#they are in some semblence of the word speaking

[radios-arcade]

things i learned from my trip -the place i went had no hills. this was unsettling because then where do the earth giants sleep -it did have funky little diners. this was the opposite of unsettling and i got bomb waffles there -golf carts

[brick-van-dyke]

A little ramble about Socialist Alternative, leftist radicalisation and privilege. Mostly a vent of sorts so it's going to be messy.

//TW: mentions of suicidal thoughts, effects of capitalism on mental health and physical health, mentions of systematic abuse and oppression, etc.

"What radicalised you?"

If you're familiar with Australian leftist politics or just been to an Australian university, you've probably heard this line from Socialist Alternative at some point, particularly if you're a young leftist. At first, I personally didn't know how to answer this, but now? Now I do:

That's the wrong question, it's not about what radicalised me, it's about when I realised I wasn't allowed to exist. I think my main distrust of socialist alternative can be drawn here, as much as I respect their activism (as much as I don't like certain other parts of it and the organisation itself because of how it functions and is set up, among other things) and how they've helped the movements around me grow, I don't like their ethics because it always centres on feeling in the right when, honestly, that isn't what this fight was ever about. It's not simply about what pushes people to some realisation that capitalism isn't working, for many of us, it's about realising when we noticed that we were broken clogs that would always be discarded; realising that we wouldn't even live past 30 in a system that sees us as faulty parts and that'll end with us either starving to death or choosing to kill ourselves to have some semblance of control in a system that is so damning that it actively tries to kill us. And no I'm not even exaggerating, especially when it comes to disability and generally most marginalised groups. It's actively hostile to people like us.

This is taking out one strong example for myself here, but I just feel like every interaction has had an undertone of not really understanding the gravity of what's at stake on an individual level. I think, like Marx, they really don't have anything to lose but their chains, but for the rest of us? We have our lives, something I think others just can't quite comprehend here when I say being anti capitalist isn't a political choice, it's a matter of life or death because here just isn't any other option in order to survive. Don't get me wrong, I agree with Marx on many things, but I do think there's a difference between able bodies, white, middle class activism because capitalism is uncomfortable compared to when you're a minority that's doing this to be allowed to exist, and specifically I think there's a powerful element of privilege that's ignored, especially in the case of socialist alternative. Again, I respect their activism, but this dynamic of power and push being from a white, abled and middle to upper class lens (yes there are people who are minorities within the org, but they don't hold power and much say imo) has led to, in my view, a distorted sense of reality and, more pressingly, policy and vision that is about saving the working class rather than making a world where labour isn't a price you have to pay in order to be allowed to exist. It's not just the exploitation of the working class, though that's a huge part of it, it's also how hostile this system is to people who can't be used; who can't work or who are seen as dirty or wrong for trying to.

So when asked "so, what radicalised you?" I can only really think to reply with "when I realised that wanting to die wasn't my fault, but the people around me that convinced me that my lack of ability to produce is somehow my fault and that I somehow don't deserve basic survival". Because that's the reality and I think, at least with the SAlt members I've spoken to, that isn't something that's really understood; the gravity of this situation on a personal level and that it's not as simple as doing something to make yourself feel good or to have a moment of pride, sometimes (or oftentimes) it's literally survival.

Most of all, I think what cements this for me is the reply I get to when I've asked (genuinely and in good faith) about allegations about their internal environment being "toxic" and "cult like" and, as I explained to them, this is from many different people from different friend groups who all don't know each other but have had he same experiences:

"They're just jealous of us and our activism."

But jealous of what? In a fight for survival, none of us have the opportunity to feel jealous over how it's done because this isn't about feeling a bit better, it's about being allowed to exist. I think this really is what made me realise that this isn't about the right to live for them, but the ability to feel good for fighting on the behalf of people like me and my friends. And, to me, that's something to have healthy caution over when pity is how people have tried to control minorities in the past, and in my own personal experience.

[mythicglyphs]

I published my first fanfic! Marrow of Despair, a Raphael x Tav oneshot.

Read on AO3 (Link)

Summary: Alone by the fire at night, fevered and weak, Tav is afraid she is on the verge of transformation. Raphael's appearance seems to confirm her worst fears, but perhaps the devil has other reasons for paying her a visit.

The fire was low. Tav was frozen to the bones.

It was already cold for a summer night and the others had retreated to their tents early. For the last few hours, she had been in the grip of a sickening chill. She shivered uncontrollably. Every gust of wind made her feel as though icy tendrils were creeping across her skin. She could hardly think straight. Amidst the dizziness and the pounding in her head, one question was pressing itself to the forefront of her mind.

Is this it?

The splitting headache, the chill, the delirium that seemed to be filling her head with white mist. That was how it began, wasn't it? There was sickness, fever, gut-wrenching pain...and then dissolution. The total loss of self, the reformation into something new. Something soulless.

She should tell the others.

But then what? What if it was happening to them too, and they were all in their tents, consumed by the same cold terror as she was? Or what if she was the only one? Would they protect her, insist that they keep up the search for a cure until the very end, or would they simply kill her? Would she let them? She didn't know whether it was hope, or simply the animal instinct for self preservation, that kept her from calling out for her companions. Visions of what would happen to them if she transformed right there in camp began to bloom in her imagination, and fear and guilt ate at her.

Her head thudded. She was so weak. She thought she could feel the squirm of the parasite behind her eye, and her stomach turned over.

Don't let this be it. Please, don't let this be it. I'll do anything.

As soon as the thought had flittered across her mind, there was a strange crackle in the air, followed by the faint scent of something burning. Then, a familiar voice.

"My, what a pitiful sight."

Her heart turned ice cold.

Of course, he would show up now. There could be no doubt now. All hope was gone, and true to his word, he was there. Her last remaining choice.

She forced herself to look up. The devil was standing some distance from her, in the shadow of a tree, looking at her with cool amusement.

"I...Raph..."

"Raph? We've become familiar awfully quickly, haven't we?"

Tav glared at him and opened her mouth, but no words came out. It was such an effort to speak, even to think. He smirked and sat down on a nearby log, looking as much the picture of elegance in their makeshift camp as he did in his own house. She knew how she must look; glassy-eyed, drenched in cold sweat, and weak. Easy prey, like an injured animal.

"But, I'm glad about that," he continued. "You look as though you're in need of a friend. A saviour, even."

She summoned the last ounces of strength she possessed. Yes, it was hopeless, she knew exactly why he had come, but whatever he wanted, be it her soul or something even more costly, she wasn't giving it up without some semblence of a fight.

"Hellspawn," she spat. "Get out of here."

Her voice was weak and cracked. She knew there hadn't been much power in it, because he was looked more amused than ever as he gazed down at her. Forcing herself to ignore the splitting pain in her head, she gave him the filthiest glare she could muster.

"You know," he said, with feigned indignance. "When you look at me like that, I can't help but think your face would be improved by the presence of a few tentacles."

It was too effortful to respond. Tav pressed her hands hard into the sockets of her eyes in an effort to relieve the pain, though it gave her the horrible feeling that she was pushing the tadpole further in. She could hear Raphael moving, leaves and grass crackling under his boots as he approached her.

"Where are your loyal companions?" he asked. "Resting peacefully in their tents, leaving you alone in such a terrible state? It hardly seems fair. Shall I wake them?"

Resting peacefully. So she was the only one. The first to succumb to ceremorphosis. He seemed to read her thoughts on her face.

"I wonder," he said slowly, sounding as though he was savouring her fear. "What would they think if they saw you like this? What would they do?"

She couldn't transform. She couldn't. All of her courage, her resolve and determination, wound as tightly as the strings of a lute, suddenly snapped.

"Raphael - do something, please," The words were tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "I'll take your deal, I'll give you whatever you want. Just don't let this happen. Don't let me transform."

His smile widened slowly.

"Why, just moments ago, you still had some fight in you."

"Please." She didn't care how she sounded, couldn't hide her desperation any longer. "I need your help. Just tell me what you want."

"I don't want anything," he said, flippantly. "Other than your rapid recovery, of course."

He wasn't going to refuse, surely? He couldn't abandon her to that fate.

"You said...you said you could help. That you'd save..."

Raphael chuckled.

"Charming as it is to hear you beg for my help," he said. "It's unwarranted. You need not be so eager. We have time yet for deals and contracts, for despair and desperation. In the meantime..."

He knelt down, gazed at her for a moment, then surprised her by placing the back of his hand against her forehead.

"The brave adventurer," he murmured. "Bold enough to stand in a devil's house and threaten to rip out his tongue. Brought this low by a mere fever."

"I...what?"

"A common occurence, I suppose, when one spends their days trawling through goblin camps and ancient crypts."

Tav peered at him through a delirious haze, trying to find some sense in his words. A fever? If that was all it was, then why had he come? Was he toying with her, giving her a little taste of false hope to make the game last longer?

"You mean - this isn't - I'm not - ?"

"Transforming? Not tonight." He trailed his fingers down her cheek. "I'd wager that you'll retain this precious mortal skin for some time yet."

That couldn't be true. There could only be one reason for his being here, on this night.

"You're lying," she said, feeling her cheek grow hot where he touched her.

"I assure you, I'm not," he replied.

"I...I don't trust..."

"Why, you wound me," he said, removing his hand and leaning back. "I've been unfailingly honest to you since we met. Besides, do you think if your soul really were about to turn at any moment to an empty shadow, that I would dally on claiming it?"

She didn't trust him, not one bit...but something in his voice told her that he was telling the truth.

It was a fever. That was all. Relief washed over her, followed, a moment later, by the strange urge to laugh. Raphael, for all his teasing and toying with her, had sought her out in their middle-of-nowhere camp simply to assure her that she wasn't about to sprout a head of tentacles.

"So, shall I wake your companions?" he asked.

"No," said Tav. Her head was still pounding, but she felt lighter. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep. "No...I'll be fine. It'll pass."

"I would feel dreadful leaving you alone in this condition," he said. His voice, although retained its usual ironic quality, was somehow less mocking than it had been moments ago. "Especially on such a cold and lonely night..."

Before she could register what was happening, he had taken her firmly by the shoulders and manoeuvred her down onto the bedroll again. Lying there, weak, but calm, she listened to the sound of Raphael moving around the camp. There was the sound of logs being thrown on the fire, and an accompanying blaze of heat. The clink of a pot, the rustle of a bag. A moment later, he was lifting her head and holding a cup at her mouth.

"Drink this."

Too tired to protest, or even to ask what was in the cup, she drank. It was tea, sweet with honey. There was the slight medicinal edge of something else, but whatever it was, she was too exhausted to care. She drank the whole cup and felt a warmth spread through her insides.

"Why are you..." Tav began, trailing off as her head sank down into the pillow again. Raphael seemed to understand what she meant.

"I told you before," he said. He had moved behind her, his hand was resting on her shoulder. "My compassion is boundless. Particularly where my very favourite client is concerned."

"I'm not your client," she mumbled.

"Not yet."

There was a burst of heart and a flash of light bright enough to register even through her tightly closed eyes. A moment later, she felt something extremely warm at her back. Arms were encircling her and holding her tight. The cold, cutting winds were suddenly stopped by a large, leathery wing, draped over her like a blanket.

"The others," muttered Tav, vaguely imagining her companions emerging from their tents to this unexpected sight. "If they wake..."

"They won't."

She felt the tips of razor sharp claws trailing down her arm, raising goosebumps on her skin, although she didn't feel cold anymore. The intense infernal heart was thawing her. Every muscle was relaxing. Was this really happening, or was it some feverish dream?

She felt something around her waist; a thick, sinuous tail, tightening around her, holding her in place. If this was real, then what did it mean?

"Tell me why you..."

She drew a sharp breath, cut off mid-sentence as Raphael's claws dug into her skin. His tail lashed. He pulled her closer. Perhaps it was not the time to question the devil, not while lying in his embrace in the dead of night.

"Go to sleep, little mouse," he whispered. She closed her eyes and obeyed.

[dathomirror]

This is just going to be a bunch of word vomit regarding how I interpret Crosshair's character arc thusfar because he's my fave and episode 12 has me reeling. I'm starting to form semi-coherent thoughts about why I've become so attached to him as a character despite his infrequent appearances and questionable actions.

***Bad Batch Season 2 Spoilers Ahead***

Crosshair is, above all, a protector. He was engineered to be that way. His job is to watch from afar with those eagle eyes and keep his brothers from being overwhelmed by enemies they can't possibly see coming. I think this definitely translates within the Batch as a detached older sibling dynamic. He loves his brothers dearly, but he sure as heck isn't going to admit it because that would be severely uncool. Actions speak louder than words anyway. Definitely an "acts of service" over "physical touch" kind of guy.

The grumpy outer shell is just a different kind of armor- one that gives him the reputation of being prickly and cold, and protects all the soft and squishy emotion on the inside. I would argue that all of his actions are motivated by, or are perversions of this deeply rooted instinct to protect his brothers, biochip or not.

He also displays a strong opposition to change of any kind. We see this in CW when he protests working with "regs". His unwillingness to stand down when targeting Saw Guerrera's people, and aversion to rescuing Omega? He knows what happened to Fives and others like him- the nail that sticks out gets hammered down. Whether or not he wanted to carry out questionable orders at this point, he knew that failing the mission meant his brothers would be in trouble.

Now this is not to say all his actions are defensible. After being left on Kamino to be exploited by the Empire, he is rightfully feeling used and unrecognized, but that certainly doesn't excuse gunning down innocents or hunting his brothers. I do however feel like it has all been leaning more towards cornered animal behavior than malicious intent. He has been desperately clinging to some semblence of sameness in a quickly changing galaxy and it's caused him to put up blinders to the atrocities the Empire is commiting. He's trapped now because he's stubborn, and he can spin anything to sound righteous if it means not having to confront the true consequences of his actions. This is something that I hope can be addressed eventually. I want that Zuko-esque taking-responsibility-for-my-actions redemption arc so very badly.

On the subject of Omega, I think he sees her primarily as a disruption of his routine. I don't necessarily think he likes or dislikes her as of yet. She's just something different. When he saves her at the end of season 1, it's very much motivated by his default need to keep his brothers happy and safe. If she were to die, it would devastate the others, so we can't have that. He likely feels replaced. I think he could learn to care for her, given time and space to process the change.

Despite having almost no screen time this season, I do love the tidbits we have gotten to see. Cross is beginning to realize that the things he's done are wrong, despite his intentions. With his brothers gone, he was so desperately trying to find something to defend that he didn't stop to think if it was worth defending at all. In episode 3, the part that really gets me is near the end of the mission when Cody is being reprimanded by the new imperial governer. Crosshair doesn't shoot until Cody is threatened for not carrying out the order, and his reaction is nigh instantaneous. I'm honestly not entirely convinced he would have shot her otherwise. Working with Cody was the closest thing he's had in months to working with his brothers again- someone familiar. If it had been any other clone that he didn't have a relationship with, I think he would have absolutely let them take the fall for their disobedience.

This brings me to episode 12, and boy am I a wreck. The underappreciation he thought he felt from his brothers is nothing compared to the emotional neglect this new regime is doling out. Any sense of familiarity is gone at this point. His brothers are gone, and now Cody is too. We see new regulations- "you're out of uniform" (seriously fuck that guy), and clone troopers being forcibly retired, etc. I interpreted his demeanor at the start of this episode as very much just numb. All that's left is the stoic shell he's carefully curated, and it's got nothing left to shield. Until he meets Mayday. Now I don't know how intentional this was, but Mayday instantly reminded me of Hunter, both physically and in his mannerisms, and especially in his attitude towards the other clone troopers under his command. Crosshair seemed to relax almost immediately in his presence, and I knew then and there Mayday wasn't going to survive the episode. He was going to be Crosshair's last straw. I hate when I'm right, sometimes. We see his protective instincts flip back on like a light switch when this surrogate brother is hurt, and for the first time onscreen that shell is gone. We see genuine worry and pain on his face, and it really fuckin hurt because it's been building for so long. Crosshair did literally everything he could do to protect this trooper that reminds him of his brother, and for the first time, it's not enough- he fails in his role. The Empire has now taken from him the very core of his identity, and I think that's why he finally snaps.

Side note: the symbolism in this episode was so good. Being told he's out of uniform at the beginning and then losing his helmet in the snow by the end. Being buried by an avalanche that he caused. Letting Mayday use his rifle as a crutch when all it's ever been is an instrument of destruction. The ice vultures coming full-circle. *chef's kiss*

Anyway, as an older sibling myself, and as someone who has always struggled with expressing their emotions, dealing with change, or physically expressing affection, I'm really hyperfixating on Crosshair's journey and I just really want to see him safely reunited with his brothers.

[dandelionsinthepavement]

for him.

i press my body up against yours, intertwined and entangled, no end in sight I am yours, my dear and I promise to wait. tonight I will stay by your side, hands shaking, clumsily tracing your features, speaking in hushed near silent words, heard by your ears alone. our lips gently touching as you wish me goodnight, i love you,  and that is all that matters. i feel your touch and I feel your love, we are one another, we are loved and loving, we could be love. i will be yours for as long as you want. I will carve myself into some semblence of a man for you.

[metalsiren-a]

" look at me. " // @decidentia + farkas.

                               ——  ✞ ;  𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘'𝗦  𝗔  𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗡𝗧  𝗘𝗙𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗧  𝗧𝗢  𝗧𝗨𝗖𝗞  𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙  𝗔𝗪𝗔𝗬,  to  keep  the  conversation  under  wraps.  she  even  excuses  herself  from  the  livingroom,  leaving  farkas  alone  on  the  couch  as  she  accepts  the  call  and  holds  the  phone  to  her  ear  before  a  gentle  greeting  leaves  her  in  her  native  tongue,  ❛  salut  maman.  ❜  she  all  but  disappears  into  her  bedroom  after  that,  unsure  what  even  compelles  her  to  answer  the  call  in  the  first  place  —  the  five  missed  ones  just  a  few  minutes  before  may  have  been  a  reason.  these  phone  calls  aren't  often  taken  when  company  is  over,  a  wild  card  when  it  came  to  how  they  could  possibly  end.  but  there's  always  that  small  sliver  of  hope;  hope  that  there  will  be an  apology  on  the  other  end  of  the  line,  an  extension  of  empathy  and  understanding  that  she's  missed  throughout  her  entire  formative  years.  that  track  record  always  stays  the  same  —  ratio  being  zero  to  one.                                  this  time  is  no  different,  sawyer  eventually  descending  into  aggressive  shouting.  she's  not  sure  if  farkas  can  hear  her  from  the  other  side  of  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  but  she's  almost  positive  he  isn't  able  to  understand  her.  french  isn't  something  she  speaks  often  in  front  of  her  typical  group  of  friends,  only  really  reserving  it  for  family;  her  parents  specifically.  even  without  the  understanding  of  a  foreign  language,  it  would  be  clear  to  whoever  is  listening  that  she's  in  distress.  begging,  pleading,  clambering  for  some  semblence  of  reassurance  from  one  of  the  people  who  is  supposed  to  love  her  unconditionally.  a  foundation  that's  never  been  properly  settled,  leaving  her  life  and  mental  status  askew,  no  solid  ground  to  build  upon.  sawyer  has  felt  somewhat  lost  her  whole  life,  not  knowing  where  or  who  to  turn  to,  who  to  put  her  trust  in.  not  her  parents,  not  her  sisters,  not  julian.

                               not  farkas.

                               ❛  pourquoi  as-tu même  appelé  putain?!  ❜  the  last  words  she  speaks,  whipping  her  phone  at  the  wall  at  full  speed  and  almost  lodging  it  in  the  drywall.  she  needs  a  drink.  

                               it's  been  almost  a  month  of  being  sober,  not  having  touched  a  drop  of  alcohol  and  finding  some  fraction  of  control  over  her  desire  to  feel  numb.  but  not  right  now.  not  when  the  wound  reopens  and  every  piece  of  festering  agony  remains  just  below  the  surface.  she's  forgotten  that  farkas  is  still  here,  that  he's  only  a  few  feet  away  as  she  opens  the  door  and  frantically  makes  her  way  towards  the  kitchen.  bloodshot  and  swollen,  eyes  almost  seems  devoid  of  any  coherent  thought,  lazer  focused  on  something  other  than  what's  actually  happening  around  her.  sawyer  sniffles,  almost   aggressively  wiping  at  her  nose  with  her  sleeve  as  she  enters  the  kitchen;  it's  clear  she  knows  exactly  where  she's  going.

                               every  bottle  of  alcohol  has  been  tossed;  every  rosé,  every  vodka,  cooler,  seltzer  poured  down  the  drain.  all  but  one.  and  as  sawyer frantically  opens  a  specific  lower  cuboard  and  starts  rummaging  through  it,  discarding  all  other  miscellanious  objects  that  crowd  beneath  the  sink.                                 ❛  where  is  it?  where  is  it?!  ❜  she  repeats  through  gritted  teeth,  choking  back  tears  of  frustration.  no  surprise  to  anyone  but  sawyer,  she  feels  farkas'  hand  on  his  arm,  gently  tugging  her  away  from  her  feral  search  for  the  only  reprieve  she  knows,  ❛  no!  no!  i  know  it's  here!  it's  here!  i  need  —  ❜  a  sob  leaves  her,  ❛  i  need  a  drink!  just  one!  please!  please!  ❜  each  word  becomes  more  and  more  coated  in  desperation  with  each  syllable  she  speaks.  all  the  while,  she  can  hear  the  deep  bass  of  her  boyfriend  behind  her,  trying  to  break  through  to  her  as  he  continues  to  utilize  his  giant  stature  against  her,  drawing  her  closer  to  him  and  farther  away  from  the possibility  of  relapse.

                             their  eyes  meet  at  his  command,  the  sudden  comfort  of  farkas'  hands  cupping  her  cheeks  and  shielding  her  from  her  own  destruction.  tears  continue  to  fall  freely  as  that  rage  starts  to  slowly  dissipate,  regardless  of  the  way  her  fists  pound  against  his  chest,  how  she  begs  for  him  to  let  her  go.  guilt  overcomes  her  at  the  way  she's  acting  towards  him,  one  of  the  few  people  in  this  world  who  deserves  her  wrath  the  least,  remorse  bleeding  into  her  features  at  that  realization.  it  only  makes  her  want  a  drink  that  much  more  as  her  fingers  curl  against  the  frabic  of  his  shirt,  clinging  to  him  as  her  anchor  to  this  world,  ❛  please,  baby  ...  it  hurts. ❜ 

[infinite-xezian]

Entrancing Dealings (Alastor x Sir Pentious)

//Non-explicit smut, but definitely suggestive, hypnosis

AO3 Link

Alastor hardly noticed at first the snake’s eyes slowly changing color, though they certainly took notice and then hold of him quite quickly, by the time he started to actively think on how pretty they were he already was utterly captivated by them, unable to avert his gaze. Pentious was there at first for what seemed to be more meaningless, petulant squabbling and bickering over territory, with all the necessary dressings of formality around it, but soon Alastor couldn’t help but find him quite convincing. Even if the snake’s voice utterly faded into background as Alastor lost all focus and could only think about how beautiful the waves of color passing across Pentious’ eyes were, they all seemed just so correct, so true and undeniable.

Alastor never lost his demeanor nor composure, but the same could not be said for his willpower. He had allowed his charade of proper manners and begrudging attempt to maintain some semblence of tolerance for the typical affair of dealing with a less powerful overlord slip and his mind to sink, and soon his dismissive “I see”s and “oh yes indeed”s gave way to ones that held a bit more weight. It wasn’t until that one singular suggestion, those few sultry words left Pentious’ mouth that Al suddenly snapped back to some level of awareness of his situations outside of the alluring color of each and every one of the other’s eyes.

“...though I do suppose I did expect these dealings to go so smooth, especially knowing how much you do feel for me. After all it was you who said to me how much you wanted to kiss me that one night... wasn’t it?”

Though ofcourse this event never happened, and on some level Alastor knew this as he snapped to attention, but as he thought about denying it and laughing at the other demon, he couldn’t help as the words “Yes, I supposed it was...” left his lips. At this moment Alastor’s mind went blank again, he had immediately forgotten near everything except the suggestions the snake was oh so peacefully planting in his mind.

Sir Pentious simply chuckled “You supposed it was what?”

Al responded without thinking, slurring his words a little “That it was... me who... wanted... to kiss you...”

Pentious smirked in a delightfully evil manner “Oh indeed it was, I remember it so clearly, how your oh so suave voice admitted how you craved my affection so”

Alastor nodded regaining his character “Oh yes, I do supposed it was rather embarrassing how desperate I was for your affection, but how could I ever resist your allure.” Speaking as if he remembered this entirely fictional event clearly as if it were yesterday.

“And I do remember the one thing you wanted more than you kissing me... don’t you oh powerful Radio Demon?” Pentious said slyly, getting as much pleasure from toying with Alastor’s mind as he did from his tail slowly wrapping around and toying with the deer’s body right now.

“I believe so but, forgive me my memory seems hazy...” Al said already accepting a truth he had no knowledge of.

“The one thing you really desired, was for me, to kiss you...” Though it wasn’t that significant of a change it seemed to resonate in the poor deer’s mind quite a lot, it took him far longer to respond to this than any of the other sweet nothings he had been told that night, but soon he was nodding mindlessly.

“Oh, yes, I-“ Alastor’s demeanor finally giving way to the desperate toy Pentious had been crafting. “I want-“ Alastor’s voice hitched as Pentious’ tail hugged him tight “I need you to kiss me”

“Well, I suppose I really cannot deny a request from the Radio Demon himself.” As Pentious, with his hands already wrapped around Alastor’s shoulders and neck leaned in to give him exactly what he desired. 

Alastor seemed to struggle to get his mouth in the right position, both seeming like a half second’s of hesitation mixed with inexperience, but Pentious was there to guide him oh so perfectly, their tongues meeting barely grazing each other’s fangs and razor sharp teeth, Al barely tasting a hint of Pentious’s venom. Pent closed his eyes and really embraced in the kiss, and while Al attempted to reciprocate he was really unsure how to, but he seemed to be doing a good enough job for the other’s liking. As pent was getting ready to pull away from the kiss he noticed Al’s half lidded eyes as he barely opened his own. If his mouth wasn’t occupied at this mount he would’ve smirked, as he held Al closer, holding his head and making the velvet haired demon stare deeply into his oh so enchanting, captivating, beautiful crimson eyes. Al could feel his brain turning off fully now, and as far as he knew, he couldn’t be happier about it. 

As they pulled apart and Pentious’ prehensile tongue let go of Al’s, and a thin line of saliva pulled between them as Alastor panted heavily for a second with his tongue hanging out his mouth, before regaining composure, attempting to adjust his tie but unable to move his arms free of the grip of the strong black and yellow tail wrapped around them, a single question remained.

“Now then, do we have a deal?” Pentious asked already knowing the answer to a question his former superior was in no real state to answer properly,

and yet

“Yes, I believe we do.” Slowly crept out of Alastor’s mouth, hardly any indication that anything was different, because as far as Alastor knew, nothing was different.

As they shook hands, looking at Pentious’ victorious and smug expression Al could feel the marks denoting ownership by another demon sear onto his neck and on the back of his waist right above his tail.

“Now then, why don’t we get you into proper servant attire, black and gold will look so good on you...”

[ask-the-rose-schnees]

What’s the sweetest or best gift your wife has ever given you? (Doesn’t have to be a physical gift.) [Rose-Schnee AU]

Ruby, brushing her teeth, her mouth full of toothpaste froth: Oh! Weich gifchted mhe. *Spits out toothpaste* Weiss gifted me a brand new cape when I moved in with her! Since my old one got all torn up...AGAIN.

Weiss, fresh out of the shower with her nightgown on, drying her hair: It was a wedding gift. That cape is not only crafted with the finest silk in Remnent, but was also reinforced with special, SCD patented, end of the line "hard light cloth" dust that protects the fabric from battle damage but also makes the cape turn intangible when Ruby uses her semblence! Preventing the cape from getting caught in places it shouldn't be.

Ruby, after rinsing her mouth: That way my cape won't get me sucked into an airship turbine and die a horrible gory death like the villain from The Unbelievables!

Weiss:...

Weiss, slightly uncomfortable: Why do you always have to bring that up?

Ruby, arms crossed: BECAUSE THAT MOVIE SCARRED ME WEISS! Its supposed to be a KIDS movie!

Ruby, sighing: Aaaaaanyway. Whats your answer?

Weiss, tying her now dry hair in a side ponytail, a bit embarrassed: You're going to find this cheesy...

Weiss, with a taunting smirk: But its you we're talking about so I suppose cheesy will do just fine.

Ruby, putting a hand or her hip and shifting her weight on on leg, playfully making her best Weiss impression: Whats THAT suppose to mean!?

Weiss, giggling a little before continuing her train of thought: My favorite gift from you is...that scarf you made for me back in Mistral.

Ruby: Really? That old thing? I made that with some leftover cloth from when I made my first cape. I only gave it to you because I was trying to comfort you since we were going to Atlas.

Weiss, walking up next to Ruby and taking her hand: Exactly. Its not as much the scarf itself that I appreciated, but the thought you put behind it. The little words of encouragement you gave me the whole way to Atlas...that meant a lot to me...

Ruby, smiling and pulling Weiss into a hug: Well I'm happy if you're happy snowflake.

Weiss, hugging Ruby back: Of course I'm happy dolt. You'll always make me happy, my little flower.

Ruby, melting into the hug for a moment, before speaking up, holding back laughter: Hey. *snicker* Tell Klein to bring us some crackers.

Weiss, pulling away, confused: Why?

Ruby, snickering like a gremlin: To go with all that cheese you just made!

Weiss, annoyed, but still smiling: Hmph! You need to stop using Yang's jokes.

Weiss: Dolt.

[emperorcrest-blog]

❝ i never want to let go. ❞

touchstarved starters / not accepting.

 there’s something almost liberating in the brush of linhardt’s breath against your ear. since you found him over a year ago, the two of you young adults trying to survive in a war thrust upon you, his feet tired from running, and your eyes wide with the thrill of battle. it had hit you: you had known him - not well, but you’d worked together on the stables on occasion, and thought not much else of him. but then, seeing him on the border with the adrestian empire’s forces, formerly his allies, behind him, something in you had given. perhaps your heart, slotted away when you’d reached for your head, living in cold reason and calculation. you had, in some respects, missed your heart. in small ways, you’d felt some kind of warmth come back. 

 you’d stopped being a mercenary then - it had just been the two of you, going from town to town, you trying to ignore your father, and linhardt no doubt on the run from his. you earned coin here and there, you, selling your sword for anything within reason - including cutting wood, once or twice - and he as a healer. you made enough money to sleep in an inn every night. it’s just getting by - move from town to town, doing jobs here and there, and then a couple of days later you move on. there’s no aim for the future. you’re just trying to survive. 

 the two of you could both easily be at home, comfortable. well, it’s unlikely you would - you were never the stay at home kind of noble. and your father would preach of responsibility and the pride of the fraldarius house if you even considered it. you have no doubt that he would threaten you if you were unwilling. luckily, you never have been. unluckily, you do not want anything to do with him. you have never asked linhardt’s reasons for leaving, and you probably never will. if he wants to tell you, that’s his business. you’re not nosy. and you’re not curious.

 ( well… perhaps a little. perhaps a little. )

 you remember the first time the two of you could only afford a one bed room at the inn, and there had been this awkward, tender moment, and then you had taken the floor. it had happened again, and again, until linhardt was able to cajole you into the bed, as your face burned crimson in a way you tried to avoid. you had gone to sleep back to back, and woken up with his arms pressed tight around your middle.

 you had slept a full night for the first time in years. 

 just under a year later, and you don’t sleep back to back anymore; you’ve stopped even trying to, with how nice it feels when his arms, unusually warm, wrap around your middle, and you can just feel that strange tenderness twist back into the air again. 

  “i never want to let go.”

your heart jumps at the words. you’re no good at putting names to your emotions, but you would be an idiot to not know what this is. but you would also be an idiot to jump to conclusions. so you just relax against linhardt’s chest, feel those hands that have saved your life so, so many times tighten around your arms, and sigh, deep. your hair tickles around your ears. 

   “you don’t have to.” you force the words out  -  lies, of course. in the morning you will have to get out, get out as fast as you can while the empire’s army crashes through the land, find another inn to stay at, do some more jobs, kill and heal and kill and heal, until you can crash into each other’s arms at the end of a long day again. but for this moment, this one moment every night, the two of you have some semblence of serenity. “you… you don’t have to.” normally, even if its short, you have some comeback. but here, the enourmity of your emotions strangles you and steals the words from your tongue. you let the silence, and your physicality’s surrender, do the speaking for you. 

 you hope he can hear.

[rkmiya]

Why is depression so stigmatized in society?

"okay you want to know the real issue? society stigmatises all mental illnesses." sunmi starts this off strongly. it's clear that she cares about this topic. it may even be a bit personal. her posture is rigid. when she speaks she moves her hands. as if the movement helps filter out the pent up energy the gets riled up as she continues to speak on the topic.

"it's not just depression. it's even the more 'serious' ones like schizophrenia; and they still tend to bastardise what actual schizophrenia is. people distort the image of true mental illness through these ridiculous retellings of it. they belittle suicide and call victims attention seekers or cowards. they call it a sin. they call it selfish. all these microagressions do nothing more than invalidate our feelings. i grew up in an era where anyone who "participated" in self mutilation was an attention seeker rather than someone who was crying for help. i grew up with such so much interalised ....," she groans, unable to find proper words for it. "i grew with so many examples belittling mental illness and its severities that even when i was in therapy i would even tell my therapist that i was exaggerating my own symptoms when i wasn't. these ideas are damaging and society couldn't even care to amend it."

"depression and mental illness in general is ugly. that's the reality of it. scoeity has found a way to simultaneously hate the mental disability of it while at the same time negating that it even exists. they will try to make mental illness flowery and romanticise it while at the same time telling you that all it takes is just being happy. depression doesn't exist. that it's all in your head. social media has made anxiety into an aesthetic. it's made depression look like life has everything in a sepia filter with some stupid fake-deep philophical quote in typewriter font. no book or show that i've ever seen has ever gotten it right. they gloss over the thick of it. you know sometimes you don't even look sad when you're depressed. some people are highly functional depressed people and society takes that as an example of people who are 'faking it'."

she shakes her head. "you know what depression really is? it's waking up and immediately wishing you didn't. it's finding no joy in the things you love. it's going the whole day without feeding yourself because you forgot. it's overeating because eating is the only thing that can bring you some semblence of joy. it's going through the motions of being normal without actively feeling it. it's laughing without actually feeling the response of being happy. it's not recognising yourself in the mirror. it's forgetting what genuine happiness feels like while being able to recognise that you yourself are devoid of it. it's sleeping so much so that you get a break from being alive. it's sleeping too little because your brain can't fucking slow down enough to give you a break. it's not going through your daily or bi-daily grooming routines because you can't bring yourself to give a fuck. it's hating yourself. it's thinking about giving up every day and every little small thing overwhelming you because you're already to your breaking point. depression is not fucking fun and it pisses me off to see people or hear people say it nonchalantly like it's an every day thing for them."

she takes a break just to let her words hang in the air. she's clearly overwhelmed by the flood of emotions her rant brought. there's still more. there's always more when lee sunmi feels strongly about something but it's clear she's said enough. "and you know what sucks? i can't really speak about this strongly in public. i can write songs, i can sing songs that have it in the lyrics or imply it or what have you but other than very surface 'oh yeah i have depression' do you know what negative effects even admitting that would take on my image? idols are supposed to be perfect. yeah, we get sad because we work a lot but we are not allowed to be tarnished. upholding the image of perfection is what wears on me most." she shakes her head. "i can only imagine once i officially debut."

[sanitymiscellaneous]

You're weird, Adriel.

I'd say an off handed comment, like maybe she wanted to be a helium based hot water balloon, when someone wore something ridiculous.

There are moments where laughter ensued. And people told me how weird are you?

Is it because you would never think of that?

It's funny to me that you were so confused. A baby face on an adult or a burst of toddler reminiscent play. It was everyone for themselves. It was enchanting, ridiculous, and filled with hope, love, connection, and despair.

Then others would find me awkward or find themselves uncomfortable. How open, how inappropriate, how willing to discuss any topic.

The groups of people in the communities, as lovely and different, that their realities all differ greatly.

People have devolved. It's to the point where, at one point, most people would spend time with those communities on a regular basis. The kids would never waste life on a television that didn't exist.

It isn't the absorption of ideas that matter. But the hours and years wasted on something that means nothing that does.

I'm considered psychologically normal. By every account. Including the graphs. I can calculate and evaluate psychology and adjust in ways that most people would never know I could.

Kronda did not realize that her reputation remaining in tact depended on me.

If you thought of me as a hybrid with two settings. You'd see a wonderful, new thing that might remind you of a Tesla. There are plenty of groups and individuals who think that's the next best thing.

Otherwise, people think of me as a gas and electric car that wastes both. No matter what they see, it's wasteful, tasteless, and should be gotten rid of.

By being both, whether it's pheromones or some other semblence of bizarre science and behavior, it is an automatic shit down that renders me as an object in people's minds.

I fear for people who were born like me. Because when you're born as something that is defaulted as both, you are either the child, the object, the monster, the liar, or the cheat.

What have I robbed you of, existing the way I was raised? I'm female, yes. I hang out with the guys, yes. But now a woman would feel uncomfortable with me for being in the same position I was before.

My voice revealed, now I'm weird. Either direction when I speak as a boy, or God forbid, as a girl.

I'm fake. As the girl that women despise.

I'm not hot. The men listen and are disturbed by the unnattractive change.

You're not allowed to flirt with women.

So everyone else does that, but if I do it, I'm a creep.

No one can stand me for longer than a few hours because I'm the person people take in doses.

At work, people scream at me for the way I speak. This is the protocol, these are post orders. And yet, unmerited aggression just spontaneously happens. Misunderstanding, yes.

It's discrimination, sure. But what if I told you it's not wrong for people to hate you? There is no issue. They acted out. They made a mistake. They were caught off guard.

Condensed down and saturated over time. That's great. You're uncomfortable with words. A verbal book. A job by all accounts, you're not required to work.

So is it that hard to take it easy? If everyone I know is guilty of discrimination for any and every reason I can think of and genuinely didn't care. Because I needed to be educated. Why the hell isn't that abuse?

Kronda will get over it. Who knows, maybe there'll be a name change in the future. My brother joked about one day, we'd be old and tired and in the middle of ththe apocalypse, and then there she'd blow: Kronda's vehicular contraption, peg leg, patch, as everyone else was gone away. One day, there'd be a return.

People who are soft do not survive war. We come from a military family. Abuse has a very different meaning in those applications, I assure you. People knew that once.

There's nothing you can say to me.

[brutal-bruce]

RP Snippet

The ruins themselves were filled with a light fog driftly just above the ground in a hover, completely consuming what once was a site likely meant for the worship of some sort of god, titan, or what have you. As they moved into the ruins proper though, the sight of a man garbed in rather dapper looking attire came into view. Cloth that looked like they were as smooth as satin, yet black as night from head to toe and a wide brimmed hat. There was even a semblence of cologne that filled the immediate air around him. "Gregori." Bruce stated, a calm and neutral tone instilled in his voice, "Thank you." - "You need not thank me Bruce, but you do need to understand that I am no longer indebted to you. I do this of my own free will." Even the way the mage spoke made him sound as though he was from high society or harbored a massive intellectual powerhouse in his mind, a fact he was aware of. "Even so," Bruce began, "At this point, I'd dare say I'm in your debt." - "Well, you very well might be after this." There was a sudden arrogance to the mage's voice, but it didn't seemed quite aimed at the two of them. Rather, it was just a general evolution that had taken place momentarily. To speak of a feat was to boast one's ability. Something he absolutely loved doing to prove his superiority over others.

"You see.. I've managed to tap into the anchor at the caverns of time that the Kirin Tor have establised there. Whereas they have since shut the portal and prevented its public use, I have successfully.. Rekindled the ashes. So to speak." A black gloved hand rose into the air prior to giving a little wag towards Bruce, a devilish smile appearing on the mage's lips. "You just need to know the way. My way." Suddenly, the magical pressure that surrounded grew immensely and with it came the manifestation of arcane magic around the dapper mage. All of which was being drawn towards his raise finger, bearded lips moving frantically in silent chanting- Vwoosh-sshhhaamsshh! A portal was ripped open right before the two of them with a snap of the mage's fingers, the sight of the caverns of time upon the other side. The sand that was kicked up around the portal followed by the heat that rolled forth.. Definitely Tanaris.

Farewells were brief and not entirely meant, their journey through the portal was a stomach twisting and arduous one due to the portal instability and lack of proper support via an entire mage order. "Eugh.. I still don't like portals." The bearded tracker stated in distaste for the magic that just violated his body, but hypocrisy seemed to be among the most prominent when it came to that supposed dislike of magic. Coincidentally, the portal dumped them upon the very outskirts of what was considered the caverns of time. Outside of the ruins they stood now with a golden sun bearing down upon them, basking both them and the land in an unbridled warmth that only got worse by the moment. It was fortunate that the both of them had a hood of some kind, the unyielding heat paling in comparison to what it would be. From here, they had no camel nor horse. No steed, no scorpid, no guide. Nothing. Just the two of them in the unruly desert, home to a plethora of species that wanted nothing more than to kill you. And the bugs.. Justthinkgofthefuckingbugs- The depot that Bruce spoke of in their pre-sex plan was not far from the caverns, but it certainly felt like that while they acclimated to the new temperature and weather conditions. Turns out the hinterlands is not the same of as the tanari desert. - A gaggle of goblins resided at the depot, counting what coins they had and ensuring that their equipment was still making accurate readings. As fate would have it, a caravan seemed as though it was preparing to leave from the depot, the failure to sell any of their goods settling ill with the travelers and thus it was only natural that they move on.

At the sight of the two hooded figures, everyone at the depot and caravan grew wary and cautious. As they should have. To obtain a ride though, hiding their identity would not prove to be a convincing bargaining chip. Down his mask was drawn to reveal his fair skinned face, complete with a brown trimmed beard that gave some hint at the level of personal care the man had. "We do not seek any sort of fight, nor are we here to rob you.. I doubt we could in the first place with as many people that you have.." The supposed leader of the caravan was seated upon the back of one of the wagons, a deep set tan bored into his skin complete with stark hazel eyes that rivaled a winter filled sky. His face harbored no facial, it was hard to have facial hair when your entire face consisted of scars. Slashes, gashes, scratches, strikes.. Anything and everything he took at face value. Literally. "An'ar sakum, j'ara kia'tala.. Silash vi'en ta'ru, rokh'ma." A foreign language, the language that was established by those that splintered and tapered off away from the major tribes and formed their own community. With it came their own language. They called it Tanari, or Sand-speak. It paled in comparison to the beauty of the titan's tongue, but there were some appealing aspects as the words felt as though they rolled from the tongue.

It took Bruce a moment to process what was said, before replying. "An'ar sa'aheed kala'tum mora-ka, vien-talasha. Ramkahen." His own version of the verbal sand scripture sounded a bit more rough, but the words registered with the caravan leader. Both surprise and a mutual understanding appeared upon his features as he looked over to a nearby grouping of caravan-attendants. A lax wave of his hand into the air followed by a, "Rios-tama! Ara'tiem, vala'sham Ramkahen!" Everyone snapped to attention and found their position on the caravan, the leader of said caravan scooting over to offer the two of them a seat on the back of the wagon with him. Fortunately, there was a canopy that shielded them from the sun. A comfy-ish ride to an unknown land.

The trip to Ramkahen was filled with a few close calls involving roaming hyena packs, straying too close to a scorpid nest, and the sight of raiders upon the horizon. It felt like it took hours, perhaps even days.. What day was it? How long had they been on this wagon? Did the wheel always make that sound? Are we going to break down? Where is the water? Where is the food? - These were the sort of questions that filled the minds of those that had not been on such a trip before, the increasing paranoia paired with the thirst and hunger that they felt.. Apparently Bruce was rather good with words as the caravan's leader handed them a waterskin to share half way through their trip. Therefore, it would not be as bad as it could have been. As they rolled into Ramkahen proper though, the sounds of merchants moving about followed by the quad steps of the cat-people filled the air. Civilization. The sight of a glittering river off to their right looked as though it might have a vein of gold running through it, while the city itself surrounded them with the sights of old architecture and the smell of exotic food being cooked. Cat-people have to eat too, you know.

As it was with the mage, their farewell from caravan was short and left both parties at a neutral stance. It was from there that Bruce led La'row into what was considered to be the merchant's row, lined with various stands that were each manned by a single person be they woman or man. Shouts now filled the air, the promise that each and every merchant had the best quality goods in the row and that nobody else could compete. Apparently they're all number one. - They came to a stop at a small stand which was barren of any trinkets and had no one handling its business, the space of wall above the nearby door that led to a small flat read, "Basarad's Notorious Knick-knacks." The door opened with ease, after a moment of picking the lock that is, but the flat was empty. It had only one floor to the entire flat, but where was Jenny? There was a bit of bread upon a nearby table, mold had claimed it alongside a rat that looked as though it tried to eat the moldy bread. An ill omen? - Outrage settled into Bruce's core, his brows trapped in a perpetual state of furrow as he tried to make sense of everything. His daughter wasn't here, Basarad wasn't here, they haven't been for.. what appeared to be a month.

Back into Ramkahen he went, with or without La'row tailing him and straight to the other merchants he went. A trio of them stood huddled near one of the stands, overlooking something that they did not have for sale but surely wish they did. They looked to be triplets, each one of them harboring the same features as the others and what was even more creepy is that they were moving in sync. Turning around at the same time to face the man who was walking up to them. "Where is Basarad?" - "Now that's now way to talk to a merchant.." "No,no, it certainly isn't brother.." "We deal only in coin, good sir.. Perhaps you can obli-" Before the last one even got to speak, Bruce was already at his throat. A dagger drawn and pressed firmly against the man's neck while Bruce himself forced the pudgy creature onto his back atop the table. "You're going to tell me where Basarad is, or I'm going to trim that precious fat you and your brothers have accumulated. Slice by fucking slice." The intensity of the masked man's voice forced the other two brothers to swallow a hard gulp, nervously looking to one another and then to the pinned triplet at knife point.

"..Basarad, he left about a month ago with a caravan.." "Yes,yes, there was a small girl with him.. About yay-big, auburn hair, freckles, fair skin.." "We haven't seen them since- I- Please, the knife.. Sir.." From the table the merchant was pulled and then thrown towards the rest of his brothers in a stumble, the unharmed two reaching out instinctively at the same time to stabilize their threatened kin and calm him down. A growl rolled from his lips behind that black mask, green eyes glaring around at everything around him. "Damn it, Basarad.. You just had to take her with you, didn't you? Fucking.." A frustrated sigh was expelled from his lips, turning to La'row with the boiling anger that resided beneath the surface. It wasn't aimed at her though, that much was a given. "Basarad only travels to Gadgetzan with a caravan. They must have tried to take a path that was quicker, we didn't see anything on our way through.."

Into the desert they went again, only this time a pair of horses is what they rode upon.. Borrowed from the local stables with the promise of being returned, onto one of the various paths they set in hopes of finding the caravan that Basarad had taken. In silence, he prayed that they didn't pass them and that they were already at Gadgetzan.. Or worse. - It came into sight like a pit of tar in the middle of blizzard, the sight of a broken down caravan and rotting bodies half buried in the wasting sands. The closer they got, the worse it semlled. It was clear, the caravan had been raided. "That's Basarad's body. He always wore a worn purple wrapping atop his head.." The aforementioned body was indeed wearing a purple turban, or at least the head was which resided a good foot away from the body that looked as though it was slashed multiple times then left for dead. Out of all of the bodies, there were none that matched that of a little girl. "No.. Nonono.. Please, no.." Bruce dismounted with a thud of his boots hitting the sand, trekking forward to the center of the caravan sight. "..Please, don't tell me she's gone.. Please.."

"..Please.."

[gracefuldissonance-blog]

Orphan Mother

((I was sent a prompt by @ilansar and this is the original, and my VERY wordy reply...))

Original Prompt:

The heart of an orphan was...special. It learned to long for something that wasn't there. It learned to grip tightly on to whatever it could, small as it may be. And most of all, it learned how to trick itself into acting normal. Onilwyn's heart was particularly good at that. Today, as it poured rain in Dalaran, her heart was having trouble fooling itself. She knew that she could find comfort in her beloved, or maybe in her friends, but today she knew that she wanted something else. She was a priestess, after all. A firm believer that helping others could in time, heal one's soul. And so, on a day where the streets were empty and the many denizens of the magical city hid from the rain she made her way over to the orphanage. She had been there before, however, not for many years. She wondered which of her little friends wouldn't be there anymore, a bitter-sweet musing, but sweet nonehteless. Unfortunately, this day would bring her no sweetness at all.

The woman she had taken to calling 'mother' just out of sentiment and respect was nowhere to be found, or at least that's what it looked like on the surface. In fact, almost no one was at the orphanage. Should Onilwyn venture further she would find the children huddled together in the back room, eyes full of fear. In other rooms she would find the remainders of toys, seared green and smelling of brimstone. Eventually, she would find her 'mother', although the horns and fel pocked skin would hardly make her seem like the sweet Quel'dorei she had once been. The heart was good at tricking itself, but sometimes...sometimes it just didn't want to keep going. And the 'mother's heart was full of bitterness and hatred, as vile as the fel fire that now pumped through her veins.

Prompt Reply:

The priestess stood in the doorway to the back room, the room where she had spent hours helping the little ones in the orphanage with their studies. Her white eyes were trained on who...no, what...used to be mother. Now, all she saw was death and destruction. All she saw was that bitter, snarling thing watching her right back. She did not move, didn't make a sound for quite some time. All she did was breathe, albeit a shallow inhalation to avoid breathing in that felfire and brimstone smell. The fetid odor made her stomach roil with nausea, but she remained stoic. So was the woman's nature. When she finally spoke her voice was calm and as cultured as it always was. "So, I see the legion has ruined another heart that was once full of light." She moved then, lifting her skirts just slightly to keep them clean of the debris and ash. "What have you done, Mother? What were you thinking?"

The creature curled it's lips back in a semblence of a smile, though to anyone else it was a baring of teeth that looked more a snarl. A laugh escaped it's mouth, the sound full of vitriol and scorn. Even her voice was different, the once sweet and clear sound was now dissonant and grating to the ears. "I have done nothing you would not have done, Onilwyn. I can offer you the power to raze cities and set ablaze everyone who comes against..."

Onilwyn didn't even let her finish the sentence, she held up a hand that ebbed and flowed with holy light. "ENOUGH! I need not hear anymore of your babbling, you foul creature. You have brought fear and hatred into the lives of these poor children. You will pay for it, even if I am not the one who brings the wrath of the light into your veins." She raised her voice to call for guards. She was only able to squeak out one word before a clawed hand closed around her throat and squeezed. Her eyes went wide, fingernails clawing at that pocked skin as if she could peel it away. Her vision dimmed for a heartbeat of time, the edge of unconciousness slipping toward her.

Her head lolled to the side and then she snapped back as her her spine and the back of her head cracked against the wall. She dug her fingers into the arm that held her captive, pushing that holy fire into each digit, willing it to burrow and slip through the creature's body. Onilwyn's eyes shed tears that tracked down her cheeks in warm rivulets, glowing a gold with the reflection of the power she could wield with ferocious power. "Let. Me. Go." She groaned out the words, not wanting to take a life. She was finally let loose, gasping for breath as she leaned heavily against the wall.

In that moment she made the decision. It was the woman she once called mother who would not take another breath, who would not walk away from this. She could not make a sacrifice of her own life and the innocence that huddled together in the rooms outside this one. A burst of holy energy knocked the creature back away from her as a halo of light gathered at the Priestess' middle, expanding outward. The 'thing' that had been the mother, fell to her knees and grabbed for the priestess' robes. She caught the skirt of it in her fel singed fingertips, and dragged them downward. It left the bottom of her robes in tatters, but as she stood there trying to pull herself back together...it didn't matter. She knelt down to press her hand to the creature's back, feeling for the small spark of light of life. It slowly flickered out even as her palm pressed down gently.

Onilwyn stood and took a deep breath, letting it out on a sigh. It would be a long time before the children of the orphanage would trust again.  It would be quite some time before she would trust anyone else to be here with the children again. So, she would speak to the Kirin Tor and Khadgar, offer her services as orphanage mother until they found another. But, for now, it would be her one and only duty to soothe the nerves and fears of those small children in the other rooms. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and steeled herself, stepping over the corpse of the creature she had once called mother.

[dstickman-blog]

Interlude 1 - pt.3

DM: Nuria from where you’re at, you watch Jameson Hit the Dirt and Ab bend over him in panic. You can’t hear anything anyone saying from where you are at.

Nuria Quil: “James!”

Abather Crowley: I have seen death, as a hunter. I take the life of an animal so I may extend my own; makes a right good feast it does. I’ve seen the death of loved ones. My Grandfather, on his deathbed, and… Elaine, the day of the storm. But this…. This is Sudden, like Elaine- Before me, like my grandfather…. Unforgiving, like death. It’s a lot to take in, seeing death in this way for the first time. I’m unable to speak, unable to think. Compounded on the stress of seeing magic, a witch, and…. Perhaps being caught up in it myself, this is just too much for me, all at once. And so I cried out, doing the only thing I could do to try and process this.

This is witch’s work. But not her work. Does it matter? She uses the very same power as whoever- whatever caused this. Qalda, shine on me, get me outta this mess…

Nuria Quil: My face slacks, eyes growing horrified. “No no no no no no, please no. He isn’t dead, he can’t be. Abather please, tell me he isn’t dead.”

DM: Jameson is alive, but very unconscious. Chivay seems to see it too, and kneels to lift Jameson’s head.

Nuria Quil: Sighing, my composure returns, as I kneel beside James. “He’s okay, thank the lady mother, he’s okay. What happened?”

DM: Chivay shakes his head. He tries to pull back Jameson’s eyelids to take a peek into them. “Dunno. He seemed confused about the time of day and then he just… dropped.”

Nuria Quil: “All of the miners think it’s only been about ten minutes since you got to town. It’s not just him, there’s witchcraft here… There is something loose in Colley Hill.”

Abather Crowley: Uppon learning Jameson is alive I stop screaming, but I’m still upset at everything happening around me. I simply hold my head in my hands, and take deep breaths. You see? Witchcraft. And you’re just going to sit back and let it happen?

Nuria Quil: “Mr. Chivay, do you have any pillows, or something to prop up his head in your cart?”

DM: Chivay seems to lost track of the conversation somewhere around the word ‘witchcraft.’ “I, uh… wha…”

Nuria Quil: “Mr. Chivay, are you alright?”

DM: He backs away from Jameson, looking down at his hands. “I… I shouldn’t have touched him. I didn’t know he was cursed!”

Nuria Quil: “Please calm down Mr. Chivay. Getting worked up will only make this worse. We need to find out how did this to him, and then find them.”

DM: His eyes dart to you. “I don’t know. I just saw him for a moment! Second time I seen him in my life…” On the ground, Jameson stirs. He moans, and starts to roll onto his side.

Nuria Quil: “Seen who Mr. Chivay?”

DM: He points down to Jameson.

Nuria Quil: “Ah, I was hoping you were talking about our witch…”

DM: His face turns wary. “There’s no witch,” he says. “You’re just… just confused. That’s all.” He seems to slowly be convincing himself. “Yes, maybe you all caught a sickness down in that mine. Seeing things, or feverish. I have some things in my cart what could help with that…”

Nuria Quil: “I think you’re probably right Mr. Chivay, Abather and I did inhale something down there… Why don’t you go get some of that medicine from your cart, see if any of those prove effective.”

DM: Chivay nods emphatically and scrambles away.

Nuria Quil: Once he walks away i’m going to push as much of the power of Quoth I have in me into Jameson.

Abather Crowley: That’s right, a fever! Me and Nuria inhaled those spores! This… It’s all just a trick, surely. I have nothing to fear…

DM: Describe what this spell looks like for anyone watching.

Nuria Quil: Light seems to cowl around Nuria, slowly drifting to her hands until it disappears and a light appears within James’ chest. His wounds and bruises from a hard miners life slowly fade and seal as the light subsides.

DM: His body relaxes and his eyes flutter open. “What…”

Nuria Quil: “Hey buddy, you alright?”

DM: “I think so… oh. My head…” Jameson sits upright.

Nuria Quil: “You seem to have found what we’re looking for… Rather, it found you.”

Abather Crowley: Did she just?…. Heal him?…. With magic?… But- but Magic is just… A tool of destruction! A brush for mages to paint chaos upon the world! And yet, it can revitalize a man?

DM: “Cleric Quill… and…” he turns to Abather, and his face turns ashen. “You!” He points. “You’re the one who came out of the mine! You were… you went into our heads. I remember…” He winces and drops his head to his hands woozily.

Abather Crowley: My eyes widen, head rising out of my hands in some urgency. “Inta your-… No! That’s- That ain’t it! It’s… Impossible!…. It has to be…! Are you?…. Accusing me'a…. W-witchcraft?….!”

DM: His face hardens. “I saw what you did. I bet everyone else will remember too, when we crack through whatever you put on them.”

Nuria Quil: “I’ve been right next to him the whole time James. Are you sure?”

Abather Crowley: I slowly stand, shaking my head vigorously to shake horrid thoughts of what they do to those accused of witchcraft. “I ain’t no witch! I’m…. I’m Abather Crowley. jus’ a simple farmer from Riverview! Nothin’ more, nothin’ less!…..” My face hardens a bit, gaining a semblence of composure, as I reassure who I am to myself. “I- I ain’t gonna sit here'n let ya call me a Witch. I dunno what happen'ta you, or me, or Miss Quil, but… If there’s Witchcraft goin’ on somewhere, I ain’t gonna be a part of it. Where’s Mr. Chivay? He can vouch fer me. And if he can’t, by Qalda, let 'er light burn me now.”

Nuria Quil: “James, close your eyes. What does the man look like? Don’t look at Ab when you describe him.”

DM: Jameson takes a breath. “Brown hair, freckles. Leather jacket. Scarf. Human…” He opens his eyes. “It was you. You said… you said…”

Nuria Quil: “James… I just don’t think I can believe that, he was right next to me the entire time. As much as I want to believe you… Well, the mage has already messed with your memory once, it’s possible that it could be done again. It’s going to be difficult to figure this out, all of the miners have been effected.”

DM: “I know who messed with our memories. He did. And probably yours, Cleric.” Jameson stands up. His hands clench into fists.

Abather Crowley: “And who’s ta say y'ain’t raving like a madman!? Witchcraft can do lots, Mr. Jameson! Who’s ta say I ain’t bein’ framed!? Go on, prove I did it! Unless y'wanna leave that ta the Gods, Qalda shine on me!” My own hands begin to clench, getting scared, confused, and fed up with this situation. “Go on then! Give me yer proof! Without it, yer as good as a man drowned in his own mug!”

Nuria Quil: “Both of you stop! Just stop! I will not having in-fighting in this village! We can work this out. Let’s say Abather isn’t for sure the witch, but could be. We’ll keep a very close eye on him. Next we need to ask everyone in town and see who has and hasn’t been effected. Agreed?”

Abather Crowley: Put me in shackles next, why don’t you? Take my crossbow? “No issue, Miss Cleric. I jus’ wanna get this over with….”

Nuria Quil: “I really, really, want to believe that you aren’t a witch. You just seem like such a nice guy from a somewhere beyond us. I trust James, and if he says he saw you… He saw you. I hope that he just saw someone that made themself look like you, that would clear this all up.”

Abather Crowley: Accusing ME, you hypocrite!? Let’s not forget which one of us used magic, no doubt. “Do what ya gotta do… I’m a foreigner, I know. This all started when I got in ta town, after all. I’d be suspicious too. I don’t blame ya…. But I ain’t no witch, no way.”

Nuria Quil: “I believe you, you were in the mines with me. We just need proof.”

DM: Jameson seems hesitant, but then he nods. He eyes Abather suspiciously but doesn’t say anything. As you all are settling down, Chivay returns. “Oh. He’s up. Is he… you know…”

Abather Crowley: Upon seeing Mr. Chivay, I begin to feel a little bit of hope. Maybe he can get me out of this? He’s smarter'n me, at least. “Mr. Chivay! I need yer help. These fine folk are slanderin’ me, calling me things I ain’t. Now I gotta clear my name. Y'can attest I ain’t nothin’ more than a farmer from Riverview, yeah? Just a simple fella.”

DM: Chivay nods. “Of course, he’s a fine shot with that crossbow, but not a bad man in the slightest. A bit too soft, even, if anything.” Jameson doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it go.

Abather Crowley: My shoulders slack in relief. “Thank you, Mr. Chivay… It’s… Comforting ta know I have at least one person on my side.”

DM: “What’s even going on here?”

Nuria Quil: “We don’t know.”

DM: Jameson rubs his head, then addresses Nuria. It looks like he’s trying to pretend that Chivay and Abather aren’t even here. “Cleric, I should go check on the miners. If they were also afflicted…”

Nuria Quil: “I asked earlier. They all have been.”

DM: “Can we fix them? Perhaps a little more…gently than I was?”

Nuria Quil: “I don’t know how this works, I’m open to ideas!”

DM: “Just getting them free of it as soon as possible…” Jameson shudders. “It makes you wonder… maybe the things we think we know, or think we remember…”

Nuria Quil: “Should we try and do it in one go? Just a big assembly all at once, or do it one by one?”

DM: “I don’t know.”

Nuria Quil: “Ab?”

Abather Crowley: “I uhh… I dunno how ta handle this, Miss. I ain’t sure what'cha did to put sense into Jameson. Maybe y'can just point out the inconsistencies in everyone’s claims at once, in a crowd? Break it down, step by step. I’ll sit by wherever y'want me to, if ya feel suspicious of me.”

Nuria Quil: “Right, uhh. How do you suppose that?”

Abather Crowley: “Simple. Jus’ gather all the folk in one place again. Ya could use Mr. Chivay somehow ta do that, maybe. Or y'can call everyone together on the basis of an emergency. You’re the Local Cleric, so they should listen t'you. I know most everyone in Riverview listens ta old Tom, our local Friar. Y'got the authority, I’d imagine, Miss.”

Nuria Quil: “Well, I meant how do we 'cure’ them all together? Gathering them won’t be too hard, but we had to.fight with James to get him to wake up.”

DM: Jameson takes a breath. “It was hard, I admit… because I knew the things you were saying were true, but I… I remembered everything differently. I had to choose between trusting you and trusting my memory.” He makes a sign invoking Qoth, and says something in Elvish.

Abather Crowley: “Well, then we can maybe slowly work our way through the city?”

Nuria Quil: “I guess we’ll just have to see what happens as it happens. Let’s start from the mine and work outwards.”

DM: The three of you leave Chivay behind and head back to the mine, where people are stowing tools and taking inventory for the night.

DM: As you get near, another miner Nuria recognizes comes towards you. Nuria, care to describe them?

Nuria Quil: Alan is generally a dirty man. Sweat and grime from the mines coat his everyday life, and most days intrude to his dreams. While he does spend most of his time in the mines, he isn’t a miner. He is the brains of the operation. A prospector and architect, he keeps the mines moving. As well as stopping them from falling.

DM: “Hey there, Cleric. Weren’t expecting you back so quick. We are wrapping up in here. Probably gonna collapse that cursed section and follow the vein straight down to avoid it.”

Abather Crowley: I nearly open my mouth to protest, but decide against it, biting my tongue. What if they anger some sort of monster, if they do that? Release some sort of ancient power?- What am I thinking? No, forget about that. These things must remain burried.

Nuria Quil: “I think you better not. We need to take a closer look and make sure there’s nothing else going on in there. Don’t want any side effects from it…”

DM: He seems surprised. “You sure, miss? It seemed like you were in and out of there in a hurry the last time you went in.”

Nuria Quil: “Alan, can I trust you?”

DM: Alan glances at Abather. “Of course, ma'am. Is everything all right?”

Nuria Quil: “Absolutely not. When did we walk into that mine, Alan?”

DM: “About two hours into our day… maybe two bells before midday?”

Nuria Quil: “Sounds about right. How long were we in there?”

DM: “Just a few moments. Cleric are you… all right?”

Nuria Quil: “Just a little longer. So I went into the mine, came out shortly after, went to my house, and walked back. Then how is it already this late?”

Abather Crowley: “Some kinda odd predicament, for sure, Miss Cleric. Ain’t no way it wasn’t a few hours.” I assured to the miner, with a nod to my head.

DM: He opens his mouth, then closes it. He wrestles with a thought. “I suppose… huh. Wait.” He points to Abather and squints. “This guy came out earlier than you. But then… He came out again with you later. But I never saw him go back in there in between. I…. I know that don’t sound right but I remember it. I remember it both ways.”

Nuria Quil: “Thank you so much Alan, you just cleared something very important. Now we know it’s someone who looks like Ab, not someone who makes people think he was just anyone else. Ab I have a plan, that’s probably awful. How angry would you consider yourself right now?”

Abather Crowley: “If I weren’t a good ol’ fella and taught proper, I’d probably shoot someone.”

Nuria Quil: “Yeah, yeah. I did tell him to do it. I had an elaborate plan, which apparently hasn’t worked out. Basically just… Tell everyone that if they see him by himself to catch him. If he’s with me he’s fine. There’s a doppleganger out there.”

DM: A chill seems to run through the miners. The ones further away start exchanging looks and murmuring. The miner who approached Abather with the pick swallows. “Doppelgangers… doppelgangers ain’t real ma'am.”

Nuria Quil: “I cannot believe that I didn’t think of that. I think you may have just cracked the whole thing. You may have just saved the entire town.”

Abather Crowley: A doppleganger? Like that tale with the merchant?… Qalda, get me out of this town! “Umm, Miss Nuria? Did'ya figure something out?… How did he save the town?”

Nuria Quil: “We’ve been thinking about it wrong this whole time. We aren’t looking for a witch that made themselves look like you. We’re looking for something that IS you.”

Abather Crowley: “But… I’m right here?”

Nuria Quil: “Are you?”

Abather Crowley: I was going to open my mouth and debate with her, but this day has been crazy enough that I actually begin questioning it. “But if we’re lookin’ for me, and I’m right here, why we still looking?”

Nuria Quil: “The other you. Except we have a new problem now. The not you you could be anyone not being anyone. We’re going to find everyone and figure out who’s not who they are. Following me?”

Abather Crowley: I slowly nod, pretending I understand. Better to just do what she says. “I think so?… ”

DM: “Maybe it’s just me, but I am totally lost,” says one of the miners. The others murmur in agreement.

Nuria Quil: “That’s exactly what we want. So if we are confused then the thing that isn’t us is also confused because it’s us. Gather the entire town. We’re going to find this thing tonight and I know exactly how.”

DM: The miners furrow their brows. One says “Wot?”

Alan clears his throat. “We asked the Cleric to investigate that cursed space. Now she is asking something of us. Call a town meeting.” The miners disperse, many heading up for the town walls.

Abather Crowley: After some of the miners disperse enough, I try to pull Nuria away from the crowd, and whisper in a bit of a worried, slightly angered tone. “What are y'doing!? Aren’t we supposed to be clearing my name!? This seriously isn’t helping!”

Nuria Quil: “We’re on a tight schedule here. So listen up. The new plan is we get everyone in one place. Anyone who doesn’t come, we’ll know. If the creature thinks hiding in plain sight is the best option, I’m going to find them in the crowd. Now then, how confident are you with the launcher at your side?”

Abather Crowley: “More confident with the one on ma back, but I’d say I’m pretty good at both. Why, you want me t'shoot the guy?”

Nuria Quil: “Well then use the one on your back. What else do you think we’re gonna do to the guy? Give it some cookies and milk? Those cookies and milk are for us good God serving folk Ames.”

Abather Crowley: “Look, I ain’t shot no-body before, at least not on purpose. This is pretty new ta me, but… Can’t be too different than a boar, right?…”

Nuria Quil: “Except flip it 90 degrees, and take out 2 legs. Alright let’s go find you a vantage point.”

Abather Crowley: “How will I know it’s him? Y'gonna signal me somehow?..”

Nuria Quil: “Oh yeah, it’ll be like a torch.”

Abather Crowley: “Will you be holding it, or him, or?…”

Nuria Quil: “They will literally start glowing. You’re really killing my vibe.”

Abather Crowley: “Vibe? What are you-… Look, I’m sorry, I’m new to all this supernatural stuff, Y'know? And still not entirely accepting of it, but thats'a conversation fer later. Just help me clear my name. Please?”

Nuria Quil: “I will. Now we need to find you somewhere to shoot from, explain along the way.”

Abather Crowley: I resign myself to her madness, and simply follow Nuria.

[hyliandeku]

Camp

So, after a few hours grinding my way through Outland with only a semblence of why we’re even trekking here in the first place beyond “This portal thing looks really shiny” (maybe someone can explain it to me later), II finally managed to write my first fic about some of the characters!

It’s pretty crummy, mostly. I wrote it to help discover some of their voices, so I skimped on their descriptions, which is unlike me, but I’ll keep working on that once I keep working on them. If readers would like, I can post pics of the characters mentioned in the fic.

It’s pretty short, but I hope you all enjoy my first attempt at writing my Horde characters!

There were times he almost understood the strange little elf. And then there were times, like tonight, when he wanted to introduce his neck to the Tauren’s axe.

Their expedition into Outland had been filled crisis after crisis, fitting for a world whose idea of a welcoming committee was an unstoppable horde of demons, demons, and more demons. Not that the sight of the supernatural entities made Taursun’s skin crawl or anything. In fact, it made killing them that much easier. They were unnatural, and anything that defined the natural world was as good as dead in his eyes.

As he tended the fire in the middle of their adventuring band’s campsite, he took the opportunity to look around, get a better glimpse into the fellow adventures he had signed up with.

Arazali was sitting across from him at the fire, cradling her child in her arms as she contemplated the fire. The orange, flickering light seemed to wash out her sky blue skin, smothering her features with orange as the troll adjusted her position on the ground. When they had first met, he had been alarmed when the pack on her back began squirming, even more so when she revealed her child resting within. She and the baby had no one else, she had told him, and she had taken her son away from the Darkspear tribe because she refused to bear her son like a badge of shame, as others in her tribe would have preferred. While it made Taursun uneasy, bringing a child, no older than a year, no less, into an active warzone filled with demons, she proved to be perfectly capable of keeping the both of them safe from direct attacks. As long as Taursun and Gavor kept their enemies from engaging her, the young druid managed just fine. The child certainly made for bright moments in an otherwise dark and gloomy place.

Speaking of Gavor, he was currently missing, though he was due to return shortly from his scouting trip. The old man and his beast companion had gone out to search for herbs per their herbalist’s request. All this rain in this swamp seemed to seep into their very bones, and Zali had wisely feared her son might catch a cold or worse in such weather. Gavor had volunteered to gather the herbs immediately, preferring the isolation to the constant noise their group made during their journey. He had mentioned his exile to Taursun when they had met, but the aging orc seemed unwilling to discuss it in general conversation. He respected the old man, and so he avoided the topic as a general rule. Though he was generally silent, the words he did speak carried a wisdom he used to hear from his elders in Thunderbluff.

Pauline made the fur on his back stand up whenever she drew close to him. As Scourge, her very existence countered everything he believed about the balance of nature, yet he had to repeatedly remind himself of her allegiances. She did not swear fealty to the Lich King, as others before her had done. Their leader, Sylvanis Windrunner, had broken away from the rest of their brood, becoming an independent faction that quickly joined the Horde. Though the tauren were one of the first to welcome Sylvanis’s army into the Horde, many, including Taursun, remained uncertain and uneasy about their presence. Nonetheless, Pauline was an expert herbalist in her lifetime, and had managed to keep up her trade in her undeath.

And then there was Zeltan, sharpening his blade next to him with an obnoxious smirk on his face.

The blood elf was the newest addition to their little band of adventurers, having been rescued from an ambush of fel orcs not too long ago. Of course, the young man had somehow deluded himself into thinking he was winning before, and that the crew’s arrival was his “reinforcements.” He certainly proclaimed as much to the demonic giant towering above him, before the elf was unceremoniously punched into the nearest tree several meters away. The crew promptly rescued him, but not before the cocky paladin barreled through them to get the last blow on the giant before it fell. If the outpost hadn’t specifically asked for his safe return, Taursun would’ve opted to leave him in that forest to fend for himself. Instead, they rescued him, and the elven high command decided he would be “put to better use” assisting them instead of playing scout. More likely, the men and women of the outpost saw an opportunity to oust him from the area and seized it.

Currently, the elf was cleaning his shield, but he took a short break to catch Taursun staring at him.

“Like what you see, my friend?” he inquired, his grin only growing at Taursun’s grunt of a reply.

“I was just wondering how you don’t blind yourself with that shield,” he countered. “You blind everyone around you with that thing.”

“Well, my large, hairy friend, it only blinds people I point it towards, such as my enemies. The Light is my weapon, after all. Therefore, manipulating it is part of my arsenal of abilities.” He paused. “Unless it is something else about me that distracts you so.”

“You blinded that ogre into swinging at me instead of you. I’d say that counts as sufficiently distracting.”

“Well, you are often so insistent on seizing the attention of every enemy we come across. One must wonder what you are so insecure about,” Zeltan replied playfully.

Taursun gestured to his weapons, propped up next to his tent.

“I wield two axes, each larger than your torso and sharper than your wit, elf,” he growled. “I also wear armor thicker than your skull. I’d say I’m the best suited to engage our foes head-on.”

“You definitely have the reach, this is true,” Zeltan mused. “But while you have reach, I have flexibility. You do realize you tend to just charge the enemy in straight lines, you know. I have a great many more options should our foe survive the initial joust, after all. I know many maneuvers. I could teach you some, just you and me.”

The tauren glared at him from overtop his canteen of water.

“You want to teach me…maneuvers.”

“Oh yes!” he exclaimed. “We can parry against one another, your incredible reach and power, and I can counter with my flexibility and deadly good looks, see how much that armor of yours can take” He paused for dramatic effect. “Or, if you like, we can simply test your abilities in a fight. That works as well.”

There was a sputtering sound as Taursun choked on his water, sending Zeltan into a fit of laughter as he did his best to recover. Even Zali cracked a smile at the elf’s shamelessness.

“Must you talk like that every second of the day?” he managed to choke after a while. “Is it truly impossible for you to be professional?”

“I happen to be nothing but professional, my friend,” he replied happily. “After all, I only pursue any romantic endeavors after we return from the field.”

Taursun groaned loudly into his canteen, which only made Zeltan laugh harder.