#that additional fluid will not help me when the reckoning comes

[clannfearrunt]

This morning the barista messed up my order so he gave me 40 ounces of coffee on the house. I have been drinking said 40 ounces of coffee across the span of approximately seven hours. Three hours after I ran out of coffee I am finally beginning to feel hunger. I am also, probably, going to be experiencing some kind of additional consequence for drinking 40 ounces of coffee in one day. But was it worth it? Did I have a good time? Absolutely

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: Instead of shattering Dad Nie's saber to kill his pride, he shatters Baxia - and thus Nie Mingjue. What better way to punish a man who dared to think anything of his could rival Wen Ruohan? Only, Nie Mingjue survives... and Baxia does too. Of course, sharing Nie Mingjue's body, neither of them is quite the same...

Curse-breaker (Chapter 1/4)

- ao3 -

"I see," Wen Ruohan said, his teeth slightly gritted, his irritation plain and obvious for all to see. "Indeed, I must concede that Sect Leader Nie's saber is finer than the one I own; it is undeniable. Lao Nie, your saber."

He offered it back, plainclothes-wrapped hilt first.

"You do my sect honor," Sect Leader Nie said with a wide grin, accepting the saber. "Our sabers are indeed the finest – and more than that, they get better with each generation. To tell you the truth, my friend: this one isn't mine, but my son's!"

He revealed the hilt, not anything like his own, and laughed, delighted by the joke he had played.

Wen Ruohan’s face contorted, growing pale in what everyone assumed was rage.

It was only later that Lao Nie, at least, recognized that it had been horror.

-

Nie Mingjue was screaming, and had not stopped screaming.

His throat was rent all to pieces, his fingers bloody from clawing at his own flesh, his eyes rolling around in his head as if by some inescapable fit -

"It's a qi deviation," one of the elders said. "Induced by the breaking of his saber. We should take him to the tombs."

"Fuck off," Lao Nie told them, as if saying the words would deny the truth. "He's too young!"

He put himself between them and his son.

"You shouldn't have let him take up the saber so young," the elder persisted, as if it had been Nie Mingjue’s fault that his son’s saber had been shattered by a man a century older than him, and all because of a dispute that had nothing to do with him. "You shouldn't have shown it to others, left it unguarded -"

"Do you think I don't know that?!" Lao Nie roared, abruptly pushed beyond his limits. "Do you think that I don't already regret...!"

He regretted. Oh, how he regretted!

He had not regretted a single thing in his life since the day his father had told him that he would one day die, and how. Even back then, he had swallowed down the regret without choking on it: he had accepted it, understood it, and resolved to live the life he had left to him to the utmost. What good, he had reasoned, would regret do? Would it win him a single additional day of life? Would it wring out a single ounce of additional joy from the days he did have?

There was no point in regret.

Whether that was the right decision or not, he didn’t know, but it was the one he made, and he stuck with it.

His whole life, Lao Nie had been reckless and carefree even by the already low standards of his family. He was always indulging in familiar pleasures and searching for new experiences, doing whatever he could to excite a palate already starting to grow jaded. He broke hearts as easily as he won them, and had what even he admitted was the worst taste in partners imaginable, attracted as he was to danger and death as if to an old and much-beloved friend. He laughed at the idea of risk or consequences, taking care only for his sect, which he loved; everything else was negotiable, or so he'd thought. He'd scared the wits out of most of his family time and time again, and - perhaps as recompense - had grown his first grey hair dozens of years too early. To this day, he still didn't know whether the reason everyone called him Lao Nie so often that even he thought of himself that way was because they were genuinely fond of him, because of the premature black-and-white mix of his hair, or perhaps just as some unspoken prayer that he finally get over himself and grow up.

If it was the last, it hadn’t worked. Even as he’d gotten older, he hadn’t changed one bit.

The only thing that had changed was that he’d finally found something he loved more than his sect.

He loved his children.

He loved his children, whether the righteous and too-serious Mingjue with his secret penchant for tears or the flippant and carefree Huaisang who was lazier than a slug in the sun. He loved them and he, unlike his father before him, did not burden them over-early with knowledge that would only be an itch under their skin that slowly drove them mad.

He loved them.

And now one of them was dying – because of him.

"You should take him to the tombs," the elder said, and ignored the crash of the chair Lao Nie threw at their head. "You let him become a man of our sect, Lao Nie. Do him the honor of letting him die as one.”

“You…!”

“Or do you think you are being kind, leaving him like this?"

Lao Nie looked down at his son, his Mingjue, the baby he’d held in his arms and the toddler he’d taught to walk and the child he’d chased and the teenager he’d taught the saber. His boy, who was thrashing wildly on the bed, spitting up foam along with blood and weeping uncontrollably.

"A-die," Nie Mingjue whimpered, just as he had when he'd been younger and caught in the throes of fever or breaking a bone through his own misadventures. Tears streamed endlessly down his eyes, his brave little boy who was not-so-secretly a bit of a crybaby. "A-die, a-die, it hurts..."

Lao Nie closed his eyes in pain.

He regretted.

But it was too late now to regret.

"We'll take him to the tombs," he finally conceded, and for the first time in his life he truly felt old. "Just let me say goodbye."

-

If you go to the tombs, you will not come out.

Nie Mingjue might only be a child, thirteen or fourteen years old – he couldn’t remember clearly any longer which it was – but he had been a good student before that, reading faithfully through his sect’s histories and listening to his teachers. He knew enough to read between the lines, to reckon the subtle indications and the not-so-subtle hints: he knew, even before he’d been officially told, what it was that he faced down at the end of the road that his ancestors had built for him to walk.

The early death – the painful death – the silent tombs –

There had been so many whispers when he’d taken up his Baxia too early. How could he not know?

His father hadn’t wanted him to know, though. So he hadn’t said anything, and pretended he didn’t.

(Huaisang could be ignorant for real, he’d thought to himself. It’d be okay if he didn’t know.)

If you go to the tombs, you will not come out. You cannot go to the tombs!

Nie Mingjue opened his eyes.

He no longer screamed, even though the spiritual energy that had once felt rich and nourishing and strong now felt like corrosive acid scouring his veins, burning him from the inside out – it wasn’t that he didn’t want to, wasn’t still compelled too; it was only that he had screamed too much, wearing out his voice down to nothingness from overuse.

If I go to the tombs, I will not come out, he thought, dimly aware that something wasn’t right. Thinking was hard, and grew ever harder: the qi deviation, for that was what it was, was worsening, not getting better.

Would not ever get better.

His Baxia, his loyal saber filled to the brim with resentful energy, had shattered. Shattered, and now all that resentful energy that she had collected for herself had flooded back into him, drowning his brain in rage and madness.

Flooding him with – Baxia.

I cannot go to the tombs.

You cannot go to the tombs, Baxia agreed – at least, he thought it was Baxia. It might be himself: he could no longer tell the difference.

She’d shattered, and he’d shattered, too. His mind and his body and his meridians and his golden core: everything was in pieces. His spiritual energy was running the wrong way, twisting him up inside, hurting instead of helping – the rage and resentful energy wasn’t going into Baxia but coming back into him, and it was poison.

There was no fixing it. His ancestors had tried everything they could: brought in the finest physicians with their needles and their clever ideas, sought out mysterious techniques and strange geniuses that played games even with their golden cores, even tried out demonic cultivation to see if it would help – with their lives and their children’s lives at stake, was there anything they wouldn’t do?

As if it would be that easy.

As if the road to death taken time and time again over the generations could be so easily evaded.

Nie Mingjue was a Nie. He had had a qi deviation. He was going to die.

But he was young, too.

Too young.

They all said that’d he formed his core at an extraordinary young age, and he had, too, verifiable evidence of his unusual genius for cultivating – only a golden core formed too early wasn’t quite the same as one done in the usual way at the usual time. It’d formed all right, all the spiritual liquid flowing through his meridians condensing into a shining solid sphere in his dantian, but it was still a little gummy in comparison to the normal ones. It had to be. He’d formed the core before he’d reached adolescence, without any of the necessary hormones running through his body; if his golden core was as fully solid as most adults, he’d be stuck at the age and size he was at when the core was first formed.

Normally, all this meant was that his foundation would be a little unstable for the first few years, just until he got old enough, and only when he was finally at his proper age would it truly settle into place along with his body, growing firm and solid and far more powerful than all the rest.

But he’d never gotten the chance to grow that old.

Nie Mingjue’s core had cracked when his saber that had been fundamentally tied to it had shattered, but unlike the steel of the saber it was still more fluid than solid. Even as the corrosive resentful energy burned him, even as the spiritual energy rioted within him, his old instincts were still there, that subconscious genius for cultivating already at work, trying to force the spiritual energy to run through him, trying to put those broken pieces back together. For any normal Nie, the greater his talent, the faster he’d be driven mad, but for Nie Mingjue, those gummy pieces of his core, sticky and still fluid, were instead being soldered together using spiritual energy and resentful energy both, and unlike the stiff and brittle solidity of the golden core of adulthood, they were still flexible enough to stick together – to coalesce into a whole once more.

Only –

Nie Mingjue opened his eyes.

He’d already opened them once, and now he opened them again. The world as he had always recognized it, he saw through his left eye – but through his right, there was a whole new world.

It was a world of black and white, of good and evil, a world of kinetic movement, of steel and rage incarnate…the world through the perception of a saber spirit. A saber spirit who had shattered when her steel was shattered, shattered when her master’s core was shattered, and whose pieces were even now integrating interchangeably with her master’s pieces into a single indissoluble whole.

If we go to the tombs, they thought, and now that was it, that was right, we will not come out.

Well, that was simple enough to fix.

They just wouldn’t go to the tombs.

-

“What do you mean, he’s gone?” Nie Huaisang’s father hissed. “He can’t be – he wasn’t in any state – he couldn’t have just gotten up and run away – no, stop, let’s go. I don’t want Huaisang hearing.”

Nie Huaisang hated it when his father remembered to be discreet around him.

His da-ge was never discreet, he thought, pouting. If anything, that was something his father often complained about, even if he would be chuckling all the while: that Nie Mingjue had all the tact of a lady boar in full charge, riled up in defense of her children, and with about as much care for anything that did not meet his stringent expectations of justice and fairness – which was rather a lot.

Where was his da-ge, anyway? Nie Huaisang hadn’t seen him in days, not since he went out on that night hunt with their father. He’d asked his nurse about it, because it was unusual for his brother not to come play with him once he’d returned, and she’d said that he’d gotten sick and couldn’t come to see him just yet. But surely it was long enough that he’d be better already!

Nothing could keep his big brother down for long.

Decided, Nie Huaisang hopped up and headed outside, planning to go find his brother. His brother would explain what was going on, simplifying things down until even a little kid like him could get it, and he wouldn’t make Nie Huaisang feel stupid for needing that simplification.

His brother thought Nie Huaisang was smart.

Nie Huaisang walked along the railing next to his window, teetering back and forth with his hands outstretched for balance – his brother had showed him this pathway long ago, telling him that he could use it when he wanted to sneak out go play or look at birds, or even just come to find him whenever he had nightmares.

His brother wasn’t in his rooms, though.

Nie Huaisang sighed. Maybe he was in the study, or the training field, or something like that, but if Nie Huaisang tried to go there, he’d be dragged into lessons or training as well, and he didn’t want that.

He decided to go look at birds instead.

His brother had come up with a secret path to the outside that only they knew, the two of them, one that led them all the way out into the forest where the really interesting birds were. It was close enough to home that it was still safe, still within the bounds of the Unclean Realm’s protective arrays, but far enough to feel unburdened by the presence of their elders.

Nie Huaisang went to look at birds, but it wasn’t birds he found.

“…who’s there?” he asked, seeing movement in the bushes – something too large to be a bird, too small to be a bear, too two-legged to be a boar or a dog. Whoever it was, they were breathing hard, as if they’d run too far, interspersed with little whines of pain, like they were hurt. “Who are…”

The figure in the bush moved forward.

“…da-ge?”

Nie Huaisang’s big brother didn’t look right. He was crouched down, carrying his body low as if he were trying to support himself and protect his middle at the same time, his fingers digging into the ground for balance – his lips were peeled back from his teeth in something caught between a grimace and a growl. His left eye was normal, but his right was horribly red, shot through with pulsing veins that seemed to bleed into the iris, the color of which had faded from warm golden brown to something more like a slate or steel grey.

He sounded like he was in pain.

His brother was in pain.

Nie Huaisang took a step towards him, deeply concerned, and Nie Mingjue backed away.

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang whispered, terrified. “Da-ge, it’s me, it’s Huaisang – I won’t hurt you!”

Nie Mingjue whined, a sound deep in the back of his throat, but this time, when Nie Huaisang stepped forward, he didn’t run. He waited until Nie Huaisang was close before darting forward and nuzzling Nie Huaisang’s hand with his cheek, ducking his head down and letting him touch his hair as if he were a dog.

His brother wasn’t just sick, Nie Huaisang realized. He was reallysick.

“What happened?” he asked, and his brother just looked sad. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

His brother nodded. A short jerking motion, barely recognizable, and yet – a nod.

“…do you have to?”

Another nod.

Nie Huaisang’s lip quivered. “Will you be all right?”

His brother nuzzled his palm again. It wasn’t an answer.

Nie Huaisang took a deep breath. “I won’t tell anyone.”

His brother seemed almost to smile.

And then he was gone.

Walking all the way back inside before bursting into tears was the hardest thing Nie Huaisang had ever done in his life, but the worst part was knowing that this was only the beginning.

[corinnesamuels]

Guarding the Gates

Chapter 11: What’s Eating Sirius Black?

In which Lily finds out a Marauder secret, Remus returns, and the Order celebrates big wins. But the tide is beginning to change, in more ways than one.

Something is wrong with Sirius Black.

His body is usually so fluid, but lately, his movements have been punctuated by a tense staccato. His hair is beginning to skim the tops of his shoulder blades when his preferred length is just shy of his shoulders. And those shoulders? Often slumped, when his back usually stands so proud.

At first, Lily thinks these things are due to Remus’ mission. Dumbledore hadn’t allowed them to check in with him, so the only way they knew if their friend was okay—if he was safe—was during the headmaster’s mission reports. They were all on edge for Remus. Dorcas had resorted to biting her fingernails, a habit she had long since let go of but now serves as a marker for her most angst-filled days. James' knees bounced uncontrollably as he sat, nervous energy pleading to break free. Peter looked sad and seemed jumpier than she had recently seen him. Marlene helped Lily brew potions, keeping a store set aside and preserved specifically for Remus’ return. They didn’t know what he may need, but they wanted to be prepared for whatever news may come their way.

But something is eating at Sirius. Lily knows that he misses Remus and is worried about Remus, but she has a feeling something else is going on. She has seen Sirius Black when he’s worried. A worried Sirius Black snaps at others when he speaks, he paces, God, he smokes. This version of him isn’t anxious…this version of him…

This version of him is sad.

When his Patronus comes padding through her bedroom, asking her to come by Potter Manor to help him, James, and Peter cast the necessary spells to make his bike fly of all things, there’s no enthusiasm in his voice. None of the adoration he usually uses to describe that overly large hunk of metal. Just a quick ask and a brief “thanks” before the silvery dog dissipates into the air.

Right, then. Lily says to herself as she pulls herself from bed that morning. Let’s get to the bottom of this.

She consults a few books on more advanced potions and charms theory and taps her fingers together as she thinks through what she may need to pull off this admittedly dangerous, reckless behavior. But if Sirius is going to get back to normal, that’s the exact kind of behavior that tends to get him going.

When Lily apparates to Potter Manor, she does so with her favorite cauldron, two small blocks of wood, and the potions and charms books in tow. She knocks on the door and is delighted to see Fleamont, who has spent the day brewing something or other by the scent of him.

“So good to see you, my girl!” he says as he hugs her tightly. Fleamont steps back to observe her, placing both hands on her shoulders as his eyes lock onto hers. She can’t help but notice how similar they are to his son’s. “Are you being safe out there?”

Lily smiles sadly. She doesn’t want to lie to him but hates to see him worry. He’s too old to have this weighing on him. “As safe as one can be.”

Fleamont sighs but doesn’t put up a fight. “I’m so proud of you kids. I just…” He trails off and shakes his head. “I just want you safe.”

“Well, today, I may need a bit of help when it comes to keeping the Wild Boys safe.” Lily grins conspiratorially as she changes the subject. “Could I trouble your potions stores for an experiment?” She opens the potions book and points to one in particular that causes Fleamont’s eyebrows to rise appreciatively as he pulls his spectacles down to the tip of his nose.

“I have a feeling this has to do with Sirius’ motorbike.” Fleamont lets out a dry laugh before pushing his glasses back into place. “I’d rather not know the details of that, but I’m always interested in a good brew.” He waves her along into his study.

Fleamont helps Lily gather the necessary ingredients and gives his thoughts on the tips and tricks she may utilize in the brewing process, telling her that he was on his way out to run some errands but to make herself at home when it came to his stores.

By the time she makes it out to the old shed Sirius had pulled his motorbike around to, it seems that James, Sirius, and Peter are already outside talking through the methods they plan to use. But as she gets closer, she can tell something else is going on.

“The fact that you responded that way tells me that you know what I mean, but I’ll play.” She hears James say. “You showed up on your motorbike today saying that you wanted to make your bike fly—”

“You like to fly on a broom, I think I’d like to fly on a bike.”

“—and make it invisible.”

“How else will I keep it hidden from muggles?”

James tilts his head to the side and mulls it over. “Okay, that bit is fair.”

“It’s a necessity, considering the fact that this motorbike is the size of a small boat.” Lily says dryly as she approaches them. They must have been deep into whatever conversation they had been having because they hadn’t heard her approach. Her description of the bike isn’t an overstatement. The motorbike looks large enough to hold someone of Hagrid’s build, though Lily doubts Sirius would ever allow such a thing to happen. Entirely too risky.

“Ha ha, Evans.” Sirius says sarcastically. “I’ll remember that when you want to have a go on it.” He points a wrench at her to emphasize his point.

“You’ll remember and you’ll still let me ride it when I ask.” Lily laughs again. Sirius looks torn between denying it and smiling, because they all know that Lily is absolutely correct. “I think we’ll need some potions help in addition to the charm work and possibly the transfiguration. I’ll start this while we talk through the spell work. We’ll need a few levitation charms, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Sirius nods. “An ascension charm too. I reckon we’ll need something to regulate the speed, too.”

“And by regulate, I’m sure you mean enhance?”

“You know me so well, Red.”

Sirius, Lily, and James throw ideas back and forth, making note of what will and won’t be helpful, tossing out stray ideas and replacing them with better as Peter flips through the charms book with a hand pressed to his forehead. “If I had known this would feel like being in school again, I’d have skived off.” He says. James and Lily laugh, but Sirius just shakes his head.

They spend close to an hour thinking through spell theory and eventually have what they feel is the correct layering of charms, transfiguration, and finally, the potion, which is now a light blue color and giving off spirals of smoke. Lily estimates that it will take a few attempts to get the combinations just right, and Sirius and James agree. They’ll have to experiment if they want the bike to be able to fly and be invisible for long treks at a time.

The spell work is intense. They take turns going over the complicated wand movements and pronunciations, taking extra time to patiently guide Peter through each before they begin casting. At a certain point, they decide that they have made enough headway for a break, and Lily turns back to the potion, giving it a few good stirs before preparing more ingredients. There’s something about potions making that puts Lily in the zone. It grounds her, brings her focus.

Being in the zone may be why she didn’t see something hurtling toward her until it was too late.

“What is that…Lily, look out!” She hears James yell. Before she has time to look up, she feels his hands swoop in and yank her out of the way from the projectile.

A mottled SQUAWK! rips through the air as feathers, dirt, grass, and unfortunately, the contents of Lily’s cauldron go flying.

James and Lily land on the ground with a thud. “What was that?” She asks as she catches her breath.

“A barn owl, looks like.” Peter says, examining what Lily had assumed to be a rogue missile. “I hope you didn’t injure yourself, mate. I appreciate the dedication, but this is a little beyond the pale.”

“Bloody bird.” Lily mutters irritably. She’s just realized that some of the potion had landed on her shirt. She tries to scourgify it, but it’s no use. Knowing there’s nothing to be done for it, she sighs and goes to assess the damage. James gingerly approaches the bird and looks it over before taking the letter from its claws.

“Pads, it’s for you.” He says to Sirius, handing him the envelope absently before returning his attention to the owl and the odd angle one of its wings now sat in. He taps the wing lightly with his wand, and the owl hoots deliriously in his arms.

They are all so preoccupied—Lily with salvaging the potion, James with making sure the owl isn’t injured, and Peter with James—that none of them realize Sirius has gone quiet. But when they look up at him, they know instantly that something is wrong.

“It’s from Dumbledore.” Sirius says. “It’s—Regulus is missing.”

Lily doesn’t quite know what to say, seeing as she didn’t know the two Black brothers had been in contact. She looks to James and sees his face fall slightly before switching quickly into the look of a supportive friend.

“Maybe he’s just laying low, mate.” James says kindly as he sets the owl back onto the ground. He walks over to Sirius and clasps him on the shoulder. “No need to give up on him yet.”

Sirius presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and a huff of air rushes from his chest. “Right…Right. I just need sleep or something. Think I’ll go have a quick kip, and we can finish this later if that’s okay?” His voice has taken on that overly polite quality Sirius employs when he’s avoiding something.

“Of course.” Lily says softly.

Sirius nods again and walks stiffly into the house, no doubt into the room he’d once occupied when he moved in with the Potters as a teenager.

Lily turns to James for answers, and he runs a hand through his hair tensely. “Regulus reached out to Sirius a few weeks ago. He's joined the Death Eaters and didn’t say that he wanted out, but…Sirius wondered if maybe he did.”

She lets out a sad sigh. “And so, Sirius offered to help him, and Regulus turned it down.” Lily surmises. James nods grimly. Lily isn’t surprised to hear that Regulus had joined the Death Eaters, considering who he spent his time with in school. They had never been subtle about what they planned to do after Hogwarts. But she also knows that as much as Sirius likes to pretend that he’s not troubled by his brother’s choices, Sirius had always wanted to be able to save him.

“Poor Sirius.” She says

“He asked Dumbledore to keep tabs on him even though Regulus said he didn't want help.” James says. “Dumbledore has spies everywhere. We might as well make the most of them, I guess.”

“Can’t hurt.” Lily agrees. She glances at Peter and sees his discomfort rising by the second, causing her to think, not for the first time, that they were all too young to be so burdened.

Lily looks to where her cauldron and supplies once sat, neat and organized, awaiting her attention. Now the ingredients are scattered across the grass, and what is left in the cauldron is contaminated. What isn’t in the cauldron is stuck to her shirt and beginning to smell. She pulls it close to her nose to confirm and grimaces when the scent hits her nostrils. “Do you mind if I borrow a shirt?” She turns toward James, who has conjured a bowl and some water from his wand for the deranged barn owl. “This one is ruined.” She throws a glare toward the bird, which James catches with a smirk. Thankfully he refrains from laughing.

“Sure. Do you want me to grab it?”

“No, I can find one. I need to go borrow some more ingredients from your father’s stores anyways.” She waves her hand lazily as she turns toward the house. “And you need to go back to Hogwarts.” She says pointedly to the owl. James doesn’t try to stop himself from laughing this time. She notes with a smile that Peter joins in.

“You did stick your beak in it, mate.” She hears Peter say as she walks away.

As she walks up the stairs to James’ bedroom, her heart feels heavy for Sirius. She knew in her gut that something was bothering him, but she hadn’t imagined it would be this. Men like him weren’t supposed to hold sadness in their bones. She didn’t recognize this version of him. Her friend was reckless, rebellious, irreverent, and fiercely loyal, but today he didn’t even have the words to describe how he felt or his usual quick wit to deflect from it.

She resolves to talk to Dumbledore about Regulus. Surely there must be something they could do.

As Lily opens the bedroom door, she starts at the sight of one of the largest dogs she’s ever seen lying on James’ bed. Its fur is jet black and shines like silk. Too well-kept to be a stray. The lads hadn’t mentioned anything about James getting a dog, but Lily has learned that sometimes it’s better not to ask questions. The dog notices Lily’s presence and seems to exhale heavily.

“Oh no.” She says as she reaches over to scratch behind its ears. “You’re too gorgeous of a dog to seem so sad.” The dog leans into her touch and seems to relax. If Lily didn’t know any better, she’d have thought the sigh it let out this time almost sounded…content?

“James, Sirius, and Peter haven’t mentioned that one of them got a dog, but you never know with them, do you?”

The remains of the half-brewed potion on her shirt must be affecting her perceptions of reality because now it looks as if the dog raised an eyebrow at her in confusion.

“I need to grab a shirt before I get too delirious.” She thinks out loud. She opens a few drawers in James’ dresser before finding his t-shirts, and with no one there to see her, she can’t help herself. She brings the shirt to her nose, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply. The dog barks, and it almost sounds like a laugh to her ears, but she’s already determined that the potion has become some kind of hallucinogen--like those mushrooms the muggles are doing--so she doesn’t think much of it. Instead, she smirks at the beast before tossing the shirt atop the dresser.

“Since you can’t talk, we’ll just keep that between us, shall we?” The dog looks confused again, but Lily notices as she begins to pull her shirt up that its eyes grow abnormally wide for a dog. Seeing the fright in its eyes concerns her, and she releases the hem of her shirt to reach out to it. “Are you okay?” she asks. When the dog’s expression doesn’t change, she shrugs and goes back to taking off her shirt. When she has it halfway over her head, the dog yelps as if it’s been kicked.

As she pulls the shirt off and drops it in a heap on the floor, she wonders if maybe the dog actually is an injured stray—

“For fuck’s sake, Evans! What are you doing?!”

The voice startles her, and she looks toward the door expecting to see Sirius walking in on her. But he isn’t walking in the door.

He’s on the bed.

He’s on the bed with his eyes covered, laying where the dog once was. And she’s standing in the middle of the room in her jeans and a bra.

A piercing sound rips through the air, and it takes Lily a while to realize that it’s her that’s screaming.

She’s still screaming when James barrels through the door thirty seconds later, wand drawn and Peter on his heels. Now fully in distress, Lily places a hand to her forehead as she tries to control her breathing. The potion must have seeped through her bloodstream now because she can’t be seeing what she thinks she saw.

“What the fuck.” She gasps.

“What the fuck is right!” Sirius says irritably, still covering his eyes with one hand and extending the other to ward her off. “The shirt, Evans!” He gestures blindly in her general direction with the hand he’s using to keep her away.

“What is going on?” James asks tensely. He looks from Sirius to Lily’s face and has to catch himself when his eyes drop just a notch lower before shooting back up to her eyes. Eventually, he gulps, looks away, and uses one of his hands to cover Peter’s shocked eyes. “Why are you shirtless, exactly?” His voice sounds abnormally strained.

“I told you I needed to change shirts.” Lily sounds lost. “But then there was a dog here, and I was petting it, and then it was Sirius.”

“Put. On. The shirt.” Sirius growls, eyes shut tightly. In a daze, Lily realizes that she is standing in the room with the three men, breasts very nearly on full display, and hurries to pull on James’ clean shirt as she feels a red flush rushing up her chest and cheeks.

“It’s on, it’s on.” She crosses her arms over her chest protectively and looks around the room awkwardly. “I think I’m hallucinating. The potion must have caused it because earlier I saw a dog there.” she gestures shakily toward James’ bed.

“Yes, I was taking a nap on James’ bed, and you came in here, sniffing shirts and taking off your clothes.” Sirius sounds as if the whole ordeal has offended him.

“Why were you on my bed?” James asks as if Lily hadn’t just mentioned that she’d seen a giant dog in the room.

“I didn’t feel like walking all the way to my room.”

“It’s just two doors down?”

“That doesn’t change my answer in the slightest—”

“You were taking a nap in here?” Lily cuts in, beginning to panic. Half-baked potions were dangerous. There was no telling what damage they could do. “I swear I saw a dog. Do I need to go to St. Mungo’s?”

Sirius scans the area around her head as if he’s observing her for a head injury. “Red, the dog was me. What the hell did that potion do to you?”

“I need to send a message to Marlene. I need…” But then the switches begin to click in Lily’s mind. The dog had been in the exact spot Sirius now sits. It had thrown her the same curious and confused looks that he does. Rolled its eyes like he does. Smirked at her like he does—Oh God. Sirius saw me sniffing the shirt. She doesn’t dwell on it long because the bigger, more pressing fact is glaring her in the face.

“You’re an Animagus.” She says breathlessly.

Read the rest at ao3!

Start from the beginning

[honeymoonjin]

10k for 10k drabble

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 jimin x reader || 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 1k || 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆 fluff, sfw

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 for once, you don’t have any morning tours, so you and jimin take the opportunity to sleep in. 

PART OF THE 10K FOR 10K MILESTONE CELEBRATION and sponsored by  a donation to the Black Lives Matter movement.

Please read the original first if you haven’t already.

--

The feeling of the bed shifting beneath you is what rouses you from sleep.

A squeak of mattress springs, the birds chirping outside no matter what hour of the day, and a whispered apology from your boyfriend. Your ears always wake before the rest of you.

“Sorry, sorry, go back to sleep, baby,” his melodic voice echoes in your ear, fingers brushing lightly over your cheeks to push back the hair that’s fallen over it.

You groan away the last of your unconsciousness and let a beam stretch across your face. “Only if you go back to sleep with me,” you offer, finally blinking the sleep away and focusing on him.

Even with his golden blonde hair tousled like candy floss, and creases on his cheek from the pillow, Park Jimin is the most beautiful sight in the Amazon. He smiles back down at you, plush lips stretching and eyes glittering. “You should convince me,” he offers cheekily, thumbing at your jaw lazily.

One thing you quickly learnt about your boyfriend was that he was affectionate enough most of the time, but his need for physical contact skyrocketed every morning. Many a day you’d been late to work because he’d clung onto your shirt in the doorway and kissed you until your toes curled.

It was always difficult trying to satisfy his penchant for cuddling in the morning when you always had dawn tours for a view of the sunrise, but today was a public holiday, and your first sleep-in in a while.

“C’mere then,” you utter softly, winding a hand in the white cotton of his sleep shirt and tugging him to your side.

The two of you melt together. Something about kissing him feels so fluid and organic, like the lines between you are blurred, moving together in sync. You’d long since learned to suck in breaths whenever you could, as once Jimin’s lips touched yours, he’d sooner die there than part.

You feel his lashes flutter against your cheek, making you smile. Still under the thin blanket, it’s too easy to move closer, sliding a leg over his hip to press your body flush against his. Unconsciously, he lets out a whimper, followed immediately by a shy giggle, the two of you breaking apart as he blushes a delicate pink.

“That’s cheating,” he mumbles with a pout, though his hand is already resting on the small of your back, tracing lazy circles on the sensitive skin. “You can’t use physical force.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of your throat, but you choose to muffle it against his mouth, missing the feel of his lips on yours already.

As expected, Jimin is like clay in your hold once you tenderly kiss him again, whining when you break away too soon.

With eyes still closed, his fingers clutch at you and his pout deepens impossibly. “Meanie,” he spits out, though the corner of his lip tugs up.

“It’s our first day off together in months, Minnie,” you explain, “I was thinking we could have breakfast together.”

He pauses, cracking open one eye. “…Pancakes?”

You collapse into a peal of laughter, detangling yourself from him to get out of bed. “I can do pancakes. Come help.”

Though Jimin happily follows you into the kitchen, helping is probably an overstatement. He requires supervision cracking the eggs, stirs with so much vigor that batter flies out of the bowl, and has a near miss with salt instead of sugar.  

“Oh, my goodness, that’s way too much!” you exclaim once it’s finally time to pour the batter into the pan.

Inside, at least half of the mix is pooled in the hot pan, Jimin poking at it and smoothing it over with a spatula like it’s cake batter. “One for me and one for you,” he explains, voice lilting at the end in question.

“The recipe makes six pancakes, Minnie, three each!”

Luckily, with the pan on a low enough heat that it hasn’t cooked too much on the outside, you manage to tip out most of the batter, leaving a wide but not too thick layer still cooking away.

Resigned, Jimin chooses instead to make the two of you some coffee, and you deeply inhale the rich aroma that fills the room as he brews it. “Moe tore the bottom of his wing the other day,” he says quietly.

Your heart stutters in your chest. Moe was a new addition to the cast of butterflies that spent most of their time inside the hut. Already at the later end of his lifespan, Jimin named him Grandpa Moe after seeing how he seemed to take care of all the younger ones, even across species. It wasn’t common behavior, especially for a male specimen, so the two of you had quickly grown fond of him. “Is he okay?”

“I patched it up. But I’m quickly running out of materials; most lepidopterists don’t really do this for every injured butterfly. I just hope the new shipment arrives in Quito before I run out.”

You frown, finally swiping in the last of the batter for a tiny seventh pancake. “Do you reckon it’s the rose bush? I did ask to have it dug out, but…”

“No, no,” Jimin sighs, stirring a spoonful of honey lazily into one cup. “It’s just one of those things, I guess. Moe will be okay, though.”

While most of the butterflies that frequented the hut stuck in Jimin’s study or in the lounge, which both had the best sun and nooks for them to feed or rest, there were always a few clingier ones.

Jimin seemed to attract them like a magnet, and it never grew old watching wings of every color and pattern light upon him. Even now, as he brings the two cups and some toppings for the pancakes over, there’s a small white butterfly nestled in the crown of his head, amongst the fluffy hair.

“I know.” You smile warmly at the sight, switching off the stove and bringing the plates over to the low coffee table. “We’ll be okay, too.”

[gayregis]

vampire headcanons 2020, pt. 2

part two: “society” and culture

this post is more based upon canon than the previous one. the next will be almost purely conjecture/headcanon.

(previous post)

> how vampires view the conjunction of the spheres, population of vampires on the continent

“I’m the descendant of survivors, unfortunate beings imprisoned here after the cataclysm you call the Conjunction of Spheres.” 

Baptism of Fire, pg. 219

regis says “survivors,” but avallac’h also uses this term to refer to humans who arrived on the continent from the conjunction of spheres (The Tower of the Swallow, pg. 243) and when he speaks later about the conjunction, it is in purely logical terms, suggesting that there is not much regret and longing for the other world they came from.

“After the Conjunction of the Spheres there remained approximately one thousand two hundred (1,200) higher vampires in your world. (...) Since the Conjunction - once again calculating according to your reckoning - one thousand five hundred (1,500) years have passed.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 297

for comparison, dandelion mentions that novigrad has around “thirty thousand (30,000) dwellers, not counting travellers” (Eternal Flame, pg. 134), and even though this is quite unique and remarkable for a city and dandelion tells this fact to geralt in context of describing novigrad as “the capital of the world,” this is a significantly larger number than the amount of higher vampires who arrived to the witcher world during the conjunction of the spheres. there are not that many vampires living on the continent, there were less vampires than the population of a large public high school. 

this population is likely spread across the entire continent (the northern realms, the empire of nilfgaard, islands and archipelagos like skellige, and distant places like the far north and zerrikania), so they’re incredibly widely dispersed. geralt calls vereena a “rare bird” (The Last Wish, pg. 62), and did not consider regis to be a vampire until he purposefully revealed himself, which further suggests that higher vampires are extremely rare.

i tend to headcanon that the vampires were more condensed as a group during the time when regis partied (approx. up to 300 years ago) as dandelion describes the world during that time period:

“You’re reading Roderick de Novembre? As far as I remember, there are mentions of witchers there, of the first ones who started work some three hundred (300) years ago. In the days when the peasants used to go to reap the harvest in armed bands, when villages were surrounded by a triple stockage, when merchant caravans looked like the march of regular troops, and loaded catapults stood on the ramparts of the few towns nights and day. Because it was us, human beings, who were the intruders here. This land was ruled by dragons, manticores, griffins and amphisboenas, vampires and werewolves, striga, kikimores, chimerae and flying drakes. And this land hand to be taken from them bit by bit, every valley, every mountain pass, every forest and every meadow. And we didn’t manage that without the invaluable help of witchers. But those times have gone, Geralt, irrevocably gone.”

The Last Wish, pg. 162

the vampires were present enough during this time, and we can corroborate this history with regis’ account:

“So I partied. Revelries and frolics, shindigs and booze-ups; every full moon we’d fly to a village and drink from anyone we found. The foulest, the worst class of ... er ... fluid. It made no difference to us whose it was, as long as there was ... er ... haemoglobin ... It can’t be a party without blood, after all!”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 293

there were enough vampires in the past 400 years to hold parties on the full moon, actual genuine parties. but we never hear of vampires raiding villages during this time period, and geralt who is a current witcher, when asked of dealing with vampires, doesn’t say anything about these revelries and instead describes when he has been asked to deal with vampires but the threat was in fact non-existent (Baptism of Fire, pg. 152). thus we can assume that the vampires just don’t hold such raucous parties anymore, perhaps for a couple of potential reasons: their numbers are more dispersed and there are less vampires who live together in groups nowadays, and they have also likely lost leading figures like regis who were absolute mad lads and led the parties on.

> society, tradition, and language

vampire “society” is loosely tied together, and there exists no rules or authority amongst them:

“With humans, however, there exists a system of rules and restrictions: parental authority, guardians, superiors and elders - morals, ultimately. We have nothing like that. Youngsters have complete freedom and exploit it. They create their own patterns of behavior. Stupid ones, you understand.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 293

from this anarchy comes a culture defined by partying, i.e., drinking from human villages during the full moon:

“Generally, the statistically average vampire drinks during every full moon, for the full moon is a holy day for us, which we usually... er... celebrate with a drink. (...) The number of teetotallers - because there is a considerable number of them - balances the number who drink excessively, as I did in my day.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 297

and also characterized by hanging out in crypts, apparently:

(...) It got rowdier and rowdier,” the vampire continued. “Occassionally I went on such benders that I didn’t return to the crypt for three or four nights in a row.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 294

the full moon is a celebration to them because when it is full, they are granted their full powers: they can shift easily between forms and dematerialize / rematerialize at will. it could also be because the full moon was the thing that they saw when they first arrived on the continent and thus every full moon is now an anniversary of sorts.

i headcanon that their societies, when they manage to have one, are largely based upon these celebratory drinking festivities. whoever is the best at partying is admired and well-liked. it’s a popularity contest of sorts. think of your local annoying fraternity boys.

but if they have no authority in the form of parental or elder guardianship, how do they receieve their names? regis only says this on the topic of vampire naming conventions:

“(...) I’d insisted on adopting the name Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Vesemir thought it was ridiculous; pretentious and idiotic. I dare say he was right.”

Dandelion snorted loudly, looking meaningfully at the vampire and the Nilfgaardian.

“My full name,” Regis said, a little piqued by the look, “is authentic. And in keeping with vampire tradition.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 316

which is incredibly vague and unhelpful. all we know canonically is that vampire names are traditionally long and comprised of many names, likely in the same structure that regis’s is constructed in.

my suggestion to all of this is that vampire names are given to them by their peers, and they likely have developed their own various traditions of giving individuals names, based upon their most apparent qualities. regis is a latin name meaning “king” (genitive singular form of rex), which could be based in how the other vampires viewed him and how fun he was at parties.

it doesn’t really make sense for vampires to be using latin, but latin does exist as a language in the witcher universe, and regis uses a bit of latin randomly in an otherwise useless exchange:

The Witcher stood. “ Go on. Run off and pack. And be quick.”

“It won’t take me very long. Omnia mea mecum porto.”

“What?”

“I have very little luggage.”

(Lady of the Lake, pg. 139)

this is a reference to bias of priene, one of the seven sages of greece, quoted by cicero in his stoic paradoxes (paradox i), as saying “i carry with me all my possessions” / “all that is mine i carry with me”. this is likely just a reference that was intended to compare regis with bias of priene, who is known for his integrity and defense of others, his philosophical and humanist nature.

thus latin being the language of the vampires likely does not hold any ground, because regis is not the only individual that uses latin in the books. season of storms is infamous for its overusage of latin (“primo, secundo, tertio,” anyone?). in addition, vereena is not a latin name. vampires do have their own language, but it is unidentifiable to geralt yet is still able to influence him with feelings of terror:

He heard singing. He didn’t understand the words, he couldn’t even identify the language. He didn’t need to - the witcher felt and understood the very nature, the essence, of this quiet, piercing song which flowed through the veins in a wave of nauseous, overpowering menace. (...)

He could still hear her song, even though her thin, pale lips were held tight and not the slightest sound emerged from them.

The Last Wish, pg. 62

from what we can glean, vampires do not typically speak aloud like humans do. regis is an outlier as noted by geralt in the quotes cited in the previous post. in the last wish, vereena speaks solely through telepathy to geralt:

You. You will be the first to grow weak, Sorcerer. I will kill you.

The bruxa’s lips didn’t move, but the witcher heard the words clearly; they resounded in his mind, echoing and reverberating as if underwater.

The Last Wish, pg. 65

the only aloud vocalizations vereena makes are the screams she does in combat and when she screams in pain, which can be considered common for vampires.

(next post)

[ao3feed-zarry]

I Don't Want to be Alone

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/38t84kD

by yellowflares

When Zayn comes out to Louis, he says 'congratulations', like an idiot, and then offers to help him pull, like an even bigger idiot (but an admittedly good friend).

Zayn just rolls his eyes and sags back into the stupidly uncomfortable armchair. "Thanks Lou, but I reckon I'll do all right without your help."

Louis makes a mock offended noise and then stops, eyeing Zayn curiously.

"You slept with any guys already then?"

Zayn hesitates.

"No." It's not a lie. It's not the truth. Louis seems satisfied with the answer, in any case.

Zayn’s still not entirely sure if he actually was asking about Harry.

* Soul-searching, sex, and honesty- not necessarily in that order.

(This continues the verse set up in 'Ask Me for the Truth', I recommend reading that also, but it's not a necessity.)

Words: 4869, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Ask Me for the Truth

Fandoms: One Direction (Band), Fine Line - Harry Styles (Album)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Other

Characters: Harry Styles, Zayn Malik, Louis Tomlinson

Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson

Additional Tags: Genderfluid Character, Character Study, POV Zayn Malik, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Harry Styles, Feminine Harry Styles, Bisexual Male Character, Coming Out, Fluid Sexuality, D/s undertones, Shower Sex, Frottage, Slice of Life, Gender Identity, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson Friendship

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/38t84kD

[moonblooch]

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning : No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series)

Characters: Fjord (Critical Role), Jester Lavorre, Caleb Widogast, Nott (Critical Role), Mollymauk Tealeaf, Yasha (Critical Role), Beauregard (Critical Role)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, based loosely around the time of the sequel trilogy, dubious usage of star wars canon slang, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Language: English

Fjord, Jester and Beau crash land on the planet of Trostenwald and get a whole crew for the price of one mechanic. 

“So Fjord, what exactly are we looking for?” Jester asked.

They were stood in the doorway of a small cantina on Trostenwald, surveying the scattered patrons. The place was fairly empty, though the breakfast rush would likely end that soon; if they could get in and out before that happened.

“Well Jester, I was thinking we need someone to repair our ship.”

She nodded, eyes cast down. “I’m really, really sorry about the ship Fjord.”             

The image of the ground rushing up to meet them flashed through Fjord’s mind.

“It’s fine Jess, I’ve seen worse landings than that. Besides, I’m sure Beau’ll have everything upright by the time we’re back.”

They walked to the counter, where a harried looking human was wiping down every surface with all of the enthusiasm of someone about to finish her shift. She paused, looking up as they approached.

“How can I help you dears? What can I get you?”

“Just some rations for now I’m afraid.” Fjord replied, swinging himself onto a stool. “And some information about the area if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course, I’ll sort your food first; you look like you’ve had a hell of a jump to get here.”

Once more Fjord recalled his scream as they shot through the atmosphere.

“You could certainly say that. Speaking of,” he leaded forward, “you wouldn’t happen to know any decent mechanics would you?”

“Rough landing huh? We get plenty of those round here.” She said sliding a ration cube to each of them. “That’ll be five credits love.”

Fjord handed held out a credit chip and she scanned it with a handheld which was probably older than she was.

“As for your mechanic, well, you didn’t hear it from me,” she whispered, leaning in, “but that man in the corner might be your best shot. He’s an offworlder, not guild affiliated or anything; that’s why I’m not telling you this, but I’ve heard that he’s good and doesn’t ask questions. People have been singing his praises since he got here.”

Fjord followed her minute gesture to the corner-booth, where a scruffy looking man was hunched over a mug of caf. He had a lolth-cat sat on the bench next to him which seemed to be doing its best to stick its head into his mug, but had yet so succeed. He appeared to be conversing with someone, out of view from their angle.

“Are you sure?” Jester asked, a little louder than would have been ideal. “He looks like a slythmonger or something.”

“Sure as those tails on your head miss; he fixed the caf-dispenser just this morning. It used to make this awful screeching noise. I don’t know what you’ve got that needs fixing but I’m pretty sure I heard him talking to an Azumel about an old Hunter last night and he seemed to know his stuff.”

Fjord found himself nodding.

“Do you know what his rate is?”

She gave a light shrug.

“He just asked for two decent breakfasts when he fixed the caf machine for me, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Maybe we could take some food, you know, to get him to talk to us?” Jester suggested. Turning back to the human she asked, “Hey, do you have any feen?”

“I’m afraid not miss, but I’ve got a sack of mallow powder out back that I’ve been trying to shift for ages if you’re after something sweet. It’s yours for ten credits.”

“Done!” Jester replied, brandishing her credit chip. Her freshly forged credit chip, if Fjord recognised it. He held his breath as the scanner ran over it, but seemed to detect nothing amiss.

“Alright then miss, I’ll just go get that for you. If anyone comes in could you let them know I won’t be long?”

At Jester’s nod she slipped through a door behind the bar. Fjord placed a light hand on Jester’s shoulder.

“I’m going to go talk to this guy, alright? Come over when you’ve got the mallow powder.”

Jester nodded again, sending him off with a wave. As Fjord approached, the man at the table seemed to tense up, curling in on himself with each step that Fjord took towards him.

“Excuse me,” Fjord began when he finally drew level with the booth, “d’you mind if I join you for a bit?”

“There are other tables.” Came a voice from the hunched figure sitting across from the man and his lolth-cat. They were small, smaller than most children even, although their voice fairly clearly demonstrated that this was not the case, and had a hood pulled over their face.

“Einfach da, Nott.” The man said, before turning to Fjord. “What is it you were wanting to talk about?”

“Ah, I apologise if I’m interrupting anything. I’m looking for a mechanic and I heard you might be able to help with that.”

“Maybe so, what is it that you need fixing?”

“Well, uh, my crew and I just landed and on our way back to realspace we encountered a few technical issues. I was hoping you’d maybe be able to take a look at them.”

“I would certainly be able to look at it, aber I imagine you would want for me to fix it if there is something wrong.” The man stroked his chin. “I would not be unwilling to do this, but you will understand if I am widerwillig to do this for a person who has not yet introduced themselves.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” Fjord held a hand out, “my name’s –”

“Fjord!” Jester called, staggering over to the booth almost entirely hidden behind the colossal sack of mallow powder she was holding. “Look at how much I got us! Do you think we can fit this in the kitchen?”

She set the sack down on the table with an audible thump.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, peering around the sack, “I really like your cat! Can I pet him? What’s he called? Oh, and what’s your name?”

A smile settled across the man’s features.

“You shouldn’t have asked him that.” The hunched figure on the other side of the table groused. “He barely talks about anything except that cat as it is.”

“Hush, you.” The man replied, scratching the lolth-cat behind its ears and turning to face Jester. “His name is Frumpkin, and you can pet him as long as he allows it. My name is Caleb Widogast.”

He offered a hand to Jester, and that was when Fjord noticed that his arms were wrapped almost entirely in medical tape. A few of the pieces were trailing, having come unstuck, and it seemed to be stained in several places, though it was impossible to tell if these were from injuries or the sort of fluids which occurred in machinery.

“I’m Jester.” Jester replied, taking his hand with both of hers. “This is Fjord. Can you please help us with our ship?”

He seemed to consider for a moment.

“I will ansehen it but if you would like for me to fix it then I shall need something in return.”

“What was that word?” Jester asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard it before, ans-han?”

“Oh.”

Caleb reached into one of the many pockets on his jacket, this one close to the lapel, and pulled out a tiny four-sided pyramid. Each side sported several flickering lights, and a seam along one edge was cracked open just widely enough to reveal the circuits inside. Caleb blew into this, then examined it for a moment. Seeming satisfied he returned it to its correct pocket.

“Malfunctioning translator, sorry.” He said, attention once more on Jester. “It is an old one,  I had to do a lot of the fine-tuning myself, so it can sort of, er, glitch I think is the best word, if I speak too fast or put stress on a word. I do speak Basic, but the dialect I learned to speak is unfortunately rather specific, a translator saves a lot of explaining you know?”

“Oh, I understand.” Jester replied, tapping her headband. “The translator in here makes my voice a little strange too sometimes. And there are some words it just doesn’t get, you know?”

“Absolutely, idioms are a gottsverdamnt nightmare with this thing. As is cursing. What I was trying to say was that I would take a look at your ship and that we could take it from there, yes?”

“Well sure.” Fjord replied. “What’s your price?”

“That would depend on what needs fixing, but my friend and I,” Caleb gestured between himself and Nott, “need safe transport off this planet. It must be discreet. Can you provide that?”

“We can certainly try, where are you reckoning on going?”

“Anywhere in the outer rim.” Nott answered. “Further out than here at least, if not all the way out.”

“We can talk about the specifics when we are in a more private setting.” Caleb added. “But first, I would like to see this ship of yours.”

He drained the last of his caf and stood, still remarkably hunched over (though this was presumably not helped by the fact that the lolth-cat draped itself across his shoulders). Nott scrambled her way onto the table in order to help him strap some sort of pack to his back, allowing Fjord to get a closer look at her.

As widely travelled as he liked to assume that he was, Fjord had to admit that he had never seen anyone who looked quite like she did. Her hooded robe seemed to be covering her almost entirely, but what slivers of skin were visible were green (lighter than his own, but still very much green). Each hand appeared to have four fingers, unless she was wearing unusual gloves, and the lower half of her face was covered by a mask. If Fjord was pushed to guess, he would have said that it was a breath mask, but it was not visibly attached to any kind of tank. Over the top of this mask peered two amber eyes, constantly darting about the room as if she was expecting something to jump out at any second.

Once Nott had secured the final clasp, Caleb gathered up a second bag and slid out of the booth, offering Nott a hand to guide her down from the table.

“Well,” he said, looking to Fjord, “lead on.”

Jester kept up a constant stream of chatter on their way back to the ship, holding the sack of mallow powder in one arm and excitedly gesturing with the other. She stopped when Nott held up a hand.

“We’re being followed.” She hissed, turning slowly to face the direction they had just come from. Fjord followed her gaze, seeing two figures behind them and moving closer with purpose. He felt his hand twitch, almost involuntarily, but managed to keep it still. There was no need for that sort of scene yet.

Of the two figures approaching them, only one could have passed for human. Perhaps they were human, but something about their proportions, the slightly lumbering way that they were moving, suggested otherwise. The other was most likely chiss, though a lot closer to purple than average. They had been talking to their taller companion, but stopped abruptly when they noticed that Fjord was looking at them.

“Well hello there.” They called, slight accent betraying the use of a translator, as they strolled towards their group. “Not to be rude, but I believe that we overheard that you might be heading off planet soon. Got room for two more?”

Fjord fought the urge to close his hand again.

“We can pay.” The larger of the two said, not caring to elaborate.

“And we’re handy with most any weapon you can think up, if you need that sort of thing.” The chiss said, a smirk catching the corners of their mouth. “The name’s Mollymauk by the way, probably should have led with that. Mollymauk Tealeaf, Molly to my friends, and the delightful lady beside me is Yasha.”

Yasha gave them a nod.

“I’m Jester, this is Fjord,” Jester answered before Fjord had a chance to come up with a halfway decent alias, “and this is Caleb and Nott.”

“Why do you need off-world so badly?” Nott asked. “We can’t take someone who’s got troopers after them.”

“I think I’ll decide who I allow on my ship Nott.” Fjord interjected. “But is there anything we oughta know about before we consider your request?”

“We came here with the circus a few days ago, and we need off-world because one of the other performers seemed to think that the locals wouldn’t notice if he ate someone.” Yasha said, in a voice flatter than the statement truly deserved.

“You were travelling with cannibals?” Caleb asked, slowly starting to walk again. Fjord followed suit, noticing Jester and Nott do the same out of the corner of his eye.

Mollymauk shrugged as Yasha and they followed.

“A cannibal, and, in Kylre’s defence, I don’t think it technically counts as cannibalism. It’s not as if the victim was the same species.”

“If you guys were with the circus, does that mean you can do anything cool?” Jester asked, presumably not overly bothered by what was definitely cannibalism, species be doshed.

“Yasha can scream like a fleft-wauf, the resemblance is uncanny. You ever want to see an entire bar of people shit themselves in the space of three seconds? She’s the one for the job.”

Yasha rolled her eyes, which Fjord could now see were a peculiar shade of pink.

“He can tell fortunes.” She said. “I think that’s more impressive.”

“Ooh, how does that work?” Jester asked.

“I attune myself to the Force and reach into the future of the person I’m reading for.” Molly answered.

“That is not how the Force works.” Caleb muttered.

“Oh but it is.” Molly grinned, argument clearly already prepared. “I would know; my ancestors were a secret sect of the Jedi order, I’ve even got the sabres to prove it.”

He swept his coat back to reveal two cylindrical objects, which might have been lightsabres but which Fjord could not see well enough to tell before Nott shot forward to tug the coat closed again.

“Put those away! Are you trying to get us killed?” she hissed, looking about them frantically. “Honestly, you kids these days think just because that di’kut Vessar took out Darth Thordak with one of those things it’s like order sixty six never happened.”

“Folks, could we maybe talk about the particulars when we get back to the ship.” Fjord whispered. “Ain’t exactly a safe conversation topic when we’re out in the open like this; not on a planet this close to the Interior.”

Molly raised his hands in surrender.

“Of course, my apologies.”

They made their way back to the ship without much further trouble, and if Fjord was paying more attention to every Stormtrooper they passed then none of the others remarked on it. What they did remark on, once it came into view, was The Mistake.

The Mistake was a Far*Reach IV PQR, which had been modded to high hell at some point in its younger days. Maker only knew what half the mods had been for; it wasn’t as if any of them worked any more, and nor did most of the guns, hence the name.

“That’s your ship?” Mollymauk asked, eyebrows fast approaching his hairline. “I’ve never seen anything so obviously stolen in my life.”

“We didn’t steal it.” Jester protested.

“Then clearly whoever sold you that thing stole from you.” Caleb shot back. “That thing flies?”

Jester waggled her hand and made an “ehhh” noise.

“Like I said, we encountered a few, uh, technical difficulties on the way down.” Fjord said. “It certainly used to fly.”

“Sweet doshing Maker grant me strength.” Caleb muttered. “You are lucky that I am very familiar with the work of the Loronar Corporation, most mechanics would run screaming from that thing.”

“I still might.” Nott groused.

“I think that this is more of a job for Frumpkin mein freund.”

Before Fjord had had the chance to consider what engineering qualifications a lolth-cat might have, the closest door of The Mistake was flung open, revealing Beau and an alarmingly thick haze of smoke. Her usually black robe was soaked with a splatter of some kind of fluid which seemed to be slowly bleaching the fabric. Her face seemed to have been spared from it, although she did sport the indented outline of goggles around her eyes.

“Might want to leave that for a few ticks.” She called out to them between coughs. “I think something in the engine room just blew up.”

“Good thing we bought a mechanic back with us then.” Fjord replied, wrinkling his nose as the smoke reached them. At this, Beau appeared to notice the group amassed behind him.

“What, all four of them?”

“Just the one with the lolth-cat. One's a package deal with the mechanic and the others want a ride out of here and say that they’ll pay.”

Beau squinted at Caleb as she walked up to them, tilting her head slightly to the side. She leaned into his space, sniffing, even though Fjord knew that humans couldn’t actually use smell to determine anything (and even if they were able to she wouldn’t have been able to smell anything over the smell of the fuel on her clothes). Caleb shrank back, looking down at her with what might have been alarm.

“You sure?” she asked.

“The waitress at the cantina said that he fixed her caf machine.” Jester chirped. “Also she sold us this huge bag of mallow powder.”

“Caf machine is very different from an engine.” Beau’s eyes narrowed even further.

Frumpkin bristled and Caleb’s face suddenly arranged itself into something sterner and he leaned forward once more, inches away from Beau’s face.

“You are not wrong, but the fact that I am able to fix engines qualifies me to fix something much simpler. Whether or not I can fix your engine specifically is something that we will not know until I can look at it, but I would advise that if you want to smell of anything apart from tar-fuel for the rest of your life that you stop leering at me and let me get to work.”

Beau looked down at her clothes.

“Ah, dosh! Hey Jessie, did you see any sort of cleaning station around here?”

“I think there might have been some showers at the cantina, do you want me show you?” Jester replied, handing the mallow powder to Mollymauk, who staggered under the weight for a moment before passing the sack to Yasha.

“Yeah, that’d be great. Can someone bring me some spare clothes?”

“I’ll send one of the others along in a little while, you go get cleaned up.” Fjord assured her.

“Wizard, thanks.” Turning to Caleb she asked, “What was your name again?”

“Caleb. Caleb Widogast.”

“Right, Caleb-Caleb, good to know. You’re gonna need these.” She pulled her goggles off her head and handed them to him. “The light in the engine room has been busted almost as long as we’ve had the thing. Break them and I kill you.”

“Understood.” Caleb replied. “Have you not been able to replace the light? It is a simple fix.”

“Fjord is the only one tall enough, and he won’t go in the engine room because he thinks it’s haunted.” Jester answered him as they turned to leave.

Fjord could see the corners of Nott’s eyes crinkle in what was presumably mirth and did his best to quell the fear that was beginning to establish itself in the pit of his stomach.

“I’d have been less inclined to come to that conclusion if somebody hadn’t hidden in the dark and jumped out at me screaming, Beau.” He called after their retreating backs. Beau flipped him off over her shoulder and he couldn’t help sighing.

“Right, Yasha, Molly. You want to earn passage out of here? You can start by cleaning up the trail of fuel Beau will have left through the ship.” He turned to Caleb and Nott. “I’ll show you where the engine room is, and if you can fix whatever’s in there then you can take the engineer’s quarters for the time you’re with us. Might have to clear it out a bit but we’ll worry about that when we’ve fixed it.”

Caleb gestured to the ship with his spare hand.

“Lead the way.”

Notes: This was based very loosely on this post but veered wildly off in a different direction to the point where I wasn't sure that gifting it would make sense. But if either of the contributors to said post are reading this, please feel free to consider it as such.

I do not own any of the characters or concepts which appear within this fic, I'm sure that I don't need to tell any of you this but please support the actual properties that inspired it (Critical Role and Star Wars).The title is from Weird Al Yankovic's "The Saga Begins", which I also don't own, and I'm sure that you'll already be familiar with, but if not go check that out as well.

[ifridiot]

Teachable (Fic)

Word Count: 1136 Fandom: Original Characters Rating: General Audiences  Warnings: No Major Warnings Apply Relationships: Shi Carlton & Elijah of House Usher Characters: Shi Carlton, Elijah of House Usher Additional Tags: none that i can think of Summary: Elijah is in the doghouse with Tonic, she 'volunteers' to work for Shi and he tells her to get back there and apologize.

for @amuseoffirebane

Shi has always suffered from a lack of practical imagination.

Give him five minutes alone and a suspicious noise and he can come up with roughly seven billion paranoid theories as to the source every second. Paranoia has served him well, kept him ahead of the curve, always ready to fight or grab his boys and flee should the need arise. Paranoia got him on his feet and across the garage, muffling the explosion when the place was bombed and sparing his boys damage that the shrapnel might have caused. Paranoia helped him pick marks and steer clear of likely snitches.

Paranoia served. Imagination, however…

Well, there were enough things to worry about that were actually happening, actually feasible. He didn’t need to make up new situations.

So he’s at a dead loss to imagine what having his fierce Bug helping around the garage would be like. Can’t imagine what he’d do with her, where he’d set her up, how he’d teach someone almost as bullheaded as he was. He managed with Dowel, and had given up doing more than teach Gage the very most necessary basics, and they both had the good sense to worry about his temper.

Not that he’d hurt them -- he was Pa’s child in a number of ways, but not in that -- but letting them think he might didn’t bother him.

Lige though, no, she’d never feared him and wouldn’t start anytime soon. She’d seen his temper, and it only heated her own. She was a good bug, perfect for watching over Tonic’s place and keeping the bartender safe, but teachable Shi was certain would never be a word anyone used too liberally with this particular bot.

“Please, Shi, there’s lots I can do!”

She’s dancing around, hopping from foot to foot to foot, the segments of her body moving in a fluid series of swipes as clawed gripping feet scratch against the concrete floor. It’s like listening to a bundle of knives being drawn across the pavement; a sound he knows humes tend to avoid. His customers, by and large, tend to be humes.

“A’righ’, a’righ’ settle yerself,” Shi finally grinds out, making a sweeping motion toward the garage’s interior, away from the ever-broken chain trencher and the car lifts. “Siddown ‘n watch me fer a tick. Tell me why y’ain’t chasin’ Handerson if yer off from helpin’ Tonic.”

“Well…” She draws the word out like a child trying to avoid or distract by annoyance, and She gives her a sharp look as his fingers unfold and slip into the guts of the disassembled lawn aerator he’s been tasked with getting working.

Elijah does a good impression of clueless. Good enough that he knew plenty wrote her off as all strength and no brains. She ain’t dumb, though, no more than he was at so young an age. She’s barely done being a kid, he reckons, and she’s got a temper on her, which he also reckons is normal, given the state of the world.

She waits until he’s got his fingers deep in the machinery, so he’s only half focused on her. It’s cute, in the way a kid trying to be sly is always cute.

“Tonic and me are havin’ a fight. I can’t stay with Handy cuz they’re working today plus you got more space and you said I can always come here and I don’t need extra space ‘cause I can just sleep out here like you --”

“Like hell,” Shi cuts in, fingers going still and then retracting back to a more manageable length. He sees her getting ready to talk back -- deflect, change topic, argue, he doesn't care. He speaks and she at least lets him. “You come runnin’ in here askin’ t’ work fer me, I bring y’ in thinkin’ y’ jes’ mean t’ pass a couple hours. Yer talkin’ like this’s some longterm thing ‘n it ain’t gonna be. Y’ain’t stayin’ here t’ dodge a fight with Tonic, girl.”

She rears up, several sets of legs off the ground, the world’s smartest, angriest centipede. Before the last upgrade, she’d be right about his height, but he’s taller now, lankier. When she tries to draw up further, she wobbles, weaving like snake thinking about striking, and then lowers a little to settle on the next set of feet. “You said there was always a place for me here!”

“And there is!” He grinds back, arms crossing. “When y’ got a legitimate reason fer staying, not jes’ cuz you ‘n Tonic ‘r havin’ a spat.”

“That’s not fair!”

There’s no humes in the garage, and the doors are rolled up to deal with the heat anyway. Shi vents a blast of dark exhaust in a snarling huff, feeling it plume and dissipate around the sides of his face. “Izzit fair you ran off on her when y’know she can’t come after you? Izzit fair y’ use th’ fact she ain’t gonna leave that damn bar t’ end wha’e’er argument th’ two’a you ‘re havin’?”

He’s gotten better at figuring out how she displays emotion and watches a number flit over her. Outrage, irritation, guilt, shame. “She told me to leave!” She argues, but she’s lowered herself back to her usual posture, which is sign enough that she knows she’s got the wrong end of this fight. When Shi scoffs, she shoots him a glare, and then looks quickly away.

“Lemme guess, she said summin like, ‘if yer gonna act li’ that, y’ kin jes’ leave’, yeah?”

Bug huffs and refuses to look at him.

“G’ home, ‘Lige. Make yer manners ‘n say yer sorries. Th’ two a you take care a each other, ain’ that always been th’ way ‘ve it?”

“I wanna stay here ‘n learn how to fix stuff.”

Shi angles his head upwards, like the secret for patience is lurking in the gloomy rafters. “Fix yer deal wi’ Tonic firs’. Come back ano’er day ‘n I’ll teach ya fer a night.”

The way she looks at him, fins down and eyes big but dim, makes him wish he were a kinder bot. He looks back at her, keeps his arms crossed, and nods when she finally turns away. It seems it doesn’t matter how long he knows her, she’s always going to feel like one of his kids, someone he wants to protect, someone he wants to comfort.

But he’s not going to foster any rift between her and Tonic. That partnership helps two of his people, keeps Lige and Tonic both safer than either of them would be on their own. It’s better, he knows, watching her mope her way out and back onto the street before darting off in the direction of the bar, to be the angry bastard in this. He’s a rock, after all, and a rock can’t yield.

[draw-you-coward]

(some violence, killing, an offhand comment abt a bj)

ao3

“Gentlemen,” Thancred says to empty air, “How may I be of service?”

The heavy footsteps behind him come to a stop. Thancred allows himself a small, private smile before smoothing his features and spinning around on his heel.

The thugs don’t seem terribly intimidated by his hearing, nor his graceful footwork. One of the pair crosses his arms, shifting his weight. Thancred shrugs a knife down his sleeve until he can feel the comforting weight of the handle resting against his palm.

“I bet you felt mighty brave,” one of them mocks, advancing, “Telling us off in there.”

Thancred's gaze flicks to the right, at the tavern he had just left. “Not really,” he admits airily. “The lovely lady did not wish to be… plagued by your boorish company, and I didn’t think it was in your rights to argue against that.”

This earns him a laugh. “Your fancy words ain’t going to help you here,” the one who hasn’t spoken yet remarks, advancing. “Neither is anyone else.”

The other one moves to Thancred's right, cutting him off. Thancred licks his lips and smiles, turning to face both of them. The tavern is behind him, now.

“Gentlemen.” He spreads his hands. “Although I am touched you missed me enough to follow me, surely we can agree to part ways peacefully?”

“Oh, so now you don’t want a fight?” They keep walking forwards. Thancred steps back, feels his heel touch the cold stone of the tavern’s exterior wall. “You seemed very eager to pick one ten minutes ago.”

“True colours of a coward, eh?” the one on the left says. “I’d reckon the only reason you said anything earlier was to get your prick sucked by the grateful lady.”

They both laugh, the heavy mockery in their voices thickening the air. Thancred raises an eyebrow as he shrugs another knife down his sleeve, forcibly casual.

“Jealous of my innate charm, are we?” he challenges. “Well, if all you wanted was for me to suck yours, you could have asked nicely.”

That earns him a sudden furious growl, and he ducks down just in time to avoid a swing that would have knocked his head off his shoulders. Not in time to avoid the kick aimed at his stomach, however, and although it only catches him in the knees, he drops the ground with a pained grunt.

He catches himself with one arm and throws out the other, sending his knives spinning at a regrettably awkward angle. He must have hit something solid, however, because when he rolls to avoid another blow and straightens into a crouch, he sees one of the thugs curled up on the ground.

A large cutlass glints as it arcs towards Thancred’s neck, and he parries it with the blade at his belt, drawn by quick fingers. He slices the man’s stomach open, stepping away as he gurgles and falls to his knees.

There is a gunshot, startlingly loud. Thancred’s head whips towards the other thug as a chunk of wood breaks off and falls from the tavern’s roof.

A miqo’te woman is standing astride the fallen man. Thancred watches as she kicks his pistol away before bringing her heel down on his neck, quick and vicious. He hears a dull snap, and the man’s head goes unnaturally limp.

“I suppose it is too late to simply wait for the authorities to apprehend them,” Thancred comments wryly, his reflexive sarcasm functioning even as the rest of his brain tries to puzzle out the situation. Who is she? Why did she step in to help him, since she appears unarmed? Why hadn’t Thancred noticed her?

The woman looks up at his words. She steps down from the body and faces him, quickly taking him in. Thancred does the same, curious.

There are wrinkles by her eyes and mouth, but her gaze is piercing and spry. The end of her hair is pulled into a loose black braid, slung over her shoulder in a miqo’tian style typical of those who dwell in the desert. There is… something about her eyes that is odd, but Thancred cannot tell in the dull light of dusk.

She smiles, then, and the oddness manifests in the form of familiarity. How strange—Thancred does not recall ever meeting her. But he meets a lot of people, as the life of a Scion is, at times, a social one. Well, the way he does it, at any rate. He doubts, say, Urianger spends much time with anyone at a tavern, let alone complete strangers.

“You could always try,” she replies, walking towards him. “I would love to watch from a distance and see how it goes.”

Her voice is moderately accented, and it solidifies Thancred’s theory about her being from the desert. He has only heard such a cadence from the rarely-seen miqo’te that dwell in the Sagolii—Ikael’s people, actually, although the fellow himself has mostly worn his own accent down.

They are in Thanalan, so it makes sense, but it is odd to see a lone miqo’te out in a tavern, away from their tribe. What is she doing here?

Thancred bows, not wanting to forfeit his manners in the place of rude curiosity. “I doubt it will end without me getting a stern talking-to,” he says. “In any case, I must thank you for aiding me, my lady. I am called Thancred, and I am at your service.”

He straightens up in time to catch her amused smile. She replies, “You did not seem to need the help, Thancred, but you are welcome. I am called…”

There is a short, insincere beat.

“M’aev,” she finishes easily. It is a lie, but a smooth one. Thancred politely does not point out that he is quite sure the M tribe is Ala Mhigan. What does the average hyur know about miqo’te, anyhow? He would be a hypocrite to disallow her her secrets.

Thancred takes her hand—rough, tight brown skin—and brushes his lips over it. “I must thank you regardless, M’aev,” he states. “Anything can go wrong in a fight.”

A twinkle of amusement dances in her eyes. She pulls her hand back, then briefly touches her fingertips to his cheek, idly tactile. “Then it was bold of you to stand your ground,” she says. “I noticed you earlier, in the tavern. Getting between that girl and these,” she curls her lip up at the thugs’ motionless bodies, “… ruffians.”

Thancred bows. “A gentleman does as he must.”

“Of course, dear.” She pats his cheek in an almost maternal fashion. “Are you injured?”

Thancred shakes his head. “Not more than a little bruised, he says. “We should get going before anyone notices us.”

He glances at the tavern’s windows. “Not to rush a lovely conversation with a lovely lady,” he adds out of persistent habit, “but it is only a matter of time.”

M’aev’s lips quirk up before straightening. “Of course.” She gestures to him, then begins to walk away. “I set up camp not too far from here. No inquiring eyes will go searching there.”

Except for Thancred's. He trots up to her, following with a quiet tread. Her stride is quick, but confident. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Protecting the innocent and those who cannot defend themselves,” he comments as they walk, “is what me and mine do. Our organization, that is.”

She raises an eyebrow without look at him, and ducks under a low-hanging branch. “Oh?”

“We are the Scions of the Seventh Dawn,” Thancred tells her as he follows suit. “And I find myself thinking that your graceful and deadly self would be a good addition to our numbers, if you so wish.”

This time she outright laughs. “Oh, so that is the reason for the excessive flattery, is it?” she asks. She sounds amused, thankfully, and not offended. “I am sorry, young Thancred, but I am not quite the energetic and hopeful adventurer to whom joining a supposedly secret organization would seem like an appealing idea. I appreciate the offer, however.”

He nods, easily acknowledging the rejection. “I did not hold out much hope for it to be accepted,” he admits with a smile. “But I am supposed to try nevertheless. I reckon telling you that we house the newly-acclaimed Warrior of Light would not sweeten the pot?”

She pauses. Thancred pauses as well, watching her carefully. And then M’aev lifts her hand and points to a hill.

“There is my camp,” she says simply.

They settle down as comfortably as they can. There is a firepit already set up; Thancred watches as M’aev waves a hand over it ignite it. Curiouserer, he thinks as the conjured flame dances in her eyes. Is that a word?

“I know about you.” She speaks up. Thancred glances at her, readying himself for antagonism, but he sees only calmness in her gaze.

“Of you Scions and your Warrior of Light,” M’aev continues, smiling softly. “Your very secret headquarters are in Vesper Bay, are they not? Where there is no aetheryte.”

Her eyes are shrewd. Thancred breathes out a laugh, stretching his neck before lightly shaking his head.

“You seem to know a great deal more about me, my lady, than I know about you,” he ventures. And this is not something he would usually bring up, but… “In my way of business, such a thing is odd.”

M’aev begins to undo her braid, fluid and efficient. “Of course you are,” she murmurs, as a reply to what he has not said. “Charming and handsome lad like you? What else would they use you for?”

And there is the interesting commentary Thancred had been hoping for.

“Charming and handsome? My dear lady, you flatter me.” He ducks his head in a semi-serious bow. M’aev lets out a light laugh.

“So did they use you to recruit—the Warrior of Light, then?” Her hesitation is barely there; such a fleeting thing… but Thancred notices it. “From what I have heard of him, he does not seem like the rough and tumble adventurer type either. But someone like you could have convinced him, I would imagine.”

Thancred raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Are we a Warrior of Light fan?” he asks with a wink. “I should tell him I caught another one; he will go red and perhaps faint from the attention.”

She laughs again, soft but long. Thancred gets the oddest feeling that he is missing something.

“Is that so?” she says. “He shies from it, then?”

There is… something. The tone of her voice. The oddest little upturn to the corner of her mouth, the strange softness in her eyes. Thancred dwells on it for a moment… and then sighs inwardly. Of course Ikael would still have that effect on a complete stranger who had never met him.

Thancred grins, a spark of remembered familiarity emerging as the opportunity to tease his (admittedly absent) friend presents itself. “He really is,” he says. “All of that attention from all of those beautiful ladies is wasted on him! He actually did faint, once; turned red as a rolanberry and before we knew it…”

He pops his lips, imitating Ikael swooning and falling to the ground in perhaps an overly-gratuitous fashion. M’aev seems delighted, however, and Thancred is rewarded with another laugh. He joins in, chuckling at the memory.

“The poor dear.” M’aev presses her lips together. “Ah, I am sure the flood of attention will die down in a few moons.”

“Ikael would be relieved to hear you say that.” Thancred pokes at the fire. When he doesn’t get a response after a minute, he glances back at M’aev.

She is focused intently on the flames. Thancred drops his stick, and her gaze flicks back up to his. Her expression relaxes.

“Ikael… Jelaar?” she pronounces carefully, curiosity edging her tone. “That is what he is called, yeah?”

Thancred nods. “Almost,” he says. She had put the emphasis on the wrong syllable in “Jelaar”. “Jelaar.”

She tilts her head. For a second, that strange familiarity flickers back, and it gives Thancred pause. M’aev’s chin lifts upwards incrementally, and she—for an instant Thancred is sure she sees something in his face, she knows—she—

—turns away, running her fingers through her unbraided hair and shaking her head to allow it to settle naturally. It falls as a thick black curtain, blocking her face from Thancred's view. He looks away.

“Do you have a linkpearl?” he finds himself saying after a few minutes, when the silence feels as if it is just about to burst.

M’aev shakes her head, scattering it. Thancred is already digging through his things.

“Here,” he says, holding out the extra he keeps for new recruits. M’aev takes it, looking it over curiously. “You can contact me with it. In case you ever find something you think we should see… or change your mind about not wanting to join.”

He adds a wink for good measure. He bites back his words about her contacting him if she is ever in danger; somehow, he doubts she would.

She smiles, dipping her head graciously. “Thank you, my dear,” she says. “I appreciate it, although I have nothing to give in return.”

He smiles back and shakes his head. “The pleasure of your company for an evening was enough,” he says. His smile turns into a grin at her ensuing raised eyebrow and flat look. Too far, then. “I only mean the conversation, of course! Ah, you remind me of a friend of mine…”

She gets up, moving away from the firepit to shake out a sleeping roll. “This is my extra,” she calls over her shoulder. “Feel free to stay here if you have nowhere to rest for the night. You will not have to worry about keeping watch.”

She makes to duck into the small tent set up a few fulms away, but pauses. “Goodnight, Thancred,” she says quietly. “And goodbye.”

The farewell seems oddly final.

She disappears into her tent. Thancred keeps looking as the flap closes and the night goes still. Her comment about not keeping watch intrigues him; she must have warded the grounds somehow. Not an easy task unless one is at least proficient in the arcane.

Thancred scoffs at himself, shaking his head. Some part of him recognizes that had she been so inclined, this would qualify as a missed opportunity for quite an interesting new Scion. And yet…

He puts out the fire with splayed fingers and a willpower that is not as strong as others’ could be, but still sufficient. Then he crawls over to her sleeping roll and lies on it, connecting the stars in the sky into familiar shapes. He has a feeling this will be gone in the morning: firepit, tent, and miqo’te all. Perhaps even her bedroll. The entire encounter, vanishing without a trace of its existence.

Thancred closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

He is right.

~*~

[archonreviews]

The Archon’s Review of Kingdoms of Amalur: Reckoning

Kingdoms of Amalur: Reckoning is a fantasy role-playing game developed by Big Huge Games and published by Electronic Arts. In the fantasy realm of Amalur, Fate has dictated the comings and goings of all things. Particularly sensitive to the workings of Fate are the immortal Fae, whom are divided into the Summer Court and the Winter Court. However, tragedy strikes when a rebellious Winter Fae named Gadflow decides that the current Winter King isn’t doing enough murder, and that he should be king instead. After killing the Winter King and usurping his throne, Gadflow and his followers, the Tuatha Deohn, go to war against the mortal races of Elf, Gnome, and Human. The mortals seem doomed, as while the Tuatha can be killed, they reincarnate quite quickly and return to fight, whereas the mortals die when they are killed. To circumvent this disadvantage, a Gnome by the name of Fomorous Hughes creates the Well of Souls, a device meant to resurrect the dead. You are its first apparent success, and in the process of reviving, you become unbound from Fate, and basically ruin it for everyone. Now, you are the last hope for mortal-kind to defeat the villainous Gadflow and his Tuatha followers, restoring balance to the Fae Courts and preserving the realm of Amalur.

I first heard of Kingdoms of Amalur back in the mid-2000′s, just around when I was playing Oblivion obsessively. It was contemporary with another third-person fantasy thingie, Two Worlds, which the GameStop employee recommended against, before trying to shill for GameInformer. I suppose my point here is that I picked up KoA:R because I was curious to see what I had missed all those years ago. And yes, I am aware of the controversy surrounding the game’s creation and the dismantling of Big Huge Games, but I must confess to not being too familiar with the happenings.

The first thing one may notice in this game is the graphics. They’re actually pretty damn good, with beautiful vistas and vibrant landscapes. The characters are surprisingly expressive, even if that expressiveness does result in some humorous facial expressions. The character models are a little funny though; all the men, at least, have what I like to call “Ground Beef Body”. I ended up naming my character “Flaskkott Djur”, or “Pork Animal” in Swedish because he immediately reminded me of a hunk of ground beef (I got the word “Flaskkott” confused with the word “Nottkott” which is “Beef”. There’s your Swedish lesson for the day).

(Just look at that chin! And he’s got the neck of an ox to boot!)

Speaking of vistas, the diversity of environments is greater than I might have expected; although, get ready to see plenty of magical forests. There are, however, plenty of deserts, beaches, swamps, and arid landscapes to explore, all with plenty of monsters to kill and things to loot. All the environments are quite pretty and vibrant to behold and great emphasis has been placed on making each area feel like its own self-contained region. Even the magical forests feel different enough from one-another that you’re not likely to get lost.

(Upward shot of one of the game’s major cities. Go all the way south, along a beach and across a desert and through a forest, and you’ll find a Greco-Roman city ruled by Gnomes, as opposed to this necropolis-looking thing.)

Character creation is interesting. You only have two choices at the start; race and deity to worship. Funnily enough, you can choose to be an atheist, and it may be the best choice in my opinion, not because I’m some trilby-wearing “Dark Enlightenment” nutter, but because being an atheist gives you a permanent +1% experience point boost, and I’m always a slut for levelling up. All the other deities give you different boosts, and each of the four playable races gives you certain bonuses to non-combat skills.

When I say that you only have two choices at the start, I was leading up to something. See, KoA:R sort of has you create your character throughout the entire game. Every time you level up, you get a point for non-combat skills and for combat abilities. You could easily make the case that all RPG’s do something similar, having the player build up their character over the course of the game, but the difference is that KoA:R basically gives you nothing to begin with, save for a few points in all the beginning combat skills, plus a few points in non-combat skills dependent upon your chose race. Most other RPG’s would at least give you a bit more than that, if only to establish a direction. KoA:R is unique in that building your character is a persistent, fluid process, which keeps it engaging; in addition, the ability to refund all your points for a small fee allows you to go back and try a different build should you get curious/ fed-up.

One side-note I’d like to make mention of: If you’re the sort of person who gives a shit about difficulty curve, don’t buy the “Weapons and Armor Bundle” DLC. As the name would suggest, it creates a chest in the first town filled with weapons and armors for you to grab and use at your leisure. And while you’ll get/craft better equipment in time, it’s still better than the equipment you would otherwise have at the time, and it throws the balance off for a bit.

Speaking of crafting, the game actually has a pretty rad crafting system which allows you to create equipment, potions, and socketable gems. And frankly, once you put enough points into the requisite skills, you can craft some frankly ridiculous things. After a while, I was salvaging nearly all my equipment for the spare parts, rather than selling it. Gold wasn’t much of an issue anyway, and I wanted to see if I could craft an even more effective murder tool.

If it seems like I’ve been avoiding the topic of combat for a while, it’s because I’ve been avoiding the topic of combat for a while. Honestly, I think it’s one of the weaker elements. It’s slow and cumbersome, and it’s completely possible to be hit for a full combo because you couldn’t get your fucking shield up in time because you were already swinging at a different enemy. Whenever I swung my sword, I was committed for roughly the next half-hour. Also, for those of you more used to Dark Souls styled dodge-rolling, I should warn you that the dodge-roll in this game does not seem to have any invincibility frames; it just zips in a direction real quick is all.

(Spiders rather quickly became my arch-nemeses. They always came in groups, attacked somewhat unpredictably, and where often harder to kill than might be expected.)

To be fair, once you level up a bit and develop your own tactics, combat becomes easier. Learning your enemies’ attack patterns and learning abilities that stagger them, or prevent you from being staggered will help immensely.

If the plot synopsis up there seemed kind of involved and a little faffy, it’s because that’s how the game is. Ostensibly, the whole thing is based on old Irish and Scottish myths about the fae, and while the influence is clearly there, and it’s clear that the devs at least did a modicum of research on the mythologies they use. I like the idea of fighting Fate, the rapacious bastard. Although, there’s a bit where it’s implied that you’re appearance (remember, your character exists outside the web of Fate) was itself predicted by Fate. As others have pointed out, that point is kind of mad, but it’s not as big a deal as it sounds, and there’s evidence to suggest that perhaps Fate has simply rewritten itself to fit you in.

(The antagonist either screaming in madness or receiving amazing head. I’ll let you decide.)

Now, I have a bit of a confession to make. I spent almost my entire time playing this on sidequests. Much work has been done to ensure that the sidequest chains are engaging, from helping the resident mercenary guild fight an invading demon lord and his army of elven followers, to saving a small village from a rogue Fae and her spider minions. I had a lot of fun on all the sidequests; I almost forgot about the critical path. By the time I got back, I was massively overlevelled and had a set of powerful equipment to back me up.

Here’s a weird thing apropos of nothing: while the human ladies are dressed normally (boob-plates notwithstanding), the elven ladies are almost always in some kind of revealing top, often a deep V-neck. I have no idea why this is; there’s no lore reason for it. Maybe Big Huge consisted entirely of elf-misogynists? It’s bizarre is all.

(She’s just dressed like this. No idea why, especially when a normal human wearing leather armor has it look like regular leather armor.)

Now, some people have compared this game to Skyrim; certain reviewers even calling it “Baby’s first Skyrim“ I don’t necessarily think the comparison is a fair one. Whereas Skyrim is very much a standard fantasy RPG in the vein of its forebears, KoA leans more heavily on semi-frenetic combat action, even bumping up against the (admittedly nebulous) action-adventure genre in the subway car. Crafting is different as well. Whereas Skyrim has you stock up on ores and ingots to craft with, this game has you salvaging your old weapons to find screws and grips and rivets, which gives the crafting a different feel, even if they are functionally very similar. While Skyrim is admittedly a more detailed, immersive experience (glitches notwithstanding), KoA is about as complicated as it needs to be. It gets in all the features it needs to be a pretty good game in its runtime.

And Kingdoms of Amalur: Reckoning is a pretty good game. Levelling up is more addictive than it is in most RPG’s, and great pains have been taken to make sure that each quest is fun and interesting, not just the main questline. Despite the reputation it’s accrued as a cut-rate Skyrim or “That one game what got a bunch of people in trouble and now it’s owned by Rhode Island,” I’d recommend it to anyone who likes somewhat complex fantasy worlds and/or anyone who likes their RPG’s a little bit on the actiony side. I may come back to it. After all, I’m more than half-way to the level cap and I’m not even close to the end of the main quest.

All in all, it’s a damn fine game. Would love to complete it some time.

(A back shot of a male character. I told you these people are made of ground beef.)