#the wizened librarian

[blackjackkent]

Tolna Tome-Monger of Sorcerous Sundries, I hope you are prepared for the absolute juggernaut of combined nerdery that is Hector and Gale coming to talk to you about magical history.

"Literature department. Can I help you?"

She's whispering, which Hector immediately finds charming. Reminds him of the head librarian in the monastery, a wizened little old woman who happily listened to Hector chatter away about his latest discoveries in the ancient tomes he read through every day. He lowers his own voice accordingly.

"I'd be interested in any especially rare tomes you might have," he whispers back.

"Bold!" she says softly with a bright grin. "You might've heard that our library has a collection other shops would lack the skill to curate. Between us - even Master Lorroakan was reluctant to house them in his tower. The pen is mightier than the magic wand, apparently." She gestures around her dramatically. "They're locked away here for their and our customers' safety. Our finest reserve includes the 'Tharchiate Codex,' 'The Annals of Karsus: A Netherese Folly', 'Sights of the Seelie', and 'The Curriculum of Strategy.' Do any of those interest you?"

Ultimately the one they're interested in is The Annals of Karsus, but Hector's curiosity about the others is immediately roused as well. He is definitely bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet as he asks about each - rather in the way Karlach did when she found out they could go to the circus. (She is standing watching this unfold with affectionate bemusement - but loving seeing him so excited about something.)

"The Tharchiate Codex," he says politely.

Her eyes widen and she leans forward slightly. "Interesting choice..." she whispers. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you might have 'The Necromancy of Thay' in your possession... I'd advise tremendous care with the 'Tharchiate Codex.' The cost of unlocking its mysteries is... onerous."

(A/N: Oho! Hector does NOT have The Necromancy of Thay, as he smashed that book into tiny pieces back when we found it in the Blighted Village. (Gale was NOT happy, and even less so when a bunch of shadows emerged from the smashed book and one-shot him.) But I will have to keep this in mind for my other playthroughs where I kept it.)

Hector decides to let that pass for now, and asks next about 'Sights of the Seelie.'

"Its author was a spectacularly talented halfling," the bookseller says soberly. "She was, allegedly, able to establish contact with members of the Seelie Court. Can you even imagine what wonders the fey pantheon might've revealed? Incredible!"

What about 'The Curriculum of Strategy'?

"You've heard about the Red Knight, I trust?" she mutters intensely. "Devout strategist, made exarch of Tempus. This treaty is a compilation of her own design, kept here on the Material Plane for the benefit of us mortals. Quite rare."

Hector is listening to all of this with rapt attention, his eyes very wide. Finally he comes to the main point of their visit. 'The Annals of Karsus: A Netherese Folly.'

"It is said," the woman intones softly, "to be written by Lord Karsus himself, the Netherese arcanist who attempted to replace the goddess Mystra, failed, and was banished for the attempt. Great magical knowledge lies within those pages - but not many can withstand it."

"That's it," Gale hisses excitedly. "That's what I need."

Narrator: The Annals of Karsus would no doubt have much to say about the crown's true nature - if only you could read them.

Well, Hector probably can't, but Gale certainly can.

"Sounds perfect," he whispers. "How much for me to buy it from you?"

She lifts her eyebrows, visibly startled. "Buy?" she says warily. "Books as temperamental as these are not on sale. They are secured in our vault, where none can harm them, nor can they do any harm. Consider yourself lucky to have learned of such a book's existence. And then forget about it - the Annals of Karsus are best left unread."

She's probably right, in the grand scheme of things - but they do need that book, which Hector is mildly glad of, because it means the correct thing to do here is to indulge his suddenly desperate curiosity to see that vault, which would be a thoroughly ill-advised choice in any other circumstance.

[PERSUASION] "Isn't it your job to share knowledge, not keep it locked away?" he asks earnestly. "At least tell me where the vault is..."

She tips her head to one side, studying him. Perhaps she sees a kindred spirit in him, the side of him that has been so buried under violence and pain of late, the boy from Silverlight Monastery who eagerly devoured every historical tome in the place and always hungered for more. But if she does - it is not enough to sway her from her implacable certainty that the books are not to be troubled. "Customers like you are why I prefer the company of books," she says wearily. "The only way to gain access to the vault is through my office. And before you ask - no, you are not allowed in there either."

Well, Hector and company have long since learned that locks are only a temporary annoyance if they really need to be somewhere. But as Hector prefers an honest solution if one can be found, he asks, "Surely there's some amount of gold that could convince you to part with the book?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "Psht. I already told you," she whispers fiercely. "It is locked in our vault. And with good reason. Imagine if a tome so dangerous were sold to someone with such poor comprehension."

Behind him, he hears Karlach swallow a snickering laugh, and resists the urge to grin himself.

"Thank you. I've learned more than enough," he says politely and turns away.

"You certainly has," the bookseller hisses at his back. "Even simple knowledge of these tomes is enough to stimulate most."

------

"That was cute, Hec," Karlach says with a wide grin as they walk away from the counter. "I don't think I've ever seen you that excited before."

"The collection of wisdom and knowledge that woman clearly has in her possession," Hector says. He's still visibly energized, his fingers twitching excitedly. "You were right, Gale. This place is incredible."

"I told you," Gale says with a soft chuckle. "A collection of magical lore with no equal on this plane of existence, I dare say - and certainly well worth our time to explore even in less dire circumstances. But... we will still be pursuing the Netherese book, yes? In spite of her objections."

"We will." Hector nods. "One way or another, I'll see to it that we find what you need."

"I might have to pick up a few books too," Karlach puts in.

Hector raises an eyebrow at her. "Sudden interest in magical lore?" he asks mildly.

She smiles playfully. "No, but I've got a very vested interest in anything that gets you excited. Or stimulated, as that woman put it."

Jaheira snorts. "Yes - it is well known that such books are tremendously romantic, is it not?" she says dryly. "Then again..." She shoots Hector a sideways look and then laughs. "I forgot who I was speaking of."

[davidpwilson2564]

Bloglet

Friday, February 9, 2024

On the Spectrum music channel, Benjamin Britten. I like the fact that it doesn't have ads. They're playing "Gloriana." I remember it from college. A little info window often accompanies the music. This tidbit: Benjamin Britten was made a Lord. Well, Andrew Lloyd Webber was also. Britten's lover, Peter Pears, ended up living in Greenwich, Connecticut (this was after Britten's death; he took up residence with choral conductor Dick Vogt). He answered the phone with "Pears here!"

When I was doing some research (during my music librarian years) I stumbled on a story about Britten. He had a falling out with someone as a collaboration was in the works (was it Auden?). Britten received a letter (I think of apology) which he ripped into little pieces, put in an envelope and mailed back. There is nothing so scary as an angry poove.

Seiji Ozawa dies. 88. I remember seeing him, on the East Side, a few years ago. His hair completely white. Wizened, looking a little old Japanese lady. Think of all the hours he spent on airplanes. Amazing that he was able to do so much continent hopping. And almost thirty years with Boston. An amazing career.

to be continued

[chaotic-historian]

Historical Baes Post #1

Okay, so, apart from being Louis XIV’s birthday, September 5th is also the Danish flag day for all lost and deployed troops. As such, I thought today would be a good time to introduce you all to a new historical Danish military hero each year. This year it is my Best Man, Commodore Iver Huitfeldt.

If you go to his wikipedia profile, it’ll be very short and concise, so let me give you a slightly more emotional account of his final hours on the 4th of October 1710:

It is 8 in the morning, all the ship’s captains have gathered on the flagship of general-admiral Gyldenløve, to have a short status meeting. Just a few days earlier, the entire Dano-Norwegian fleet had been forced to sail out towards Danzig on the orders of King Frederik IV, but less than halfway there they’d been intercepted by storms and forced to seek shelter in Køge Bay, a quite closed-off bay in eastern Denmark. Here they’ve anchored up without plan or purpose, and Commodore Huitfeldt is deeply concerned with this. Almost twenty years earlier, he was present at the battle of La Hogue in 1692, where the French lost their main battle fleet because the English managed to trap them in a bay frighteningly like the one the Dano-Norwegian one is in right now. Huitfeldt has chosen to anchor in a carefully planned position, ready to sail out at any time. His concerns are dismissed. The Swedes, Gyldenløve says, are docked in Carlscrona. He has sources.

But, just as they step out onto the deck to head back to their ships, there is a shout. A sea of masts can be seen on the horizon, and although their nationality cannot be determined yet, Huitfeldt is worried. He hastens back to his ship to prepare, and he is right. It is the enemy. Far from being in Carlscrona, the Swedish general-admiral Wachtmeister heard of the Danish navy’s misfortune with running into a storm, and got the clever idea he would jump them while they were weak. He almost succeeds.

In the nick of time, before any orders are even given, Huitfeldt’s ship Dannebroge sails out to meet the Swedes, alone. Two ships, Mars and Beskiermeren follow behind her, none of which ever get close enough to fire at the enemy. Dannebroge, and Iver Huitfeldt, are facing the entire Swedish battle fleet alone. Wachtmeister’s fleet keeps its course, thundering towards the disheveled Danish navy, which is in utter chaos, desperately trying to get into battle order in the bay, and its lone protector. At the last moment, Huitfeldt’s clever position forces them to break their course and engage him. For more than an hour they ceaselessly fire at each other, one ship against a line of almost 35, but the wind is against the Dannebroge, and the muzzle fire of her raging cannons is blown against her own tackle and side. Soon, the flammable hemp ropes catch fire, and it spreads too fast to be put out. There is 450 men aboard, and one of them is the Commodore. He has a beloved wife and four children at home in Norway, the eldest, a boy, is 12, the youngest, a girl, is just 2 years old. He is 44. His ship is on fire.

What does he do? He looks back, if he allows her to drift and tries to beach her, he risks spreading the fire aboard his ship to the other ships in the fleet, and he will yield the way for the Swedes, who could then go in and lock the Danes in place and destroy them. This would be a disaster.

Iver Huitfeldt gives the order to drop the anchors. He and his crew stay on the ship and continue returning fire. When the gunners are forced to leave their cannons, they are said to have loaded them one last time, so that they’d fire themselves when the flames heated them.

At around 4 PM, the fire reaches the powder stores. Dannebroge explodes, taking with her 450 men, and one Commodore, who willingly gave up his life and inspired his men to follow him in order to save the whole fleet. With a burning wreck in the middle of the bay, the Swedes are cut off from all further attacks, and a day later they withdraw. Huitfeldt has done what he set out to do: he has saved his navy, and by extension very likely tipped the scales for the eventual victory in the Great Northern War.

[vbsvartalf]

A Crown of Violets, Roses, and Crocuses, Part I

The hour was late, or at least she assumed it was late. There were no windows where she’d bunkered down to read. It was a big room, musty and cavernous, lit with a single, long candle at the far end of her table. That she’d lost track of time in here was more an inevitability than a surprise. Any library, every library, all over the world, under it, and above it she would get lost in. Dusty shelves and rows upon rows of books and scrolls were more natural to her than sunlight and fields. She’d had adventures, or at least what she would call adventures, but they all led her back to one library or another. One could only learn so much on an adventure, they must, must be supplemented by research and study. At the very least, her adventures needed to be catalogued so that she could be a part of the research for future generations of scholars and knowledge seekers. That’s what had led her here, to Mikelburg.

It was not a hidden city, but it was a forgotten one. Supposedly its foundations were laid nine hundred years ago before and, judging by the age and decay and general rundownedness of the city, that estimate was far too generous. The world was an onion, layers and layers and layers of things to find and explore and discover. Mikelburg was forgotten because people mistakenly believed it had little to offer the big, wide world. She knew that wasn’t true. No place in the world had “little to offer”, that sort of phrase was a slur, a curse, an obscenity in anthropological circles. She’d come to the city with little knowledge of its size, or it’s make up. She was shocked at both.

The city was large, founded on gentle slowly sloping hill near the confluence of two streams with a wide green forest stretching on upwards behind them into the fog riddled mountains. There were old rings of stones scattered throughout the city noting the different levels of habitation as the city grew from a tiny, nameless hillfort to a town, to a city, to a capital. Half the city seemed to be ruins though, half dead, half alive. Wars had come to Mikelburg. Wars and more wars, then famines and waves of pestilence. The people of Mikelburg moved their capital to some safer location, on a higher hill with bigger river and more space to spread out. Still there were people that would not abandon the city and all its years. It was not an easy existence by all accounts, but the old folks have passed down a hardiness to their children that was evident, even hundreds of years later.

There was no central authority here either, no mayor or lord or council of whom she could ask questions. It was an imposition to be sure. But Patsimiel Yoshiyo was not one to be turned aside so quickly. Her time studying anthropology had given her one thing, and her elven senses had only sharpened and honed it: patience. There was no council she could talk to? She would ask the people on the streets. No lord who she could interview about the laws and customs of the land? She would ask the bakers and the sugarmongers, the fishnetters and the blacksmiths. She’d picked up enough of the language lately that communicating was no problem. Well, not too much. She’d talked with a cooper and kept confusing an offer from him to come inside and meet his wife for tea, for an offer that was not about tea. Thank the stars, most of the people spoke a dialect of Ten Towns she could speak and understand. The cooper and his wife pointed the young elf to the library.

It wasn’t much a of a library, a single-story building with one entrance and exit. The people of Mikelburg were an oral people with long waxing tales told by scops and troubadours in the light of fireplaces, but they interacted with enough outlanders and tradesmen from the northern that a library was more or less expected, even if it wasn’t well maintained or catalogued. There was a librarian, a wizened old man with a very short gait and a very sturdy cane. He was a delightful little man and was so enamored with her that she assumed she was the first elf he’d ever seen. His smile was as bright as the waxing gibbous moon. He led her to a private chamber where she could read and study and write in peace.

She yawned. She wasn’t tired, but she felt like she should be, surely it had been hours or even days since she’d entered here. The yawn was more an attempt to trick her body into telling her its secrets. Her mind had begun to wander. The candlelight was growing fuzzy, stretching and blurring at the edges; the light was getting dimmer and dimmer, shrinking and pulsing. The words on the page drooped and dipped on the page, they played and teased her. She would read a sentence, then read it again and find words that had been coy and hid from her gaze.

Her stomach gurgled. She might not be physically tired, but she was hungry. When was the last time she’d eaten? Had she stopped at an inn before she made a beeline to the library? She couldn’t remember if she’d had the tea with the cooper and his wife. Some tea would be very pleasant right now, tea and a few extra candles. Tea was the whetstone on which she sharpened her mind. Ever since she’d learned to brew it herself as a child, Yoshiyo had used it to stay up to all hours. She would hide under blankets with a lantern and read anything and everything she could. Once, she’d nicked a cookbook from her neighbor and read the entire thing in a single night. If only she could use that knowledge to make more than tea. She was certain that a tea and biscuit combo would make her at least a fraction more popular, at the very least not the one mocked and teased endlessly. She nicked books, borrowed scrolls, anything with words and knowledge. Now, as an adult, she could not remember half of the things that she read on those clandestine nights, but the feeling stayed with her and that was more important in the end.

She yawned again, this time it was genuine, stretching her jaw and her lungs to their absolute limits, one of the bones in her neck popped with weak pop. It must be late. She read one more line from the scroll, blinked hard, then read it again. Neither time she read it did it make sense. The words could have scribbles for all she understood them. She squinted and leaned in close to try a third time. Still no luck, the words dripped and slipped out of her line of sight like a waterfall. She sat back and sighed. She was done for the day. She’d learned her lesson. Reflexively, she looked at the candle, making sure it was not too close. She would not forgive herself another library fire. She sighed again, rubbing her face. Comparing languages and tracing certain stories back to their origins was fun work, but it was mind numbing too.

She’d read eight different renditions of “How the Fox Stole the Farmer’s Wife”. All of them only slightly different, but just enough to warrant different entries into her records. Some of them were translations of languages she didn’t know; others were original compositions with words borrowed from even older languages. There was something wrong about the order in which the library said they were written and recorded though, finding the ur-tale became the primary objective as Yoshiyo yawned a third time. But all of that was going to have to wait until tomorrow, or at least until she’d had some tea and a bowl of soup. Her dry lips and stomach mumbled in agreement. Soup would be very nice. There was an inn nearby, she remembered smelling cooking meat as she passed to the library. What was it called? The Whispering Cauldron?

She packed up her things, scrolls and scrolls and more scrolls with pens and wax tablets and sketch pads. Her pack was an unorganized bramble of chaos. She wouldn’t have in any other way. Her apartments were always orderly and organized, but her pack, like her mind, was wild and carefree. She wrapped her flaming red hair back into a loose ponytail with a leather strap from the bramble it had become over hours of absent minded pulling and tugging and. She shouldered her pack and sighed with that familiar weight. The little librarian was nowhere to be seen, but somewhere in the library she could hear the clack-clack of his cane.

The sun was still out, but it was dipping behind the mountains, exploding in pink and orange. She inhaled the smell of Mikelburg and closed her eyes. There were a few people walking the street, wrapped in cloaks to ward off the coming cold of fall nights. She could hear bits and pieces of conversation. It was a welcome change from the cavernous silence of the library.

She took a step and felt herself bump into someone rushing by.

She opened her eyes, catching just the barest glimpse.

The woman turned to look back. Her eyes were soft and round with irises of violet so dark they could have been a reflection of the primordial, starless sky. Her skin was silvery porcelain, her feathery, raven tresses was styled in an ancient elven style, one she’d not seen in…

Suddenly she was not in Mikelburg anymore. She was in another city, one far older with towers of ivory that stretched up into the sky and disappeared. There were singing voices all around her instead of the murmur of a crowd. There was so much light here: golden and silver. The very air was made of music, it touched her skin and sent waves of warm sensations through her body. She reached out to touch it. Her fingers moved slowly, through honey. She could see the light wisp around her fingers, tangible like a butterfly. And she was there. That same woman, raven black hair and violet eyes. She was looking at her again, but on her lips was a gossamer smile, so sweet and silky it made Yoshiyo’s knees weak. The woman, so familiar that her name was on the tip of Yoshiyo’s tongue, said something and touched her cheek. It felt like she’d been kissed by a cloud. It was dizzying. The air smelled of roses. She said something, but her words were wisped away a sweet wind…

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention…” the woman said. She smiled. There was a twinkle in her eyes, a reflection of ancient light. Did she know Yoshiyo? Did Yoshiyo know her?

Before Yoshiyo had a chance to say anything, the woman rounded the corner and disappeared. She touched her face where she’d been touched in the vision. She felt dizzy again and her throat went dry.  

Who was she?

Yoshiyo continued to the inn, looking back every few steps, trying to will the woman back within her field of vision. She stopped a few paces from the inn’s doors. Should she go back? Should she go find the woman? Chase her down and… and what? Her hands were shaking. A warmth that had nothing to do with heat filled her limbs.

She stood there for several heartbeats, unable to make a decision. Each moment she hesitated meant the mystery woman was further and further away. Finally, she gave up trying and went into the inn. The man behind the bar had hair redder than her and soft green eyes.

“Do you have any, any vacancies?” She asked mechanically, her mind racing in every direction but forward.

“Aye,” the man said, setting the clay mug he’d been cleaning down on the lacquered wooden bar top. “How many?”

“I, well I only need the one, I suppose.”

“No, how many will be staying?” he asked again.

Yoshiyo felt her cheeks go red. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m— it’s just me. I’ll be the only one. Just me.”

He looked at her, his brow creasing and folding into half a dozen lines. “Are you okay, lass?”

“What?” Yoshiyo shook herself, forcing her mind to pay attention to the one thing in front of her. It pulled at the reigns like a feral horse. “Oh, sorry. Yes. Yes, I’m okay. Just tired. I’ve been…”

“You’re the elf, aren’t you?” the publican asked, interrupting her. “The new one.”

“I suppose word travels fast in Mikelburg,” she swallowed. “Wait, what do you mean new one? Are there other elves in Mikelburg?”

“Just the one,” he answered, picking up the clay mug again. “Not many come this far north anymore, not since, well not since a very long time now. I’m sorry. I’m being impertinent. You asked for a room? I have a few. How long are you going to be with us?”

Yoshiyo swallowed. She could feel her cheeks growing redder and redder. She could not get the woman’s face out of her mind. The softness of her fingers on her cheek. “I’m not sure,” she finally said. “At least a couple of weeks. If that’s alright?”

The publican laughed and nodded. “A room paid and occupied for more than a night? Of course, it’s alright lass. What’s your name now?”

He reached for something under the bar. Yoshiyo flinched back reflexively but when he produced a key she relaxed. She stared at the key a long moment before accepting it from his large hand. “I’m Yoshiyo. And, and you?”

“Symon,” he said. “Owner and proprietor of the Whispering Cauldron.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Symon.” She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Might I get something eat too? Some hearty? And tea? Do you have tea?”

“Aye, I can do that for you, Lady Yoshiyo.”

“Oh, no. I’m not Lady Yoshiyo. Just Yoshiyo, plain and simple.”

“If you say so, Yoshiyo, if you say so.”

“There is one more thing I’d like to ask Symon, if you don’t mind indulging me.” She took another breath and felt her sense return to normal. She felt the warm the of the hearth and the eponymous cauldron. She heard a dozen conversations from all corners of the inn, smelled a dozen varieties of hay, stewed meat, bread, horseflesh, and beers.

“And what might that be?”

“When you’re done with your duties, if you don’t mind me asking some questions about your life in Mikelburg, nothing invasive or impertinent.”

“Have anything to do with what you’re doing at the library?”

She raised her eyebrow, uncertain.

“Word travels fast in Mikelburg,” he reassured her. “Like you said. I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you, Symon.”

She nodded to him and found an empty table near an empty stage. She unshouldered her pack and pulled out her sketchpad and a charcoal pencil. For the next half hour, as the inn filled with people and her soup and tea was delivered, as a minstrel came on stage and sang with the accompaniment of a lute, Yoshiyo drew the face she’d seen. She knew this face. She knew it but how did she know it? She drew it a dozen times, each sketch only increasing the mystery. She grew flushed. She knew this woman; this woman knew her. Yoshiyo had no idea how she could tell that, but she could. What was that vision? That place, that touch… 

Who was she?

[vanillelace]

✧ Hunt For Love — !

hi everyone !! this is lexi and i’m here with a fic for you.

‘Dash and Lily’ is a Netflix series, originally a novel written by David Levithan and Rachel Cohn.

i have decided to write a fiction based on this because i fucking LOVED the series so much. i will be sticking to the plotline, but a lot of changes can be seen + this will be in chapters.

i have provided FULL credits to the original creators. please don’t attack me for ‘claiming’ this as my own. i have just written my own spin-off for this. this would be completely David Levithan and Rachel Cohn’s ideas, but i have added my own.

i have clarified as much as possible. one last time, THIS PLOTLINE ISN’T MINE, I HAVE MADE MY OWN CHANGES TO IT.

i will most definitely delete this if this isn’t allowed. it’s my first time writing a spin-off so please forgive me if i do anything wrong!

let’s begin after that huge clarification.

PREVIEW.

Hunt for Love.

—— na y/n x nct’s mark lee.

—— wordcount : 349 for the preview, 85 for the summary [less than i expected 😭]

—— warnings : nothing for the preview.

—— na y/n has always looked for love. her happy-go-lucky, easy-to-love brother, jaemin, has always wanted to put her out of her bubble, but has been unsuccessful on each minor attempt.

lee mark hates love, and anything to do with it. his heart has been broken, and he doesn’t want it to happen again. after 2 years of hating himself and his decisions, he makes a promise to himself that he will let himself love again.

what if their paths intercross, for better or for worse?

—— lexi’s words : hi there first time writing a fic so ya 😋 i just wanted to say none of this has ever occurred as per my knowledge, and any relation to characters in real life is NOT intended. the use of any celebrities names in this is not to defame them AT ALL. anyways this is something i wrote because i’m bored so… have fun reading! one more thing! the character’s ethnicities and nationalities ideas were given to me by my very very dear friend @notshyivy !! love you sweetie <3

── preview begins . .

mark was walking along the most familiar street he had, the path to the best library in the world — bibliophile. he greeted the wizened old librarian and owner, mr. thomas, who was a dear friend to him, and strolled up to the information desk. “hello, how may i help you today!” a blonde man with a slight mustache rolled his eyes at mark, with a voice that sounded like he had enough of helping out at a library and had much better work to do.

hint : he did not.

justin thomas, mr thomas’ nephew, absolutely despised mark lee. mark couldn’t think as to why. as far as he knew, he never shouted, oh no, he preferred keeping to himself. he always kept the books in the right place. no, the problem was that he was better at justin’s job than justin himself was.

mark rolled his eyes back at justin. mark ambled his way through the dear shelves of dusty and clean, ancient and new books, which offered a wonderful complement to the few amount of people, who, mind you, were as ancient as the books themselves, maybe even older.

his favorite section, he noticed, had a minimalistic christmassy notebook, which he was SURE didn’t belong in the young adults section. without looking at the book, he pulled it out, careful to not disturb his favorites beside the intruding book, and walked back to the information desk. “justin… there’s a book i’m sure isn’t supposed to be here,” he began, placing the book flat on a keyboard. “where does it go?”

“just- put it back there. don’t even bother telling me about that one. SHE told me to keep it there.” justin muttered, annoyed with the VERY helpful mark.

“who’s SHE-“ “never you mind. now put it back where it came from.”

just as mark was about to give justin a piece of his mind, mark breathed in and breathed out, invigorating himself. he walked away, and was just about to place the book in its undeserved location, when he noticed three, clear words.

‘DO YOU DARE?’

♡ ⊹ ° . ˚ ▿ · ° . ♡ ⊹

[qm-vox]

So You Want To Play A Darkling

(Sketch of Vickie Reeds, the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, provided by Sylverthorne. Character by me; catch her in New Avalon.)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental & So You Want To Play An Ogre

“You don’t want to know.”

It’s a simple statement. We hear it, or its famous variants - “don’t even ask about,” and “how badly do you want to know?” and “don’t even get me started,” and more - all the time, and we brush them off. Of course we want to know! We asked, didn’t we? Why would we ask if we don’t want to know? And most of the time it’s something small, or our conversation partner was exaggerating for effect, and we learn just fine.

And other times what you hear, in a low and painful voice, spoken without eye contact and without pride or glory, is something you really did not want to know. Something you should not have asked. And now it is in you, rattling about in your mind, ready to stalk your dreams and worry away at your hope and joy.

Darklings are those Lost who know the things you should not, and their peers ask careful questions indeed around the children of Darkness. There are times in every Freehold’s life when push comes to shove and someone should have the hollow lore which bleeds, breaks, and scrapes. Someone has to know.

How badly do you want to?

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost, as well as Winter Masques and Swords at Dawn. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for depictions of torture, maiming, abuse, cannibalism, forced transformation, suicidal thoughts & ideation, stalking, and murder.

A Nightmare With No Waking - Darkling Overview

Darkling is the second Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost; it joins Ogre in being one of the two Seemings most defined by violence, and Fairest in being a Seeming that is both highly socially adept and whose mere identity distorts their social relationships both to their fellow Lost and to mortals. Darkling is a striking and highly popular Seeming, represented strongly both in the community and in published NPCs, with many excellent examples to draw from and strong bones in with folklore and urban legend.

Like their cousins the Ogres, Darklings have a relationship to violence that may not be voluntary on their part. But where Ogres learn to fight, to roar, to hit back and intimidate until they are left in peace, Darklings learn the subtle shades of fear. Darklings hide, lie, cheat, and sneak. Keenly aware of the consequences of violence, Darklings adapt to murderous abuse by outwitting and outlasting it. When they are finally driven to strike against an enemy hunting them, a Darkling does not fight: they survive. If that means becoming a murderer, a cur, a monster, so be it: their enemies can hate them from the grave.

Up From The Gutter - Homecoming As A Darkling

Darklings are among those Lost who remember Arcadia with the least clarity and certainty (even as Wyrd rises), rivaling Fairest for ‘memories’ which may just be heady blends of fear and adaptation warped into a form they can live with. For many, their Durance is a blur of instincts and ‘rules’, behaviors adapted either to survive a lethal environment or the lethal attentions of a master which went out of its way to hate them. But for all that specific events are obscured in darkness, transmuted to sensory impressions fogged with rage and terror to rival the most frenzied nightmares of Beasts, most Darklings understand that they lost something important in the Fairest of Lands. All Lost carry scars of their survival, of course; it is far from unheard of for an Ogre to emerge missing an arm, or a Wizened to claw her way out without the eyes in her head. It is not the act of scarring in itself that creates a Darkling.

The loss that makes a Darkling is one that is replaced with Nothing. Not one which is not replaced; eyes gouged from their living skulls, warmth robbed from their veins, shards of soul-stuff cleaved from the whole to be nibbled on like candied glass by things whose voices are torn paper and guttering candles. The Nothing which replaces this loss, and which turns a mortal into a Darkling rather than any other Seeming, is an active absence, a hollowness, a yawning gulf inside of them which resists being filled and creates space around itself. It is here that Darkness dwells, and it is the Nothing that makes the Darkling wretched and wrong.

The exact loss and its methods vary. In the Castle of Diamonds, so high in the sky that sunlight cannot reach, the shivering slaves of its Lady rip out their human compassion so they can emulate her hunger and escape a pathetic, frozen death; when they escape into lands that know light and warmth, the hunger remains. The master of the Labyrinth, the Warden of Rats, steals mortals to persecute his verminous prisoners and plucks their fingers out one by one when they fail to meet their quotas; when they find the hidden cracks in the walls and go screaming into the Hedge, they can still turn their spectral prosthesis into blades, just as Master taught them. A Tunnelgrub mining for crystal blood in the corpse of a great giant hears the bones whispering to her; when she takes pity on their dreams of the open sky and trades her memories of it to them, they throw her into the Hedge with a new-found case of agoraphobia. Whatever the case, the Nothing - the Darkness - becomes part of the Darkling’s Wyrd, bound forever into their essence.

A Darkling’s Durance may have been wild or industrious; they may have served as librarians, murderers, spies, guards, or even cleaning staff, or they may have performed an initial escape early on only to transform when they got lost in the Arcadian wilderness. What they all have in common is danger. For almost every second of their captivity, the Darkling was under threat; from a Master which hated them and would harm them if it noticed the Darkling, from fellow slaves desperate for food or warmth or life’s blood, from haunted forests and ancient curses, from things seeking to swallow the Darkling’s shadow. Darklings learned to live in constant fear, to hide, lie, and cheat, and, if violence was inevitable, to be the first to resort to it.

These two truths form the first and greatest obstacles to a Darkling’s escape: first they must convince themselves that the mortal world, which is now strange and frightening to them, is still safer than their captivity, and second they must convince themselves that they deserve to go back. Darklings struggle with self-image problems that would stagger most of their friends if the children of night ever expressed them; many, staring at their inhuman shadows or at the collections of diseased, blunted knives that are now their fingers, think of themselves as monsters to be put down rather than victims who deserve compassion and healing. For those who cannot overcome this self-doubt, the darkness of Arcadia waits to swallow them whole. But if they can focus through the pain, the doubt, the horror, Darklings are well-suited to finding the hidden paths into the Hedge, past guards and demons and terror, and slipping oh-so-quietly back into the Iron Lands where they were once born.

Darklings are often drawn home by memories now alien to their new environment; warmth, love, laughter, and light factor heavily into a Darkling’s recollections of the Iron Lands. Despite their otherwise obsessive interest in their physical, environmental safety, it’s people the Darkling comes home to protect - to kill for, if necessary. Of course, all too many collapse to the soil of Earth and, once they find their breath, conclude that the people they love are better off without such a monster in their life. It is during the resulting patterns of stalking and distant observation that the local Freehold generally finds the youngblood Darkling and attempts to coax them into meeting their peers.

Mountebanks and Murderers - Darkling Kiths

Though the listed weakness of Darklings as a Seeming is both fairly obvious and straightforward - they suffer a penalty to all attempts to work magic during the day, which worsens in direct sunlight - this is not the curse which stalks their life and wends its way through their relationships with all of their peers. No; Darklings are unique amongst Seemings in that their magical strength is their magical weakness. Darklings have an incredible talent for stealth, deception, robbery, murder, stalking, and disguise; a Darkling twisting the truth is as skilled as a Fairest. These tools, refined in Arcadia, are among the first the Darkling reaches for when confronted with stress or with trouble, and they are all too keenly aware that these things are, not to put too fine a point on it, wrong. At the end of every day the Darkling has to look at herself in the mirror and see a person who thinks to lie before she thinks to tell the truth, who knows where the old injuries that weaken her friends and would let her kill them are, who forgets sometimes why we knock on front doors or pay for goods and services.

It’s exhausting. It isn’t just the self-recrimination, though that rough beast stalks almost every Darkling under Earth’s starry skies. It’s that humans and post-humans are naturally predisposed to enjoy things we’re good at, and what Darklings are good at are con jobs, cheating, betraying trust, and bloody murder.

It doesn’t help that Freeholds tend to know it too. Though all Lost have trust problems, it’s Darklings who get the worst reputation for wriggling their way out of Pledges or for being liars and thieves. Their peers can often tread lightly around them, further increasing feelings of frustrating alienation from their own communities. Sometimes, but not all the time, strong community leaders make efforts to bridge this gap and create cultures of acceptance, but in the absence of such mighty compassion Darklings can often feel as if they’ve been forced into a second, smaller community which has unspoken rules it must obey. Given how strongly that situation can remind them of their Durance, there are many Darklings the world over who are more than a little prickly, more than a little standoffish, whose hair-trigger tempers are concealed beneath a silent facade that acts like a spider’s trapdoor. The bursts of violence that can result only worsen the problem.

How do Darklings cope with being liars and killers? Poorly, in the main. Some lean in, drifting towards Summer and Autumn where a reputation for violence can service them well. Such Darklings learn to tell the truth tactically, almost as a method of deception in itself; they become scouts, Hedge Rangers, spies, and sorcerers. While this reduces the day-to-day stress of simply Being A Darkling, it does tend to arrest the Darkling’s recovery. Though there are very good reasons for them to learn and practice the skills they gained in their Durance, building an identity around these ultimately maladaptive coping mechanisms means not confronting the problems that created them in the first place.

Other Darklings, often those who wind up in Spring or Winter, go the opposite route: they go out of their way to prove they’re trustworthy, lovable, and no threat at all. They throw themselves into social events and social roles and go out of their way to make themselves available; some go so far as to start taking strictly diurnal schedules so others can contact them more easily and as a show of great trust and strength. Such efforts often work! People come to trust and approach these Darklings, and they flourish in the social roles they seek out, but beneath the sunny smiles and bright words is often a Lost riding the edge of a fucking killing spree. The cost of this approach is quite often a constant feeling of doubt and threat, of unsafety, and rather than attaining healing such Darklings succeed in making themselves unhappy on purpose.

All too often, regardless of the initial approach they attempt to take, a given Darkling can only really start to heal when driven to do so by an outside source. Having a friend close enough to call them out on their shit and actually get listened to is an important milestone in a Darkling’s journey, especially when their fellows can all-too-easily mistake stability for recovery when the two are not the same.

Darkling Kiths embody fears; they are the things waiting in the dark, the secrets you try to avoid, the anxieties behind your flickering smiles. Though some relationship exists between a Darkling’s Kith and their fae labors, the dangers into which the Darkling was placed and the adaptations they made to survive those dangers are equally important - if not more so. All other things being equal, Darklings are somewhat more likely to manifests Kiths and therefore Miens which reflect more ‘modern’ stories than other Seemings are; Bloody Mary, the Candyman, and Jason Vorhees are as germane to their nature as red caps, Baba Yaga, and goblins are, maybe even more so, for the fears of the modern era yet live.

Thoughts on individual Darkling Kiths follow:

Antiquarian - Antiquarians are spoken of in Winter Masques as embodying the fear of old age, and they can fit this mold fine enough as witches, unsettling librarians, or the dead-eyed tender of a dive bar you realize you should not be in, but given their powerful ability to know things (embodied in 9-again on Academics and Investigation and in the power to spend Glamour to know answers to questions even when they don’t) that’s hardly the full breadth of this Kith’s potential. Antiquarians can easily be the smiling police detective who has entered your life for reasons you do not understand, the sinister school psychiatrist using her authority to make your life hell, or even the intimidating priest you know will some day ask you to do something...ungodly. This is strong and thematic Kith, easily worth considering for any concept that revolves around knowledge or investigation; pair it with Cleareyes via Dual Kith for a nearly psychic level of perception.

Gravewight - Does your chronicle revolve around ghosts? Then close the book and go play Geist, which actually works for them. For all intents and purposes neither this Kith nor Contracts of Shade and Spirit actually exist.

Leechfinger - Do you like vampires, breath-stealing cats, kumiho, and other life-eaters? Then keep looking because Leechfinger sorta fucking sucks. Which is a shame, honestly; Leechfinger may well be Darkling at its most pure, representing the fundamental way in which lies and theft take shards from the lives of others which they will never get back. But its Blessing is incredibly lackluster, and while ordinarily it would be valuable for short-cutting nWoD’s long recovery times from violent confrontation...goblin fruit exist. Give this one a pass.

Mirrorskin - Embodying the fear of losing one’s identity - as well as the fear of strangers, of false faces that hide malicious intent - Mirrorskin is the single strongest Kith in its niche and so centralizing that in many ways it’s a better investment for disguise and shapeshifting than Contracts of Mirror, which are, you know, for disguise and shapeshifting. Mirrorskin is worth considering for any concept that wants to invest in infiltration, regardless of your Seeming, and easily worth even the three dots needed to snag it with an out-of-house Dual Kith.

Tunnelgrub - Burglars, snakes, goblins, and sewer mutants, Tunnelgrubs embody the fear of intrusion, robbery, and the suspicion that your safe home is anything but. Mechanically, they’re, well, they’re functional. Their Blessing lets them slip in and through spaces that would normally require powerful Contracts (Separation 3 or Elements 5, depending), and that’s definitely not nothing, but one does need to ask oneself how often you’re going to slither down someone’s chimney.

Lurkglider - Lurkgliders embody gargoyles and predators such as harpies or the Mothman, but they also have bones in with fear of, and fascination with, cat burglars, rooftop men, and so-called ‘superspies’. Their Blessing is, like Tunnelgrub, unmatched in its niche but still incredibly niche for all of that. If your group is already full of Windwings and Steepscramblers, consider Lurkglider so you can jump naked off of skyscrapers like an absolute madman; otherwise, maybe give this one a pass.

Moonborn - I want the head of whatever jackass greenlit this. Skipping over the ableist horse shit that is this Kith, which we should not but skipping over it, Moonborn is a volatile and risky Kith whose usefulness depends entirely on how your group runs Derangements, which in themselves never should have been written the way they got written in the first place. White out this section of your copy of Winter Masques and put this far from your mind.

Nightsinger - Nightsinger is another one that is Okay. Thematically it’s a bit confusing; it does not directly relate to many kinds of legendry or fear, and the ones it does relate to taste more like Wizened than Darkling. Mechanically, Nightsinger has powerful social support tools which help your group’s face land their social rolls, and if that idea is appealing to you then I’m happy to suggest Nightsinger, but given Lost’s lack of mechanical tools to follow up on the musical theming and the fact that Playmate exists I can’t wholly endorse this Kith.

Palewraith - Palewraiths are a sort of stealth replacement for Gravewight; they embody the fear of fading away, of becoming a helpless ghost, of being a secondary character in your own life. Their Blessing is...bad, and worse, it’s boring. Give it a pass.

Razorhand - Razorhands are killers, thugs, organleggers, and ghouls; they embody the fear of slashers, of violence in the dark, of having yourself carved up by something which sees you only as a resource to be exploited. Their Blessing is incompetently worded; the most common reading lets them spend 1 Glamour to turn their unarmed attacks into a 1L weapon and gives them (Knives) as a Weaponry specialty, and on those terms Razorhand is one of the premier close-combat Kiths. If Leechfinger being shit let you down, consider Razorhand as one of the most quintessentially Darkling Kiths.

Whisperwisp - Darkling Does Fairest. Whisperwisps are spies, turncoats, and double agents. Their Blessing resolves to 8-again on rolls to lie in conversation, and that’s before the thing where they can murmur in your ear from across the room. If you’re considering a social-focused Darkling concept,Whisperwisp is your first and probably only stop.

A Cause Worth Killing For - Darklings in the Courts

Though Darklings don’t necessarily immediately fit into obvious roles in a Freehold the way that Ogres and Wizened so often do, chances are that their new community is going to eventually ask them to break shit, kill people, and steal things. Thankfully even the most urban Freehold doesn’t necessarily need people killed all that often, so during the ‘off season’ a classically retained Darkling is likely to slot into mid-tier social roles in their Court; they flourish as assistants, administrators, Arrayers of Distant Thunder, Armigers, and the like. For those who finally get a handle on their shit, even more illustrious roles might follow - a Darkling with a level head makes an ideal Searce, Twilit Page, or Thane, for instance. Ironically, this makes Darklings among the more visible Seemings in the power structures of a Court, rivaling Fairest and Beasts for de jure and de facto power.

How a Darkling reacts to eventually being asked to perform underhanded deeds for her new society will become a defining moment in her journey towards healing. Some have an easier time than others. A Razorhand approached by Summer and asked to serve as a scout has the chance to bring military pride to an otherwise shameful skill set and make peace with the terrible things she’s learned to do to survive, while a young Lurkglider who attracts the attention of one of Winter’s Archers gets to see the real, tangible lives saved by the information he brings home and the enemies he tracks through the terrible Hedge. In contrast, an Antiquarian asked to find blueprints for a Spring heist or disable a security system ahead of Autumn’s assassins faces a much more difficult choice - one they have to live with every day of their life thereafter. Playing the ‘you aren’t paid to ask questions’ game with Darklings rarely ends well; the children of night are more inclined to respect the secrecy of even the most vile enterprise if you’ll just play straight with them, while lies can taint noble intentions forever in their eyes. It is difficult for their leaders to gain the trust of Darkling vassals, and oh so very easy to lose it.

Darklings are among those Lost who yearn to embrace high ideals in their Courts, though both their inclinations and their anxieties lead them to see quite a bit of a Court’s realpolitik either way. More than anything, they want honesty out of a Court they choose to embrace; if you walk your talk, a Darkling is a lot more willing to see how those cynical political needs stem from, and feed back into, the high ideals that are on the recruitment poster. Tell a would-be Darkling knight that Summer needs ammo to defend the weak, and ammo costs money, and they’ll agree - but if those bullets start getting aimed at the ones you’re supposed to protect, you don’t get to act surprised when the Darkling shoots you in the back in turn. Of course, there can be those Darklings who live down to their worst selves, but their peers often invest quite a bit of energy in hauling them out of such pits - or burying them in it. The children of night don’t have a lot of trust to go around, and errant brothers who piss on the Freehold’s goodwill don’t get tolerated for long.

Spring - Though Darklings are good at Spring’s social games, they do not often join the Emerald Court. Openly admitting to their Desires, putting their wants and needs out where others can see them, is terrifying for most Darklings. Spring’s chaotic culture also makes it difficult to predict and adapt to, and for a Darkling this combination of factors is often as appealing as having a rabid weasel stapled to the inside of their thighs. Those who do take the comparatively extreme step of joining Spring are often looking to make equally extreme changes in their lives; they may be driven by self-loathing, trying to reject the guilt they feel over a particularly violent Durance, or hoping to hide from enemies (real or imagined) behind the flash and thunder of Spring in its full flower. The Emerald Court can often be good for Darklings who do join it, though such worthies face one of the hardest tests Spring can ask of them: to accept and love themselves as they are, and not as they ‘should’ be.

Summer - It’s easy for those outside of the ranks of the raging to assume that Summer is disinterested in Darklings and that Darklings in turn are not interested in Summer, but the Iron Spear is a fairly popular destination for them. Some join up early, realizing that the feral murder they learned in Arcadia won’t fly against trained opponents, and gain discipline and brotherhood for their troubles. Others are sought out for their skills as scouts or sorcerers, and because the cautious perspective of Darklings provides invaluable additions to Summer’s battle plans. Summer can be a very stable community from which a Darkling can grow, provided they keep the trust of their brothers in arms, and the promise of being able to bring good out of the evil done to them is an appealing one.

Autumn - Ask a given non-Darkling about what Court all the Darklings end up in and chances are they’ll say Autumn. It’s an answer born, appropriately enough, of fear; Darklings can be intimidating, dreaded, mistrusted, and so of course they ‘naturally’ end up amongst the Leaden Mirror, no? The reality is rarely so cut-and-dried. Many Darklings yearn to be more than what their Keeper made them, and signing on with Autumn feels a lot like resigning themselves to evil. Those who do join are often those who believe magic is a way they can bring wonder back into the world to ‘make up’ for the horror they commit, or those whose personal terrors are so extreme that they turn to Autumn for any relief from their misery. For those Darklings that do join with Autumn, that Court is well-positioned to help them. They take well to Autumn’s essentially two-faced nature, especially with a patient mentor who can explain why it exists and that it is not, in itself, a form of deception - and, of course, when it comes to stalking, terrifying, and haunting, few are a Darkling’s equal.

Winter - The actual most popular Court for Darklings, who emerge from Arcadia already speaking the languages of caution, humility, stealth, and silence. Winter often invests quite a bit of resources in courting youngblood Darklings and persuading them of the promise of Winter; Darklings, in turn, often feel deep guilt and sorrow over what they’ve become, and the power to build a new life with no questions asked can be an incredibly attractive offer. From this initial mutual attraction can blossom wildly successful careers as Winter Courtiers. Darklings understand the ideology of stealth and the importance of information control without having to be taught it; Winter understands that being honest with its Darklings will motivate them just as much as the promise of payment and favors. The ‘trouble’, such as it is, is that at times the Coldest Court can succeed its way right out of owning a valuable operator; as their Darklings stabilize and learn to trust and love others in their guarded way, sometimes they pack up and leave. It’s never anything personal. It’s just that in becoming the sort of person with whom others feel safe sharing their Sorrows, these Darklings realize that maybe they don’t have to feel guilt over their victimization, and like frost in a sunbeam the ties that bind them to Winter melt. Those who reach this point and choose to stay are those Darklings who see value and beauty in the promise of Winter; such Courtiers quite often ramp up how active they are in their local community, becoming invested in the lives of the Flowing Pages and even members of other Courts whose lives might be bettered by the cleansing power of Sorrow and a quiet hand to hold through the dark times.

The Children Of Noose And Razor - Darkling And Changeling’s Themes

As mentioned in So You Want To Play An Ogre, Darklings are one of the two Seemings that reflect victimization by the prison-industrial complex. Where Ogres learned the language of overt violence, Darklings got by on their wits and cunning, killing in secret and smuggling goods or drugs to make money on the side. Mastering a corrupt system corrupts the Darklings in turn, and when they escape, they take that corruption with them.

More broadly, however, Darklings represent those whose violent abuse has rendered them an imperfect victim; someone who, despite being as scared of you as you are of them, is infinitely more dangerous than you are. Darklings are primed to represent the consequences of growing up amidst gang violence, being raised into a mob family, or being pressured as a young professional into criminal enterprises. The recent med school graduate who learns that her great job offer is a front for organlegging might be a Darkling if she gets out alive; so, too, might a child whose father presses a .32 into his hands and bids him to make his first kill ‘for the family’. Anywhere that violent abuse encourages its victims to hide their thoughts and feelings, and to become complicit in order to feel safe, you will find Darklings.

Such unfortunates are rarely ‘perfect’ victims, and their coping mechanisms may not be healthy or acceptable to conventional society. It is the second cruelty; having first been victimized, the people whose trauma Darklings represent are then made to feel dirty, unworthy, or even monstrous for what their pain has turned them into. One drinks to be able to sleep through her nightmares; another fucks his way through bed after bed, never quite developing meaningful relationships because he fears closeness as much as he craves it. Many have hair-trigger tempers or put up emotional walls to keep friends and family away; more than a few hurt people to feel powerful. Some of the most tragic cases involve attempted suicide. All are, too often, abandoned by the very people who should be making extra strides to help them.

Thematically, Darkling has an unusual relationship to gender - in particular, femininity-  that is worth talking about. Society expects traumatized women to be delicate, virtuous things, to play the part of the perfect victim and to perform femininity in order to deserve help. This is rarely the case, and when it inevitably turns out that a woman victimized by violence is not an angel garbed in human flesh this is used as an excuse to belittle her, doubt her, or even persecute her. Survivors who, like many Darklings, turn to knives and shotguns to feel safe again find their pain used against them by a society that demands they continue to perform for it. In this sense, the trauma Darkling women experience can radically change their relationship to gender expression or even gender identity, potentially alienating them from their former communities and leaving them with the daunting task of attempting to trust and connect with new ones. That so many end up becoming angry loners is rarely because they want to be.

Though a Darkling is inclined to keep their desires and preferences secret, resist the temptation to literally make them love nothing. Just as an Ogre is not wholly defined by violence and an Elemental is not wholly defined by magic, a Darkling wholly defined by her trauma is a badly-written Darkling. What does your Darkling do to relax? What sorts of secret collections do they keep in their home and why do they love those things? What is their idea of a ‘good’ life? Do they live that life? Why or why not? Darklings get beaten down harder and deeper into the gutter than almost any other Lost, but that does not make the gutter their home; indeed, often it only deepens their lust for sunlight and song.

My Roommate, Mister Twelve-Gauge - Coping As A Darkling

Much like Ogres and Wizened, Darklings have a great concern with their physical, environmental safety. Where Wizened crave a controlled space in which to enact daily rituals that help ground them, though, Darklings need options; varied routes to get to and from favorite haunts, multiple entrances to their homes, even multiple homes if they can find a way to swing it (or at least a secure bolt-hole to run to). In the numerous cases where a Darkling can’t live in an isolated cabin with clear sightlines in every direction, they tend to favor spaces which are either temporary or can be made temporary; apartments, hotels, and squats are all commonly chosen by Darklings specifically so that they can be abandoned with a minimum of long-term attachments. As the Darkling begins to heal and considers group home ideas such as moving in with her Motley or with a girlfriend, she’s likely to continue to rent a second space on the side as income permits so that she can have solitude on demand.

A Darkling’s home reveals a lot about herself in a way she’s unlikely to in conversation. If she collects things, they’ll be on display here. If she’s into something - a specific band, videogames, history - then paraphernalia related to that thing will be all over the place. Few valuables as such are likely to be present (Darklings have a habit of stashing those in safes, deposit boxes, or even dead drops) as such, but for a Darkling whose passions run in the right direction objects of value like high-quality cooking utensils, powerful electronics, or collectors’ items might be present. The resulting clutter might seem to work against the Darkling obsession with physical safety, but it generally conceals the other feature of Darkling homes: traps. Unwelcome guests may find that tripwires connect to noisemakers which wake the Darkling from her slumber, or that an unwisely-opened door was tied to a loaded shotgun. Darklings might scatter caltrops in their hallways, rig fatal pit traps that drop people to hard basement floors, and conceal weapons throughout their home. They know it’s insane, but most do it anyway: the extra ritual needed to avoid their own traps is worth the feeling of raw security they provide. While an Ogre trusts in clear sightlines to put any intruder into their own two hands, Darklings put their faith in the secrets of their homes that they know and their enemies do not.

A given Darkling likely denies knowing about or caring for any of her neighbors. Certainly she knows her neighborhood very well, especially all routes into and out of it (the recent rise in the popularity of parkour has been a godsend for Darklings the world over), and if you can catch her off her guard the Darkling may well speak glowingly of the architecture, her favorite stores or hangouts, the local parks. Those who mistake the Darkling’s guarded heart for apathy are in for a rude awakening when they fuck with those under her protection. Darklings do not practice performative violence and they tend to be bad at giving second chances; the first warning that you’ve managed to anger one is generally when they’re feeding your hand into a garbage disposal or the DEA breaks down your front door looking for 20 kilos of cocaine you don’t remember owning but which is, would you look at that, definitely in your house. Older, calmer Darklings learn to issue threats or warnings, but even then you only really get one.

Darklings have a big obvious problem - to wit, Being Darklings - that defines the arc of their recovery, but being able to understand their bullshit and being able to solve it are two very different things to ask of them. Confronting that their coping mechanisms are, to an extent, maladaptive can be the patient work of years; trying to decide how much is healthy to hold onto and how much needs to be excised can take even longer. Darklings often seek out the company of Wizened and Ogres, with whom they share commonalities that don’t have to be spoken aloud to be understood; conversely, Darkling rivalries with Fairest can be the stuff of legends, as can the side bets on when they’re going to just fuck already everyone else can see you’re in love you idiots. Though they rarely gain the acclaim of their peers and society, Darklings make for steadfast friends who really will help you bury a body, and for many that quiet acceptance and unconditional love is the pinnacle of years of struggle to feel deserving of that love.

Example Darkling - Detective Pomander (”Melpomene”), Winter Antiquarian

Everyone in the run-down East Side knows about the Detective. No one’s exactly sure what her name is. She turns up after sketchy shit goes down, in her long coat with that smile on her face, and she asks questions. No. No, not asks questions. She makes statements; she says things about you that she shouldn’t know. She brings up connections to people you yourself might have forgotten about. She’s fucking creepy, is what she is, and by the time she’s done explaining the situation you’re telling her everything just so she’ll go away. The worst parts are when someone disappears. You think they moved away? That a gang got ‘em, or the mob they owed that drug money to? The Detective doesn’t. The Detective wants to know everything you’ve ever known about them.

Melissa Pomander - known to the Lost as Melpomene - isn’t a cop, but everyone thinks she is. Even people who know that “Detective” Pomander isn’t with the police forget sometimes; she radiates an aura of lawful authority that puts people ill at their ease and suggests in subtle ways that failure to please her will introduce you to worlds of suffering beyond your comprehension. It was this knack that first drew the attention of the Lord of the Inhospitable Chamber; it was his training that made Melpomene his replacement when he gave his life relaying vital information back to the Freehold. Detective Pomander knows people have good reason to be scared of her, but she works tirelessly on their behalf nonetheless. A bright young thing from Spring with a thing for cop roleplaying in bed says she saw the size of Melissa’s pay packets once. Detective Pomander rakes in enough cash to live in a plush mansion staffed with sexy maids. So why’s she live in a studio apartment and only get drunk enough to fuck on the nights of the new moon?

Next up: Fairest

[chaotic-historian]

Thank you, my favourite archaeology bae ❤

@chaotic-historian is taking an English exam to study abroad

Everyone go send her good vibes. I mean it.

Also Danish is her first language but her English is so fucking good you would never know if she didn't tell you. Like, literally I didn't know and was wondering what the fuck time zone she was in until she told me she lives in Denmark. She's so fluent. I aspire to her level. I know I'm gushing and I don't CARE.

Anyway I love her a lot. Go check out her main @historical-shipping too.

[the-angst-chronicles-fanworks]

DRACO’S WISH [PT 4/14]

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PAIRING: Drarry

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hidden identity

Down and Out Draco Malfoy

Pretty Draco Malfoy

Talented Draco Malfoy

Auror Harry Potter

Smitten Harry Potter

Harry Potter Being an Asshole (just for a while)

Angst

Fluff

Angst with a Happy Ending

Falling In Love

Torture

Skipping Meals/Hunger

Cold Weather

Libraries

Hot Chocolate

SUMMARY: Draco does a good deed and is granted a wish - 12 days of anonymity in a world that hates him CHAPTER SUMMARY:    Potter shows up and insists on buying Draco a drink

on FF.net

on AO3

STORY:

December 11th , 2007

Draco wakes to an absolutely frigid morning and cold sun in his eyes, but for once it doesn’t dampen his mood. He’s positively chipper as he hurries through his morning shower and pulls on his stiff, cold clothes. He manages to get his stove working and, though he’s skipping breakfast today, he boils plain water in lieu of tea. He just barely waits until it’s cool enough before sipping it from a chipped mug, enjoying the warmth it brings.

He briefly flirts with the idea of trying a warming charm for the apartment, but it’s not a serious consideration. Why potentially waste an extinguisher when he now has a perfectly warm library available to him instead?

There’s no reason to dawdle around his apartment so he doesn’t – he slips into the empty hallway and then down the stairs and out to the street. It’s a cold but quick trek up Knockturn and then onto Diagon where the harsh weather prevents him from spending too much time admiring the splendor.

The street is less busy today, likely as a result of both the temperature and the early hour, but it’s still lively. Draco thankfully has no run-ins with Potter today on his way to the library.

The warm, familiar smell of books and ink greets him as he pushes into the building. The librarian, sitting behind the counter today, looks up and nods to him in greeting.

“Good morning,” Draco returns with a polite smile. He makes a beeline, this time, straight to the back where he’d found the volumes on wandless magic yesterday. He’d just reached the section of the book dedicated to harmonizing energy, magic, and intent, when he’d had to leave yesterday, and he’s eager to return to it.

He spends several hours there, reading theory and running through the practice exercises in the book. They’re not spells, not really, just exercises to learn to handle his magic better, and they’ve nothing to do with heat besides, so he’s not particularly worried about starting fires. They are, after all, designed for beginners, and therefore start small. A pleasant result of this, he finds, is that he’s not exhausted or hungry after practicing. Well… okay, he is hungry because he’s always hungry, but he’s not more so than usual.

People come and go from the library, but nobody pays him any mind and nor does he pay them any. Despite the steady traffic, the library is quiet, and Draco is well able to ignore them all and descend into his study.

So his day goes, until just after the library clock strikes 2 o’clock. That’s when Potter and Granger show up. Draco doesn’t see them, but he hears their voices, easily recognizable from being so often on the wireless – Granger is chattering about wizarding law and magical creates, and Potter is humouring her with one-word answers. Draco’s head shoots up, pure panic searing through his veins.

He glances wildly around but doesn’t catch sight of them – they’re somewhere else in the library – and he’s already half out of his seat and considering how best to make a break for it before his mind catches up with him. He pauses, taking a calming breath. Right, he’s being a fool again. They won’t recognize him. To them, he’s just a stranger in a library.

Draco forces himself to calm down, tentatively perching back on the edge of his armchair. He flicks open his book again, his muscles still tense as he looks unseeingly at the pages. But minutes go by and nothing happens, and Draco feels himself relaxing again.

His fingers loosen their grip on the book, and he allows himself to sink further into the armchair and actually start reading again. It’s interesting stuff, the theory behind wandless magic and the changes that must be adjusted for when not using a conduit. He lips move along silently as he reads a passage about the delicacy of shaping and directing magic by will alone.

There’s an exercise here too, walking him through the steps to produce harmless sparkles and then working through controlling the amount, shape, and intensity of them. It’s not a direct, straightforward endeavor, of course, where one simply follows a series of instructions and achieves a result. This is more nuanced, the instructions more abstract, requiring interpretation and creativity to apply them.

But Draco has had a lot of practice working with his magic, and many of these concepts come easily to him now. He feels he’s progressing though the book faster than he would ordinarily, had he not spent so much time reaching into himself and trying to guide his own magic.

The text expects that it will take several days of practice to even pull one’s magic up far enough to get sparkles, but it’s infinitely easier than heating charms and Draco has them dancing around before him in a matter of minutes. Changing their properties is more of a challenge, one that Draco dives into with enthusiasm. He spends the better part of an hour learning how to make sparkles bend to his whim.

He’s having fun making little sparkle fireworks when he looks up and sees Harry Potter standing there and staring at him. He lets out a surprised squawk, the sparkles fizzling out unceremoniously.

Potter flushes and scratches at the back of his head. “Sorry about that,” he says. “You’re the bloke from yesterday right? The one I ran into?”

Draco’s mouth opens and closes uselessly, not sure what to say. Potter remembers him, from bumping into him in the street. Potter is talking to him. Normally. What the fuck?

The silence hangs, awkward, for a beat before Potter fills it. “I really am sorry you know,” he says, and it’s no less awkward now that he’s speaking. Draco casts about for something to say.

“I…it’s fine,” he settles on faintly. He’d said as much yesterday hadn’t he? He distinctly remembers babbling nonsense of that sort at Potter.

Potter shakes his head, scuffing his strange muggle shoes against the warm carpet as he peers at Draco again. “You ran off so quickly yesterday,” he says, surprisingly unsure. “I didn’t get a chance to offer, but I’d like to buy you a drink. To make it up to you.”

Draco frowns, opening his mouth to tell Potter, again, that it’s fine, but Potter heads him off. “I know you said it’s okay,” he says quickly, “but it would make me feel better.” When Draco still doesn’t answer, he tilts his head, gives him a beseeching look that makes him look a little like a baby Crup, and says “Please?”

“Umm…” Draco replies intelligently, clutching his book hard and holding ut in front of him like a barrier. He shouldn’t accept, he really shouldn’t. He’s already decided it best that he stay far away from Potter, no matter how cutely he’s behaving at the moment. If Potter remembers who he is, it will ruin everything.

But Potter is offering him a free drink that isn’t water, and maybe Draco can get him to throw in a bit of food that won’t deplete his meagre stash…

Draco’s stomach turns restlessly, reminding him of how perpetually hungry he is. He knows that he shouldn’t, but he can’t resist.

“Throw in a bagel and I’ll consider it,” he decides, and Potter’s eyes light up.

“Brilliant!” He says eagerly, bouncing slightly on his heels like an overexcited kid. He gestures at Draco’s book. “Let’s get that checked out and we can go,” he says.

He wants to go right now? Draco looks at him in shock, but he seems perfectly serious, still looking over at Draco’s book.

“Oh, erm, never mind that. I’ll just…” Draco trails off awkwardly, nodding toward the shelves. Potter waits as he gets up and re-shelves the book.

Potter takes his arm as soon as he’s finished putting the book away, half-leading and half-dragging him toward the front of the library. They take a small detour to the section on wizarding law, where Granger is browsing the shelves with single-minded determination, so that Potter can call his goodbyes. He barely waits for her reply before he’s leading Draco away again.

They walk down Diagon Alley for a way, passing half-a-dozen little cafes that Potter shows no interest in, and then turn off onto another little street. It’s also a commercial street, but it’s smaller than Diagon, quainter and quieter. It’s still resplendent with Christmas lights, but it has a different air; the quieter atmosphere lends a sense of magic to the air that catches Draco’s breath and causes him to gaze about in awe. It’s such a mundane thing to be excited about, something his younger self would not have even noticed, but now that his life consists of the drab, bland, dankness of Knockturn Alley, he doesn’t take such beauty for granted.

Potter draws them to a stop then, and he turns to see him watching Draco with a smile. Draco quirks an eyebrow, but Potter merely shakes his head, before turning and gesturing to a tiny shop.

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but they have the best drinks here. I swear it.” Potter says. He pulls open the door and holds it for Draco, who feels oddly flustered at the gesture. He ducks his head and murmurs his thanks before he steps inside, moving out of Potter’s way and looking around.

It’s tiny and cramped, with mismatched furniture, scrubbed wooden floors, and pale-yellow walls. It’s not fashionable at all, but it’s bright and warm and Draco likes it. A young witch is behind the counter, chatting with a wizened old man, and other than that the store is empty.

Potter steps up beside him and turns a warm smile on him. “What would you like to drink?” He asks, gesturing to the menu written in chalk behind the front counter. Draco looks over to it, but there are so many options – the board is covered completely with cutesy writing declaring the names of various drinks – that he can’t decide. Tea is a treat for Draco these days.

Potter is still looking at him expectantly, and he burns in embarrassment at failing such a simple task as deciding his drink. “Surprise me,” he hedges. Potter nods, starting to turn away, and Draco adds hastily, “but make it sweet!” He feels his cheeks flush again as Potter chuckles.

“Alright, something sweet,” he says, his green eyes impossibly soft. Draco has never seen those eyes look at him with anything but hatred, and having it now sends electric sparks through his body. Draco shudders, forcing the thought away.

Belatedly, he realises Potter’s saying something to him. “Sorry?” He asks. His face is going to be permanently red at this point.

Potter raises his eyebrows, but he’s smiling. “I said, why don’t you get us seats and I’ll get the drinks.”

Draco raises an eyebrow of his own and looks pointedly around the empty café. “That may be a hardship, what with this crowd, but I’ll try my very best,” he cheeks. Potter outright laughs at that.

“Alright, Mr. Sass, just go sit down,” he says. Draco smirks but turns to comply, while Potter approaches the counter. He hears, from behind him, the girl at the counter saying “Harry! Back so soon?”, and Potter answering with something too quiet for Draco to hear.

He chooses the little round table nearest to the front window and sits, looking out at the twinkling street. Once upon a time, he would have looked down on a place like this. Now, he barely feels that he belongs, with his holey gloves and tattered, baggy clothes. He privately thanks Potter’s apparently overly active sense of remorse that’s led to him being here.

Potter soon comes back, levitating a mug of something steaming, that’s topped generously with whipped cream, and a freshly toasted bagel in front of him. It’s soon followed by a platter of pastries that slides into place between them. Draco blinks at these and then looks questioningly up at him. “What are these then?” he asks. Potter flushes.

“They’re – ah – something sweet,” he explains haltingly, scratching at the back of his head. Merlin, no wonder his hair was a mess. Still, it’s an exceedingly decent thing of Potter to do, and certainly not anything he’s used to.

“Thank you,” he replies, quiet but honest. Potter beams at him, and Draco smiles back as he sips at his drink, which he is delighted to find is hot chocolate.

“So…” says Potter, sliding into the seat across from him, “I never did get your name.”

Draco freezes – can he give Potter his own name? Will that break this anonymity he’s been granted? He’s not sure, and he doesn’t want to chance it.

“Emory,” he says, thinking of the dashing love interest in the romance novel sitting on his bed. “Emory Hughes.”

“Emory Hughes,” Potter repeats, smiling. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“I know,” says Draco without thinking, then clamps his mouth shut, eyes widening. Luckily, Potter doesn’t seem suspicious.

“I had wondered,” he says instead, laughing, and Draco is struck again by how handsome Potter is. He swallows nervously and, to distract himself, takes a pastry and pops it into his mouth. It’s good – incredible really – flaky, buttery, and filled with sweet cream. Draco can’t help his moan, closing his eyes in pleasure. Merlin, and he’d just wanted a bagel!

Potter has stopped laughing somewhat abruptly, and Draco opens his eyes to see him picking up his mug and taking a huge gulp. He then immediately flails, sputtering “Hot! Hot!” and dripping hot chocolate from his mouth and probably from his nose also.

The sight of Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, dribbling hot chocolate is too much, and Draco can’t hold in his delighted laughter. Potter manages to get a hold of himself, dabbing at his mouth with his serviette and blushing furiously as he glares at Draco, but that only makes Draco laugh harder. Potter glares for a moment longer, and then he is laughing too. “I’m not usually this clumsy, honest!” Potter defends once they’ve both calmed down.

Draco shakes his head, tearing his bagel apart and smirking at Potter. “I don’t know,” he replies, “first you bowled me over in the Alley yesterday, and now this.” He sighs dramatically. “I think you will just have to accept the obvious – you are an utter klutz”

Harry pouts. “I hope you’ll accept all of my flaws then,” he says, and Draco grins.

“If your flaws continue buying me hot chocolate and pastries, I might just be persuaded,” he returns easily. He sips at said hot chocolate to make his point and smirks at Potter.

“Such a hardship,” Potter says. “How will my flaws and I manage?”

Draco throws a crumb of toasted bagel at him. “How dare you,” he sniffs. “I’m a delight, I’ll have you know.”  

Potter gives him a once over, smirks, and says, “I see that.” Draco sputters, red-cheeked. Is Potter flirting with him? No, that can’t be possible, he’s reading too much into it. That’s just to be expected when nobody’s talked to him like a human in years, he supposes – a single modicum of human decency is shown to him, and he thinks he’s being flirted with.

Draco inwardly rolls his eyes at him self and pops a bite of bagel into his mouth. “Well, good to know those glasses are good for something then,” he says at length, far too late. Potter doesn’t call him out on it, though his green eyes are amused as he sips his hot chocolate.

Potter proves surprisingly easy to talk to, a notion that once would have sent Draco into a conniption. He’s always thought the man fit, but now as he sits chatting with him, he finds that his company is honestly pleasant as well. The afternoon passes faster than he realises, and by the time they get up to leave, the sun is hanging low and painting the sky bright with colour.

Potter walks with him back to the library, where he needs to meet up with Granger, and Draco is almost regretful as they arrive.

“Thank you, Potter,” he says, stopping just inside the library door.

“Call me Harry,” Potter insists. Draco frowns – that’s decidedly too weird. It’s not as though they’re going to see each other again anyway.

“Goodbye Potter,” he insists instead. Potter opens his mouth to argue, but at that moment Granger emerges from the stacks and catches sight of them. She makes a beeline toward Potter, and Draco nods a greeting at her and steps out of the way. He catches sight of Potter’s pout in the corner of his eye and grins to himself, feeling lighter than he has in years as he makes his way back to the wandless magic section.

[mr-and-mr-diaz]

M/M Romance, Arranged Marriage

Also available on AO3

Chapter 1: Simply Charmed

Precious moments of freedom. So rare. So beautiful when they present themselves.

Even if one has to jump over a fence and crawl through a hedge to get them.

"Young man, I'm afraid we don't cater to your taste here."

I looked over my shoulder at the matronly voice. She sounded morbidly disapproving. I looked around. Colorful flower prints carefully folded and stacked on tables. Dress forms and a sewing desk completed the picture.

Just my luck I landed through the window of a dress shop.

I cleared my throat. "Madam, rest assured, you absolutely do."

She sniffed at me, as I assumed she would. I didn't have Henry's magical way of charming any lady, no matter the age. I didn't have a lot of things Henry had. 

But there was one thing he was missing, that he would never get if I could help it. I summoned my most winning smile.

"I'm afraid I haven't introduced myself. Sir Philip Mallory at your service." Her glare lost some of its edge when I mentioned my title. My title. "Madam, I have a lady in my life and I want her to have the best. Word has it, your shop is where one can find the best."

The bell in the shop rang. Thank the good Lord, another customer!

"But it seems as though you are about to engage with another customer." I looked around eagerly. "I'll wait here and peruse these fabrics while I decide." And enjoy the sweetness of freedom.

Her glare hardened. "Young Sir, this is the back room. We don't allow our patrons into the back room. Come up to the front and we can talk about your lady all you'd like."

Oh.

"Of course." We walked through a long, dim hallway toward the front of the store. I would stay away from the windows. If Henry found me in here, I would never hear the end of it. 

"Why don't you describe your lady." It wasn't a suggestion.

"Of course!" I thought of Henry with a chuckle, "Dark hair, a delicate build, eyes a royal blue, the fairest skin in the land, marred only by a few freckles." I sighed heavily for good measure. "I love her dearly, and I want a frock that would do her every angle favor so the rest of the world can see her beauty as I do." 

"It sounds as though the rest of the world shouldn't need help seeing her effervescent beauty." Came a deep voice from the front of the store. "But I declare offense that you should find yourself so besotted with a lady and be brazen enough to declare as much with your betrothed within hearing."

I froze. Hand over my mouth, to stop any ungentlemanly phrases escaping, I looked up. Henry regarded me calmly, his amusement only evident in his royal blue eyes.

"I also wonder when you would have had a moment to chase this lady when we spent the past month in the country with your parents." Now he grinned outright at me, enjoying my embarrassment.

I heard the lady’s raspy chuckle from behind me. "Is this young man yours, Mr. Shawdun?"

He sighed and winked at her. "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Blethely." He looked back at me, and while his mouth still smiled, his eyes had gone dark. "I looked away for just a moment to purchase a trinket for him--by his request--and the moment I looked back, he was gone."

I looked down as the older woman clicked her tongue at me. "Naughty indeed." A small wizened hand reached for my shoulder. I shrugged it off. "It's a wonder you have patience for this young buck, Mr. Shawdun." She sighed. "But then, that's this young man for you. A troublesome--"

"I am standing right here!" Shame and irritation laced my words with venom. It was bad enough I'd been caught in a dress shop by Henry, but to then be chastised by some old sewing wench past her prime?! It really was unacceptable. "We're leaving."

Henry looked down at me smugly. "Are you sure? I'm certain the good Mrs. Blethely can find something suitable to your taste--"

I reached for the nearest heavy object--a hat mold-- and threw it at him. He jumped to the side and it sailed past his shoulder right into the mirror, shattering it. Mrs. Blethely gasped in horror. 

"I'm leaving!!"

"Apologize!" Henry's voice carried a warning, but I disregarded it. Of the two of us, I was the only nobleman until this unfortunate union, and he ought to remember that.

"Like hell! You'll apologize for me and pay for it! This is your fault!" I rushed for the door, but his hand caught my shoulder and turned me back around. I turned to look at him, ready to give him a good whack if needed to remind him of his place. His eyes burned at me, annoyance and anger mixing.

"Temper, Mr. Shawdun. It wouldn't do to make a spectacle of yourself in front of the middle class, or they might think you were putting on airs." I knew I was really pushing his limit now.

"Apologize to Mrs. Blethely."

"She had it coming. She mocked me! And you let her!"

"You made a mockery of yourself without either of our help, you spoiled brat. Now apologize."

"You are not my keeper, Henry, leave me be!"

He was far taller than I, and bigger, and he was pushing both to his advantage, practically shoving my shoulder into the floor. "You will tell Mrs. Blethely you are sorry for making such a spectacle and breaking her personal items, or I will send the bill to your father."

My father. My father who had gambled away all we had. Who, in his search for a way out, sought out the first merchant who would consider me a viable wedding partner, a man who had everything except a title. They made a deal. All debts paid, and my father would never enter another card room. My father redeemed his debts by gambling away the last thing he had: me. 

My father could not afford the wine he drank or the chair he sat in. He accrued debt with every purchase, debt I would be paying in one fell swoop through this marriage. My father could not afford to fix this woman's mirror. Like me, he was reliant on the goodwill of the ever wealthier Shawdun family. I laughed bitterly. In the halls of the Young Gentleman’s Academy,  I could pull rank with my title to get all manner of favors. But in the real world, Henry held the purse strings to my life and success. I hated it. I hated him.

"I apologize, Mrs. Blethely." I muttered. Then I stomped on Henry's foot with all the weight and anger I could muster. He grunted in pain and his hold loosened. I ran from the shop.  

* * * * *

Author’s Note:

So here's the deal. I thought of this story, fell immediately in love with the premise and jumped right into writing it. Before I knew it, I was looking at over 20,000 words and was deeply in love with both of my leads. The entire story is written in first person from Philip's perspective (I'm not particularly fond of stories that go back and forth, but maybe I'll do a bonus chapter from Henry's perspective at some point.)

This isn't beta-read, so all grammar and spelling errors are my own, as well as historical inaccuracies, read the tags, I seriously didn't research shit before I started because I knew that if I stopped to research, I would get bored and discouraged. Just take it for what it is. Or don't. I'm not here to tell you how to live. 

I’ll be updating chapters once a week, so if you’re enjoying then look forward to it! Love to you all!

Chapter 1 dedicated to @calystarose and @ librarian-von-sassypants for encouraging me to publish this. Thank you guys ❤️

[spaceroadtrip]

The library

The library

Word count: 957

The library is dangerous. That’s what everyone whispers in the streets, in their homes, and in their hearts. It’s dangerous to stay in there for too long, and it’s even more dangerous to enter alone. But she doesn’t care about any of that. Because the library holds books, and that’s far more intriguing than any rumours of danger.

It’s easy to get lost in the library.

That’s what they tell she when she asks to go in alone. It’s easy to get lost between the shelves and walkways. It's easy to pass by the entrance only once and never find it again, not until the library sees fit to release you. She laughs at them, telling them not to be afraid. It’s just a library, she says to them, what could possibly happen in a library?

She still laughs, in her mind, as she steps through the glass doors. Her hand lingers on the handle for a moment. She pauses, teetering on the doorway and her choice. It would be all too easy just to turn around, to forget about the whole thing and just walk away. And yet … the rows of books inside are far too inviting and so she steps forward. The library is, after all, just a perfectly ordinary building filled with perfectly ordinary books. Nothing to be worried about at all.

 Now that she’s here, everything is different. Faint shadows linger around each corner, shades of the people within. The muffled sounds of battle, adventure, and love follow her every footstep. The noise is quiet though, just at the edge of her hearing. Maybe it's because a library is supposed to be quiet, she reflects. The strange sounds seem to respect that. Odd.

At first, she thought to browse the shelves for a few moments before leaving. Just a quick glimpse inside, so that she can say she’s been in the library and come out again. Her friends will love to hear that, and her family will thank all the gods they can for her safety. she would have a short trip inside and prove everything is fine. There is nothing to fear from printed words, paper, and ink.

The library, however, has other plans.

*

It isn’t clear how long she’s been here, trailing one finger along the spines of books, old and new. Sometimes a clock appears at the end of a row but the time changes every time she looks at it. Maybe it’s been years or only a few hours. She’s not certain and the ghosts aren’t helpful either. They dog her steps, flitting around her. Always just out of sight and always melting away as the light touches them. Sometimes she thinks she recognises some of them, down in the history and biography sections. It’s just her imagination, she decides, nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about at all.

A chair appears when she selects her first book. It’s red and leather and very comfortable. She sinks into it with ease. She tucks her feet beneath her and settles down to read. She’s in a library after all, and the books are meant for reading. Maybe if she reads enough the library will release her to the world she knows. But then, perhaps she will find she doesn’t want to leave after all. Perhaps.

She looks down at the book she chose; the blurb seems promising and the title is catchy. The cover is flicked open quickly, eager eyes ready for the first words of a new tale. Hunger eyes devour the first page and she finds herself leaving behind the chair ... and the library. She tumbles forward, falling through the black words and white lines into a new world. Tentative fingers reach out to touch it. But her flesh hand hits paper words. She sighs in disappointment: for one glorious moment, she had hoped that all the stories about the library were true. Perhaps they aren't but then, the library is full of surprises and surprises her even now. Her eyes flick back to the paper and she reads more. Faint, misty figures dance just beyond her reach and tell the tale in barely discernible movements. The library is giving her a gift and she accepts it.

 Soon enough she’s amassed a pile of books, each of them a door into a new world. The pile is heavy but her steps are light. The ghosts help her carry her stack of stories, directing her slowly towards the front desk. The echoes of stories are louder now as though she is closer. Maybe she is. The library directed her towards those stories she first heard. They were waiting for her, bound in a rainbow of colours and brimming with things all new, new, new. Brand new stories for her to devour. But now the library is ready to ease her out. That’s okay. She now has a reason to return once more, to seek the treasure trove of stories still waiting to be explored.

 At the desk, the wizened librarian stamps out her books. A young man sits beside the old woman, watching her with a knowing grin. He passes the librarian the stamp before turning back to his computer screen. Her books are handed back, and the ghosts swirl around her for the last time. She steps towards the door, swinging it open with one hand, and grasping her overflowing bag in the other.

 Warm sunlight greets her, streaming through the door. she hesitates on the threshold, not sure if she wants to leave. The library gives her a gentle nudge, sending down her the steps into the sunlight. It'll be alright, she thinks to herself, she can come back anytime to choose more books - more treasures - to take home. It'll be alright.

It’s easy to get lost in the library, that's what they always say. But they forget that by being lost in the library, the library will help you find yourself. Now she knows that she can find her heart among the seas of adventure hidden behind paper doors.

[captainsbabysitter-blog]

Stars Collide

Rating: Teenish for some swearing

Warnings: My sad attempts at writing bipolar disorder, child neglect, very brief reference to abuse

Pairing: Reference to future Chris/Phil

Length: 4091 words

Summary: So here’s the long-teased prequel of Christmas Cheer and I Couldn’t Leave Him, found here in my Double Trouble Masterlist. A young Chris deals with bouncing around the foster care system and starting his family of choice. Erin in name stolen blatantly from @gracieminabox and her Horizons Universe which if you haven’t read through her stuff I dunno what you’re doing.

~*~*~*~

The first memory Chris had of his mother was at the age of five, trying to rouse her from bed. Both hands were pointing up on the clock and they were supposed to go the playground that day, but she was still curled up under the thin blanket.

“Mama’s just really tired today, baby,” She mumbled. “Go play in your room.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she looked so sleepy that the words died on his tongue and he went to the kitchen to get himself some cereal instead. The milk didn’t smell so good so he settled in on the couch with his bowl to munch handfuls of dry, off-brand Cap’n Crunch. Bugs Bunny and his over the top antics couldn’t quite quell the niggling thought that something was wrong.

It took a few days for her to bounce back, but bounce back she did in a big way. Chris came home from preschool to a strong smell of cleaner and the whole place was nearly spotless. A few steps in and he was met with a chiding, “Take your shoes off!” and the look in her eyes almost scared him. They were wide and alive with a kind of focus Chris couldn’t remember ever seeing in her before.

The pattern repeated. She’d be okay for a while- months sometimes- but something would always make her spiral. Sometimes she’d fly so high, but Chris hated those times the most. Those days, he’d often come home to his ball cap hanging off the doorknob with a bag that always had a jar of peanut butter and cracker. He didn’t understand the sounds that came from inside the house, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to go in so he ate the crackers and wandered around the neighborhood until one of the neighbors eventually pulled him inside for dinner and put him to bed in their guest room. On nights when they didn’t, he’d pillow his head with his hat and settle in wherever he happened to feel like it.

That’s how he noticed the stars. As he lay awake staring up at the sky, he marveled at the way it seemed to come alive with a billion points of light the second the sun dipped below the horizon.

One day, not long after his sixth birthday, he came home to find a strange car in the driveway. His hat was nowhere to be found, so he just shrugged to himself and walked in. The quiet murmurs of voices from the kitchen drew him in. A woman was sitting at the table with his mother, a notebook in her hands and she looked so serious.

His mom’s eyes were rimmed red and dried tear tracks streaked her cheeks, but she gave him a weak smile when she saw him there. “Chris, baby… Come over here.”

She lifted him up into her lap and held him close, face burrowing into fluffy curls with a shaky breath. He twisted in her arms to look up at her as he asked, “What’s wrong, mama?”

“I’ve gotta go away for a while, baby. I’m sick and I’m gonna go somewhere where I can get better.”

He wanted to say he didn’t know what she was talking about, but the last year was more than proof enough that something was wrong with her. The woman across the table watched him piece things together until he finally spoke again, “Where am I gonna go?”

“This nice lady? Her name is Beth and she’s gonna bring you to live with another family until I’m better. Then we can be a family again.”

“Your mom is going to help you pack some things so we can get going,” Beth added, her tone so much gentler than her expression. “There’s a foster family lined up for you already.”

That first foster home was okay. Not great, but okay. The Guillmette’s were nice enough, but they were one of maybe five foster homes in the area so their space and resources were stretched thin. He shared a room with five other boys, the room they were in large enough to fit three bunk beds, a couple dressers, and that’s about it. It was crowded, loud, no one had any privacy, and the process of everyone getting up in the morning was so rushed that Chris just waited until everyone else left the room before he even attempted to climb down from his bunk.

Between the sounds of the boys roughhousing and the three girls down the hall shrieking at each other for some offense or another, Chris found himself tucking away in the library down the road until the lights dimmed and the wizened librarian told him it was time to go home more often than not. He would ask his foster mother to pack him a lunch- almost always a peanut butter and jelly with an apple in his Disney lunch box- and he’d make his way to the library where his nose was buried in any book his could get his hands on.

It’s where he decided he’d be a scientist one day. He couldn’t even read a lot of the words in the books he pulled from the shelves, but illustrations of the stars drew him in and he puzzled through as much as he could for days on end.

He was there for nearly a year.

Really, he was excited to go back home. His mother was on a pill that helped her a lot and those days where she couldn’t move out of bed were mostly a thing of the past. Gone, too, were the days of him coming home to peanut butter and crackers on the door and the nights of tucking in at the neighbors’. Things seemed almost normal.

Until the day he came home and she was tucked away in her room. After a couple days, he gave in and called Beth; if she helped last time, maybe she could help now.

His second foster home wasn’t as nice. It was less crowded, but it was in the middle of nowhere on a huge farm and he was expected to help out with the chores every morning. The sun wasn’t even up yet the first morning he was roused from slumber to drag heavy buckets out to the animals. When the bucket spilled from his hands, sending feed everywhere, the other kids just stared at him. He had welts on his behind by the time he left for school that made sitting in class torturous.

The pattern repeated itself year after year. His mama would spend time at the asylum, get on her medication and get better, they’d both go back home and be okay for a while, but she would always stop taking her medication when she was feeling good for a while. It didn’t matter that her doctors always said she had to keep taking it.

Beth was replaced with Eliza who was replaced by Alice. It didn’t seem like his social workers stuck around for long before another fresh-faced, well-intentioned person would take the place of harried, overworked workers experiencing burnout long before they hit retirement. Chris didn’t really bother letting himself get too attached after Beth left around the time he hit the age of eleven. He never let himself get attached to his foster families. Inevitably, he’d be sent back to his mother or be bounced to a different house and he’d never hear from any of them again. The library of whatever town he lived in became his only stability.

Then came the day that changed it all. Eliza showed up for her usual appointment and asked to speak to him alone. He was twelve, and not really sure what to expect.

“Chris… I know we said you would be going home soon, but…” She bit her lip and tried to find the right words. “Your mother is being committed indefinitely. Do you know what that means?”

“That she’s not coming home this time,” he answered dully, brain not fully wrapping around the idea. “Am I staying here?”

“For now, yes. You’re going to be put up for adoption, and you might end up in a different home on a more permanent basis. Do you have any questions?”

“No, ma’am…”

It wasn’t until he hit his teen years that he finally made a friend that wasn’t a librarian. He was hidden away in his usual corner until someone settled in on the other side of the couch. Mousy brown hair, glasses with frames so large they practically covered her face, and a hand-me-down striped shirt that probably belonged to an older brother or cousin at some point scrunched up over her hands while she read.

“I’m Erin,” she offered when she noticed him looking at her. “You mind if I sit here?”

“Chris… Go ahead, I guess,” he shrugged and buried his nose deeper into his book.

After a while of silence, Erin piped up again, “What’re you reading?”

“A book on astrophysics…”

“So that’s what? Stars and stuff?”

“Pretty much.”

She wrinkled her nose. “But it’s so dark and cold up there. Fish are cooler.”

Now he knew he probably wasn’t getting back to his book. “We’re in the desert. Where the hell would you even find fish that aren’t in the pet store?”

“I’m not gonna be here forever, you know. Are you?”

“No. I’m gonna go to MIT and be a scientist. Study space.”

“Where’s MIT?”

“Boston. It’s a really hard school to get into.”

“Is that why you’re here so much?”

That made him look up again. “How do you know I’m here a lot?”

Erin shrugged and pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Because I’m here a lot, too. You sit here all the time. You can go back to reading now I’ll be quiet. Promise.”

That first day turned into several weeks of the two of them reading mostly in silence. The silence evolved into talking about what they were reading. Quiet discussions in the library turned into Chris reading through Erin’s short stories while she edited his essays. He helped her with science and math while she walked him through the finer points of Shakespeare.

Their sophomore year found them in the same school. Chris had been moved to yet another foster home that finally put him in the same school district as his best, and really only friend. All their classes matched up and their library sessions turned into partnering up for homework.

On one such day, Chris found himself curious in a more biological way. Erin had blossomed a little over the summer and her flat chest had swelled to a nice B-cup. Her hair was always pinned up in a messy bun and her glasses were still too big for her face, but… Something about her was really appealing to Chris.

“Hey Erin?”

“Hm?” She hummed as she gnawed her way through yet another pencil while puzzling over her current writing project.

“Can I kiss you?”

Wary eyes scrutinized him for several long moments. “Why?”

“I dunno… We’ve known each other for years and you’re pretty and easy to talk to and I just think it’d be nice?” He would have continued, but warm, slightly chapped lips were suddenly pressed against his, silencing whatever babbling ramble would have come out next.

It was nice, but something didn’t feel right. They pulled apart almost as quickly as they had come together.

“I don’t think that was right,” Erin said softly.

“No… Me either,” Chris agreed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Are we… Did I fuck this all up?”

“No, Chris, you didn’t. We’re just not gonna kiss again,” she shrugged and went back to her notebook. “I figured that would happen.”

“What that I’d wanna kiss you or that we wouldn’t like it?”

“Little bit of both. And I don’t think you like-like me anyway. You’re too comfortable with me and when you like someone you act like an idiot. Like when you went out with that girl Andrea last year.”

The memory still burned. Clumsy kisses and shy hand-holding with Andrea crashed and burned when she found out he was a foster kid. Not a brand of heartbreak he was keen to experience again.

“And I take it you don’t like-like me either…”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed before her tone softened to barely above a whisper, “I don’t even think I like men…”

Stunned silence reigned as every thought process in Chris’ brain came to a screeching halt. He stared at her and Erin shrank in on herself as she waited for a reaction.

“No wonder you wanna get outta here,” Chris finally managed. When Erin’s head snapped up to stare at him, he offered up a weak smile. “Don’t worry… Your secret’s safe with me. Promise.”

“But… Why?”

“You’re still Erin? And I’m not exactly in the position to throw away my only friend over something like that.”

He wasn’t expecting the armful of Erin he suddenly had, nor was he really sure what to do. What he ultimately settled for was awkwardly patting her on the back. Before he really knew what he was saying, he added, “And you could always come to Boston with me. Boston marriages are a thing, right?”

So maybe he deserved that elbow to the ribs. And the muttered ‘jackass’ that followed. Not even for a second did he think that the following year, he’d be thrilled to have someone to commiserate with.

His name was Andrew and he was absolutely beautiful. Being sixteen and having enough hormones coursing through his system to strangle all sense from his brain, Chris spent a lot of time in class shooting the other boy longing looks that would have made Erin roll her eyes if she weren’t so busy making the same exact eyes at a new girl in their class named Emily.

“So I think I like men, too,” he announced one day during a study session.

“No shit, Sherlock. What was your first clue?” Erin countered without even glancing up from her history textbook.”You okay with it?”

“Yeah… I think so anyway. I know I can’t exactly tell anyone else. God, if I said anything to Bob or Annie, I’d be tossed out on my ass. Good thing I won’t be their problem in about a year and a half…”

Spending your whole life studying wasn’t too bad when the alternative was to be like some of his foster siblings. At least one of them spent his afternoons behind the dumpster at the local diner scoring whatever drug of the week he was on, and another was barely passing high school. The fourteen year old seemed to be on track to go into trade school in the future, but there was nothing wrong with that. He’d make more of himself than the others at least.

Another bonus was that even if his foster parents barely gave a shit about any of them, his teachers were acutely interested in his future. He kept his head down, did his work, busted his ass through science fairs and even went as far as to take a college class or two through the local community college his senior year. All to sit in Erin’s living room staring at the envelope in his hands, fingers shaking as he carefully ripped it open.

“Dear Mr. Pike… Thank you for your interest in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s astrophysics program. It’s our pleasure to inform you that you’ve been accepted… Holy shit, Erin I’m in!”

“You are! Chrissy that’s amazing!” She hugged him tightly, both grinning ear to ear before pulling back and picking up her own envelope from Wellesley. “Now it’s my turn… I’m… I’m in, too. We’re both going to Boston!”

The two of them laughed and hugged each other tightly. When they were done, each settled back onto the couch to read the details of their paperwork. Chris could barely focus on the words his eyes skimmed until he came to a later page. “Erin… I’m going in on full scholarship. Room, board, all that.”

“You’ve worked hard for it. C’mon, let’s fill all this out so we can send it back and keep our spots.”

The rest of the year was a blur. Nothing that happened down there seemed to matter to him unless it had to do with Erin and before they knew it, the two of them were packing up their belongings into Erin’s VW bus and preparing for a cross-country drive from Mojave to Boston. Erin’s parents seemed more at ease knowing Chris was going with their daughter.

“And you’ll call us when you get there?” Her mother asked anxiously.

“We’re stopping at a motel or two along the way and we’ll call you when we stop for gas,” Erin promised while Chris tossed the last of her stuff in. “And with Chris’ route, we should be there in about three days.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t drive us off the road, ma’am,” Chris adds, ignoring the dirty look Erin shot his way.

“Thank you, Chris. You two drive safe.”

The drive itself was dull. Music played over the radio and Chris spent most of their time on the road making sure they were following the route he��d plotted out. Any long stretch of highway was spent making plans for Boston.

“We’ll only be about half an hour away from each other, right? So we’ll meet up for homework and coffee? At least once a week, right?”

“At least,” Chris agreed. “And we can find a good library spot to claim.”

“Bookworm buddies unite! One day, when I’m a famous author and you’re the next Stephen Hawking, we’ll go back to Mojave and be superstars.”

“Why the hell would I ever go back to Mojave?”

“For me, mostly.”

“Assuming I don’t drive you away with my stunning personality between now and then, sure.”

If she rolled her eyes any harder, Chris was sure they’d come out of her skull. “If you haven’t driven me off in the last five years, I’m pretty sure you’re stuck with me, Chrissy.”

“You say that now.”

“I say that always.”

Boston was a whirlwind of activity once they got there. The first few weeks, they managed to break their promise to meet up. Chris’ program didn’t waste any time kicking his ass, and Erin almost immediately found herself suddenly the center of a lot of female attention (turned out those womens college rumors were accurate). They both had their hands full, but managed a phone call once a week.

Winter break found them bundled up in the corner of a cafe about halfway between their two campuses. Erin had her girlfriend McKenzie tucked into the booth beside her and Chris listened in entertained silence as the two of them regaled him with their chance meeting and Erin spent more than her fair share of time griping about her finals.

“What about you, Chrissy? Your finals go okay? You get any of your grades yet?”

He groaned and dropped his head to the table. “Even with your help, that literature class probably kicked my ass… I think I kept my grade up enough to keep my scholarship, though. Hopefully.”

“I’m sure you did. You sent me your final draft and I thought it was a pretty good read. About as good as can be expected from a physics student whose brain works faster than the mouth that has to trip along behind it.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He ended up passing just fine and while Erin flew back home for Christmas, Chris stuck around in Boston. Spring semester started with three snowstorms, delaying the first day of all four of his classes until the second week. The extra time was spent getting ahead on the reading and his notes, hoping his professors would start from chapter one so it wouldn’t be time wasted.

That second week, he found a flyer in the library. Carl Sagan would be at Boston College the first week of February and MIT had a few tickets reserved. He made a beeline for the front desk and asked about securing himself one. No way in hell would he miss out on that presentation if he could help it and the second he had the stub in his hand, Chris raced back to his dorm to tuck it safely away in his physics book.

Now Chris wasn’t a vain man. He didn’t really have the luxury to be, but the day he was set to take the bus over to Chestnut Hill, Christopher Pike spent a solid half hour staring critically at his two button down shirts hanging in the tiny closet of his dorm. There ultimately wasn’t any real reason behind choosing the white shirt; it just seemed like the best choice. Chris shrugged it on and grabbed his wallet and keys on his way out the door.

Three hundred and thirty-eight acres is a maze when you’ve never set foot on the campus before. Chris grumbled to himself and stood in the courtyard as he tried to piece his way through figuring out where he needed to be. That process was interrupted rather rudely by someone else barreling into him.

“What the fuck?” He yelped while barely managing to keep from ending up on his ass. A second later, he was swearing up a storm as hot liquid seeped into the fabric of his shirt and burned his skin.

“Oh shit! God I’m so sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going!” If the guy wasn’t so cute, Chris probably would have decked him. “I’m really really sorry but I’m running late um… Here take my card and just call me later I promise I’ll pay to clean your shirt okay?”

Before Chris could even get a word out, the guy was off like a shot and he was left wondering if that had even happened. The still hot feeling of the coffee soaking into his shirt was the only proof he had that it was real. After he made his way into a bathroom and shucked off his white shirt, he debated what to do for about half a second then just stuffed the damn thing in the trash and zipped up the hoodie he wore under his coat to hide his bare chest.

He didn’t even think about the guy that ran into him until he was back home later that night. The card was tucked in his wallet with the name Philip Boyce and a phone number. From the caduceus on the card, Chris assumed this Phil must be a doctor or a med student at the college.

Would it be worth it to call the guy over a $2 shirt? He was pretty good looking from the brief glimpse Chris caught of him, so maybe he’d get lucky enough to learn he was into guys.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself and grabbed the phone. After a few rings, a voice answered on the other end. “Yeah, is this Philip Boyce? Um… My name is Chris. You, uh… You ran into me earlier? In the courtyard at Boston College?”

“Oh! Right. Yeah I’m really sorry about that I was late for class and the professor is a real stickler for punctuality. How much do I owe you for the shirt?”

“About that… I was thinking maybe… You could buy me a coffee sometime instead?”

“Absolutely! Wait… Do you mean like a date? Or just coffee?”

A quick beat passed where a million possibilities flew through Chris’ head at once. Would this guy be okay with it? Would Chris show up expecting a date and get jumped instead? “A… Whatever you wanna call it, I guess.”

“A date, then. I’m swamped this week, but what about next Saturday?”

“Sounds great. I… Guess I’ll see you then? Um… I don’t really know that area well I go to MIT so where should I meet you?”

“How about I go to you? There’s a cafe on campus, right? And probably about a dozen in spitting distance.”

“Yeah… I go to Forbes a lot. I could meet you there?” Chris offered, still not believing the turn the day was taking.

“I’ll meet you there at 3?”

“That’s… Yeah okay. 3. I’ll see you then.” The second the other line went dead, Chris dialed Erin’s number. “Erin? You’re not gonna believe what happened.”

Tagging: @auduna-druitt @pinkamour1588 @thefanficfaerie  @bookcaseninja @ravencourt @ussihavelovedthestarstoofondly @aishahiwatari @reading-in-moonlight @gracieminabox @its-life-jim @insane-sociopath @logicallythyla

[thornswithroses]

Updates

So, I feel that because I've been inactive for a while, I'd just mention a couple of life changes:

I am now a librarian at a community college. Public libraries have always had their problems--clueless administration, workplace bullying, increasing librarian responsibilities while never increasing librarian pay, skeleton crews due to low funding, patron entitlement, etc. Those problems were exacerbated once COVID-19 hit.

I left my old job of five years in a library in my home city. I worked a year at a public library in rural southern Oklahoma. I worked for a year at a public library in Houston. I eventually had to admit to myself that I didn't have the spark for public libraries like I used, so I'm back in my home city and enjoying academia

My black hair is going gray at the temples and sometimes I feel like a silver vixen, other times I feel like a wizened crone that always warns those meddling kids to stay away from that haunted village.

I enjoy fandom things still but I feel different about them in a way I didn't when I was in my twenties. It probably has a lot to do with how much I hate how blurred canon and fandom have gotten over the years and other complicated things I won't get too deep into here. At least not yet.

I am thinking of posting more of my art here. We shall see.

[jancisstuff]

The De’bayle Curse - Killian’s Tattoo

" Quarcy. Quarcy Questant. I came with the library "

"I am willing to brace that storm for him,"  "Killian! Killian I am going to help you, alright? Just... be ready okay?"

"Need it. Forgive me. I am underwhelming in all this. There are so many other important things."

"It does not mean pain, my sweet zinnia."

Quarcy Questant: " Welcome Ser Denz " Quarcy Questant: " Lady Jancis " Quarcy Questant nods. Denz De'bayle || The door creaked as force was pressed against it, and the portal swung open swiftly. Denz had shouldered the door open, barely missing the conjurer as Hestia had pulled him aside. Behind him was a taller gentleman, garbed in a worn and dirtied red coat, much too warm for the climate of the Shroud. A cloth hood covered much of his features, save the grey beard falling from his chin. Denz De'bayle practically hopped into the room after shouldering aside the door. "Hestia! I found th-" He stopped, blinking around the room in confusion. "...We had a library?" Hestia De'bayle: "Evening Denz," Hestia noted flatly as he just barely avoided hitting Killian. "And Jancis as well. How fare you two?" She leans in, looking toward the older man, "ah, it is a somewhat recent development." Killian De'bayle is probably oblivious to the narrow miss.

Jancis Milburga followed the pair close behind, checking to make sure the red cloak didn't catch on anything as they made their way through. "Good eve, Lord Quarcy.

Quarcy Questant: " We HAVE a library "

Denz De'bayle tilts his head, the gaze falling to the elezen in the corner with a curious look. "... Who is he?" There was something familiar about the man, but Denz could not remember where he had met him before. If he had ever. Killian De'bayle: "Who is who?" Quarcy Questant: " Quarcy. Quarcy Questant. I came with the library " Jancis Milburga comments softly, "Thaliak's Joy." And peeks around at the books from afar while still being semi-doting on their companion. Denz De'bayle || The elder clears his throat, pulling back the hood to reveal his ancient features. A faded De'bayle tattoo was etched across his forehead, stepping around Denz and the ajar door to start wandering further into the library. His wizened features raise with notable impression, but he remained silent. ♦Denz De'bayle: We... hired a librarian? Denz De'bayle fails to understand Quarcy Questant. Killian De'bayle: "Who--who is that?" Hestia De'bayle: "An old friend of the Viscountess'. He was brought on to care for books but also has some knowledge on how to handle and contain... dark matters," she gestures up a hand, still keeping her gaze on the older man. "Is that..." Denz De'bayle || The old man turned on Hestia, a cane in hand to bap the top of it into her arm. "Do you know any other ancient De'bayles, girl? If so, I'd love to meet who you would confuse me for!" He cackled. Yep, that was Nuarmac. He tapped the bottom of his cane on the ground leaning on it.

Hestia De'bayle: "Worry not, great-uncle, I simply wished to make sure my eyes were not decieving me," she scoffs. "I will say, it is good to see you. I hope your time out venturing has been pleasant," she peers back over toward Denz, "I take it you have come here with purpose then?" ♦Denz De'bayle: "Purpose." Though I suppose it was purpose enough to dig him out of the Shroud lest he be lost in its roots. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac looked back at Denz, swiping some branch leaves from his shoulder. "I was -napping-, Denzel." Quarcy Questant stiffened like a board, honoured and terrified. Killian De'bayle: "Uh," Killian says gracelessly as the bickering ensues. Hestia De'bayle offers a far more relieved look, while still holdering her typically dour demeanor. "It is best you are well rested, you are now awake to meet my husband Killian proper," she places a hand to Killian's shoulder. "Unless you have already met?" Killian De'bayle: "I think we did...once?" Hestia De'bayle: "Though of course, not as a De'bayle." Denz De'bayle sighes, rubbing his head, before gesturing to Killian. "Aye, Uncle, this is he." Jancis Milburga half followed, keeping a curious orbit around Nuarmac. "It can be a nice place to meditate. It has so much to tell." She looks back at Denz, "Though it is easy enough to get through brambles and brook alike when you can feel who you seek, yes Denz?" Denz De'bayle steps back, looking towards Jancis. "Looking for any good titles?" Jancis Milburga: "Every book is a good title. But yes. Perhaps something like the one I have. Or something more about drugs. I have had very little luck in the Jewel." Quarcy Questant: " Alquemistry and Aetherochemical pursuits - let me get on that. " Denz De'bayle || The elder's eye were deep sunk, countering Hestia's claim that the elder was well rested. Behind those bags though were a gaze as sharp as steel. Momentarily, they lapsed over Quarcy, the shift in his posture bringing a straightening of Nuarmac's own back. He was quite a tall man, comparable in size to men such as Armont in height, shortened only by a slight hunch from age. That gaze then turned on Killian, narrowed in thought. "Yes, I remember Kerillian. Beautiful name." Denz De'bayle looks disgusted. Killian De'bayle: "Um, Killian, my lord." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac: "Oh. I thought it was a girl's name." Hestia De'bayle: "No... he is a man." Killian De'bayle 's face flushes and he lowers his head, embarrassed. Quarcy Questant shuffles through the tomes and emerges with a stack to place on the counter.

Killian De'bayle also should probably mention he has an armload of books and what appears to be a a folded tactile map, with his cane tucked under one arm. Jancis Milburga perks and checks on Nuarmac one more time before hovering over to the counter curiously. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac shook his head. "I'm aware, young lady. Few are the De'bayles who forsake the bonds of procreation to find company in akin sex." Denz De'bayle narrowed his eyes in confusion., remaining silent as he thought to himself. Hestia De'bayle: "U-Uhm..." Hestia straightens some, clearing her throat and adjusting her shirt, "ah...er."

Quarcy Questant laid a few books from elementary grade cooking etiquette to austere volumes about each individual element and its use.

Jancis Milburga looks back over at Nuarmac, rubbing her cheek like a wound before peeking at the books again, as if they were comforting. Killian De'bayle clears his throat. "Um, is there...something we can help you with?"

Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac's eyebrows perked up in humour before tapping his cane on the ground. "You require my 'services', as Denzel put it? I see my place amongst the family has fallen so low to be naught but a dispenser of brands." ♦Denz De'bayle: Uncle. ♦Denz De'bayle: You're -place- is as our spiritual leader and advisor, however that cannot be put to use when you're taking naps in the forest. ♦Denz De'bayle: -Or- hiding in a manor twenty feet beneath Coerthas' snow. Jancis Milburga: "The Twelveswood is quite spiritual. Forgive me, I misunderstood. I had thought Hestia wished to see him." Her tone is very apologetic. ♦Denz De'bayle: She did. You did, yes? Denz De'bayle fails to understand Hestia De'bayle. Quarcy Questant listens on, interested in what this sage has to offer. Hestia De'bayle: "Well we certainly have been in need of him yes. Killian is rightfully a De'bayle now and is very willing to accept what comes with that," she looks toward Denz, "but... there are some... issues that could be present." Killian De'bayle: "Oh," Killian breathes, his already-pallid face managing to pale further. He scoots a little closer to Hestia as she speaks. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac waved a dismissivly. "Complications arise and fall when all earn the brand. I remember putting yours' on, my lady, like it was yesterday..." He blinked, looking to the side. "Weren't you there, Janice? It wasn't too long ago, was it?" Hestia De'bayle: "M-Mine?" Hestia De'bayle instinctively puts her fingers up to her forehead. "Killian is a bit different I fear... it may be harder for him to adjust. Might you have suggestions for those a bit more... mentally troubled?" She murmurs out quietly. Jancis Milburga nods, "Yes. Yes I was. Her and Carina's. That was a difficult choice." Hestia De'bayle frowns, lowering her head some. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac nods, a hand combing through his beard as he looked back to the young pair. "Mentally troubled? I do not follow. The De'bayles are often thought of as crazed cultists, at any rate... We're all mentally troubled, I'd wager." He chuckled, brazenly placing his fingers on Hestia's forehead. "Ah yes, I remember this one clearly. Your were such a sickly child, not even our tattoo could help in the end..." The wrinkled digits slowly came down the center of the brand. -- Denz De'bayle -- "This was made in happier times. The face who wears it now..." He looked down at Hestia. "You need to frown less. It crinkles the tattoo." He cackled, stepping away. Hestia De'bayle only frowns further at this, her brows knitting in the process. "This is not about me. Killian is blind, as is he... his mind works differently. This brand could help him... which is a risk we are... willing to take. But it could overwhelm him as well." Quarcy Questant relaxed, somehow the cackling brought to mind a more familiar parental figure and he simply stood straight, quiet. Denz De'bayle crossed his arms, setting his mouth.

Jancis Milburga: "That is what Carina decided on agreeing, both times. But you are here to help and guide him through it, Hestia. He is not alone. I. I have seen what has come. And Killian is strong." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac settled onto his cane once more, titling his head towards Killian, and looking back towards Hestia. "We are not miracle workers, Hestia. I cannot claim it will grant him vision." Killian De'bayle: "I know it won't...it won't let me see, not really." Hestia De'bayle: "I do not believe it will grant him vision. That is not what we are betting on. He suffers from a form of aether-sickness from the circumstance of his birth. It could end his life in the span of only a few turns if we cannot find /something/ to help him normalize. I thought... perhaps the brand could help. It did not save me, but it did help. We are not looking for a cure." Hestia De'bayle: "Just... a treatment, I suppose." Denz De'bayle || The elder shook his head. "Aether sickness comes from over exposure to aether, be it ambient or directly. What you're claiming will only worsen his situation, submitting him to what we De'bayles carry." Hestia De'bayle: "Then... perhaps I am not the best to describe it. Killian...?" She looks over toward the Hyur, her expression uneasy. Killian De'bayle: "It--it's not like that. That might have been the cause, but...now it's...my body doesn't...naturally hold its own aether. I have to keep it trapped, an active process. Like I'm about to cast a spell, so I have to hold onto the aether. It's very...tiring...like trying to wade upstream all the time, and I can't do it while I'm asleep." Hestia De'bayle: "He has a ring that was given to him by our Grand-mage that helps him contain it but... it began causing him issues from prolong wear. He wears it now only to sleep." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac tapped his fingers along the head of his cane, listening and thinking to himself. "If sealing or trapping is what you seek..." He points the head of his cane to Denz. "His was a burdening amount of aether to carry. I sealed it away, that dark aether, in hopes it would never resurface. It broke under incredible distress." Denz De'bayle looked back and forth from Nuarmac to Killian. "... My apologies?" Killian De'bayle: "I...I don't want it sealed away...how would I access it then?" Hestia De'bayle: "I suppose we figured the brand could provide an abundance of aether, so he might not have to worry about constantly trapping in his own." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac waved a hand dismissively. "Such is no longer an issue, but I can indeed keep aether with one's body, sealed. However, sealed does not mean it won't affect the body itself. Denz was found crippled and unable to function for much time after we seperated him from the aether that had melded with his own life essence." He looked to Killian. "What we would trap in you, it would be a shell to protect you. Maybe to make up for the weakness you've lived with your entire life." Denz De'bayle sighes, rubbing the side of his head. Hestia De'bayle seems to brighten some, "then this could help him?" She asks hopefully, "this could perhaps help him live normally?" Denz De'bayle himself snorts. "De'bayles don't live normally, Hestia." ♦Denz De'bayle: You know this. Denz De'bayle grins tauntingly at Hestia De'bayle. Killian De'bayle: "Would I still be able to use magic?" Killian asks dubiously, perhaps somewhat more alarmed by the 'crippled and unable to function' part of Nuarmac's words. Jancis Milburga: "He recovered quickly to the change and for the better. Is as strong as ever before. That cursed crystal is far from being done with." Hestia De'bayle: "Normal is subjective," she manages a small smile, "but... if it means living a longer, healthier life. That is the sort of normal I am aiming for." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac brought a hand up to his mouth in thought, looking to Denz, who shrugged helplessly. The elder turned back to Killian. "Denz was... ungifted with aetheric control. And I have never had to seal away anything -not- evil to provide someone with a missing foundation." Denz De'bayle buries his face in disbelief.

Killian De'bayle: "So...so you don't know. If I'd be able to use magic or not." Hestia De'bayle: "I think perhaps referring to it as a 'shell' would be more approprite than a seal. That is after all, what is seems he lacks?" Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac: "I would wager the ability still accessible, if someone stunted as you learn to move aetehr through, with consideration to what is there within you." Jancis Milburga immediately disagrees, "He truly was to live with that shadow of broken thoughts and memories for decades. Denz's control is superb. Killian is clearly skilled, as well. Even if it is draining." Quarcy Questant found himself lacking for not being able to comment on this topic even once. Perhaps reverence for a family's tradition spurned him to simply listen and take it all in. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac places his hands over one another. "Aether is a fickle substance. An all-encompassing essence. To feign mastery over understanding it is ignorance, and it has shown itself to perform miracles and devlish acts both. Yours' is a pure intent and a willing body, I see no reason why you would fail." ♦Denz De'bayle: Jancis... It's okay. ♦Denz De'bayle: To be fair, I did not manipulate until after that seal broke, so there is... merit to his claim. Denz De'bayle fails to understand you. Hestia De'bayle beams to Killian, exposing sharpened canines, "Killian this is wonderful news. Even if it might be tough it could help you!" Hestia looks toward her Denz, her lips tightening, "you... you are a good man Denz. I know you are as strong as Jancis believe you are. I do." Killian De'bayle: "Because my...condition lets me understand aether more than most. I've always been sensitive to its movements and how best to use it. The one...benefit of being sick like this. Being able to use myself as a focus. But if I'm sealed away from it, so that there's a shell and it doesn't just freely move through me, how will I be able to feel it like that?" Jancis Milburga: "You do more than survive. But you concentrated and practiced daily to hold that horror within you, even used it to protect so many. And then conquerered it and sealed it away. It. It is relevant to Killian now, at the very least. Very least." Hestia De'bayle: "Does the brand already not work similarly to a shell? I have found it...  helps when close to a primal? A headache, yes, but it helps..." Hestia De'bayle: "Mmm. I suppose I always thought it produced its own source of aether..." she sighs. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac looked at Jancis, setting his lips in a small frown, Denz's words causing him to tilt his head in a small nod. "I mean no offense to the boy, Janice. His strength is notable, aye. But it has shown how it stunted his own aether." Denz De'bayle || The elder looked back to Killian. "You would still have access to the aether around you, but so too would there be another wellspring to pull from. A... difficult thing to imagine or explain, but you will see what I-" He stopped, looking at Killian. "You'll understand shortly." Jancis Milburga furrows her brow. She moves behind Denz, trying to purposefully lose herself in the aura the man would give Nuarmac. Killian De'bayle chews on his lip, nervously. "I just don't want to...lose my ability to heal. It's the only thing I'm good at..." Hestia De'bayle: "That is not true Killian," Hestia looks to him with a purse of her lips, "when my mother lost her ability to heal, she picked up alchemy. Not of course... saying you would."

Denz De'bayle || The old man placed a hand on Killian's shoulder. "Nonsense, Kerillian. I can heal the greatest of wounds with mine aether. Mayhaps one day someone will stick around long enough to learn it too." Denz De'bayle || He cackles. Denz De'bayle blinks at Jancis, going over to place a soothing hand on the small of her back. ♦Denz De'bayle >> "Am I weak?" *His tone was innocent curiousity, looking down at her.* Killian De'bayle: "I want to...I want to live longer. I don't want to die in a few turns..." Killian murmurs by way of reply. Jancis Milburga looks up at Denz, the blind belief in him clear on her face, but she manages to smile. "He is a  remarkable healer." >> ♦Denz De'bayle: "No. No, not to my knowledge." She tries to answer truthfully, thinking about it for another minute before shaking her for only him, and his chest, to see. "Not since I have known you. If ever you start to be, you fight it immediately." ♦Denz De'bayle >> *He smiles, bowing his head to whisper lightly to her.* "If that is what you believe, than it must be so. And it is what I will trust as well." Quarcy Questant began chewing on a fingernail. /Sealing away magic ?/ That would be the end of himself... Jancis Milburga speaks quietly and very thoughtfully before her voice grows louder. "Nald'thal forbid it, Killian. Not from that." Denz De'bayle leans down, planting a kiss on the top of Jancis' head, speaking up over his shoulder. "Indeed." Hestia De'bayle: "We will be here for you Killian," she takes his hand, patting it with her other hand. "Are you... ready?" Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac removed his hand, wiping some dirt that stained Killian's shoulder off swiftly. Jancis Milburga blinks slowly, eyes wide on the elezen knight before softening considerably, closing her eyes and taking in a slow breath. Killian De'bayle: "Um, I...I guess..." Killian says uncertainly, clearly less-than-enthused and perhaps a bit scared by the idea. Jancis Milburga: "It is for more than Turns, Killian. This family is immensely close in curious ways and that connection plays a large role in it. You will find a new bond with Hestia not realized." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac nods. "Excellent, we sha-" He stopped, eyes hardening on Quarcy. "Who is he?" He jabs his cane head at the man. "By Halone, you best not be another De'bayle child secreted away from my knowledge!" Hestia De'bayle: "He is a close friend of the Viscountess, and an old one at that. Keeper of knowledge, books and also container of dark matters. I figured after the most recent event... such a profression would come of great use to this family." Killian De'bayle turns his head some toward Hestia, his uncertainty still written all over his expression. Quarcy Questant:  " N-no sir to the best of my knowledge I'm just an orphan from Hemlock " Quarcy Questant may have sputtered it in a panic as he became very aware of his own presence in these proceedings. >> ♦Denz De'bayle: "I do. I can see it better than you can. I look and watch you often." Denz De'bayle nods his head in Hestia's direction. "You've borne witness to family secrets and traditions few outside the house are privy to. Do -not- forsake that trust." Quarcy Questant: " I. will. not. " Jancis Milburga reaches up and touches Denz's cheek a moment. "Secrets are so complicated." Hestia De'bayle: "You have our family's trust, Sir Questant." Quarcy Questant: " I- I'm honoured. And slightly terrified " Hestia De'bayle: "Perhaps it is a good time we have such information stored in a tome and locked away. But that is a discussion for a later date." Denz De'bayle taps his cane onto the ground, nodding in approval. "Very good. Return to your work, Quincy. Quarcy Questant: " Y- Yes sir "

Denz De'bayle smiles at Jancis as she caressed his cheek, before seperating with her and standing next to Hestia, mumbling low to her. "How many people have you told, yourself?" Denz De'bayle looks at her with his own guilty look. Hestia De'bayle: "Little to none. So. Only those I find close to me, who ask. Though I usually have very little offer them in answers. Thus, my suggestion. I often find myself curious of the happenings of this brand, with no one around often to look to for answers," she peers toward the back.

Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac watched Quarcy walk away, before turning to the two couples. "Right, well..."

Hestia De'bayle: "Should we perhaps... take this somewhere more comfortable then?" She asks, "or is here alright with you?" Jancis Milburga: "The manor in the Northern Reaches was well suited for it. And that was boards... but they had so many decades to become familiar." Denz De'bayle crosses his arms, looking to Nuarmac. "He gave the last two De'bayles their brands on the floor of an old manor. I -think- comfort isn't a priority." Quarcy Questant returned to his place a fair amount of books to sort for yet unknown purposes. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac runs a hand through his beard in thought. "There -is- a good ambience around the Manor for such." He claps his hands together. "Very well! Janice has convinced me! Instead of operating here in this house, we shall return to my manor!" Killian De'bayle: "Wh-where?" Denz De'bayle cackles to himself. "How silly of me. I almost asked if we should do such in the comfort of Kerillian's own bed." Hestia De'bayle: "T-That seems like a bit of a trip..." Hestia murmurs, "why not... in case he reacts poorly, perhaps we should go instead go to our home?" Denz De'bayle ||NUARMAC CACKLES.)) Killian De'bayle: "M-my name is Killian..." Killian mumbles. Denz De'bayle plays dead for you. Hestia De'bayle seems to flatten her lips at this, a somewhat unreadable expression coming from this. Jancis Milburga apologizes, "Would it work elsewhere, then? You do have a home here, as well. And Killian is familiar with the people and walls." Denz De'bayle chuckles, looking around at everyone but seeing little humour in Nuarmac's crusade on anyone else's face. He sighes, placing a hand on the elder's shoulder as he moved to leave. "Uncle." He tilts his head with a knowing look. ♦Denz De'bayle: You could do with a few more moons away from the manor anyhow, Uncle. Jancis Milburga asks Quarcy before going, "May I come and ask about reading in the future, Lord?" Hestia De'bayle: "Killian, where would you feel better doing this? Here or at our home?" Killian De'bayle: "Um, I--I don't know, but...I need to put these books somewhere first..." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac rolls his eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Very weeeeell. Lead on." Hestia De'bayle: "Then, to our home for now?" Quarcy Questant: " Of course M'lady, all are welcome to sample the collection in this library " You bow courteously to Quarcy Questant. Jancis Milburga reaches over to Killian's elbow, "I can carry them awhile. Share the load, yes?" Quarcy Questant quietly ensures the books are checked out if they weren't already. Killian De'bayle: "Um, okay. It's not much." Killian turns toward Jancis. "You can take the map, if you'd like. Maybe it would be interesting to look at. Have you used a tactile map before?"

Denz De'bayle fails to understand Hestia De'bayle. Jancis Milburga repeats 'map' and takes that, then tries to take something else too with helpful mischief. "Forgive me. I have not." Hestia De'bayle: "We will be heading out then," she exhales, peering back toward Quarcy momentarily in thought before moving to take her leave. Jancis Milburga: "Be well, Lord Quarcy." She also bids the books farewell. "Thaliak keep you all safe." ♦Denz De'bayle: ... Pleasure meeting you, sir Quarcy. Denz De'bayle nods to Quarcy Questant. Killian De'bayle is relieved of one of the books in his arms by the sneaky Jancis. "It's a map I can read," he says, following after those who are leaving. Quarcy Questant: " Be well everyone. And good look Sir Killian. May you return changed for the better " Hestia De'bayle leads the party up toward the gate, opening it carefully and shooing the dogs back as she gestured everyone in. Jancis Milburga tries vainly to help with another book along the way, giving up and looking about the area instead. Hestia De'bayle: "I can see that there are some snacks brought downstairs if need be, let me just... bring you all down there." Killian De'bayle shuffles after Hestia with a worried expression plastered over his face. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac scoffed as he was lead into the house, eyeing the building. "Snacks. This is a proud tradition we are engaging in. Not some afternoon book club meeting!" ♦Denz De'bayle: Is this your first time here, Jancis? Jancis Milburga looks about the fireplace, then the stovetop, pausing at the painting on the wall and murmuring softly to it. Hestia De'bayle: "It will be okay Killian," she brings a hand up to rub at his arm soothingly, "I am here with you," she smiles wearily, "then I take it you do not want snacks then, Nuarmac?" Jancis Milburga: "Yes. Yes it is." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac sets his lips, tapping his cane against the ground. "I didn't say that." Hestia De'bayle: "Ah, welcome then Jancis please... make yourself at home. I would have had food prepared if I had anticipated this happening tonight..." She smirks lightly toward Nuarmac, "that is what I thought." Denz De'bayle chuckles, shaking his head as he came up behind Jancis, placing a hand on her shoulder soothingly. Jancis Milburga murmurs, "Underwhelming. Thank you for bringing me here. I will be as useful as possible." Hestia De'bayle: "U-Underwhelming?" Hestia frowns, glancing down, "of course... ah, this way." Hestia De'bayle: "Perhaps this would be easier to do in the guest room, Killian? Our bed is not easy to stand around." Jancis Milburga pats Denz's hand lightly, "All will be well. Like Carina. Like Hestia." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac follows the group, moving past Denz and Jancis as they halted in the hallway and followed them into the guest bedroom. He eyed the area, nodding slowly. "This will do." Killian De'bayle rests his cane against the wall and sets his remaining books on the nearby stand. Hestia De'bayle: "Well Killian, ah... I suppose you had best get comfortable then. Er... lying down." Denz De'bayle nods to Jancis, sucking in a breath. "I know. I trust him." Killian De'bayle: "O-okay," Killian murmurs, reaching down to find the bed with one hand before climbing into it and turning to lie on his back. Jancis Milburga follows once there is room, carefully setting down the book and map next to Killian's, "I will leave these here besides your stack, Killian. Oh. Look. It is like the Warden is here, too." Jancis Milburga touches the picture frame. Hestia De'bayle: "The Warden..." Hestia hums, peering up toward the sunset picture with a small smile. "Indeed. I quite love sunsets... I thought, perhaps our guests might wish to look at them as well." Denz De'bayle takes up his post by the door, silently crossing his arms and watching. His part to play was done, shepherding the man to Killian. Hestia De'bayle sits at the edge of the bed beside Killian, taking his hand, "I am right here with you, my love. Be at ease..." she pets at his hand gently.

Killian De'bayle lies with his hands folded over his stomach and his legs straight along the bed, staring vacantly up toward the ceiling with wandering eyes. Every so often he can be noted as taking a deliberate breath, obviously trying to stay relaxed. "Maybe I should take a field potion?" Hestia De'bayle: "Mmm. I do not know Killian. This is something you need come to terms with on your own. It will be with you forever... hopefully. You cannot take field potions forever." Hestia De'bayle: "Just remember I am here by your side." Jancis Milburga tries to be helpful, "As is Denz. And Nuarmac." She looks up at the painting again, "And I." Jancis Milburga: "A score more should they be called for." Jancis Milburga: "Perhaps even that man who brought the journal and interrupted last eve." Killian De'bayle: "Okay..." Killian mumbles. Jancis Milburga takes a focusing breath and gives Nuarmac a steady gaze, waiting for instruction. Hestia De'bayle: "Indeed. I am sure he is with you as well in spirit, Killian. Ser Évariste. And Summer and Mercy. Even Nogelle is here." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac moved to the dresser, unceremoniously picking up the flower pot and putting his satchel in its place. He handed off the vase to Denz, before digging through his bag and removing a linen roll. Unravelling it, it held several small items. Quills, inkwells, and a scalpel. He first picked up the small blade, eyeing Killian dangerously. "Let us begin." -- Denz De'bayle -- The old man starts by picking between his teeth with the scalpel, before placing it down. Killian De'bayle draws another breath in an attempt at steadying his nerves, exhaling in a slow sigh. Denz De'bayle || The elder grabbed a quill and inkwell, moving up to where Hestia stood, tapping her with the head of his cane to get her to scoot aside. Hestia De'bayle does as she is tapped to, moving aside whill still keeping her hands on Killian. After a moment she instead stands and moves to the other side, removing her shoes first before getting up ont he bed to sit beside him. Killian De'bayle continues to stare up blindly toward the ceiling with those clouded eyes, occasionally flickering somewhat erratically. He reaches out with one hand as Hestia moves to his other side, searching for her. Hestia De'bayle takes his hand back into hers, rubbing her fingers against his knuckles. Denz De'bayle ||  Nuarmac knelt down next to the bed, his eyes swaying over the man before him. A hyur, short ears, a stunted neck, limbs more akin to a lalafell, less so than an elezen. The House had truly transformed in the last few years. His breathing became rythmic, his forehead illuminating the darkening room with a dull white glow. "Do lay still, my boy." As his hand waved over the inkwell, the contents began to match the glow of his forehead. -- Denz De'bayle -- His finger traced over Killian's forehead, eyes narrowing critically as he his mind imagined what needed to be created, what it would look like, and begun the process of making it a reality. Dipping the quill into the inkwell, it's contents were thicker than most liquids, a whisp-y sludge trailing against the tip. Carefully, he placed the tip against the man's forehead, thumb pressed down harder than his palm as familiar strokes of his wrist began to run the aetherical trails against - Denz De'bayle -- the hyur's forehead. To Killian, it would almost feel like warm air gracing his features, though there was an aetherical... weight behind it. As the quill moved to and fro, it pulled and weaved together a rough shape of the De'bayle tattoo. It glowed and hung, Nuarmac's opposite hand held up and waiting as he stared down at Killian. It was a point of no-return they reached. Jancis Milburga watched the beginning, eyes caught on the brush, the purity of the aether that Nuarmac's practiced skill showed. Quietly, she moved for the door and headed upstairs. Killian De'bayle makes an uncertain sound, trying to remain as still as possible with his hand squeezing Hestia's where she holds it. He obviously doesn't recognize the silent gesture from Nuarmac, perhaps assuming some sort of step in the process that goes unseen. Hestia De'bayle remained focus on Killian as well, holding to Killians hand with some returned tightness. As though to remind him she was still there.

Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac tilts his head in a nod, his free hand gesturing towards Killian's forehead, muttering incoherably to himself as the aether began to set deep into the man's skin. As it did so, the rough edges smoothed out, the details sharpened, and every leaf, every sumbol, every stroke of the De'bayle tattoo was now imprinted onto Killian's forehead. -- Denz De'bayle -- Aetherically, this process was not so simple. The weight of a bloodline's aether upon his mind would come as a crashing tidal, a wellspring of aether connecting it's spigot to the pipe that was Killian's body, flowing through him with unabashed fury. Mentally, Killian was struck with the sounds, feelings, memories, of strangers, people's whose accents heaved with Ishgardian origin, those whose tongue he couldn't understand, and everywhere in between. A hundred hundred lives were -- Denz De'bayle -- joining with him, and it required focus and purpose to clear away the noise. Killian De'bayle 's body stiffens as the sigil is set, a choked sound coming from him before his eyes roll back. His expression contorts as if struck with a physical blow and he lies rigid on the bed, clearly overwhelmed by the sudden flood of sensation. Hestia De'bayle watches this with some distress, her hands moving to press down firmly on him, as if preparing for a potential backlash. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac's hand finally ceased its waving as the tattoo formed in its entirety. He seemed unphased by Killian's tension, standing up and calmly walking back over to the dresser to replace his quill and aetheric inkwell, waiting. Killian De'bayle lies still and stiff like this for some time, apparently oblivious to Hestia bearing down on him, before his head begins to turn back and forth as if in denial. "S...stop..." he manages out weakly, now trying to sit up or pull away from Hestia. "Please...I don't...understand..." Hestia De'bayle grits her teeth, holding down firmly on the man, using most of her power behind her arms. Denz De'bayle looked from Killian to Nuarmac, handing the elder back the flower pot before exiting the room silently. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac would take the flower pot and place it on the ground, continuing to observe how the blind man would take to the aether. Killian De'bayle 's eyes open, wheeling wildly, his expression panicked. When he speaks his words are loud, as if talking over a crowd. "Hestia!? Hestia, I can't..." He trails off, obviously distracted by...something. "Please," he eventually speaks again. "Please stop. Please stop." Hestia De'bayle shakes her head some, eventually looking back toward Nuarmac, "he needs me to help him! Can I? Is it safe for me to connect to him when he like this?" Denz De'bayle || Even admist Killian's distress, Nuarmac remained stoic and stone-faced. He actually looked upwards slightly, as if the entire display was causing him an inconvience. He thought to himself for a moment, before looking down at Hestia. "It will be like navigating a stormy sea for a raft seeking shore. Possible, but dangerous and no less difficult were he to continue alone." Hestia De'bayle: "I am willing to brace that storm for him," she practically snarled out, still holding to Killian. "Killian! Killian I am going to help you, alright? Just... be ready okay?" Killian De'bayle is apparently oblivious to the exchange, still repeating his words. "Please stop...please stop..." Hestia De'bayle frowned, knowing full well her words would not reach the man. Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward, her hand moving up to brush up her bangs and press her forehead to his. Killian De'bayle doesn't seem to respond physically to Hestia's movement anymore than he did to her restraint, although after a moment his words cease and he stills, staring blankly and releasing a groan. Hestia De'bayle sat with her eyes closed, nothing but stillness between the two. For now. Killian De'bayle remains still and silent, eyes wide but still, more than likely hidden by Hestia as she leans over him. Hestia De'bayle finally flutters her eyes open, a deep breath leaving her in the process. "Ah..." Killian De'bayle exhales in a sigh, closing his now-bloodshot eyes as his body relaxes into the bed. After a few moments, he opens them again, blinking hard. "Ah...they hurt..." he mumbles. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac raised his head, keeping half an eye watching out for the young pair. "Welcome back to the land of the living." He tapped his cane against the ground. "Enjoy your trip?"

(♦Denz De'bayle) *Denz would come back up the stairs, looking about until his eyes settled on Jancis. Walking up to her, he placed a hand carefully on her side, leaning over to look at her.* "Are you alright?" (Jancis Milburga) Jancis had made a bit of a mess, cabinet doors still open for where she was exploring and didn't want to close them less to make more noise or have to open it again later to find something. She was cutting up vegetables slowly, again to be silent. Her gaze lifted up to Denz a moment, "I am safe and healthy. This is useful. They will need it. It is exhausting. It is important." (♦Denz De'bayle) *Denz's arms wrapped around Jancis, the plate moving aside cloth and pressing against her as he hugged her smaller form.* "You will need it, 'ere long." (Jancis Milburga) Her hands paused, still with knife and stalk as she felt herself conform to the plates that pressed against her. "..." Eyes closed, she took a slow breath, her ribs gently pushing back against him. "Need it. Forgive me. I am underwhelming in all this. There are so many other important things." (♦Denz De'bayle) *Denz shakes his head., smiling lightly.* "I meant for when -you- are exhausted from being given the tattoo, Jancis. That is still important." *His hands came to snake down her arms, gently removing the knife and food from her hands carefully.* (Jancis Milburga) Jancis gives the barest of protests, stretching out her fingers before curling her arms back inward away from the work. (♦Denz De'bayle) *Denz let out a small exhale, his lips still in a smile as he rocked back and forth slightly, his hands following the arm curling to ravel her up in an embrace, silent for several minutes. Every so often, he simply kissed her head or adjusted how he leaned his head against her.* (Jancis Milburga) "Is it? To whom? You see me. You already see me. Even in war you see me. I can barely speak of the most amazing parts of my life without an interruption or being quieted for other news or briefly congratulated and then moved on from. The miracle of mine life is underwhelming compared to all else. Except to you. And Chachanji, he spoke constantly about it when I visited him. Do you want them all to see me as well as you do?" (Jancis Milburga) Jancis soaked up every moment of Denz's presence, as if it was the first time, as if it was when he survive being purged as she tried to cleanse herself of painful doubts that plagued her. Her head turned, eyes on the red hues of the armor, breathing in the scent of it. (♦Denz De'bayle) *He nodded against her head.* "I do. It is selfish of me to dare keep you all to myself. But... I know of one other who will see you as much as I do. Nay, even more." *His hands moved away from her arms to come and linger against her stomach. His coat, a scent mixed of steel and bread.* "The two of us will just have to help the rest of the world see how bright you are." (Jancis Milburga) Her form would feel a bit different, something someone intimately familiar with Jancis would recognize. She was quiet, listening and staying against Denz. "Selfish of me. I. I want to talk about nothing else. Yet these past moons I listen and respond to everything else. There is nothing more important than you two." She turns her head, gazing up lovingly at him the smile growing in fondness. "You make me bright." (♦Denz De'bayle) *He returned the smile, shaking his head.* "Then pray allow me to speak about nothing else until the end of my days. 'Twould be the least I could do." *With a joking grin, he leaned forward, placing a kiss upon her lips, before his long ears twitched from the voices downstairs. He turned his head towards the doorway, but otherwise failed to move from his embrace.* (Jancis Milburga) Jancis did catch that grin, so strongly was she watching him, and returned the soft kiss. “For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.”

Hestia De'bayle: "I think you might have left them open..." Hestia manages a dry chuckle, rubbing a hand to the mans face. Killian De'bayle: "My trip? It was...it was loud..." Hestia De'bayle: "I managed to help him find some understanding in the chaos, to... help him close himself off to those voices on a normal basis." Killian De'bayle: "Can I...is it okay if I get up now?" Hestia De'bayle: "If you feel alright enough to stand, do you need some food? Water?" She shifts to stand herself, stretching her stiff limbs. Killian De'bayle: "I don't...I don't know yet." Killian groans as he sits up and climbs out of bed, reaching out until a hand presses to the wall. "I think I need to wash my face. My eyes hurt." Denz De'bayle moves his lips to the side, beard and mustache adjusting in thought. "A trial most have completed on their own..." He holds up a hand. "Stay down. Your body is still overflowing with aether and we've yet to seal it. As well..." He looked sidelong to Hestia. "He is not as your mother was. Will I be placing the actual sigil on his head?" Hestia De'bayle: "Perhaps you should keep them close awhile..." Hestia peeks over toward Nuarmac, "is that what you want Killian?" Killian De'bayle: "Oh," Killian mumbles, sitting back down on the bed. "Um...I don't...it doesn't matter to me where it is." Jancis Milburga asks Denz from the kitchen, hearing the voices in the otherwise silent home. "Do you feel them? All of them?"

Killian De'bayle: "I'm sorry...I'm sorry I couldn't...do it on my own," Killian mumbles, his face turning pink with shame. Hestia De'bayle: "Killian. This brand has nothing to do with doing anything on your own. Its very existence embraces the act of connection with another. There is no shame." Killian De'bayle: "But if it's a trial you're supposed to get through without help..." Hestia De'bayle: "No one said it was a trial you needed to get through alone," she points out. "Just that you needed to be able to work through it." Denz De'bayle slowly nods, unraveling himself from his hug with Jancis slowly. "... Barely, but it is there." ♦Denz De'bayle: He appears to have made it. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac continues to wait patiently for an answer to his question, looking back and forth between the two. Hestia De'bayle: "He will accept it," she nods toward Nuarmac. Jancis Milburga lingers equally before going back to the platter of cut up vegetables and other small dry foods she found while exploring the cottages' cabinets. "Of course he did. He is fairly strong for all he hides it. From himself. Did not even need someone filtering out memories. Is that thanks to you?" ♦Denz De'bayle: Hm? No, I was up here with you. Denz De'bayle looks back at Jancis, tilting his head. "I believe Hestia then aided him." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac nodded slowly. "Then lay back down, Kerillian. This will only take a few minutes, and the pain will be substantially less than you previously experienced."

Hestia De'bayle takes a hold of her husbands hand again, squeezing there. Killian De'bayle lies back in bed, settling his free hand back over his stomach. "Okay." Killian De'bayle dozes off quietly. Jancis Milburga: "But the dark memories. The broken pains and anguish." Jancis looks thoughtful a moment, "Hestia curiously enough is the most experienced with them, second only to your uncle."

Jancis Milburga tries to correct her poorly worded thoughts, "Connections, I mean. Not dark memories." Denz De'bayle || Grabbing the second vial and another quill from the linen roll, Nuarmac set to task swiftly applying the physical black ink of the tattoo on Killian's forehead. The ink itself was of an aetherical nature, but no one near comparable to what Killian was previously marked with. The quill tip flew over his features, lightly scrapping into the skin and etching dark lines that bled and covered the still glowing brand on the blind man's forehead. "Once I am finished, I will connect with you,- Denz De'bayle -- storing away as much aether I can within your body." Killian De'bayle: "Uh," Killian says uncertainly, "okay...that might be a lot. I had to practice trying to hold more and more aether in to prolong the time I can go without trapping it before it kills me, in case something happened and I lost consciousness." Denz De'bayle tilts his head. "So I've observed. I've been... negligent with dream walking with you. The last time was..." He thought to himself. "Helping out your friend Lady Crofte, yes?" Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac chuckles darkly to himself. "As you say." The aetherical ink continued it's way onto the man's forehead, before it finally set into place. His breath was pressed against Killian's features as he got -really- close to the conjurer to make sure everything was in place. "And that... should..." One more rather sharp prick in the middle of Killian's forehead. "... do it." Killian De'bayle presses his lips together in an effort not to wince. "Um. Thanks..." Jancis Milburga looks up, looking over Denz's pondering. "You were badly wounded at the time, there were others. You wanted to see Lucien. And. And to make that ruby, but I know not what you saw, then. I was overwhelmed." Hestia De'bayle: "There you have it Killian," Hestia smiled. Denz De'bayle pressed his lips together, eyes widening. "Ah, right. Not as negligent as I think I am." He cleared his throat, pressing his lips against Jancis' cheek. Killian De'bayle: "Okay...and now the aether? Do you want me to keep it trapped? Or just let it go through?" Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac nodded over his handiwork, before looking to Hestia. "Right, make sure he doesn't swim anywhere for the next day or so. Never know how runny that ink could get." His lips curved into a smile, as he stepped away from the bed momentarily, placing the ink well and quill back into his linen roll, before moving once more to the bedside, placing his hands on the sides of Killian's face brazenly. "Just keep still. One last invasive act." Killian De'bayle: "Uhh," Killian replies gracelessly, his head kept in place by the Elezen's age-gnarled hands. Jancis Milburga colors a bit at the apologetic kiss, "Your family needs you so much." She doesn't disagree completely in her defense, "I would try it again with you." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac moved his fingers from the sides of Kilian's head to his forehead, sliding the fingers past his temples as he palmed settled against the tattoo. Once more, the elder's brand began to glow, his lips moving as he entered into the void of Killian's subconscious. Not to view memories, not to connect mentally with him, but to look past it all and visualize what his body was, and the aether that flowed through it. -- Denz De'bayle -- Once he had taken stock of the situation, he began taking in the great depths of the family aether that flowed between the two of them, gathering it into a "ball" that aimed to fill the empty space of the man's essence. Larger and larger it grew. To Nuarmac's surprise, much larger than he gave Killian credit for, the aether nearly comparable to what a De'bayle could naturally retain on their own. Impressive. With each word uttered, a rune flitted across his vision, beginning to form -- Denz De'bayle -- around the coalesced family aether, until an outer ring was formed. A command word was uttered, and the symbols connected. The strange, uplifting sensation that came with a renewed body filled to the brim with aether would flow through Killian, and then some, as the energy seemed to stick, as opposed to it's wayward nature the blind conjurer was so used to. Nuarmac's eyebrows furrowed, curiousity on his features, but he ultimately removed his palm, shaking his head to clear up his -- Denz De'bayle -- vision of Killian's subconscious.

Killian De'bayle 's expression shifts with a myriad emotions as Nuarmac works - concerned, curious, a little afraid - until finally settling on outright, unadulterated awe when the Elezen finishes. "It...it's not moving. It's not moving. It's just staying there." Hestia De'bayle: "Is that... good?" Killian De'bayle: "I'm not trapping it. It's just staying here. It's not going anywhere. It's not leaving." Killian still seems dumbfounded, obviously in disbelief. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac flicked his hand back and forth, as if he had burned it on something, before slowly standing it. "Very well... I assume that is all of my 'services' you needed, young lady?" He raised an eyebrow at Hestia, occasionally looking at Killian. Jancis Milburga: "Is this platter missing anything before we take it downstairs?" She hands it to Denz, regretfully stepping away from the man as she leaves the kitchen how she found it, sans the food she stole. "Or should we leave it here for them?" Killian De'bayle: "Wait, my...my magic. I can't take anymore aether than...than this...if I can't use what you gave me, how can I draw aether through to cast magic?" Hestia De'bayle looked over toward him, her lip twisting back some, "ah... yes," she shifts uncomfortable. "Thank you, Nuarmac. Really. This is more than a service to us. You have helped me, from one family member to another. I will not forget this kindness." Denz De'bayle reviews the platter, adjusting some pieces of food on the platter before holding up a thumb. "It appears good to me, my love." He would lead her downstairs, opening doors for the hyur as they came upon the other family members. Killian De'bayle pushes himself up into a seated position as footsteps approach. Jancis Milburga follows along, thanking Denz before going through the door, eyes eager on the trio in the room. "You are up." Hestia De'bayle turns toward Jancis and Denz with a smile, "he made it through!" Killian De'bayle: "Hestia...Hestia had to help me, though," Killian admits. Jancis Milburga: "Of course. It is meant to be together." She says with great confidence. "There was no doubt in that. But sitting up so. And how you look... less that is the warm painting, you look well." Killian De'bayle certainly looks healthier than any in the room have ever seen him, with some natural color to his face that for once isn't a result of an embarrassed blush. Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac nodded to the pair as they re-entered, moving away from the bed while rubbing his hands together. Snaking his head about for a moment, he sets about replacing his tools into his satchel, making his way to the door silently. Denz De'bayle stopped the old man in his path, giving him a knowing look, before nodding the other three inside the room. Hestia De'bayle: "Thank you as well, Denz, for helping to bring him to us. I cannot... begin to tell you how much this means to us. To me." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac grumbled lowly, before clearing his throat. "Right, all the best. Janice, Denz insists I speak with he and you at your earliest convience. I will be returning to the Shroud, as Jadea still waits for me." Denz De'bayle steps into the room, nodding to Hestia. "'Tis what we as a family are meant to be to one another." Jancis Milburga turns back to Nuarmac as he goes. "Insists." She says as the door starts to close. "As you like! Be safe. Little Jadea, too!" Hestia De'bayle: "Be safe great-uncle!" Hestia calls out toward him, "are you two to be taking your leave as well? This went on for quite awhile... expected, of course." Jancis Milburga turns back, her hand going to Denz's back and encouraging him to put the tray down on the bed. "You both must be hungry. What of aether? I could help." Her hands go into her tunic, pulling out a semi-familiar chain. Killian De'bayle: "I don't...I don't need it," Killian murmurs, flexing his hands in his lap. "It's not moving. It's not leaving." Hestia De'bayle smiles, "do you feel at ease? I am quite hungry myself... I am sorry, I was supposed to bring snacks down..." Jancis Milburga: "Here as long as you need! Of course! I am not -that- hungry." Jancis looked over at Killian, smiling softly at his quiet words and expression. "Warden truly was close, even when Her light is resting."

Denz De'bayle places the tray of food down at the food silently smiling and watching everyone speaking with one another. Jancis Milburga: "We found some. It is better this way. Carina needed more by her side to aid with the connection. But. But she had you to think about, too, at the time." You smile at Hestia De'bayle. Hestia De'bayle: "Me..." Hestia murmurs, "I hope... it was worth it to her," she says quietly. "It seems like a lot of trouble... pain." Denz De'bayle || Nuarmac exited as everyone said their goodbyes. Killian would be able to sense in a general direction where the man was for almost a minute before his presence disappeared from his conscious. Killian De'bayle: "Hungry...okay...I can eat something...something easy, maybe, bread or...or soup..." He turns his head toward Hestia as she speaks. "It was worth it. I'm sure she thinks it's worth it." Jancis Milburga agrees, "That is an obtuse thing to say." Hestia De'bayle frowns, "mm..." Hestia peers away. Denz De'bayle looks from Killian to Hestia. "Are you both alright? Beyond obvious hunger? Is there aught else you need 'ere we take our leave?" Killian De'bayle: "I think...I think I'm alright." Hestia De'bayle: "I am alright. Thank you for all your help, truly." Jancis Milburga leans down, trying to catch Hestia's eyes, "You are loved and worth that and more. We are but a word away." She touches her ear. "Well, for others." She focuses on the girl's forehead. Hestia De'bayle glances back up toward Jancis with a small nod. "I hope to someday make up for that trouble and more with action. I know... I am loved. I want my being here to mean something," she swallows. "You two have a good evening. Rest easy." Killian De'bayle: "Thank you," Killian murmurs, sounding a little distracted again. "Thank you..." Jancis Milburga: "It does not mean pain, my sweet zinnia." She tugs on her tunic, edge of a handkerchief peeking out. Her eyes go to Killian and smiles at him regardless. "Rest deeply." Hestia De'bayle looks to the handkerchief with a wide stare, her expression softening with the upturn of her brows. "We shall." Denz De'bayle watches the exchange between Hestia and Jancis with no small amount of interest, before fruitlessly nodding to Killian. "Aye. Good night, you two." Killian De'bayle: "Goodnight, Lord Denz, Lady Milburga." Jancis Milburga: "It is the Beds, but will you hold my hand so I do not get lost?" You smile at Denz De'bayle. Denz De'bayle smiles down at Denz, carefully taking up her hand and leading her out of the guest bedroom.

Killian De'bayle Hestia De'bayle Denz De'bayle Jancis Milburga Quarcy Questant Nuarmac De'bayle

April 10 2018

[lightandfireandsunhavegone]

I mean also the artwork is truly stunning, the lighting is perfect in every way, even the ceiling beams overhead the truly stacked room lend the library a vibe of that deeper L-space recursion and all the while, The Librarian is sat there, those half-closed eyes boring into your soul, either squinting or half-asleep, but profound to a depth that few humans achieve. His wiry fur is so rugged and wizardly in just the way I always thought that Pratchett meant and his lobes are wizened and greyed to perfection like the true Elder Mage that The Librarian is. And all captured in that sepia-like grey-brown palette with a couple bursts of gold and yellow here and there. Glorious, truly a great work was done with this.

[qm-vox]

So You Want To Play An Ogre

(Portrait of Arthur, the Once And Future King, provided by Hyenapie, character by me. You can catch him in New Avalon.)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, & So You Want To Play An Elemental

Lost society is comfortable with violence; indeed, no Freehold truly has the power to not choose violence. They live in a precarious position, beset by threats from the Hedge, by the Gentry, by privateers and loyalists, and sometimes even by mortals who are willing to resort to abuse to get what they want from the Lost. But those their peers know as Ogres are more comfortable than most. Exposed to violence, beaten and terrorized, Ogres faced a choice to make it stop: fight back, or hide. Now that they are back home, the trick they must learn is when to not fight.

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost, as well as Winter Masques and Swords at Dawn. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for depictions of torture, maiming, abuse, cannibalism, and dad jokes. 

Hurt People Hurt People - Ogre Overview

Ogre is the fifth Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost; it joins Darkling in being one of the two Seemings most defined by violence, and Elemental in having a relationship to Lost society that is greatly informed by their expected function. Ogre is a surprisingly strong and versatile Seeming, with great breadth of concept, which unfortunately has been consistently published in...a particular way. We’ll get into that later.

Ogres have a relationship to strength and violence whether they like it or not (and many don’t like it at all); before their abduction they may have been consumed by envy for the strength of others, or they may have already lived a life defined by violence or brutality. The rarest and most striking Ogres were neither, but volunteered for their fate in the place of someone else. Regardless of how they came to the attentions of the Fae, Ogres are infused with inhuman might and come to learn how to use violence, intimidation, assault, and brute force to get their way. To be an Ogre is to always understand that there’s a second solution to any problem you’re faced with. What you do about that, that’s on you.

Put Some Battles Back - Homecoming As An Ogre

Ogres remember Arcadia with greater clarity than their peers, a fact for which they are decidedly not grateful. Rare is the Ogre whose Keeper’s image is not seared into their memory, alongside blurred months or years of constant abuse, beatings, and brutality. Though some Ogres, like the Wizened, are deliberately transformed by the Fae - racked until their living bones stretched inside their torn flesh, glutted on meat torn from shapeshifting oozes, hollowed from the inside-out by origami beetles that left them hungry and haggard - most transform simply because of how they are treated and what they do to survive that treatment. A Water-Dweller was kept, chained at the neck, in the pool of the Languid Nymph and offered no food but what he could catch, until he had sharp fangs and glowing eyes. A Stonebones used to be a construction foreman, until King Kobold needed someone to be his foreman - his endless fight against the things that dwelled beneath the Arcadian rock turned him into an Ogre when his peers became Miners and Tunnelgrubs. In the high castle kept by the Lady of Diamonds, a lurking Corpsegrinder is born amidst Darklings: the Lady leaves many corpses in the course of her cruel work, and she demands that her floors remain spotless. However it happens, these Ogres are transformed in ways that are similar to other Seemings (especially Darklings), but colored by violence and deprivation, to which the Ogre responds by fighting back. That urge to hit back, to roar and struggle, is the core of the Ogre experience - simultaneously their greatest strength and greatest weakness.

There’s a certain industriousness, for lack of a better word, to many Ogre Durances. Certainly some are simply turned loose into the Arcadian wild, where they become the Fairest of Lands’ sick equivalent of a murderous cryptid (quite a few Farwalkers and Gristlegrinders are like this), but most Ogres are put to simple, rough work - moving mountains, operating a slaughterhouse, herding & subsistence farming, guarding doors, hunting oathbreakers, and the like. Many, perhaps even most, Ogres have a fairly stationary Durance, defined by unchanging routine. Those Ogres who survive this abuse by becoming part of those systems and thriving inside of them rarely escape; often, it can feel safer to be the king of shit mountain than it is to flee to somewhere else that may be worse, with people you do not know and rules that are strange to you.

To escape, Ogres must change their relationship to violence. It isn’t just a matter of fighting back, but of remembering a time when they did not have to fight, when they walked without fear and bargained with no axe to hand. An Ogre cannot abandon violence entirely, not just because it is part of their Wyrd (and thus soul) but because their escape means bursting chains of moonlight, breaking the bones of cunning captors, and battering down the orichalum doors that separate them from their home, but they must remember that violence is a tool meant to serve them rather than a way of life. Most Ogres that make it back home have a very good idea of who they are and what they want out of life, precisely because these are the anchors necessary to rise above their Durance.

Ogres are typically brought back home by a need to defend someone or avenge themselves upon that person (or both, depending). Like all Lost, special people and places form the memories bright enough to guide an Ogre back through the Hedge, but for Ogres the awareness that those they love could become victims of the Fae, of hobs, or even just of mortal society, weighs heavily on their mind. Most Ogres are not inclined to leave the safety of their loved ones in someone else’s hands, and quite frequently the first thing a newly-returned Ogre does is make a beeline directly for those people they cherished, only to learn a harsh lesson about their Fetch. What happens from there varies wildly, but rare is the Ogre who puts a lot of physical distance between themselves and those they came home for, even if they make the choice not to re-enter those people’s lives.

Onions Have Layers, Ogres Have - Ogre Kiths

Even the scrawniest Ogre can become stronger than they look; their ability to invest Glamour in Strength, Brawl, and Intimidate rolls means that Ogres can always fall back on force or intimidation in order to get their way (and to lift the heavy-ass furniture in their house to get a vacuum under it, but I digress). This forms somewhat of a problem in terms of early coping once they make it back to the Iron Lands; falling back on intimidation to get your way makes sense when you’re confronted in a dark alley at 3 in the morning, but it’s not the ideal way to handle learning that your server at McDonald’s forgot your sauce. Still, this access to force means that Ogres often fall naturally into filling their Freehold’s need for violence, a need all Freeholds have. Having an early and easy place to belong can be a help for an Ogre’s integration into their new society, but it can also be a hidden weight; often, in their thirst for soldiers, Freeholds leave behind other talents their Ogre citizens might have. An Ogre that used to be a civil engineer, an quartermaster for the Army, a librarian, or even a technical boy still has those talents - talents that can be rarely found in-house amongst the Lost.

Where the common weakness of Wizened is often overlooked or misinterpreted as willful rudeness, the mystical flaws of Ogres are as famous as their strengths. Ogres, to put it bluntly, have problems with emotional control that go above and beyond other Lost; their penalty to Composure makes them vulnerable not just to social manipulation and magical attacks on their emotions, but also means that Ogres have problems concealing their feelings even when they’d like to. How this manifests in your game can be...complicated. nWoD never really had an okay relationship with social skills, which are quite often run as a sort of mind control; make the roll, person does what you want. This is...bad...but replacing it is tricky (we’ll get more into this later). Either way, this means that Ogres can often get a reputation for being gullible, stupid, violent, and/or horny on main depending on how those around them choose to both needle and interpret their vulnerable emotions, and while an enraged Ogre can certainly choose to, say, leave the room instead of start a fight, the fact of the matter is that everyone sees them losing their cool first.

How Ogres cope with this varies. Some, uncomfortable with social situations to begin with, adopt a gruff persona - after all, you can’t lose social games that you refuse to play. Others lean in, cultivating a reputation for forthright honesty that, in a society as riddled with trust issues as that of the Lost, helps dispel some of the intimidating air that stalks Ogres. A few, generally those whose life is spiraling out of their control or who are under great stress, instead embrace violence and fear and relate to everyone else by hitting first and asking questions later, or never. However, even the friendliest Ogre never quite shakes the habits of wariness and caution when others are opening their mouths; for too many, letting disrespect slide was a sign of weakness that could get them hurt in Arcadia, and for almost all of them the manipulations of others have left them understandably leery of being used up and thrown away.

Ogre Kiths generally embody forms of violence; they reflect the abuse the Ogre suffered through, but also the strengths that Ogre learned in fighting back against said abuse. The industriousness of Ogre Durances means that for most, their Kith is the result of the fae labors they undertook, but unlike Wizened or Elementals few Ogres were deliberately transformed to suit such labors: rather, those who were incapable of transforming often died instead, and the voices of those who never made it back may yet haunt a given Ogre’s dreams. Regardless of Kith, Ogres show remarkable solidarity with one another; all other things being equal, an Ogre is more likely to turn to another Ogre for advice, help, or shelter than a member of another Seeming, because their common bonds make such a request feel like less of an admission of weakness.

Some thoughts on the individual Ogre Kiths follow:

Cyclopean - Cyclopean’s hard mechanical effect - 8-again on perception rolls - is an absolute workhorse of a bonus applicable in an incredible amount of situations, and as Kiths go it’s worth taking for that alone. However, Cyclopean also gets the power to smell things that are not, strictly, scents; the regretful heart of a widow, the blood of an Englishman, the sharp-sweet scent of fear-that-is-ended, and more. Even White Wolf seems to have realized they made this part of the Blessing a bit overly broad (you can see it get an entire sidebar in Winter Masques), but I would encourage you to resist the urge to restrain it. Though this potentially has overlap with several Contracts (the entire Fleeting line and Spellbound Autumn, for starters), one’s choice of Kith is rather fucking expensive, and even running Cyclopean generously neither wholly replaces the Clauses in question nor precludes your character from using them in combination to learn even more.

Farwalker - Ogre does Darkling, and a favorite of furries who don’t see Beast and immediately lose their goddamn minds. Farwalker is rarely a bad choice; it’s got a powerful and straightforward bonus that comes with a free reroll and is applicable in many environments, and for the most part it’s what it says on the tin. Farwalker is also a great choice to Dual Kith in-house to make a more violent concept into a stalking predator.

Gargantuan - I have two questions for you: do you like being lorg, and do you know what being lorg actually does? Because White Wolf sure the fuck did not. The hard mechanical effect of Gargantuan is to increase your Size by your Wyrd, then deal 1 Lethal to you when you go back to normal size. This has numerous problems; first, while you get additional Health (because you lorg), any damage you take that goes over your normal max ‘crushes’ into your usual health bar, immediately stacking with the extant damage; turning back to normal may well kill you on its own. And that’s it, that’s the whole effect as of Lost 1e RAW. Which seems weird, right? White Wolf seemed to think a whole +1 Size was worth FOUR FUCKING DOTS of Merits (Giant Size, World of Darkness core), but Size doesn’t actually...fucking...do anything. Melee combat doesn’t represent any increased reach or advantage through Size, as would be the case in real life; you can’t apply your Strength in bigger or better ways based on your Size (so your Gargantuan can’t more easily lift or shift heavy weights or carry more friends on her back). Having greater Size doesn’t help you in grapples (and even if it did the grapple rules in this system don’t work). So what’s it for? White Wolf writes like Size does all these things, but it just...doesn’t, and I cannot suggest this Kith in good conscience given that situation. It’s a shame, as Gargantuan is otherwise full of fascinating thematic and personal potential; it’s rife with the potential to explore why abused people in a new situation might consider going back to an abusive one where they understood the rules and felt as if they had power. But it just. It just sucks so much. Don’t take this Kith.

Gristlegrinder - Gristlegrinders are your cannibals, your hungry demons, and the like. Unfortunately this is another useless Kith; gotta grapple to bite, or you could do literally anything else because FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS GRAPPLE IN WORLD OF FUCKING DARKNESS. White Wolf wrote a lot of narrative about Gristlegrinders being able to take bites out of furniture, chomp through walls, and digest solid metal, but guess what didn’t make it into the Kith’s mechanics and therefore doesn’t exist? I’m not sure where to start on fixing this, because letting them bite without grapple makes them strictly better than Hunterheart and the new home for melee optimization, but letting them eat objects might not be enough in itself.

Stonebones - Ogre does Elemental But Better. Stonebones are your rock trolls and their kin, but their blessing of Obdurate Skin can also be used to represent mystical invulnerability (think about Grendle in Beowulf), thick fur or hide that grows to protect the Ogre, or even implanted force fields for those Grays-inspired Lost. Stonebones’ Blessing isn’t the greatest at first (when it’s a 1-1 trade between Armor and Defense) but it scales rapidly with Wyrd, quickly becoming one of the most powerful defensive tools in the game second only to five-dot Contracts that turn you fucking ethereal.

Water-Dweller - This one’s interesting, but like the other water Kiths I’ve talked about it’s very specialized. The power to Lie Under Waves means you can do a lot of water stuff without having to invest in specialized abilities, but honestly you’ll probably still want to Dual Kith into Swimmerskin for the swim speed. If your campaign is good for a water concept, this is a good Kith. If it’s not, it isn’t.

Bloodbrute - Bloodbrute is Fine(tm). It doesn’t speak to a lot of folklore, but it slots in well with urban legends, slasher horror, and the like. Mechanically, Improvised Mayhem is strictly worse than just having Lethal Mien or being a Hunterheart or Razorhand, but it works fine enough and has some interesting creative uses with a generous storyteller.

Corpsegrinder  - The secret errata for Gristlegrinder; Corpsegrinders are also cannibals, corpse-eaters, and predators, but their Kith Blessing actually works. It’s not the greatest, but it’ll happen in most fights and it’s extra spicy if your campaign is thematic for a Corpsegrinder character. Do you want to be Goth, but also Lorg? Here you go.

Render - No Kith quite captures the themes of industriousness in Ogre like Renders do. Renders may have been overseers of Wizened slaves, or you could use them to represent the sort of things Gristlegrinder is sold to do but can’t; eating walls, slurping up noodles made from bicycle parts, and the like. Mechanically, Render is Fine(tm) but most of what you’d use Render for you can cover with Contracts of Stone already, and as an Ogre you’re running Stone or you’re wrong.

Witchtooth - Half of this Kith’s blessing doesn’t work. Witchtooth is for representing ogrish sorcerers; cannibal witches like Baba Yaga, fearsome wizards like Koschei the Deathless, Grendle’s mother (who knew secrets of sorcery she shared with her son) or Utgard-Loki, and the like. The bonus to Occult rolls is cool and legit, but the Contract bonus does literally nothing. Now, for me one thematic element that links these stories are the magical tools these Ogrish witches use, so I’d personally suggest adding a thing that mimics or even just does what Spellbound Autumn does and let Witchtooths divine the functions of items of Wyrd with some time and maybe Occult rolls; a powerful but ultimately still mystical bonus that is not easily replicated out-of-house.

Troll - “Oh damn, Vox is doing a culture Kith,” you say. “Did he finally remember that chapter of Winter Masques exists?” Well you see, I never forgot, but Troll is the only one I’m going to bring up because the others fucking suck so instead of doing an entire-ass entry for each article about a bunch of sloppy cultural appropriation that doesn’t have the decency to even be mechanically viable we’re gonna bring up the only one that’s both good and respectful and then MOVE ON WITH OUR LIVES. Troll! It’s Ogre Does Fairest, but in a distinctly Ogrish way; adding your Strength dots to Manipulation rolls for a Glamour lets Trolls “flex” their social skills the way other Ogres flex their awesome might, which is both a powerful tool and a genuinely interesting dynamic. Trolls are great for riddling giants, sneaky predators, retained guards who test intruders who would enter their castles, and the like. I’ve got a lot of love for this Kith and it should have been baseline.

Incel Propaganda And Other Reasons To Hate White Wolf - Lost’s Canon Ogres

I need to preface this section in particular, and its later companion section in the Fairest article, that this is nothing to do with Lost 2e and the writers at Onyx Path. They’ve been doing phenomenal work with the gameline thus far and have not really exhibited the problems I’m about to describe; this is definitely a product of Lost 1e and more broadly of the vile management that White Wolf employed before Daddy Paradox banished them to the shadow realm over that whole Vampire fiasco, finally ridding our hobby of their evil at long fucking last.

That said, let’s get the fuck into it.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one: an evil, manipulative woman uses her feminine wiles and the tempting but eternally withheld reward of Sex With A Real Person to manipulate a Nice Guy into doing her bidding, whom she Strings Along and Teases to keep subservient to her, only to throw him away with Cruel Indifference once he has done something sufficiently awful so as to render him useless.

Welcome to Ogres as depicted in Changeling: the Lost, not just once but multiple times per supplement. Frequently Ogres are depicted in relationships of various kinds with Fairest, and these relationships consistently reinforce toxic stereotypes about men of color, bears, and butch lesbians, as well as a reductionist view of hetero relationships that lines up almost exactly with incel propaganda and transphobic rhetoric. To be clear, all of the canon depictions are heterosexual and white; what I mean by this statement is that attempting to queer the presented dynamic only makes it worse, not better. Ogres are framed as violent brutes out of control of their own actions and behavior, who are dangerous to the fragile flowers in their lives, whilst simultaneously being the innocent Nice Guys who are victimized by promises of love or sex that will be eternally withheld.

This is, needless to say, some fucking horse shit. And yet we see this over and over again, male Ogres victimized or traumatized by women specifically; Bert’s subservience to Damiana (Autumn Nightmares), who lies to him to keep him in her life. Long-Tooth Tom (Night Horrors: Grim Fears), who lost his mind when he came home to find his daughter gone, Violent (Dancers In The Dusk), who is literally mind controlled by magic titties (no really. No, really), and my personal favorite, the dude from the opener to Goblin Markets who paid Liz Malloy to force someone to love him, then brutalizes Liz when she didn’t do it exactly as he wanted. The only Ogre relationship not characterized this way is in The Rose Bride’s Plight, and it is the only good part of that otherwise godawful adventure; the relationship there is genuinely loving and loyal, and motivates the plot.

Taking that a step further, we only really ‘see’ two female Ogres with names in the game’s run. The first is the Warhawk in core, a classical Stonebones (tall, broad, muscular) running a shell game with her identity in order to prosecute open war against Arcadia. The second is Angel, from Winter Masques, who is rather more classically feminine than the Warhawk, with a djinni-like Mien, but is also framed for the entirety of her only appearance as an object of desire on the part of the narrator.

You can begin to grasp the problem.

So, what do you do about this at your table? I’d argue that the coding of Ogres is going to be unavoidable unless you’re reading this article in a future where we’ve solved our gender problems, in which case ah, hi archaeologists, I hope this has been fucking helpful. But under the assumption that you’re trying to enjoy Lost 1e here in The Year Of Our Lord Two Thousand And Twenty, I’d suggest that instead of trying to duck or avoid this coding, you take a two-step approach; leaning in (showing the positive sides of the Ogre experience and making and portraying Ogres with nuance), and providing folks of other Seemings that have similar coding or are just explicitly the things Ogre is an allusion to. If you’re the Storyteller of your campaign (or the author of a fic, like myself), hit us with femme Ogres with butch Fairest or Wizened girlfriends. Show your players Winter Ogres who keep their desires close to the chest and conscientiously work for the good of others; drop a trans Ogre into the mix (a Corpsegrinder lass, perhaps, who caught the eye of a Spring chef that likes adventurous palettes).

As a player, well, there’s not much I can say besides don’t be a dick. The beauty and power of Lost is about being able to explore your own experiences and if you’ve chosen Ogre to do that then you’re gonna be a better judge of that than I am. I’ve laid out the traps in the writing for you to be aware of.

More on the Ogre/Fairest dynamic will appear in the Fairest article; for now, we move on to...

Now I’m A Believer - Ogres In The Courts

All Freeholds have an existential need to enact violence, and most assume, rightly or wrongly, that a new Ogre arrival will help them fulfill that need; even the most peaceful and isolationist Freehold lives in fear of the True Fae, to say nothing of marauding hobgoblins, the threat of privateers, and dream-demons. More typical Freeholds not only take pro-active action against such threats, but may have to engage in violence in the mortal world as well; Summer spends its time beating the shit out of abusers and predators, and the Freehold as a whole might compete with more mundane criminal interests for resources, specialized skill sets, or access to local government. Even an Ogre seemingly disinclined to violence (an extraordinary rarity) will generally get lumped into a sort of ‘manual labor’ role without a lot of thought on the part of Freehold leadership a lot of the time; after all, things need to get built up, torn down, placed in high spots, or remodeled, yeah? Ogres are good at that!

Ogres tend to be of the opinion that they get the worst of the magical racism to which the Lost can be prone, and honestly, they’re not wrong about that.

As alluded to earlier, this unthinking habit leads a lot of Freeholds to misuse or neglect the skill sets their Ogres might have; some of the worst never bother to ask or find out what those skills are in the first place. Often, though, they misuse violence too; Ogres have a keen awareness of what it means to threaten violence, to enact it, and to perform it, and when to do each one. Your average Ogre engages in serious, for-real violence against other Lost or mortals pretty rarely, because Ogres understand that violence is a tool that can get them what they want - but not if they beat a man so badly that he can no longer give it to them. And that’s not even mentioning the way that threatening people any time you want something from them tends to make relationships with them much less friendly. These truths, combined, mean that any given Ogre is resorting to violence to fulfill a very specific and actionable need, and once that need is fulfilled the violence will stop like a switch has been flipped.

In terms of how Ogres relate to their Courts, they often hope for high ideals, but expect cynical realpolitik. The reality is often not quite either, but from the perspective of the Ogre it certainly feels like realpolitik a lot; when you’re the guy they call to beat someone, break something, lift something else, or haul something out of a ditch all the time, it’s easy to start thinking that’s all the folks you work for want or need done. For many Ogres, who struggle with their self-image and with guilt over what they’ve done and become to survive, the promise of healing and high ideals is something precious that they both must have and must hide, lest it turn out to be false - or worse, true and then stolen from them by some new tormentor. the attempt to hide their needs rarely works, but most other Lost politely pretend that it does for the sake of their Ogre friends.

Spring - Like most Lost, Ogres tend to be late joiners of Spring, and as a Seeming they do tend to be somewhat underrepresented in the Antler Crown. While there’s some truth to the idea that Ogres end up in Spring due to the Lost equivalent of thirst following, or because they have friends in Spring and they want to be closer to those friends, these are mainly the rare Ogres who are early adopters; more typically, an Ogre joins Spring looking for the renewal it can offer, after they’ve had the chance to come to terms with their trauma. It’s not a decision made lightly, as Ogres understand full well that in joining Spring they enter an arena in which they are highly vulnerable, but for those who embrace the promise of Spring and can learn the game, Ogres can exemplify the relationship between Spring and Autumn, learning how to ‘threaten’ others by withholding that which they Desire, implying that others might take it instead, and sowing doubt and fear of what those close to you might really want, need or feel. Once they do join, Ogres often go quite far in Spring.

Summer - The Iron Spear is a Court that Ogres often join early on, and it has a lot to offer them; a positive outlet for their new skill set, advice on coping with anger and loss, a knightly ideal to live up to, and a brotherhood worthy of trust. That said, Ogres can be somewhat more vulnerable to the toxic aspects of Summer, and can indeed flock to toxic Summers for the promise of strength and all the luxuries that unfettered strength can provide them. On the whole, though, Ogres that join Summer are often looking to protect others, and are shining examples of the Iron Spear’s ideals gone right, both as works in progress and as veteran members with the chance to heal.

Autumn - Ogres are often considered ‘natural’ Autumn joiners, partially because they can excel there (violence is scary, and the Ogrish propensity for the Intimidate skill serves them well in the Leaden Mirror), and partially because other people are scared of Ogres and assume they belong with the spooky Court. Ogres who join Autumn are often those who don’t want to - or deliberately decide not to - change the survival tactics they learned in Arcadia. Cannibalistic Corpsegrinders and murderous Water-Dwellers get a lot of press as Autumn Ogres, but folks such as Farwalkers, Stonebones, and Trolls are actually far more common; such Ogres are defined by their own personal fears, and they seek the promise of Autumn to learn how to respond to their terror with a sense of proportion. That same promise speaks to Ogres more readily and more clearly than that of Spring; the promise of rebirth can feel like a distant fantasy, but a more controlled monster? One who scares only those they want to scare? That’s a lot more immediate and real. In Autumn, the thoughtless prejudice of other Lost serves the Leaden Mirror’s Ogres in good stead; few anticipate a seven-foot Stonebones who can rip an engine block in half with his bare hands instead attacking them in their dreams or subverting their fragile Pledges.

Winter - Winter is a relatively rare choice for Ogres, and Ogres are among those Seemings least likely to sign on for an early stint and least likely to stay even if they do. Those who do drift towards the Silent Arrow do so for the promise of a new life built on their own terms, and because Winter’s openly transactional nature is a way for them to control the terms on which they deal with their new fellows and new society. Many Ogres are, after all, out of practice in the arts of handling Other People, and even more are justifiably wary of being tricked or manipulated into their own ruin, and Winter’s openly mercenary culture and habits of silence can be an immense comfort in terms of those fears. Ogres in Winter tend to flourish in roles like the Sun Banisher or Archers of the Lonely March; positions in which their physicality can meet Winter’s firm insistence on stealth and come out on top.

Blood On My Name - Ogres And Changeling’s Themes

No Seeming embodies the inevitability of violence in the life of the Lost the way Ogres do; not just in that Ogres are primed to look for and directly combat the many ways in which Freeholds live under siege, but in the way that Ogres embody that all abuse is, in itself, a form of violence. Fittingly for the Seeming, Ogre is not subtle about the kind of trauma it’s meant to embody, and the books go into quite a bit of it; even before becoming Lost, Ogres may have been the victims of child abuse, athletes pushed to break their bodies only to be discarded by those who claimed to love them, poor citizens forced into violence and crime to survive, or those scarred by trying to protect the victims of any of the above. Together with Darkling, Ogre is part of the so-called ‘Prison Duo’ as well; the two Seemings best primed to represent the horrors of for-profit prison and other forms of abuse disguised as justice. That the Fairest of Lands so often reflects abuse they already knew in life is a throughline that is not lost on those who survive to return to human lives they may well have hated. To cope with their abuse, and to survive it, Ogres learn violence and practice it. For many, that means learning to prey on those smaller, weaker, or slower than they are, and coming back knowing that you’ve become the kind of person who does that.

A wise friend of mine once described PTSD - a condition she copes with herself - as having your pattern recognition stuck on recognizing fucked-up shit, and this is the reality that Ogres face. ‘Raised’ amidst violent environments in which small gestures are signs of threat, attack, or danger, Ogres face the challenge of adapting to a human society in which many of those same gestures can be much more innocuous or in which violence is not an acceptable answer. In Arcadia, if someone is shouting at the Ogre and putting him down, the answer is to hit first, hit hard, and keep hitting until they submit; on Earth, that sorta thing is generally called battery and it’s going to get you into trouble. That human society frames such reactions as evil, monstrous, malevolent, feeds into the self-worth problems that plague Ogres; so many see themselves as having turned into monsters to survive, and feel crippling guilt over their ‘monstrous’ thoughts, fears, and skills.

But they’re not monsters. They’re just people, whose coping mechanisms have become at least partly (but not wholly) maladaptive. The struggle that Ogres go through in learning to tell the difference between violence that is necessary, just, and righteous, versus violence to soothe the howling terror in their minds, reflects the struggle of far too many real-life people who had to learn violence to get out of their own situations alive. That many Ogres remain in violence as a profession has its own grim parallels as well, but it’s not all bad news; marginalized groups do need people that are good at kicking shit in and de-escalating violent conflict, and Ogres are very good at being those people, if they want to be.

Just as Elementals are not wholly defined by their magic (see this section in So You Want To Play An Elemental), so too should your Ogres not solely be defined by violence. Think about the things that comfort or soothe your Ogre characters, about the other skills in which they take pride or practice, and especially in how they cope (or fail to cope) with their intense emotions. Gluttony is a famously Ogrish vice (and alcoholism definitely beckons for many who structure a life around violence), but there are many other possibilities. One Ogre joins with Summer, looking to become a great enough hero to ‘atone’ for her crimes in Arcadia; another signs on with Spring, basking in the gratitude and intimacy of the more fragile Courtiers he protects. Does a peaceful and meditative pursuit like bonsai or painting suit your Ogre? What about the opposite; athletics, videogaming, or drag racing? Even the grimmest and most failed Ogre does something for fun besides just Being An Ogre.

WHAT! ARE YOU DOING! IN MY SWAMP!? - Coping as an Ogre

Ogres join Wizened and Darklings in having a great concern for their immediate environment; their fears revolve around their personal sanctity and safety, and establishing that feeling for themselves is paramount in coping with their day-to-day lives. All other things being equal, Ogres generally prefer to own their own homes rather than live with others or in a group environment such as an apartment or condominium. Some of that is just that other people can’t threaten you if they’re not around, but in large part it’s actually practical; many Ogres are, to put it scientifically, swole as fuck and need to be able to make modifications to their home in order to actually live inside of it. Those with the privilege to be invited as a guest to an Ogre’s home may notice that the decoration, regardless of other elements of the Ogre’s style (which might be spartan, artistic, colorful or bleak, or anything else that reflects its resident), the home has a lot of open space and clear paths of travel. It may be lacking in furniture such as coffee tables, and its shelves, desks, and kitchen tables will generally be up against the wall, out of the way of the owner and any guests. This is because an Ogre’s first line of defense in trouble is generally the Ogre; those who break into the home or attempt to attack an Ogre in their place of power find out quickly that there is nowhere to run or hide.

Like Beasts, Ogres often extend this sense of territoriality over the area around their home, but this manifests in markedly different ways. Ogres generally want to at least meet their neighbors in person, and even the gruffest and most retiring Ogre will introduce themself to ‘their’ people, offer contact information (in case of trouble), and make some neighborly gesture. This lets the Ogre size up their neighbors and also make it clear that they can be turned to if they’re in need of help. Woe betide anyone fucking with an Ogre’s neighborhood; even if an Ogre genuinely hates all of their neighbors and wishes them ill, robbing the house at the end of the street is going to turn on the Ogre’s ‘fight’ response and you’re gonna find yourself hauled out of the window you’re climbing into and getting your shit kicked.

Once they’re settled in, Ogres - ironically much like Fairest - tend to define the arc of their lives in Lost society in terms of friends defended, accolades earned, and glory gained. Many have a strong urge to earn their keep, and even for those that don’t the praise of their peers tells them that they are valuable, loved, and accepted amongst their own. Ogres often make friends with Wizened and Darklings, who share similar problems in Lost society to them and whose own strengths and weaknesses compliment those of the Ogre. It is not necessarily uncommon to find an Ogre playing telephone between two Lost whose anxieties keep them from talking to each other directly, and in this sense Ogres can also earn their way as unsung diplomats; a party trusted for their guilelessness and honesty as much as for their feats of strength. Of course, any given Ogre is often as socially awkward as the people they’re helping, but in some cases that’s an advantage; it makes them feel more trustworthy in comparison to fast-talking Beasts or silver-tongued Fairest.

Example Ogre - Trista Blossoms, Spring Troll

Trista Blossoms serves her Spring Court and her Freehold as its Sage Escort; she councils Lost young and old on matters of romance, sexuality, identity, and relationships of all kinds. Trista rather famously used to serve in Summer as the Sun’s Tongue before unexpectedly defecting to Spring in a scandalous move that probably would have been a much smaller deal if not for Spring’s incessant thirst for drama. More than a year of speculation buzzed around the Troll’s ‘betrayal’, until it all came out at the Spring Revel; Trista had joined Spring seeking the heart of one Clockwork Claire, an Artist serving the Emerald Crown, and professed her love in front of God and everybody - only to learn that Claire was straight as an arrow.

It didn’t really go down how anyone expected. In that moment, Tristra learned that her love - even unrequited - had motivated her to become and live as her best self. She remains very close friends with Claire to this day, and a darling of the Freehold’s lesbian community. She’s even smoothing things over with Summer now that all of the cards have been laid on the table, as it were, and working hard to help her fellow Ogres deal with their shit when they make it back home. It’s a good life, and Trista Blossom’s having a good time living it.

Next up: Darklings

[rassilon-imprimatur]

The Book of the Ceasefires: The Eighth Man Bound, Introduction

This is not a straightforward chronology.

I don’t think it ever could be, really. I think historians as a whole need to forgo the idea of ever tying a Houseworlder to the concept of a “straight line.” It’s easy to make a simple timeline when they remain in their dark Cloisters on Gallifrey, certainly, where they gather dust by the inch and putter around like cardinals and clerics in a jade Vatican. But Gallifrey is a stagnant world of tradition and memory for a reason, and I think it’s more for the universe’s protection than anything else. Remember, the Houseworlders are not people. Sure, your typical Earthperson would only see the clumsy collars, the wrinkles, wizened hands clasping at ancient relics as they spout ancient protocols like Gospel, but that’s because human beings can only see three dimensions. When you look at a Time Lord, you’re only seeing as much as your brain can process.

I’m not implying that Gallifreyans are some sort of eldritch abominations, all tentacles and pinchers, drifting in the upper dimensions of reality. They’re subtler than that. They are, however, forces of nature, albeit sewn into the bodies of dusty mathematicians, philosophers, and librarians. They are beacons in Time. More than that, they are its architects. They anchored their laws and their will into the very fabric of creation. What we process as Time, the ever changing face on a clock, the ticking of seconds, minutes, hours, years, is the handiwork of Gallifrey. [1]

On their own planet, they may be inactive, all tedium and tradition, but they should not be viewed as the decaying relics of an old order. Instead, think of them as dormant. They are dammed up rivers, or thick clouds, fat and grey with the promise of thunder and lightning. They are brewing storms that could rewrite a textbook merely by disagreeing with it. The universe is perhaps at its safest when the Lords are in their glass castle, Time and Space free to shift, flow, alternate. It’s when they stand in the midst of the quantum foam that it has the potential to solidify, become ice of probability, and then the cold stone of certainty, an island of definition that forces possibles and maybes to part, to ripple, flow in numerous directions.

A known Houseworlder Renegade, self titled Marnal, said it best in his reiteration of the first Law of Time (written in his 1976 novel The Hand of Time):

There was structure, the universe was a web made not of spider’s silk but of space and time. But in such a cosmos, one of fluxing quad-dimensionality, who was to say what was cause and what was effect? Even the newly woven children of his world understood the solution to that solemn inquiry: there was no history, don’t you see, only established history. Time was an ocean of broth, rich in elements and possibilities. Observations could be made to spot trends and to predict, for the oceans of time were subject to the laws of temporal mechanics. But these were projections of reality, not the re- ality itself as long as the Lords of Time remained in their Citadel, merely watching. Yet, if a single one among them were to cease observation and to step out into the universe, they would freeze time wheresoever their feet touched the ground, wheresoever they drew breath from the atmosphere. At that moment, their mere presence would change time, from a fluid to a solid thing. If one of the Lords of Time but glanced into the night’s sky, the stars would become true in the instant they were seen, and thence back for every picosecond of the ten thousand years of the stars’ photons’ jour- ney. When a time-traveller swam in this ocean, it solidified around them, crystallised, became transmuted into that which could never change. And so was written the most sacred law of all – for even the softest touch of a Lord of Time could condemn a man to existence or nonexistence, bring empires into being and destine them to ruin, and blot out the sky or fill it with heavenly radiance. Observe. Never interfere.

A Time Lord cut off from the Homeworld, either by choice or exile, can be a very dangerous thing. They can also be a very confusing thing to document.

The Doctor, known Time Lord renegade (and perhaps the most infamous renegade, next to the Master) is no stranger to the notable temporal tangles caused by his reckless travels through history. His exile to late 20th century Earth is a prominent example, his presence and activities seemingly having combed the 1970s and 1980s into a conflicting mass of a single decade (a dating controversy many Earth experts are still bickering over). However, the Doctor’s life is incredibly hard to document once he enters the shadow of the War.

Many theorists and historians (this author included) have tried fitting the life (lives?) of the eighth incarnation of the Doctor into a single timeline. However, recent discoveries and analyses have led me to, instead, embrace the impossible contradictions, and see that the branches and alternate paths of this incarnation can still be connected. The life and times of the Eighth Doctor can be nothing but contradictions. This was an incarnation of temporal orbits, paradoxes, rewrites, and biodata shifting, who not only crossed the War, but two iterations of it. [2]

A note regarding this chronology... 

It is understood that Time Lords are immune to the memory lapses expected with having one’s history rewritten. While there are (several) clear, documented cases of the Eighth Doctor experiencing amnesia, it can be assumed that many of the diverging paths, some of which led to completely separate Ninth incarnations, are not guaranteed divergences in memory.

This author would also like to make clear that the universe is a sprawling, ridiculous, messy place. Oxbow realities, parallel timelines, alternate dimensions, and bottle universe are just as real and genuine as ours to the people living in them. At no point does this author attempt to make an assertion that any of these realities, all linked by the same Doctor, are more “real” than the others.

[1] It has long been speculated that there would be some sort of chronological dimension without the “Time” decreed by the Time Lords. The little information gleaned regarding other dimensions such as the Divergent Universe certainly show that, without the presence of what certain Time Lords call the “universe of Time,” lesser species can still force the quantum muck into an adequate, if hazy, definition of cause and effect (however, as the only lesser species known to have experienced this sort of environment are known companions of the Doctor, it is unclear how much of this was due to the holding influence of a timeship).

[2] Technically speaking, the eighth Doctor is not the first incarnation to have encountered a time war. Ignoring the implications that the Doctor’s link to the Other creates (regarding the Time Wars at the beginning of Gallifrey’s history), the Doctor has either brushed against or been caught in several temporal conflicts. The Fourth and Fifth incarnations became tangled in Melanicus’ Millennium Wars, while the Sixth experienced the aftermath of the Millennium War of Bophemeral (which are more than likely linked to the former event anyway… it is possible that Melanicus’ symphony of war continued to race down the strands of history after he was killed and the Event Synthesizer’s function restored).

The Seventh Doctor was destined to, in some form or manner, take part in a conflict that eventually destroyed Gallifrey and left only a select few Time Lords in the universe. However, this was the timeline that followed the Sixth Doctor’s original regeneration into Time’s Champion and a true “God of the Fourth.” The Seventh Doctor, in this timeline, had powers and abilities beyond the normal capabilities of a Time Lord, as did the few survivors. This timeline, and the mysterious conflict, was unwritten when the Sixth Doctor replaced his regeneration with another, similar but different, version.

To come... 

The Eighth Man Bound, Part One: Now Unto War 

The Eighth Man Bound, Part Two: The Last Contact 

The Eighth Man Bound, Part Three: Journey to the Needle 

The Eighth Man Bound, Part Four: The Gallifrey of Charlotte Pollard 

The Eighth Man Bound, Part Five: The Ninth Doctors