. He just knew…

Some bibberbang shot, and some vines climbed, Jurge requested his team mates stay back, before this extraction would be sensitive. Some man was trapped with a burning torch in the bibberbang fields. A nauseating option ahead of him, but he sacrificed his only misty step scroll to extract the dwarf. Only to see his noble team mate rushing into the fields aside him.

He could not bid the dwarf adieu FASTER. "What the HELLS are you doing?" But it was far too late. Poison smog spreading increasingly far. He had every plan to shoot the mushrooms from a safe distance, but it seemed he was in the company of a lunatic. Instead he forced his way into the smog frantic, unwilling to let someones careless actions ruin his goals. The poison was a small price to pay, though he paid it nearly to completion before he even considered a potion. He got what he came for, but his irritation could not be tempered.

With bloodshot eyes, he kicked another of the mushrooms just above the fields. Only to find the dwarf he saved in a weakened state, taking not much more than a breath of the stuff before kicking the bucket. It seemed he wasted his scroll and poisoned his lungs at the end of the day for little more than a hunch. The anger was starting to make him. A little numb.

And then Astarion irritated a Hook Horror.

Foul vampire brat.

With his lovely dysfunctions, Jurge also wasted several attempts at using Sussur Blossoms for an item, only to find after several re-reads it was BARK he needed. Exhausted, but rewarded, the day did end with a Sussur Sickle and Noblestalk in his hand. As well as promise of a forge, somewhere in the Underdark. If not now, he'd want the information for some day.

The stalk did not relieve him. It simply made him want to lay down, and never get up. But the best he could do for himself, was stare into the fire, and clutch at his arms.

The next day he followed his team mate to the lakeside with Glut in tow. A lovely mushroom shield, while it lasted. The duegar could've been dealt with stealthily, but, in the end, a soft touch had them engaging in 'honorable combat'. Of course, it seemed his team mate had shelved the non-lethal strikes for a group of slaving duegar. At least this batch.

But their quest did not End there. Jurge was still numb, but the promise of taking someones head, sickly delighted him. Though he knew it would likely be overwhelming odds, he found himself agreeing without being told. And so they headed to the Grymforge.

Within the Forge a great many plans were enacted. It was tempting to just let Nere suffocate, but bleeding hearts cried for the safety of the gnomes trapped with him. Astarion and Jurge disapproved. But went along their merry way, finally putting Astarion to great use. Disarming traps left and right, stealing a barrel of rune powder under the ironhands nose. Though just as heartily getting them in their debt, agreeing to help dear, precious Barcus.

Jurge was surprised to find Eath aligning them with a mutiny within the duegar. Given the broad strokes in which the group gathered in the Grymforge painted themselves: Slavers, bullies and crooks; He hadn't expected her to be willing to work with any of them at all. What good came from less loot? Less blood? They would be weak for it. But he stood idly by, not feeling himself.

Down came the rock fall, and sooner came the battle. Jurge assailed himself to high ground, blowing up pre-set barrels in succession. But in the back of his mind, he had one goal: Beheading that Dark Elf that faced Eath with a menace of spells, including Enthrallment. It was… hard to swallow… that task being taken from him. Instead Eath took her darkest action yet. To his utter disapproval, and jaw-clenching fury. Why did it bother him so badly? Why did it feel like something gone Wrong? A claw grasping him throat. Then they let the rest of the Duegar LIVE !

He hopped down and took the head almost aggressively. He held it with too much familiarity.

And of course, they Found they Adamantine Forge. Astarion had a little. Accident. Under the Hammer. But it was fine. Two pairs of Adamantine Medium armor, and a laughing pendant later, they decided it was time to leave. To gain the Myconids praise, then head back to the surface. While their heads were still intact.

Back topside, they headed in the direction of the mountain pass! Or, they thought. Instead they headed downland, ending up in a squabble with some men and a crone. Jurge recognized her from the Grove, she was… uncomfortably perceptive. Then, uncomfortable adept in dark magic. Surrounded by illusions and redcaps. And a monster hunter, vying for her favor. Well, of course, Jurge assured they knocked that man out. Just as a little lesson, to not touch his little vampire.

(the game should rly have better reactivity for knocked out vs dead characters).

They'd have to take out the hag, just to make sure he never got his leverage, at that. Never before have I, the player, beat Ethel before she could run. BUT TODAY WE DID. It's totally nOT how it's supposed to be done and Jurge was READY to eat hag hair, but alas, that Hag died with little reward but the GOOD DEED! Even the woman in the cage wasn't that grateful. Jurge turned down her ugly locket.

Jurge is NOt going to give this woman her husband back. (Also the gAME CRASHED and that ended our Sesh but luckily we saved so it'll be fInE).

IC Goals for Part 4: Crecheward we Go; if Creche sucks go through the Grymforge to get to Moonrise like Halsin said; Looking for a longer weapon; Sate the Urge? Sate the Urge?; Bring back out Lae'zel when they get close to the Mountain pass; HAve a tALK with the TEAM ('if there are more than four enemies, we have to STRATEGIZE') OOC Goals for Part 5: Go the wrong way again so Jurge can still meet with the Zhentarim; UH MAYBE GO PICK UP PUBBY I THINK WE LEFT THE PUPPY BEHIND; We did not fully explore the underdark Woe but it wouldn't be relevant ic so sNRK (unless they explore more after the creche); Dear God Lethanders Tears is a GOOD WEAPON; Let Lae'zel have her character arc bAYBE

[amitapaul]

17/12

I WANTED TO WRITE A SERIOUS POEM

( Rhyme distracted me, you can tell )

“Intelligence, give me

the exact name of things!

That my word be

the thing itself,

created anew by my soul.”

(Juan Ramón Jiménez,

Libros de Poesía )

Standing naked and alone

In the starkness of the forbidding knowledge

Of my unrelenting poetic destiny

I ask you, my Poetry ,

What did you just whisper to me ?

O Queen who serves the Slaves !

From Metaphysics to Ethics

From Politics to MetaPoetry

Let not my language and my poem,

Merely circle around the core-idea—

As a promise, as it were,

As sheer rhetorical gloss,

Or quixotic self-indulgence,

Too reserved, too modest,,

Too oblique for the consummation

For fulfillment of this daring proposition

The rarely, or never quite, achieved sustainability

Of the concretised reality of things

In language , in poem

“ that my word may be the thing itself

created anew by my soul “ !

Attempting anything less

Would be an affront

To my Poetic Destiny.

Love's not Time's fool, says the Bard

Though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Nor is Poetry, although to form

It may conform

And the candy- boxish sweet delights

Of Rhyme and Rhythm fall in its sights

Meter Music and Melody

Euphonia and Harmony

Even to childlike Metronome

The heartbeat foot, the garden gnome

Skipping iambs and tripping trochees

Onerous Odes for Radio Jockeys

Sonnets for the Portuguese

Or Pantoums that aim to please.

I do not admit to these as impediments

Full grown

Just possibilities : for Poetry:

Each poem in its mystery

“ It is the star to very bark”

It is the ever- fixed mark,

whose worth’s unknown.

Now Poem, are you done ?

Where did you start from

And where have you come ?

Poem, with your permission, may I close ?

Don’t give me dirty looks, I’m done with those.

( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )

12 April 2023

Poem 17

[syncopein3d]

The Warm One 6: Spring Campaign

Part 5: Would You Say No

CW/tropes: living weapon, nonhuman caretaker, female whumpee, discussion of past noncon, intimate/nonsexual touch, servant caretaker, traumatic restraints, dry heaving

The snow melts sooner than it feels like it should. The army can march while it’s still on its way out, decaying in gray and listless drifts. So now they are on their way to Althaen. It would suit the Master’s consequence better for Aldo the Orc to ride, as he will ride himself, but the Orc he has given the Wrath of the King for her plaything and servant obviously can’t ride. What Orc can? And besides, only the war horses trained to wear armor are big enough, and definitely no one is sacrificing one of those.

Fortunately, while the scarring of an old arrow wound in his thigh prevents Aldo from running as fast as he could when he was a soldier, he can walk fast enough to keep up with the wagons. He doesn’t even seem to mind, trundling along with a knobbly walking stick that the Master insisted at least be polished and varnished.

The weapon can see him through the open curtains at the back of the ornate wagon where she rides. She is shaded from sun and wind, but the great sword and sickle on the crimson banner outside is there to let everyone know what is in this specific wagon. The whole thing is painted black. Gilt trim glitters in the late afternoon sun. The bars of the back door are gilt-plated, too. They’re thin enough that she thinks Aldo could probably bend them. They’re not really there to keep her in. They are there to remind everyone how valuable and dangerous is the work of the Sorcerers of the Kingdom of Man. The back curtains are velvet. There’s a solid panel that can slide across against the possibility of snow or arrows, but unless that happens, she is there to be seen as they travel, trying not to be sick as every movement jostles her. Her red traveling robes are a little less ornate than her daily clothes, plain velvet instead of beaded brocade. The backing of the fabric scratches her arms. The tulle of her shift scratches almost everywhere else. The pins in her pile of braids poke and prod with every jolt. The pile of cushions she’s sitting in don’t really help. They’re stiff and shiny with embroidery.

After hours of this, only the sturdy reinforcement of her corsetry keeps her upright. Her entire world is the branched scar that covers the front of her trunk. It throbs and almost seems to writhe. She has no clear idea of when the day will end. This is their fourth day of travel. Soon they will reach the border with the kingdom of Althaen.

The army stretches out all around them, ranks of Humans and Orcs and the occasional taller Gnome. There are a few officers that are Elf or Ifrit, all on horseback, resplendant in their acid-etched gold and black armor. The Orcs all have one mail shirt each, and a helmet that doesn’t cover their faces. Aldo doesn’t get any armor. He gets to walk, like a soldier, but go without protection, like a servant. The weapon knows the Master likes that, reminding her every moment how easily his gift can be taken away from her.

At last, after what seems like years, the wagon starts to turn, the army pinwheeling around it into a form more conducive to digging lavatories and setting up tents. The weapon crawls to the back of the wagon to hold onto the golden bars. Her golden bracers feel heavier than ever, sapping even that bit of her strength. Aldo comes closer, leaning on his staff.

“You’ll be out soon, Milady,” he said. “I’m going to help them set up.”

She nods, still struggling not to throw up. She watches the Orc lean his stick on the wheel of the maids’ wagon as he goes to help the other manservants. He is allowed to wear embroidered wool instead of velvet while they travel, and he is obviously more comfortable in it.

It takes a while to set up, but at last the red silk tent is finished, and the Master of Sorceries comes to ostentatiously unlock the cage bars and hand her out. She doesn’t know what art keeps him younger than her thirty-four years when he was a grown man at the time of her birth, but it must be something terrible. All magic is.

“We come to the Field of Thearn in two days,” he tells her. “The Althaenir await us there. They know we have never been defeated, but not how. Won’t you be excited to surprise them, little one?” She leans on his arm, but he is thinking of future glory, half-dragging her toward the tent.

“Yes, Master.” She struggles to keep sarcasm from her tone. He still has the ability to ruin her night. “I still hunger.” That tone doesn’t have to be faked. She knows what is coming, and hates it, and wants it so, so badly. Aldo, holding the tent flap for them, looks at her curiously. He’s never heard that note of trembling desperation in her voice.

“There’s my good girl.” He stops to look down at her, finger under her chin. She knows what he wants. He has wanted it since she was grown. He has never been stupid enough to do it. She looks back up at him with exhaustion and indifference, fighting to keep down disgust. If he kisses her she really will throw up, she thinks. But at last he drops her arm abruptly, leaving her swaying, and turns and strides from the tent.

“I pity whatever woman he’s keeping,” she tells Aldo, as the maids rise from the traveling trunks to come and get her out of her robes and take her jewels and hair comb. She hisses in agony as the shift peels away from the scar. Dried blood was holding one to the other, as it turns out. It forms a horrid branching shape like a tree tossed by the wind.

The maids grumble to each other about the laundry, but they’ve dealt with this before. They’ve brought more than one shift. They sponge her off as quickly as possible, ignoring her stifled noises. Aldo helps them get her into her thin woolen robe, leaving it loose, and then they hurry over to pack and wash and leave her with her Orc. It’s a big tent. There’s no cot. There’s an oilskin under a duvet, and there are the same type of stiff cushions piled on top of that. At the center of the tent below the smoke-hole there’s a brazier.

Aldo carries her over to the duvet and sets her in the vee of his legs, facing the fire. He already has the comb and brush and a little tin cup of water to dampen her thin hair.

“He’s never?” he asks. A heavy, warm hand cups the side of her head as he begins sorting the knots with the comb.

“No. I think he took one of the others, and she hurt him before she died,” the weapon says. “He limps a little when the weather changes. Even his art couldn’t fix him all the way.” Her voice is weak, listless. “So he wants to, but he won’t. Aldo, I – hk. Hkk.”

“Easy, Milady. I’ve got you.”

He holds a towel to her lips as she dry-heaves, but nothing comes up but spit tinged with blood. Afterward she leans against his chest and his big belly, head whirling. He strokes her back very carefully.

“Milady,” he says after a couple of minutes.

“Yes, Aldo.”

“I’ve made an ointment I used to use for scars, if you would like me to try it. I think it will help,” he says.

“It can’t do any harm,” she says.

Aldo’s fingers slather something that burns coldly across her shrunken breast and down her bony ribs. Somewhat to her surprise, it does help, soothing the deeper ache. It’s an intimate touch from any outside perspective. But where she knows what the Master wants, and is revolted by it, the weapon knows Aldo has no desire of that kind toward her. She thinks, as the tent starts to blur and fade, that it’s how she imagines a farrier would treat a horse. That’s a funny thought. She must have said something garbled about it, because Aldo chuckles, a bassy rumble against her ear.

She doesn’t have to ask him to hold her. He pulls her back to his belly and covers them with the velvet blanket, trapping heat inside. The duvet isn’t thick enough to keep the hard ground away, but she is warm. She used to be so cold on campaign. The weapon sighs.

“There we are,” Aldo says. Warm breath touches the back of her head. “That’s better.” She doesn’t hear the end of the second statement, already sinking into a heavy sleep. Tomorrow they’ll do it all again.

Part 7: Wrath

[bookshelfpassageway]

Campaign: Port of Stars

Been a minute, whoops

NaNoWriMo is a time

So, previously on, our beloved Captain Silver died, and we need to go find another chunk of the weird obscure meteor battery he's powered by.

Folen volunteers his island, the one he was kicked off of by meddling mages since it had been hit by those same meteors some time ago. It's not listed on any map, and he realizes that, after all this time, he doesn't know exactly how to navigate to it. He, swallowing his pride in wanting to be able to handle things on his own, contacts his mentor at the druidic island he trained at (he was sought out by them as a child due to his incredibly powerful ties to nature magic. They're sort of like… Jedi, in this world), and waits.

He's approached by a gnomish figure, who decides to talk to him privately in the middle of the bay. He reveals he's in disguise, and Folen at first thinks he's his mentor in disguise, but no, he's actually someone else who has been watching him journey for a very long time. He seems… Well meaning, almost affectionate, but there's a sort of trickster teacher element to him. Kind of a Yoda figure.

He gives Folen the option of 3 magic items to choose from to aid on his journey, a sickle, a potion, and a wand. Folen, feeling frustrated at the lack of action he was able to take to save Silver, and thinking back to his island and the trouble he'd had there, chooses the sickle.

He's also asked what he's learned from this experience. Folen considers this, and decides that he's not as alone as he thinks, and that it's ok to ask for help.

And so, this gnome is brought onboard the main ship, and the whole party Travels By Trees to Folen's home island.

The place smells of death and decay, there's rotting fungal overgrowth everywhere, and razor sharp vines that slash Folen as he tries to climb a tree to get a better view. They're distant from the base the mages set up, and not too far from a place Folen remembers a meteor hitting.

They're attacked by spiders almost entirely overgrown by fungus, and those are dispatched, and then later have to fight a strange rotting tree that is capable of mobility and attacking. The lakebed that had been the meteor's landing place has since turned into a kind of bog. As they reach the center, they find a gnarled tree with branches that twist like a claw, and in its crown growing an enormous deathcap mushroom.

[leeaxels]

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my bed. It’s the cleanest in that room by far.” A half truth really, considering they hadn’t been back to Hogwarts long enough to do much in it. At least, Axel hadnt. The same couldn’t be said for his other friends, aside from Minhyuk. The best behaved of the lot. He mirrored her position as she shifted. Nose scrunched at the mention of Bowtruckles, unable to hide the shiver at the mention of a magical beast hidden beneath his duvet cover. He had, however, laughed at the mention of Haneul. Index finger raised and poking her of the forehead. For a second, an image of a younger Hana came to mind. She had made a habit of doing the same thing to him whenever he said something idiotic or was attempting to focus on one of many homework tasks. “Unless you want me to stand at the bottom of the girls' staircase singing The Hobgoblin’s all night just for you, I wouldn’t.” It had been no more than a thirty minute conversation. Yet, in a mere thirty minutes, he’d come to understand Hana’s decision to befriend her. It wasn’t because she was just as much as out cast, although she very much had been, but because she drew you in with her wit and humor. An aura that reminded him of Taesun, which he dared not to voice, but a more subtle one. You had to stop long enough to speak to her to find that conversations and laughter flowed with ease. A girl who had been labeled weird and someone to avoid within their own house and year. “You won’t get eight hours in our dorm. Haneul’s got a new fuck buddy for the week, Maya and Tae go at it like gnomes and Minhyuk.. well, he broke up with his girlfriend at the end of fifth year, so he’s alright. He’s the best one out the lot.” He wore a look of disgust as he listed off the disadvantages of his sleeping arrangement. Information that he doubted his friends would appreciate being shared with her. Yet, he appeared to have temporarily forgotten that she was to be disliked by association. He didn’t move as she lay down. Certain that Zabini would be less than impressed by their lack of work ethic. However, he had no intention of returning to his punishment. Already having accepted that the trophy would be his nightly activity for the rest of the week. “Come on. I’m done. Zabini will only send Filch to tell us to go anyway and he’s a few sickles short of a galleon.”

“Really? I’ve never noticed.” There was a smugness present when Axel spoke. A grin surfacing, that surely made him appear arrogant. He was aware of their privilege and it would have been a lie if he claimed that he hadn’t often used it to his advantage. Their position’s in the Quidditch team meaning that they could get away with more than most - especially Taesun. Although, he suspected that Professor Longbottom simply favoured him. “They’re also free labor. You’ve ruined it for me. You’re going to have to do my running about instead.” There was no seriousness to his remark as he nudged her with his foot in return. He could only imagine the rumours and reactions that would follow any interact with Astra he had in public, even if it had only been the bare minimum. “She’s always been like it.” It was short answer. His head resting against the cabinet behind him, eyes fluttering to a close briefly. It a strange conversation to have. To talk about Hana with ease, rather than avoid anything that remotely related to her. She was a taboo subject within their friendship group. A scar Taesun held that they all knew not to prod. It was a conversation that left him feeling as though he was betraying his best friend in some way. So instead of continuing, when his eyes finally opened, he chose to shift the conversation. A eyebrow raised, smile flickering to life, as he observed her for several seconds before finally speaking. “Did you really stick something in my bed?” He hoped not. There were a number of things he was scared of, which was why he hadn’t chosen to take care of magical creatures. A slither of information he chose not to make her privy to. Not that it had been much of a secret, since he had initially taken it in his third year, only to spend every lesson pressed up against Taesun’s back, hurling insults at any creature that came within yards of him. “Maybe I should bunk with Haneul.” He visibly shivered at the prospect. Unsure of what was worse - facing something in his own bed or intentionally becoming the little spoon in the bed of one of his friends. “Actually, no. Minhyuk’s probably less likely to cop a feel.”

[lokeanwelcomingcommittee]

Hello good day! I would like to know what is your opinion about the punishment of the Gods, do you think that the deities punish those who act badly and ruin their lives? Are there pagan people who claim that Loki is not a god? that he is not Thor's brother and does not have kinship? and that nobody knows where loki comes from? if loki is not a god then what is it? Is it just a Scandinavian folklore character?

Hi!

Loki isn’t Thor’s brother in the lore. This isn’t really a debate, even among Lokeans. Thor’s parents are stated to be Odin and Jord. (Not Frigg–Odin sleeps around a lot.) Loki’s are stated to beFarbauti and Laufey (or Nal.) There’s no surviving medieval version where Loki is also a son of Odin: that’s a Marvel thing. It’s unclear whether Loki has kinship to Thor, in that it’s unclear whether Loki’s mother is a jotun or an asynja. If he does, there’s nothing indicating that they’re what we’d consider immediate family.

I’m not sure what you’re asking regarding where Loki comes from. Again, we know his parentage. We don’t know where he was born, but the same could be said of a lot of other figures, including Odin and Thor. The Eddas in general don’t establish geography very solidly or consistently for the most part.

It’s true that some pagans and academics don’t refer to Loki as a god. This is because some people don’t view the jotnar in general as gods, just the aesir and vanir. As discussed above, it’s unclear whether Loki has any aesir heritage. However, there is historical evidence that the jotnar were also venerated. It’s unclear whether it’s really fair not to call them gods. And even if they don’t qualify, it’s worth pointing out that Snorri lists Loki as one of the aesir regardless.

A lot of people who claim to be against worshiping Loki because of his jotun heritage are mysteriously okay with worshiping other jotnar like Skadi, Hel, and Mani. A bunch of anti-Loki sentiment really stems from prejudice against the marginalized folks who tend to make up the majority of his devotees.

As for whether the gods punish humans…Heathen relationships with the gods are different than some other religions you may be familiar with. The Norse gods aren’t really treated as perfect exemplars of human morality. They actually frequently fail to live up to human moral standards (and by that, I mean both modern Western and pre-Christian Norse moral standards.) In other words, while they’re powerful and wise and have much to teach us, they’re not really going around condemning humans for every single ethical breach. The discussions about being a good person in the lore are almost always centered on being a good family member and citizen and leading a happy life, not keeping the gods appeased.

That said, while the gods aren’t necessarily going around playing moral police, they aren’t above metaphorically breaking some kneecaps to defend their own or collect on a big debt. Deliberately spiting them or going back on a promise can end badly. This is one of the reasons some Heathens discourage making any oaths to the gods.

But again, they’re not like, out waiting for a chance to smite us. Unless you’re deliberately trying to disrespect or cheat them, you don’t need to stress over the possibility. It may be helpful to conceptualize your relationship with them as something akin to a human family member or mentor. Generally speaking, they wish us well and want to maintain a positive relationship even if both parties may screw up once in awhile. . 

- Mod E

To add on a little about the relationship between Odin and Loki being very different in the mythology to what it is in the MCU, this is a quote from the poem Lokasenna in the Poetic Edda:

Loki spake:

“Remember, Othin, | in olden daysThat we both our blood have mixed;Then didst thou promise | no ale to pour,Unless it were brought for us both.”

There is a scholarly theory that Loki was a member of the Aesir through ‘adoption’ into the family via his blood bond with Odin. This is, however, just a theory. Either way, Loki - although not historically worshiped - is no different than any other Norse deities. - Mod L

[jimblejamblewritings]

snakes & bets | part 5.

Summary: Social outcast suddenly makes friends? And those friends are Hogwarts’ most notorious pranksters? Despite being entirely suspicious, Y/N doesn’t question any motives. The world can’t possibly come crashing down around her…

Warnings: This whole story is angsty, hurt/comfort, smut, will end in fluff but goes through all the other stuff first.

Pairing: Marauders x black!reader, eventual Sirius Black x black!reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Previous Part | (Series Masterlist)

Because he was into you, the marauders tried for Sirius’ sake. They always made room in between them and Padfoot for you to sit down. You were actually kind of cool. They didn’t notice that the only reason they suddenly started liking you was because you were trying your hardest to fit in. You didn’t talk very much anymore.

Unless they asked you a question, you tried not to speak. When you did, it was about quidditch. You didn’t mention crochet, embroidery, or anything related to crafting. You didn’t speak about embarrassing things from your childhood. You never mentioned garden gnomes. If you weren’t wearing the Hogwarts’ uniform, you tried to mimic how all the other girls styled themselves. You even threw away your glasses. If you ever ran out of contacts, you would just squint until the refill showed up. If that’s what it took to keep friends then you would do it.

Even though he didn’t have to, Sirius formally invited you to Hogsmeade with them that weekend. You looked down when Sirius grabbed your hand. A few weeks ago, you would have smiled at the gesture alone. Now, you just saw price tags.

You had checked the list again when they were asleep. You had every task memorized. Holding your hand was worth one sickle. You half-expected Sirius to drop your hand immediately upon reaching Hogsmeade. When he didn’t, you found yourself smiling a bit.

The five of you took a booth at Three Broomsticks. You just stared into your butterbeer that Sirius bought while they talked about the next prank that they were planning. You pouted at your drink. Smiling because a fake friend held your hand for longer than expected was a bit pathetic. Peter kicked at Sirius’ foot and pointed to you.

“Bunny, you okay?” he asked.

You snapped out of the little world you were in. “I don’t feel very good today.”

Sirius immediately jumped up. “Why didn’t you say so? We didn’t have to come to Hogsmeade today.”

“You wanted to.” You shrugged. “My stomach just hurts, I’ll be fine.”

“You need tea not butterbeer.”

Sirius walked with you to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. He sat you down in what he deemed the most comfortable chair and paid for your tea. With a promise that they would try to make their shopping as quick as possible, Sirius told you to rest and left to go back to the boys. You knew they would ditch you as soon as they had the chance. You wondered if that was a separate game that you didn’t know about. Did people get points for coming up with creative ways to abandon you?

“Is she alright?” Remus asked when Sirius came back.

“She still seemed a little out of it. Let’s get the stuff quickly, I don’t want to leave her for too long… Lily! What do you like when you’re sick?”

The redhead thought for a minute. “Depends.”

“(Y/N)’s stomach hurts.”

“(Y/N)?” Dorcas asked from behind Lily.

“Padfoot’s in love with her,” Remus said, making Sirius turn to look at his friend.

“I’m not in love with her!”

“Sorry. Padfoot has a very minuscule crush on (Y/N) that has the potential to blossom into something like Prongs’ obsession with Lily.” Remus corrected himself. “Better?”

Dorcas, Lily, Mary, and Marlene laughed. Mary was the one who stopped first.

“Oh shit, are you serious?”

“That is in fact my name… yes, alright, I kind of like her.”

“I was wondering why your names haven’t appeared on the list in a while.”

Sirius scrunched his nose. “Yeah, we’re done with that. Hey, will you guys knock it off too? And maybe invite her to something? I think Bunny could use some girl friends.”

Marlene pressed her lips in a very amused smile. “Oh, he’s down bad, girls. Already has a nickname for her. Okay, we’ll stop.”

“And inviting her?” Sirius asked. “Please?”

The girls all looked at each other. Calling off the bet was easy, considering they didn’t exactly agree with certain tasks anyway and the methods some people went about doing them. But hanging out with you was another thing entirely. You were still the freak. Sirius liking you didn’t change that fact. He watched them debate it.

“I’ll give you all the money I won, I don’t want it anyway,” he said quickly. “Just one hangout, a sleepover or something?”

The girls agreed. They offered to check on you at Madam Puddifoot’s instead of Sirius going back and they would just invite you to hang out with them that night. The marauder nodded when they said that if you were too weird the sleepover would be a one time thing.

You looked up from your tea to see the girls in front of your little table. Like the other three marauders, they weren’t exactly sure what Sirius saw in you. You didn’t agree to the sleepover with as much enthusiasm as you might have in the past. Sleepover, four sickles. The marauders could’ve crossed that off after the first time they slept with you but it must have slipped their mind.

You walked a little bit behind the girls. You kept telling yourself to not be weird. All your words were measured. The girls seemed like they were having fun. You should have enjoyed it but it was hard when you were so focused on fitting in with them. Sirius complimented your nails at breakfast to which you only responded that Marlene did them. They weren’t your style but you hadn’t told Marlene that when she did them.

Behind your back, Sirius had checked with the other girls on how the night went. They liked you well enough to invite you to another sleepover. You were quiet, didn’t really get in their way. Having you around wasn’t too much of a burden on them. He thanked them for giving you a chance.

While he thought he was doing you a favor, Sirius wasn’t helping at all. Being around everyone became harder when you knew the truth. They were all working overtime to win. Every task, even the ones only worth knuts were being taken seriously. You counted everything. In one morning alone, four tasks were accomplished. You went back and forth between how you felt. Because once all the tasks were done, you knew that everyone would leave you.

That thought caused the most pain to suddenly go from being around everyone to alone once again. You would remember what having friends was like. It wouldn’t be the same as when you were alone in the past. Since you had most of your classes without the marauders or the girls, you thought that maybe you should start isolating yourself. It would be best to learn how to be alone again.

You took the first real step at dinner when you ate at your table. You weren’t next to your roommates but alone. You brought a school textbook so it would look like you were absorbed in your work.

“Pads, stare any harder and you’ll burn a hole through her textbook,” Remus said. “Let her work.”

“But she normally sits with us.”

“She probably didn’t want to be bothered. You three talk too much to get any work done around you.”

“You talk too, Moons.”

“Yeah but my grades are better. Leave Bunny alone, you’ll see her in Astronomy.”

You plopped down next to Sirius in Astronomy. Dinner was miserable. You didn’t realize how dependent you became on being in people’s company. You could be alone when it was just you but to be surrounded by people and alone was something you couldn’t handle anymore. It hurt to be alone and it hurt to be with fake friends. So, you chose the pain that came with company.

Sirius was very pleased with himself when you sat next to him without any prompting. The boys had made fun of him back in their dorm for busting out his leather jacket. He didn’t care, feeling satisfied as he draped the jacket over your shoulders so you wouldn’t be cold in the Astronomy Tower. Two sickles. Or maybe three. You weren’t sure if this counted as letting you borrow his clothes or pretending to romance you. One was worth a little more than the other. The list seemed very detailed and particular on what it considered to be a completed task.

You kept the jacket on during the whole lesson. Maybe they would like you more if you helped them win. Selfishly, Sirius was upset that you seemed to be wide awake. He was going to let you sleep on his shoulder. The opportunity never presented itself. Class ended and you handed him back his jacket before making your way to your own dorm.

You looked outside the windows before descending towards the dungeons. It was too cold to go outside anymore as snow landed on the grass. You just wanted to find your little gnomes. You wanted to give them new hats, do something that made you happy without fear of being judged.

The next morning, you pushed the gnomes out of your mind and tried again to eat alone. Sirius didn’t mind this time. He had something big planned and you sitting at a different table just added to his grandness.

“Are you sure about this, Padfoot?” James asked.

“Nope. But Lily said girls like big gestures.”

“Doesn’t get much bigger than this,” Peter muttered.

James pushed him. “Me asking out Lily after catching the snitch?”

“Ooh, you got one date, Prongs. Let it go, hasn’t even happened yet.”

Sirius looked at them. “Will you two shut up? I’m about to pour my heart out.”

They just gave him a gesture that suggested he should go ahead. The raven-haired boy took in a deep breath before standing up on the Gryffindor table. It was near impossible to miss his tall frame. The professors already had their eye rolls ready for whatever foolishness was about to happen today. Sirius cleared his throat until almost everyone was looking at him. It didn’t miss him that you weren’t paying him any mind.

“Everyone, I have a very shocking damn near blasphemous announcement!” He shook his head. “Here goes nothing. I… am in love.”

The professors sat up. Usually, morning antics by the marauders weren’t given much thought. But this was new. Students continued eating but with fascination as if they were watching a movie. Sirius chuckled as he continued.

“Here’s the blasphemous part. She’s a Slytherin. I know, I know— wipe that stupid smirk off your face, Snivellus, I swear I’ll go over there right now an—”

He looked down when he felt tugging on his pants leg. Remus just looked at his friend, making the other boy blush. Sirius nodded while taking off his robe to reveal the sweatshirt that you had embroidered for them.

“Right, off topic. I am in love with a girl who dances weirdly, taps her fingers on the table when she thinks, makes little tiny hats, and a lot of other things that are actually really charming when you think about it.”

He jumped off the table and took the bouquet from Peter before strolling over to your table. Sirius stopped right in front of you.

“So, (Y/N), will you do me the great honor of being my date to the Yule Ball?”

You simply nodded and took the bouquet. Asking you to the dance was worth a few sickles if you remembered the list correctly. Sirius probably earned them a few more or maybe even a galleon for saying that he loved you.

You didn’t even have to write to your parents about it. A few days before you could pen them a letter, they sent you a dress. Regulus snitched on his older brother to their parents who immediately wrote to the Zabini family. Orion and Walburga might have had a lot of issues with their eldest and they might have disagreed with the Zabinis allowing your mother to marry a muggleborn but prestige was prestige.

You were a halfblood coming from a pureblood line as prestigious as theirs. Sirius being romantically linked to you was considered a plus as far as they were concerned. The Black family held onto their ancient views.

Sirius was shocked when you showed up to the marauders’ dorm with a package containing new robes for him for the Yule Ball along with a letter. He didn’t exactly forgive his parents and he wasn’t crawling back home. His parents were never going to understand their son’s views and they weren’t going to beg him to change. But the three of them were now in a new phase of dancing around each other.

Walburga put her son back in the inheritance. Sirius acknowledged that he did in fact have parents. He acknowledged that Regulus was his little brother. Sirius even considered thanking him for saying something when you advised him to do so. Deep down, the Black brothers still cared about each other. You told him that he wouldn’t even be on a path to mending any relationships if it wasn’t for Regulus. It would probably never get farther than step one— not if his parents didn’t change— but Sirius acknowledged that they owed any steps to his younger brother.

You looked at the robes before you left his room. They matched your dress perfectly, not in color but in style. It was clear that his parents had gone shopping with yours. For all of their progressive views on wizard society, the Zabinis still kept up with certain ancient pureblood traditions. One was courtship. You were allowed to have fun in your younger years but the minute you became somewhat serious about someone, certain rules had to be met. You said yes to Sirius going to the Yule Ball as a date not friends which meant something to your family and his.

Bless your parents. They thought it was real. You frowned as you got dressed for the dance. How were you supposed to break it to them that everything was fake? More importantly, how were you supposed to do it in a way that didn’t make Sirius look bad? You couldn’t just say that it didn’t work out. That wasn’t how pureblood families worked. You would be expected to try again, try at least three or four times before coming to such a finite conclusion.

And for all the money and bets in the world, you didn’t believe that Sirius would put up a front in dating you just to please your family. He certainly wouldn’t do it to please a family that he barely had relations with. Still, you needed a good excuse. You saw the baby steps with his parents as meaning way more than he did. You didn’t want to ruin it. If they never fully made it then it was because they chose not to, not because his parents discovered that their eldest made a mockery of another pureblood house.

By the time you made it down the steps leading to the Great Hall, you still didn’t have an answer. James, Peter, and Remus pointed you out to their friend. James left with Lily to head inside. Peter and Remus gave their friend one last pat on the back before heading inside. Sirius nearly choked on his own spit when he saw you. You held up the red tie while looking at the floor.

“I kind of rushed this one, it’s not as good as before. My mom said your family wasn’t Jewish, I hope we didn’t get that wrong.”

You felt a bit ridiculous making something for him since you knew he didn’t care. Maybe it was dumb to hope that gestures would win them over but it made you feel like the whole thing was more real than it actually was. His fingers traced over the Christmas tree at the bottom before putting it on. Sirius shook his head as he tied it.

“We’re not. It looks amazing and so do you. Actually, you look better than amazing. You look perfect.”

You took in a sharp breath and just nodded. That was a two sickle bet, calling you perfect. You took his arm and let him escort you into the Great Hall. Sirius was having much more fun than you. He liked the way you felt underneath his hands. The two of you swayed back and forth. He expected you to show him some new, weird dance but you just continued to sway. You weren’t going to embarrass him on this night.

Even when the girls pulled you away to dance with them, you just followed whatever moves they did. There was no flailing, no fancy footsteps, no weird faces or head banging. The most you did was a tango because both you and Sirius had taken formal ballroom lessons when you were younger. He talked during every slow song in an attempt to learn as much about you as possible.

Sirius liked that you both had similar backgrounds. He never hated purebloods, he just wished that more were like the Potters. And as much as he rebelled, Sirius was a pureblood through and through. Even he had to admit that he often looked down on people. Not for their blood status but for other things. Lily and Remus were some of the best people he knew and they had muggle parents. They were some of the most brilliant minds that he knew. Evan Rosier was a pureblood that Sirius should have liked. But Rosier couldn’t tell his dessert spoon from his coffee spoon.

You were a mix. Your dad was a muggleborn but you held all the manners of a pureblood. You both took etiquette lessons when you were younger, had decent grades, spoke the language of your family line— he spoke French, you spoke Italian— and were expected to behave a certain way in company. He could relate to you in a way that he didn’t feel with a lot of other people. Which was why he could tell that you were over the Yule Ball as it got later in the night.

He was wrong about the reason though. Sirius thought that your social battery had been drained for the night. Really, you were starting to realize that you couldn’t do it anymore. He told the boys that you were going to go, the others choosing to follow.

The marauders decided a small after party in their dorm was what everyone needed. Pillows were grabbed from beds and thrown on the floor. Shoes were kicked off while party clothes were kept on. It was eerily similar to the Halloween Ball. Tonight was too much for you. That was all you thought about as the boys talked around you. It wasn’t fun to know that you weren’t loved.

Your head turned when Remus called your name. You just looked at him, realizing that you hadn’t heard a word he said. Tears were welling up in your eyes no matter how much you tried to blink them back and suppress them. He put his hand on your knee when he noticed.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded your head as you wiped at your tears. “I’m fine.”

“(Y/N), yo—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m good.” Your hands flopped to your lap. “I’m great, it’s nothing. I’m just being dumb. I just… I really liked having friends.”

The boys gave you soft smiles. They would’ve cracked a joke about you crying over something so trivial but they learned that you just seemed more sensitive to everything than others. Considering Myrtle was the same, it seemed to run in the family.

“We like being your friend.” James smirked at Sirius. “Except for Pads who’s failing at being something more with you about as bad as I’m failing with Lily.”

Sirius threw up his middle finger and you laughed despite not wanting to. You took a deep breath and tried to stop your hands that were trembling in your lap. You were tired and all your thoughts just came to the surface.  

“I know that everyone thinks I’m weird,” you continued. “I know you all don’t actually want to be my friend.”

“(Y/N), what? Of course we do. We l—”

“I saw the list!” You got out quickly. “That’s why Sirius asked me to the dance. It’s worth four sickles. I know— I know this is all a joke… I-I would have just paid you to keep ignoring me, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble to get the money.”

The marauders sat in a stunned silence. You moved your gaze from your hands to their faces, realizing your mistake. Your eyes went wide as you stood up quickly. They were never going to talk to you again unless you fixed it.

“But it’s fine! It’s fine, I’ll get over it tomorrow and you can keep pretending to be my friend. I’ll help you finish the list and win. I just want to have someone to sit with at lunch… never mind, I-I’ll just go.”

Snapping to attention, Sirius tried to reach for you but you practically ran from their dorm and down the stairs. He looked at the other three who didn’t have any solutions off the top of their heads. They didn’t know you had seen the list.

Sirius felt like shit. He wondered how long you knew about it. He cursed at himself as he changed, staring at the tie you had embroidered for him. He should have told you about the list instead of acting like it didn’t exist. Sirius thought that you would never find out. He figured it didn’t matter because he had stopped participating. There was no need to get you worked up over something.

Now, he realized how that was a mistake. He would have to apologize to you. There were only a few days before winter break and he didn’t want you going home thinking that his feelings were a joke. He wouldn’t be able to relax at the Potters if he knew that you felt that way.

Sirius didn’t get the chance the day after the Yule Ball. You were nowhere to be found. He even tried checking outside despite the weather but couldn’t find you. After the third day, he panicked. They were leaving tomorrow for the Potters. Getting desperate, Sirius pulled out the map. He put it back before even opening it.

The map was a last resort. He didn’t want to invade the one thing you had. Sirius decided to write you a letter, go down to the owlery, and send it to you. He would be worried for the entirety of winter break but would apologize again when school was back in session. Sirius clutched the letter in his hand as he left Gryffindor to go send it.

He walked past a bunch of students, hoping that one of them would be you. Instead of you, Sirius did spot a familiar person. Without really thinking, he stuck out his hand and grabbed the person’s shoulder.

Regulus looked over in surprise at being eye to eye with his older brother. Sirius just growled at the boy he was with until the Slytherin left the two Black brothers to be alone in the corridor. Sirius went back to looking at his brother and scratched the back of his head.

“I don’t do well with apologizing—”

“One of the few things Mother taught you that you didn’t reject.”

“Merlin, Reg, will you shut up so I can try.”

Regulus blinked. “You’re trying to apologize?”

“Yes, alright. I shouldn’t have taken my anger at our parents out on you. And I shouldn’t have just ran to the Potters when they kicked me out. I still hate your fucking friends, I think you’re hanging out with trouble, but I’m sorry for leaving you and treating you like shit.”

“Apology accepted, I think? What brought this on?”

“A few pseudo therapy sessions with (Y/N), made me see a couple things and I’ll admit that she might have been right about those things. I’m trying to do right by at least one person.”

“Why? Because you’re the reason (Y/N) hasn’t left her room since the Yule Ball so now you have to try and do good by someone else?”

Sirius went wide-eyed. “She what?”

“Yeah, I’m kind of dating her roommate. Lucy says the curtains have been drawn around her bed since they got back from the dance.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s what she says. They only ever see a hand poke out to grab a snack from her trunk. I mean she has to get up at some point to pee but she’s not leaving her bed. It actually made them worried. No one wants to room with a dead girl, we don’t need another Moaning Myr—”

“Finish that and I’ll forget I just apologized to you.”

Regulus looked at his brother. “Wait, you’re not joking?”

“I’m not that cruel.”

“Debatable.”

“Reg.”

“Siri.”

The two of them stared at each other. Regulus broke first.

“You mean it? The apology?”

Sirius nodded. “I’m pissed at our parents, not you.”

His little brother smiled. “I’ve waited two years for an apology. I looked up to you a lot, you know. I think you got Gryffindor because you were brave enough to stand up to our family.”

“You don’t have to follow them, you know?”

Regulus shrugged. “Do you really hate my friends?”

The older boy huffed out a laugh. “Reg, they’re fucking Death Eaters. I don’t care what they say. Pureblood elitists, my ass. Half of them are planning on joining You-Know-Who and they’re gonna get themselves killed right next to him.”

“They—”

“Think about it. You really think they’re all simply stuck up? They’re like Mum and Dad who don’t follow You-Know-Who but don’t try to stop him? Muggleborns are that bad that they need to die?”

“I don’t think they need to die.”

“Then why are you with them?”

“I… I was told to.” Regulus looked at his brother. “I’m friends with some Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff.”

“Stick with them instead.”

“Can I spend the break with you?”

Sirius gave his brother a genuine smile. There was a time when he and Regulus did everything together. He fucked up with his brother. They both fucked up. Sirius nodded his head.

“Yeah, you can stay with Prongs and I… you know they’re going to write you out of the inheritance?”

Regulus laughed. “Didn’t they add you back? They can’t write us both out, gives them a bad look.”

“Mmm hmm, sure, you tell Mother that. We’re leaving early in the morning tomorrow.”

“Alright… Siri!” Regulus called before his brother ran off completely. “Slytherin password is Salazar, her room’s the third door once you get into the girl’s corridor.”

“Thank you.”

Sirius made a hard left and headed to Slytherin instead of the owlery. You were exactly as his younger brother described. The curtains were drawn around your bed. He noticed that they didn’t match your roommates. A smile tugged at his lips as he realized that you probably did them yourself.

He watched your hand stick out of the curtain followed by a significant amount of your arm. You were leaning over, trying to grab a snack from your trunk that you left open. You weren’t going to leave your bed until everyone left for Christmas. You just needed time was what you told yourself. Sirius rushed over. He grabbed what you were trying to reach and handed it to you. Your hand grabbed it, fingers pausing at suddenly making contact with human skin. Quickly, your hand retreated back behind the curtains.

“(Y/N)?” Sirius waited, getting no response. “Bunny, I’m sorry. That list was wrong. It… Shit, I’m not good at this, I— we weren’t faking being your friends. We stopped that list a while ago. I know I should have told you about it but I thought I was doing you a favor. I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

Sirius watched your hand poke out again. You made a beckoning motion. He poked his head through.

“I like your pajamas.” He cringed at himself. What type of compliment was that?

You patted the bed, not really looking at him. Sirius rushed to take off his shoes and coat before parting the curtains. He sat next to you, unable to keep still. You felt his eyes on the side of your face.

“Can I hold you?” He asked in a whisper.

You wordlessly crawled into his lap, back against his chest. Sirius rested his chin on your head.

“I know now that hiding it was a mistake. It wasn’t actually protecting you. I meant to tell you earlier, right when you said something. I was just in shock. I didn’t ask you to the dance as a joke, the money doesn’t mean shit. I do like you.”

“You do?”

“I’m bloody in love with you.”

You pouted. Sirius looked down when you didn’t respond. He kissed your cheek.

“I mean that. I fancy you more than I think I’ve ever fancied someone. You drive me crazy, Bunny.”

“What about Marlene?” you asked as you poked at his hands that were wrapped around you. “Peter said—”

“The bi power couple? It’s just a joke between us, we have fun with each other every now and then… I haven’t since liking you. If that’s what you’re worried about, I haven’t shagged anyone, wouldn’t disrespect you like that.”

The two of you were silent for a moment. Sirius grabbed the now-wrinkled letter from his pocket. He held it up in front of you.

“I guess I don’t need to bother sending you this letter anymore. Shame, Moons said it was practically poetry. I pulled out handwriting that would make my mother jealous, haven’t had penmanship this nice since the last time she made me write all of our Christmas invitations… there’s that laugh!”

He felt proud of himself for getting a smile out of you. He pecked your cheek once more, telling you that he wanted to hear you laugh some more. Sirius couldn’t stop pressing kisses up and down the side of your face.

“You’re gorgeous, Bunny.” His hands started roaming. “So pretty, absolutely perfect.”

Your hips bucked slightly when his hands got lower. Sirius squeezed your thighs, smirking when you whined. He wasn’t sure how they didn’t appreciate this sound coming from you in the past.

One hand moved past the waistband of your pajama pants while the other went under your shirt. Sirius was excited to take your clothes off. He was going to love on you and appreciate you better than last time, return the same enthusiasm that you always gave them.

He chuckled to himself. He was kind of glad that the other three didn’t see what he saw. They could stay your friend but he didn’t want them looking at you in the same way he did. Remus was right— Sirius was territorial. You were his girl and he didn’t share, not even with his best friends that he considered family.

You were trying to enjoy the moment. The more you tried to relax, the more you found that you couldn’t. This felt like a lie. No matter what Sirius said, it felt like a bet. It felt like you were another prize to be won. You didn’t feel like he was actually into you. The hard-on pressing against your back was probably because he was thinking of Marlene or whoever else he shagged. You already knew that James had to think of Lily when they last hooked up with you.

Honestly, you didn’t feel Sirius’ lips pressing kisses all over you or his hands playing with your body. You couldn’t. Not when you were thinking about how much this was probably worth. Four galleons, maybe five? That was the most insulting part of it. They made a bet with petty money. Sure, when it was totaled up it was enough to buy the newest broom with maybe change leftover. But that meant that they only saw you worth a broom and some gloves for quidditch. It didn’t matter how shiny or new. They equated you to some sports equipment.

You felt that you were worth more than that. You knew that you were worth more than that and you weren’t about to let Sirius make a couple of galleons off of your body.

You grabbed at his wrist. “Stop, stop please.”

Sirius quickly pulled his hand out of your pants and detached his lips from your neck, muttering apologies. You tilted your head a little to look at him.

“I just don’t feel very comfortable after…” you trailed off. “Maybe you should go.”

Sirius blinked before coming to his senses. He quickly got up, scrambling to put his coat and shoes back on.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I was going too fast, I shouldn’t…” Whatever he was saying was muffled as he finished putting his stuff on.

You slowly stood up to escort him out. Sirius stood in the threshold of your doorway. He wanted to reach out and hug you or just touch you but thought better of it. You looked at the ground as you spoke.

“I think I’m just meant to be alone. It’s better that way.” You closed the door in his face before he could respond.

For the first time in a few days, you got dressed properly. Pulling a trunk out from underneath your bed that held extra school supplies, you grabbed a bunch of vials out of it. You stared at the empty glasses for a moment. The spell wasn’t very hard. Extracting memories honestly took no work. Slowly, each vial filled up with different memories of your time during the first half of the school year. You moved the snacks in your trunk around to make room for the vials. Placing them on a blanket, you set Sirius’ unopened letter on top of it and left to go find Professor McGonagall.

The old woman was happy to see you before her smile faded. Every year since your first year, you always took tea with her the day before you left for your Christmas break. Normally, you were dressed, had your trunk packed, and greeted her with a smile. Right now, you were standing at her door trying to hold in tears.

“I’m just a big joke to everyone,” you confessed as you tried not to cry again.

McGonagall ushered you in. The more you talked, the angrier she grew at the student body. She had half a mind to send owls to all of their houses, ban them from going to Hogsmeade, or lower their grades. McGonagall wanted to punish them on your behalf.

She was the most disappointed in her four favorite troublemakers. You both had gushed months ago about them becoming your friends. To discover it was all a lie paired with a cruel bet made the professor speechless. She didn’t try to talk you out of your plan to obliviate your memories. You told her that you already saved them in case you needed to remember something. McGonagall actually agreed with your decision. Knowing seemed to have taken a toll on your mental health.

While she normally didn’t advocate for memory alteration, she agreed to do it for you. You were thankful because you didn’t trust yourself to get the spell perfectly. Last thing you wanted was to accidentally obliviate a memory of a school lesson or your parents’ names. McGonagall waited patiently for you two write two letters, one to yourself and one to the marauders.

It was like the last few months didn’t happen when she finished. You went to Hogsmeade alone, you ate alone, you sat on your own at quidditch games. That’s what your memories told you. The Yule Ball never happened and neither did the Halloween Ball because you didn’t go this year, the same way that you never went in all the past years. You opened the letter to yourself and then gave McGonagall a wave.

“Happy Christmas, (Y/N).”

“Happy Christmas, Professor,” you said as you made your way to the Gryffindor dorm.

Your letter had told you to go and deliver the other one. Apparently, you knew the Gryffindor password and which room belonged to the marauders. You weren’t sure what happened because your letter was vague as if the old you was trying to protect the new one.

All you knew was that you were supposed to deliver your letter, not trust the marauders, not talk to other students, and to not open Sirius’ letter or look at your memories unless you felt that it was absolutely necessary to remember something. Considering you felt fine, you didn’t think that it would ever be necessary to look at the vials. Old you never left a date so you assumed that even you thought it probably wouldn’t happen. You just had the vials in case.

Sirius jumped up from his bed when you walked in. The marauders had finished packing about an hour ago after he asked James if Regulus could come. You gave a wave to the younger Black brother since he was also in Slytherin. Sirius felt like something was off as you walked to him.

“Hi, Bunny.”

You wrinkled your nose at the random nickname. “I was told to give this to you.”

“Hmm.” He looked down at the letter in your hand. “By who?”

You held up your opened letter. “Me. I told myself to give you this letter and wish you a Happy Christmas. So here… Happy Christmas!”

You left to get your own stuff and go home. That was also in your letter, go home early. The marauders and Regulus looked in confusion at each other. You did a lot of weird things but not once had you ever referred to yourself as if you were a separate entity. Sirius opened the letter, reading it out loud for the others.

Dear Sirius,

I hope I delivered this letter to you. It’s addressed to you but it’s for all of the marauders. It’s for the entire school if I’m being honest but I don’t think I have enough courage to address everyone. Before I continue, I want to say that I don’t hate you. I hate what you all did to me but I don’t hate you as people. Actually, I forgive you.

That being said, I don’t want to be your friend. I’m not playing that game anymore. None of you are allowed to use me for a game. I’m worth more than three hundred galleons and forty-five sickles, even the Triwizard Tournament prize money is more than that. You all embarrassed me beyond belief.

I was so excited when this year first started. For the first time since I was four, I had friends. It was hard to fit in at a muggle primary school, being a wizard made me too weird. I didn’t mind because I knew that it would all fall in place when I got to Hogwarts. I guess it wasn’t being a wizard that made me weird, it’s just me.

I stopped doing all the things I cared about to fit in when you started talking to me. The longer time went, the more I thought that doing whatever you all did would make more people like me. You all tricked me into thinking that it was working. But now that I think about it, even if you really wanted to be my friends, you all were horrible. No one was ever interested in what I wanted to do. I walked behind you all, I let the girls do my nails the way that they liked, I never mentioned crochet around my roommates, I danced the way that other students danced. Deep down, I think I knew that none of you really cared but I was desperate. I would like to be weird again. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s okay.

It’s also okay for none of you to like me but I would appreciate being left alone from now on. I asked Professor McGonagall to obliviate all my memories related to the bet. After I write this letter, I won’t remember a single thing. I won’t even remember the meaning behind your nicknames. We can all start over. Please stay away from me. I’m begging you and the rest of Hogwarts to stay away from me. I don’t want to be made into a bet again. I don’t think I could live with that false hope.

You can keep the jumpers. They were gifts. I know that I have no reason to believe that you all will stop the bets. I’ve told myself to not talk to anyone but I might not listen. In case I don’t remember or listen to myself, I’m asking you to not start the bets. As a token of good faith, I have one last present.

It’s for Remus and his sensitivity. Severus worked on the potion, he’s better at it than me but I did all the calculations and didn’t tell him what it was for. Remember when I told you I would do some reading at one of James’ matches? I finished it and figured out what I think might work.

I was going to surprise you all with it at Christmas but then I found the list and the potion wasn’t even done yet. Now, I’m giving it to you as a peace offering. It should arrive at the Potters’ house on Christmas Eve. No more bets. I would like to be left alone. Thank you.

Best regards,

(Y/N)

Sirius’ face dropped. The room was dead silent after he finished reading. The others watched Sirius race out of the room at lightning speed. He skipped as many stairs at a time as possible, cursing that Gryffindor Tower was so far from the Slytherin Dungeons. He practically screamed the password when he reached your common room. The door flew off the handles as he bursted into your room. It was empty.

The curtains around your bed had been tied up, your main trunk was gone. You had already left for winter break. He scratched frantically at his hair, wanting to tear it out as he shook his head. You weren’t there. It didn’t matter that they still had the rest of the school year. You weren’t here now and winter break was too long. He was out of time to fix everything.

McGonagall opened her door, already expecting the marauder. She simply frowned at him.

“Do you know (Y/N)’s address?” Sirius asked in desperation.

“We don’t give out students’ information.”

“I can’t send her a letter, I need to do this in person. Minnie, pl—”

“Mr. Black, I told you we don’t give out students’ private information. Even if we did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

“What?”

“You should be thankful (Y/N) requested that I don’t punish you. I wanted to ban all sixth and seventh years from going to Hogsmeade. I am more than disappointed with you all.”

Sirius was used to McGonagall being exasperated with them but he wasn’t used to this. She was never short with him. He didn’t need McGonagall to tell him how badly he messed up but it stung more when it came from her. He went back to his dorm with his tail tucked between his legs. It was clear that he wasn’t going to get any information. Sirius, and the other boys, would just have to spend all of winter break figuring out how to properly make it up to you and hope that it wasn’t too late.

(Part 6)

[an-introverted-life]

Gonna go ahead and file this under, "things I never want to find in my house" . #gnomes #sickles #nightmarefuel #nightmaresforever (at Kitsilano) https://www.instagram.com/p/CBY-aUygrQv/?igshid=8q926krypvbn