#this minstrel is dropping some moves

[flower-khajiit]

Wake up, Inquisitors, this is how we dance in Ferelden💃

[sassenach77yle]

|| COUNTDOWN || SEASON 1 EPISODE 04 || THE GATHERING ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

Rupert surveyed Jamie critically, with an eye to the oatstraws in his hair and the stains on his shirt. I saw his glance flicker to the oatstraws in my own hair, and a cynical grin split his face. “No wonder ye’re late, laddie,” he said, digging Jamie in the ribs. “Dinna blame ye a bit.” “Willie!” he called to one of the men outside. “We need some clothes, here. Something suitable for the laird’s nephew. See to it, man, and hurry!” Jamie looked around, thin-lipped, at the men surrounding him. Six clansmen, all in tearing high spirits at the prospect of the oath-taking and brimming over with a fierce MacKenzie pride. The spirits had plainly been assisted by an ample intake from the tub of ale I had seen in the yard. Jamie’s eye lighted on me, his expression still grim. This was my doing, his face seemed to say. He could, of course, announce that he did not mean to swear his oath to Colum, and head back to his warm bed in the stables. If he wanted a serious beating or his throat cut, that is. He raised an eyebrow at me, shrugged, and submitted with a fair show of grace to Willie, who rushed up with a pile of snowy linen in his arms and a hairbrush in one hand. The pile was topped by a flat blue bonnet of velvet, adorned with a metal badge that held a sprig of holly. I picked up the bonnet to examine it, as Jamie fought his way into the clean shirt and brushed his hair with suppressed savagery.

The badge was round and the engraving surprisingly fine. It showed five volcanos in the center, spouting most realistic flames. And on the border was a motto, Luceo non Uro. “I shine, not burn,” I translated aloud. “Aye, lassie; the MacKenzie motto,” said Willie, nodding approvingly at me. He snatched the bonnet from my hands and pushed it into Jamie’s, before dashing off in search of further clothing. “Er … I’m sorry,” I said in a low voice, taking advantage of Willie’s absence to move closer. “I didn’t mean—” Jamie, who had been viewing the badge on the bonnet with disfavor, glanced down at me, and the grim line of his mouth relaxed. “Ah, dinna worrit yourself on my account, Sassenach. It would ha’ come to it sooner or later.” He twisted the badge loose from the bonnet and smiled sourly at it, weighing it speculatively in his hand. “D’ye ken my own motto, lass?” he asked. “My clan’s, I mean?” “No,” I answered, startled. “What is it?” He flipped the badge once in the air, caught it, and dropped it neatly into his sporran. He looked rather bleakly toward the open archway, where the MacKenzie clansmen were massing in untidy lines.

“Je suis prest”

he replied, in surprisingly good French. He glanced back, to see Rupert and another large MacKenzie I didn’t know, faces flushed with high spirits and spirits of another kind, advancing with solid purpose. Rupert held a huge length of MacKenzie tartan cloth. Without preliminaries, the other man reached for the buckle of Jamie’s kilt. “Best leave, Sassenach,” Jamie advised briefly. “It’s no place for women.” “So I see,” I responded dryly, and was rewarded with a wry smile as his hips were swathed in the new kilt, and the old one yanked deftly away beneath it, modesty preserved. Rupert and friend took him firmly by the arms and hustled him toward the archway. I turned without delay and made my way back toward the stair to the minstrels’ gallery, carefully avoiding the eye of any clansman I passed. Once around the corner, I paused, shrinking back against the wall to avoid notice. I waited for a moment, until the corridor was temporarily deserted, then nipped inside the gallery door and pulled it quickly to behind me, before anyone else could come around the corner and see where I had gone. The stairs were dimly lit by the glow from above, and I had no trouble keeping my footing on the worn flags. I climbed toward the noise and light, thinking of that last brief exchange.

“Je suis prest.” I am ready. I hoped he was.

Cap 9 The gathering ~outlander

[eighthdoctor]

Maximianus Philophonos Bard 11/Rogue 1

Because we're at the end of the campaign, I wanted to write up a little bit about Max.

Max started as a combo of two A+ tier ideas:

A charisma caster but the charisma is "the most pathetic little man you've ever seen, you can't possibly say no"

A bard who thought being a bard was like being a professional musician and is shocked to find out that it is not, in fact, at all like being a professional musician.

The other thing going into Max is (before naming him, the name is only accidentally a pun) I wanted to abuse the shit out of the bard class. Minmax that fucker. Dating the DM is an excellent method for getting away with this. Turns out a single level in rogue gets you some expertise (2x proficiency bonus to some skills) which you then get MORE of with bard levels, and eventually bard gets you jack of all trades (1/2 proficiency to anything you're not proficient in) meaning that most of his skill checks are something like +5.

So out of universe I needed a guy whose first level was in rogue, remainder in bard, a classic pathetic little wet rat of a man, who is both wildly talented and also just. Completely incapable of using that for malicious OOC purposes otherwise my wife would kill me.

What I wound up with is someone who has crippling anxiety. Max is very nearly too anxious to function in society, gets outsize sympathy for it, and really can only do social interactions in the framework of performances.

See, at about 18 Max went to magical Juilliard to become first violin in the Requiem City Orchestra. After the first semester he realized two things:

Magical Juliliard is not really Juilliard at all, but more like the CIA academy if they also taught music.

He's trans. (Sidebar: He does not actually have a deadname. Maximianus is his stage performance name that he just sort of. Went with. After coming out.)

This is all hideously awkward and embarrassing and he has multiple fullblown panic attacks about the first thing.

Max's family is huge and overbearing and supportive and he doesn't really want to come out to them because it will be a Whole Thing TM and he is so, so, so bad about receiving affection, and he really doesn't want to tell them about the school mixup because then he's wasted their money and they'll never ever ever say anything about it but he's just a drain on their resources and also everyone will be so caring, so sympathetic, poor kid, homecooked meals for months, mom knocking on the door every day to see if he's still crying--

So he goes no-contact. To avoid explaining why he's dropping out of school.

He did accomplish one thing in that semester though, and that was making friends with a tabaxi student named Ihava (Ihava Nayme, because Jo mistakenly didn't give her a name and we promptly engaged her in conversation and also a subplot). Ihava is a budding revolutionary and realized that (a) Max totally has subversive tendencies and (b) the ability to baldfaced lie to cops and make the cops feel bad for you is priceless.

That's how Max got involved in a budding insurgency, and over the following year or so took his first class in rogue. Some theft, but mostly just skulking around, standing watch for others, passing info, etc.

Then he got itchy feet--Requiem isn't tiny but a year trying to avoid contact with any relatives, your luck will run out eventually, and Max is also just. He's not flighty but he does like novelty, and at some point the Violet Guard were gonna figure out that this kid was turning up at a lot of crime scenes. So he dropped a letter to the family (identity crisis etc graduated early etc going off to join the circus don't worry about me), and really just started moving across the country, working as a travelling minstrel.

He very rarely pays full room & board, instead playing for his dinner. He eventually washed up in Suncrest, and met the rest of the party when the tavern down the street [checks notes] exploded.

And this is where he really started taking off, because Max is two very cool things in one package:

He is just a good kid. When asked by a NPC why we were putting so much effort into helping her, his immediate, honest answer was "how could we not?" and he stands by that 11 levels later. He's somehow remained mostly Lawful Good despite some VERY sketchy actions, because at his core he wants to help people, and he wants to do so within a strict code of morals. They're just...sometimes unusual.

He's also got a VERY nasty imagination and will put his spell list to work in deeply creative (and fucked up) ways.

As an example. At level 4, Max got the second level spell Phantasmal Force, which lets you convince one being that Something Exists. This is obviously a spell mostly constrained by the player's creativity.

Also at level 4 Jo dropped us in a dungeon at the bottom of which was a Young Blue Dragon. This was moderately outleveled for the party and we should have fucked off.

Instead Max went "hey is that a male dragon" and the DM said yes, and Max mindfucked the dragon into thinking there was a Young Red (male) Dragon coming into HIS LAIR, and then the dragon spent multiple rounds trying to fight the illusion and we completely killed a dragon without major injury at level 4.

This became Max's Thing: Using his spell slots to wildly outsize effect, through monopolizing a major enemy, convincing NPCs to let us go where we really should not go, utilizing cold iron + animate objects to do serious damage to the Wild Hunt...

He didn't usually do the most damage and he didn't often get the kill shot, but he was doing battlefield control. A lot.

And so then we come to the final arc. Jo wrote up the bit about the Wish spell here. (I need to add that once again we fucked up her plans, because of COURSE the WIZARD would attune to the STAFF OF THREE WISHES, and no. Consensus was to let Max do it because Max is the words person. This worked out very well, see here.)

But just. You have the world's most anxious bard. He didn't even want to be A Bard, he wanted to be a musician. He also has a mindblowingly powerful artifact.

For over a minute, Max had to maintain perfect concentration to save the world. A friend died in that minute. Multiple friends fell unconscious and had to be revived (mostly by Max). Almost everyone in the party temporarily incapacitated themself (see here) to ensure that he passed Concentration saves he should have failed.

There's a massive battle going on entirely around Max. He is the focal point of everything. Everyone he loves is risking literally everything to keep him focused, and he spends most of it in a pocket dimension trying to keep breathing. He's channelling impossible power to try and fix the converging planes and defeat the Summer Queen, and he can only do this by not fighting, by hiding away and curling up tight and thinking very, very hard.

And he does it. He succeeds. We find out tomorrow what that looks like but god damn I am proud of my boy.

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Reflections are made on Tav and Astarion's intimate night together before entering the Goblin Camp.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

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Chapter 7: Beholden

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 3.8k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Blood, Violence, Language, Act 1 Spoilers

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We must follow nature’s course. Whether it be cruel or kind. We cannot interrupt its plan for the world. Their tadpoles connected them in more ways, than a simple acknowledgement of their shared affliction. But, boundaries are toilsome when broken. And creeping upon their coasts, will cost a sacrifice yet to be demanded.

— Halsin, journal entry 1,200

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There was a stir of a song being born. One from the buds of untilled soil thought dead. The words to accompany it were being haphazardly forged on parchment, like random notes written on coffee-stained napkins.

Tav hummed and wrote. Wrote and hummed. It was an all-consuming process that transfixed her until it was completed. And her lucky muse? A wreath of ghostly ringlets framing two eyes of garnet that haunted the pounding organ behind her cage of bones.

♫On your chariot of umbra, You rode up from the world below, And with a kiss of starlight you…um??? Youuuuuu….♫

“Hope I’m not pesterin’ you. Saw you over here by your lonesome,” Karlach interrupted as she approached the lounging minstrel with a lopsided smile and a ‘hair of the dog’ pint in her grasp.

“Mornin.’ Only struggling with this verse,” Tav beamed, tucking a wavy piece of hair behind her ear.

“Something’s different about you, eh?” the fiery tiefling observed, taking a sip from her drink.

Tav placed her quill back into its ink pot and straightened out her music sheets while readjusting her position on the tree stump. A cunning prickling of thorns flushed on her cheeks. “I—no. I don’t believe anything has changed about me.”

But, that wasn’t true. Within a man’s arms she came undone, finding empyrean respite. His fingers worked her like a charm spell until she lost herself in the casted shadows of candlelight. Yet, it wasn’t her moans for him in the night nor the donation of her ichor that she gave willingly that surprised her: it was a piece of her trust.

“Perhaps it is because she engaged in quite the exhaustive venture last evening! Blood loss does have quite the effect on people—or so I’m told,” Astarion cut in. “But, me? I feel wonderful!”

And he did look wonderful. His cheeks were less gaunt. The bags under his eyes were a calmer shade of powdery periwinkle. Eyes appeared sharper, a brighter red. Even the sky blue coloring veins in his arms was more prominently saturated.

All his beauty and dangerous splendor were the reasons sonnets are made along the roadways of mud and intoxicating jasmine blooms. There was thousands of intricately weaved words inserted into poems to describe his ilk, like morning mist drops settled upon the threads of arachnids.

Tav cannot contain the lightness she felt when she saw Astarion. Her wings spread out, each feather hiding fragility under their vanes. Will he catch her slim feet as she flies away?

“Hey-o, you dandy! Ready to go gut some gobs today?”

Tav hushed the acrobats in her stomach. “Good dawn to you, ‘Starion.”

“Karlach. Songbird,” he greeted them equally. “You know I wouldn’t miss out on such a gutting show, however, I did come to check on our leader before we head out.”

Before Tav was able to speak, he had already sailed over to her upon muted silver heeled footsteps. She sat up, suddenly aware that he was bent acutely at his waist—enough to reach out to kindly dust her fresh bite marks.

“How badly does it hurt?” his pale head tilted, curls slipping to the side.

The smell of his freshly applied perfumes addled Tav's mind. His eyes, a clever decadence, held the knowledge of her ecstasies that she snuck to him during an impulsive need.

“Sorer than the wrist. Like a dull muscle ache from a cramp,” the bard congenially answered.

“Nothing you cannot surely triumph over. And how about everything else?” he breathed out.

The vampire does not attempt to mask his meaning or shy from the euphoria he exorcized from her body. He was brazen to ask her in front of their acquaintance.

Heavily did she swallow to control the overflow of her marching chest. “Fine. Everything else is fine.”

“Hmm. You know…” Astarion whispered, a low distraction as she watched the tip of his tongue wet his lips. “I can still taste you on my fingers.”

This fancier of the bloodthirsty arts, has two sets of teeth. One with which to feed; the other with which to claim. For this elven bard, a bargain has been made.

Tav wanted to match him in his torturous tease. To pluck out his devil’s tongue and boil it in a spiritual cleanse.

But, there was fine print that sat on the curled edges of the pages from their pasts, smudged with fingerprints and laced with belladonna. Warnings of holes where their hearts lay; labyrinths of frozen gardens that have no end.

Tav had not forgotten the way their rousing decision ended the night prior—with his fingers covered in her fruit and her lips finding purchase upon his alabaster skin. The vague emptiness that enameled over his touch, apparent through the shadows of his eyes. She had left his tent, with her sex loosened and a continual masturbatory bomb of fears that she had crossed a broken boundary of his that he didn’t yet understand.

“Astarion, there’s something I wanted to ask you about last night.” She attempted to mouth in hushed tones.

“Oh my sweet, you’re not getting mawkish on me now, are you? The only serious thing we need to discuss is when you’ll invite me back for another snack,” Astarion winked suggestively.

The bard continued her well-nigh unresponsive discretion of her features, ignoring Karlach’s pacing behind the pale elf. She stood up, a few inches shy of his natural height, placing her hands on her hips. Her quietness showed her sincerity as she stared into his face.

Astarion looked surprised, as if she had just turned an entire ocean to desert. He avoided entertaining her with any further quips or illusions, instead, blinking several times before abruptly summoning his trained foxy slink back to his face.

“Did you hear that? I think it’s our ghastly duty calling upon us to finally help those Silvanus freaks before they start complaining about ‘the leaves of nature being preserved'," he dramatically retorted as he casually checked the cleanliness of his nails. "It may be wise to think of better songs to regale the goblins with then you did that foul ogre—lest we wind up on the skewer. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Astarion gave the women a mannerful bow before he strode away without paying another peek in Tav’s direction.

Tav remained calm as he left, breathing out a long sigh. They needed to prepare for the assault on the goblins. He was a distraction—not necessarily an unwelcome one—but one with knobby roots twisted along the cloister inside his dried innards. If she didn’t get her shit together, a lot of people would die and their blood would be on her hands.

“I’m sorry about the interruption Karlach, he—”

Karlach took a long gulp of her drink, the ale dripping down onto her chin. Her face lit up—almost literally—with an excited smile. Tav knew immediately that the barbarian was far too astute in situations of sexual vices to not read the interaction that just occurred.

“Oh. My. Gods. That’s why you look like you’re glowing today! You and Astarion?! You fucked him, didn’t you?!”

The songstress's vision widened and her face felt like it would burst into flames, much like the tiefling’s engine. “Hells, Kar. Could you keep your voice down? We just—we kissed. A lot. And he obviously bit my neck to feed afterwards.” She pulled down the collar of her doublet to show her the punctures.

A white lie. Tav wasn’t one to share the details of her romanticisms with others. It was a preference to keep the echoes of intimate reflections as special moments: treasures discovered along the shipwrecks of life.

“Hey, I’m not judging! Astarion is gorgeous! Bit of a sassy grouch sometimes, but if I had my chance with him, I would not hesitate to get all over that.” The red woman made thrusting motions with her hips. “That being said, you don’t look entirely happy about it.”

Tav pursed her mouth, staring off to the right side of Karlach as she collected her thoughts. Her throat tightened as she spoke, delicately attempting to avoid providing any details she knew of the spawn’s past. “You mentioned recently that you sensed Astarion has been through a lot of pain, but I’m unsure where that begins and ends for him. And that concerns me. Karlach, I don’t want to potentially hurt him further. I barely know him and it’s… look, I’m telling you this because I think out of everyone, you will understand.”

Karlach crossed her arms, a caring frown accompanied the orangish calm of her irises. “I won’t pry, but Astarion seems to be fixated on his freedom from that fucker Cazador. Can’t blame him. I am too with my own from Zariel. Fangs can be a real piece of work, but even rotten scoundrels need a gentle hand sometimes. Maybe he hasn’t had that in a long time—if ever.”

The bard blew out the air she’d been holding in. “A gentle hand,” she repeated. “You’re right. Thank you for listening. I want what’s best for Astarion—everyone really—but I’m not sure he even knows what that is just yet.”

“I’ve got your back, Tav. Everyone in camp does too. And shit will work out, alright? We’re truly in this together, as sappy as that sounds.” The tiefling knocked back the rest of her drink, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Now, can you at least tell me how it was to kiss him? Please let me live vicariously through you.”

A merry laugh passed through Tav. She curled her index finger near her chin in thought. “Okay. Close your eyes and I’ll describe it to you. Imagine lips: plush, supple, but chilled. Not frozen, but a pleasant degree, like sweetened cool milk soothing your warmed lips. As you press them against his, you can feel your heart quicken and slow at the same time. Your breath’s intertwine with warm and cold temperatures that elicit thoughts you’ve never had. And when your lips start to move? It feels like you’ve both committed the crime of lassoing the sun closer to you as you melt into one another.”

Karlach visibly shuddered, opening her eyes to Tav smiling gently at her. “It’s no wonder you’re a bard. I could almost feel that myself! I suppose we’ve wasted enough time talking about boys for the day—should we get things rumblin’?”

Tav politely nodded and turned around to round up her belongings. Rummaging aimlessly through her satchel, her brow furrowed in annoyance.

“Something the matter?” the tiefling questioned.

“Just something odd. I could have sworn I put it in here before I came to write.”

“Maybe I can help find it. What is it that we’re looking for?”

Lost in confusion, Tav held the purse upside down a final time to see if any items stumbled to the ground. “My cuticle oil.”

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When he woke from his trance in the early morning hours with dried blood cracking in the corners of his mouth, his vampiric nose involuntarily breathed in an alien scent that had seemed to fill his tent overnight. A pink tongue darted out to clean off his mouth, swallowing the red flakes down.

Astarion’s clothes stunk of Tav’s fragrance—she was ever so fond of—having made homes for itself in the islands of stitches on his sleeves and ruffled v-neck. Bodily fluids, now dried on his ornamental pillows, a sexual honeyed musk. He wrapped his tongue around his finger, still tasting the glacé of her sensual defeat and the sour memory of their night together.

He reached for the rags he had used to wipe off her bloodied essence from her upper body, scrunching them up to place under his nostrils. Cock half-hardening, he inhaled without reserve and groaned at the reminder of the effect drinking from thinking creatures had on his hunger.

Under the light of a candle, its single flame licking wicked pathways to Tav's want, he had concealed his guise of disgust behind her shoulder. All he could remember was the act itself—that it happened. That his fingers entered her and he poetically spoke naughty phrases into her ear to anchor her wetness for him.

Trust. Trust. Trust. She gave it to him with the arch of her back into his chest. Just as he predicted. Just as he planned.

However, virtually all of the details of their intimacy—the night—were lost on him. Her face was another among the blur of thousands he seduced over two centuries. Up petticoats and down breeches he searched bodies to steal their pleasures. His cock only thickening out of trained habit or a rare wishful fancy of ravaging apart a neck from any creature without hisses and tails. It meant nothing to him.

Yet, a singular detail did remain. A place he entered beyond the second circle of hell in lust, a circle where it seemed like his death could be undone. A river of lyrics carrying him along a raft of flower-crowned skulls towards the banks of her merciful arms.

During the twilit minutes before he released her, he made the blunder of examining her eyes before their ravenous kiss. What he had seen was acceptance. And it scared the fuck out of him.

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“I am enjoying our walks together, aren't you Gale?” Astarion teased while they walked through the inner sanctum of the temple overtaken by the goblins.

“Um yes, in silence.” Gale leaned in towards him, whiffing his scent, “By the way, I don’t mean to pry, but did you apply more of your aromatic oils than usual? ”

He searched for a quick remark to hand to the wizard. “Only because I knew I’d be in your presence today.”

Half of the vampire’s morning had been dedicated to scrubbing. Crouched over a bucket of soapy water, Astarion had soaked his clothing and rags, ridding them of scents unknown. Of the lingering remnants of her. His skin raw from how hard he attacked his flesh with suds and woven cloth. The final touch? Excessive dabs of his oils in unusual places to cloy any bits leftover of the bard's odor.

“The Priestess is up ahead; I’ll go speak with her. Wait here for a moment,” Tav’s melodious voice spoke reservedly to them.

No-nonsense. That was a part of her Astarion both equally appreciated and despised. Despite her penchant to offer her generosity to all of Faerûn, she pulled her punches. It was a waste of time to her otherwise and could be messy. Efficiency would deliver the most desired outcomes, but gods, he desperately wanted to create mischief at every turn.

Astarion, be nice. Astarion, we don’t need to lockpick EVERY chest. Astarion, leave that ogre and bugbear having intercourse in the barn to fulfill their needs alone. Astarion, don’t have fun. Astarion, let’s save all these idiots!

”Astarion? Please don’t hurt me." Tav's voice echoed in his head, throwing off his equilibrium.

He shook his thoughts away, reflecting back on their encounter with the dream visitor in the prism as they came upon the entrance of camp a short while ago. It wanted to protect them against The Chosen. The Absolute. All their enemies. To give them power. Yes. Power was the most important ability to hold in all aspects. With power, the possibilities were endless. With power, he would have protection. All it would take, would be to manipulate the pretty songbird into aligning with his goals. And judging by how he already managed to pleasure her so soon after they first met, it would be a piece of cake.

Thrum-dub…thrum-dub…thrum-dub.

Pulses? Astarion felt the constellation of his soul mark beating mildly. Tav’s back faced him, her features obscured. Her body was hunched over minimally at the waist, hand at the side of her temple. His eyes narrowed, jaw taunt. Something happened.

Thrum-dub.Thrum-DUB. THRUM-DUB. THRUM. THRUM. DUB.

Faster now. Harder pounds of a pumping bass through the bandwidth of their marks. She was nervous—frightened. The threshold betwixt them was closing in as an invisible rope pulled him closer.

He flinched. Really, he should stay out of her way; he shouldn’t get involved. It was perhaps wicked to not divulge to her the shared marks they possessed, but it would change everything. His plans would become a brittle cascade of a future he sought. He didn’t want to disrupt the plank he had been trying to balance upon since his unintentional escape from Cazador. But, Astarion was aware that he needed her and she needed him.

Besides, what better way to obtain one’s help to a cause—his cause—than a life owed?

“They’re connected. Quickly, we need to do something! If we start attacking, Tav could be in danger.” Gale stepped forward, sweat trickling down the sides of his face.

Light were Astarion’s steps as he snuck upon Tav and Priestess Gut. The creator of his misery appeared stifled, her mouth partly opened with persistent shallow breaths. The tadpoles of the goblin and elf had connected; Tav was fighting to push it out. A dull whimpering snuck out from her throat as if a deer was jerking around in pain.

Astarion seized her elbow, declining his head to press his lips to the opening of her ear canal, nose softly resting against its shell. He whispered in elvish, a language only the two of them would know, steadying his voice firmly. “She won’t see it. Nothing is going to hurt you. I’m here.”

The hex of the worms severed and she was free! Tav’s body slumped downwards, but faithful hands were catching her, grabbing at her arm to wrap around staunch shoulders—wrapping around the illusionary dripping silverlight he exuded.

“When did you…?” her voice broke up in a hoarse mutterings.

Giving her waist a confident squeeze, he smiled sweetly at her. “Hello beautiful. Think you can stand on your own?”

“Urgh...yes, I think so.”

“Splendid. As much as I detest putting you in that wizard’s care, do me a favor and go to him.”

The bard wobbled as she stood on her own, backing away towards Gale. “What do you plan on doing?”

Astarion removed one of his trusted blades from his back. Bringing it to his mouth, he licked the side of it, much like when he smothered his saliva over bitten wounds. “I plan on slicing open the Priestess’s neck. Now stand back, the smell of blood will be in the air soon.”

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Filets of goblin meat were a stark contrast against the erected statues of the temple dedicated to Selûne. Her lifeless face watched the companions as they carved through the vile threats. Ripped sashes of ruby life essence unwound in the drafty camp, splashing the group.

A witness Tav played, as she paid honor to Astarion’s image under the sparks of the wagon wheel chandelier inside the chambers of Dror Ragzlin. He stood soaked in ichor, peering off to his side with a final swoosh of his dagger through the atmosphere, flicking off excess blood. The dance macabre had been sated.

Flags of pure white raised, red fangs and swords embroidered in the middle. The belief of their crusade, a righteous seat upon golden scales. Raise thy sword in the name of murder. Let us pray.

All three leaders: Priestess Gut, the drow Minthara, and Dror Ragzlin—deceased.

“As you can see, ceremorphosis has been halted—as a surprise to all of us. I am not one to tempt fate, but if you cannot heal us, then any guided direction towards someone that could offer assistance would be most appreciated,” Gale explained hastily to the arch druid Halsin they released from the goblin prison.

Halsin casted a yellow glow that coated Gale’s entire body, sensing the mechanisms of the mind flayers. “Illithid tadpoles. Oak Father preserve you all. I’ve studied these for a long time now, without much results. It was the reason I came here, to seek out research. I may not be able to heal you, but I can at least tell you where a mass amount of true souls are going to be infected.”

The druid was large, easily towering over Tav. Almost the size of the bear wild shape they had found him in. Scars upon his wise face, a set of misty tea irises surrounded by reddish brown hair that wafted of autumn leaves and sandalwood.

The bard was stunned. “You mean they aren’t all being captured upon a ship and given the worm as we have?”

“I’m afraid not. Moonrise Towers is a stronghold ruled by a man named Kethric Thorm in the Shadowlands. Innocents go in and true souls—infected—come out. The lands are dangerous. Anyone that steps foot there is at risk for turning into demonic shades,” Halsin spoke in caution. “You have two options to enter: through the Mountain Pass or the Underdark. Both come with their own sets of tribulations. The Underdark specifically is home to a Sharran temple.”

Gale faced Tav, speaking in a muffled shallow. “Shadowheart may be quite interested in hearing about that bit of information.”

Focusing on the fine lines of Gale’s crow’s feet lifting upwards, she nodded. Her eyes swooped down to the strange circular marking in the middle of his chest, the way it seemed like tendrils of smoke sneaking up past his clavicle, to the side of his neck. A part of him, he frequently hesitated to speak on. But, being so close to the human man, she wondered what secrets lay under the surface of his skin.

“I know you’re curious about it—the marking, I mean. But, now isn’t the time to explain. Soon, I promise.” Gale gave her a reassuring compress on her shoulder.

Tav, now quietly embarrassed, turned around, finding two familiar crimson eyes following her. Coveting and dark.

Thousands of flowers sprouted behind her as she went to him. With her tears, she would bathe his feet; with her hair, she would dry them. His armor drenched in blood, dripping onto the new growths left behind, urging petals open.

Thankful for his earlier care with the priestess, her inspirited hand graced the tips of Astarion’s fingers with delicate plumy touches as she briskly clenched hers around them before turning to leave the chambers.

“I owe you my life ‘Starion,” Tav whispered, peering away from him.

He deceitfully smiled. ”I’m sure there will come a time when I will need your help in return.”

[ahordeofwasps]

Find the Word Tag

I've been tagged by the awesome @kaylinalexanderbooks! Thanks for the tag! My words are depress, favour, entertain, and attract. I'll be sharing excerpts from Crying Wolf.

But first, the no pressure tags! I'll be tagging @tabswrites, @revenantlore, @winterandwords, @loopyhoopywrites, and open tag! Your words are dangle, danger, doom, and dear!

Now, onto Crying Wolf!

Depress

Not found! In this draft at least! But it's in an old draft! Here are some dead words!

It was quite depressing. Ciro would have remarked this if Bob hadn’t ranted about it first. Every time they travelled to the trading post to get the supplies for the day, Bob would begin ranting about the state of Screaming Rabbits. “Damn fools think a mono-resource economy is sustainable,” he would often grumble, “Need to look at themselves in the Grav-damn mirror… and do something about it!” before going on to rant about the failings of not only the previous governor, but the governor that came before him. The rant would always end with “Now they don’t have any choice but to vote for me! I am the only candidate! I’ll change things ‘round here! It’ll be great, you’ll see!”

Favour

Jack spent the next several minutes charging until the words changed again. During that time, Smas decided to showcase their favourite musical pieces. The songs were a few minutes each and they were nothing like anything Jack had ever heard before. Drums, horns, flutes, guitars, and instruments he couldn’t name played alongside each other while human voices sung songs about love, death, and other vexing issues. It was a treat when a minstrel made their way to Screaming Rabbits, but these songs put them all to shame. Dæmon or not, Smas had more to offer than the world ever did.

Entertain

It had only been his second night, but Ogwut would move on soon. Normally, he would try to stay in one place for at least a week, but Screaming Rabbits didn’t agree with him. He could blame it on the sour atmosphere – the recent pair of deaths were enough to dampen any spirit, but that would be a lie. He had spent much time entertaining platoons on the battlefronts between Rusthower and Humford; although the bloodshed bothered him, it had never caused him any issues.

Attract

He sighed and bent over his own tent, resuming the process of putting it up. He tried to work quickly, tried to finish setting the tent up before the Sun set and left him with nothing but the light of the Moon and stars and other nameless things. But Wotan found himself stopping often. Sometimes it was to wipe the tears away, other times he just stopped and stared at the half-erected tent, desperately trying to will his hands to move, to keep working. He didn’t know how long he had been fiddling with the tent. It was long enough for him to attract notice from the others. “Do you need help?” Ogwut asked. Wotan jumped at the sound of his voice, dropping the tent post. He didn’t hear Ogwut approach, nor notice the large shadow that loomed over him. “Yes, he does,” Daisy said, answering for him. Wotan turned his head to see both Ogwut and Daisy standing behind him. Ogwut’s face was contorted into a concerned frown. Daisy stared at Wotan with her arms crossed, her brown eyes puffy and red. Like him, she had also been crying.

Crying Wolf Taglist: @sarandipitywrites, @tabswrites

[redwayfarers]

Alright - it's been almost a month of me playing this game and I did drop tentative pieces of info here in the tags, though the majority is still in DMs and private chats. For my own sanity, I'm making this post (as well as for anyone of my friends who might be interested in seeing this!) This all very tentative and subject to change, but as solid as I'm able to get so far.

Basics first, he is not the WoL as presented in the game. He is very close to it, though - the WoL is his (future) wife, Ianera. He is a member of the Scions and does have the Echo, though. Other than that, he's a rogue and a bard, minstrel and storyteller, too blunt for his own good probably, and actively trying to avoid confronting his baggage, as you do.

Base (read mostly pre-Calamity) backstory moment: Nika was born in Ul'dah to an Immortal Flames member and his wife as their first and only child. Unfortunately, his father, who he was very close to, died when Nika was still very young and his mother moved them to Limsa Lominsa, where he spent most of his teen years trying to make up for the loss of his father. At some point, his mom remarried to another lady who, while kind and a perfectly good parent, was not the father he buried in Ul'dah. All this sparked a desire to join the Immortal Flames, which he did do.

Trivia that fits nowhere else:

he has his father's heterochromia.

the highlights are not natural; he dyes them every chance he gets.

he has a pair of dangly yellow earrings that he's very much attached to. will lose his shit if he loses his yellow earrings. they were a gift from his mother.

he's friends with Thancred :) And probably had a bit of a crush on Minfilia when he first saw her. Because Minfilia is a very pretty lady

he's a midlander!

his patron deity is Byregot! Fitting for an artist

[animatorweirdo]

The song of the waves

You wished to end it all, forgotten into the depths of the sea. However, fate decided otherwise as you were saved by a mysterious creature with a voice of an angel and glittering scales.

Warnings: family stuff, racial stuff, attempted suicide, near death experience. 

Chapter 2

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Under the deep watery world of the sea, music weaved itself into the waves. 

The sea prince masterfully played his beloved harp, pulling the strings and letting his audience hear the music throughout the room. The merfolk were silently focused on him, allowing his music to fill the surroundings without distractions. Even those outside the room were so enamored that they had to stop heading to their destination and listen to his song. 

The song soon came to an end, and loud applause followed after. The people cheered the sea prince for his performance, and he took it in with a smile and a wave as he left the room after the show. 

He sighed after the doors were closed, and silence finally blessed his ears in the hallway. He put away his instrument and swam through the halls of the palace. The floors shined pearly white, and the windows show through the city outside. 

“Well played as always, Makalaure,” A new voice appeared. Another being like him appeared beside him. The tail was beautifully red, matching the crimson hair crowning their head. He stood taller than Makalaure and was considered one of the tallest mers in Tirion. Makalaure shook his head and continued with his journey. “It was just a typical performance. You do not need to share any praise, Maitimo,” He said as the two swam through the eerily quiet passage together. 

“How can I not? What kind of brother would I be If I didn’t praise my little brother for the art he has improved since he was a youngling?” The crimson-headed ellon questioned, giving Makalaure a faux offended look. “I’m not little anymore, so how about you turn that praising to our younger menaces of brothers?” Makalaure asked, making Maitimo crack a smile as he shook his fiery redhead. 

“Your humor hasn’t changed,” Maitimo said. “But do say — Laure, is something bothering you?” He asked. “Whatever could you mean?” Makalaure asked. “You seem out of touch lately, and after every performance, you seem unsatisfied as if looking for something unfound in these hidden depths.” Maitimo explained, taking his brother’s hand in his hand. The younger ellon frowned. “I just want to let you know that you can talk to me if something is bothering you,” Maitimo stated, letting go of his hand. 

“I know, it’s just —” Makalaure started, thinking through his following words. “You could say I am having trouble finding inspiration.” He sighed. 

“I want to create something new, but I do not know what. I feel like something is missing.” Makalaure explained. “I feel frustrated because as the best minstrel of Tirion, I currently can’t create something new because of this constant itch in the back of my mind. It’s like the music that came so easy to me seemed to have turned its back on me.” He said. Maitimo laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sure you will find it eventually,” He said. “Give it some time, and maybe someday it will drop down from the sky like a seagull.” He smiled at the exasperated look his brother gave him. Ignoring the look he continued anyway, “Just don’t let that feeling consume you.” 

Makalaure thought about it before letting out a sigh. “I try –” He uttered. 

“Good, now let’s get moving before we miss the dinner,” Maitimo interrupted his tragic artistic musing. “Do you mind If I go to the hidden place for a while? I need some quiet and time to think?” Makalaure questioned as they moved along. “Sure, just don’t stay late like last time — and try to leave unseen,” Maitimo gave him a stern look, or at least tried to, making the younger one groan. “That was one time — I’m not going to stay the night like last time,” Makalaure said, raising his hands in surrender. Maitimo only chuckled in amusement. 

The thoughts did not leave the sea prince’s mind, even when he had left the city of Tirion and found his place in an old shipwreck that stored several items and other things forgotten under the sea along with the wreck. 

The shipwreck was centuries old. The wooden planks were dark and green with moss. The old masts were broken in half and fallen over to the bottom of the sea. The ship’s walls were broken and full of holes, allowing schools of fish to swim through and around the ancient human vessel. 

Makalaure was sitting upon a rock, staring at the watery sky, watching as the moon’s light danced along the waves. The shipwreck has a perfect hole above the hidden cave, allowing him to have a clear view like he was looking through a window upon the ceiling. 

He sat up, picking up his instrument and playing with its strings, making soft sounds to fill out the silence in the cave. 

Something fell in his earshot. 

Makalaure stopped to look but found nothing in his vision. He listened and waited for something to happen. It was quiet in the cave. 

He sighed, concluding it must have been one of the old relics that fell over. The cave was an old hide-out where he and his brothers used to hang out, collecting relics of the past and things forgotten in the shipwrecks left by the humans. No one came to tidy the place, so it wasn’t unusual for something to fall over. 

He continued playing his harp until something creaked above him in the shipwreck. 

He frowned, suspicious this time of someone watching him. It didn’t sound like a usual current, but something like someone was moving on the wooden planks. 

A pair of hands appeared behind him, slowly approaching before suddenly grabbing onto the sea prince’s shoulder. 

“Boo!” Makalaure jumped with fright as the mer behind him screamed into his ear. The mer began to laugh as he tried to catch his breath. 

Makalaure glared at the blond mer with a silver-colored tail. 

“Tyelkormo! Do you have anything better to do?!” He almost screeched.

“Sorry, you were irresistible. You can’t tell me not to scare you when you’re so deep into your thoughts, unaware of the dangers around you.” The blond ellon added in as he tried to hold back laughter and began to swim around. “And don’t mind me, I was just showing the youngsters how to sneak up and scare the living soul out of you.” He said

“What?” Makalaure questioned, then noticed a pair of redheads coming down from above. 

“Sorry, we couldn't help but watch when Tyelko suggested scaring you.” Ambarussa explained with eyes glimmering with mischief. 

“And I tried to stop him.” A golden-haired ellon with a golden-colored tail descended. 

“What —  what is this? The whole family is here now?” Makalaure questioned, feeling somewhat embarrassed now. 

“Well, we couldn't help but notice your absence. I guessed you would be here, so I brought the twins along to keep you company.” The blond merman smiled in mischief. “I didn’t invite prince Goldilocks thought. He followed us here and insisted on coming along.” He pointed at the golden-tailed prince, who was very efficiently ignoring the pointed looks thrown his way. 

“I was trying to make sure you wouldn't do anything rash. We shouldn't even be here. It’s forbidden to go near any human settlement or land.” Angarato said. “Relax, this valley is isolated from the nearby city, so you will rarely see any humans or boats around here.” Tyelkormo said without missing a beat. 

“And we have been coming here for decades, and nothing ever happened. You take this too seriously. It’s not like a human suddenly decides to drop down and discover us in this old cave with a shipwreck above. That would be way too inconvenient of timing.” He explained. No one in the Kingdom of Tirion could make Tyelkormo give up on this hideout.

Makalaure sighed, looking up toward the surface, trying to tune out the conversation his younger brother was engaging with their cousin. He was trying to find some peace, but now that subject seemed so distant. 

“Still, we shouldn't take any risk.” Angarato stated, his hands flailing in expressive gestures.

“Have any of you seen a human?” One of the twins asked. “Well, I have seen their boats and heard them speak during my hunts with Orome. They’re loud and greedy since they seem to be constantly fishing. I mean, how much do they eat? They can’t seriously need that much fish to eat.” Tyelko described as he flicked a nearby wooden plank with his tail. 

“They sound interesting, though, so I don’t understand why I can’t go talk to them,” He said, lying on a stone with arms behind his head. “Because they’re said to be dangerous. That’s why.” Angarato added, making the blonde snort. “Oh yes, the stories of how they used to hunt us and take our scales thousands of years ago. The people of the land corrupted by the Vala of darkness,” Tyelko said in a teasing tone. 

Makalaure sighed, shaking his head and having heard the tales thousands of times. He looked up and wondered about the said humans, people, who walked upon the land and sailed upon wooden vessels. He didn’t believe all humans were evil. He even desired to meet one when he was younger. 

His ears picked something in the distance. His eyes gleamed, and he looked up. The sounds were coming from outside. His brother and cousin were berating each other loudly, so he turned around and shushed them, capturing the twin’s attention as well. 

“Listen, do you hear that?” Makalaure asked, and now they all listened to the sounds. They were getting closer to their place. “What is that?” Tyelko asked curiously. Makalaure decided to swim up, followed by the other four. 

The five watched through a hole in the shipwreck and saw a shadow on the surface. It was some miles away from their position, but it was in eyesight, and they could hear the sweeping of the wooden oars. 

“You said you would rarely see a human around this place.” Angarato glared at Tyelko. “Oh, shut up!” He snapped back. “This is unusual. I don’t think humans would sail this late at night, and there aren’t a lot of fish in this area.” He said as they observed the boat. 

“Hey, it stopped,” One of the twins said above them as the boat had stopped moving any further. 

They then witnessed something getting tossed overboard, and with a loud splash, they saw a shadow breaking through the surface. The ellons were surprised as they watched the shadow fall deeper until it fell behind cliffs and rocks. “Look away,”  Angarato suddenly pulled the twins away.

Makalaure swam forward toward the place where he last saw the shadow. 

“Makalaure, wait!” Angarato shouted after him. 

Makalaure swam over the cliffs and rocks until he found what had fallen from the boat above. His silver eyes widened in shock when he saw it was a human. The human had one of its legs tied to a rope attached to a bag of stones. 

Makalaure felt a need to help them after seeing the human’s face twisting in pain and losing air through bubbles. The human was quickly drowning. 

“Makalaure don’t,” Angarato stopped him before he could swim toward the human. 

“They need help, can’t you see,” Makalaure said frantically. His eyes were wide with a manic look that scared his cousin. “It’s not what it looks like.” Angarato hesitantly said. “What do you mean?” The dark-haired prince questioned. “Listen, that human might not be looking for anyone to save them… it’s called a suicide.,” Angarato explained in a hushed tone. “A suicide?” Makalaure questioned. “Yes, I heard from my father that some humans on rare occasions try to kill themselves by drowning in the sea. So, whatever that human might be going through, let’s leave them in peace. It is not our business. So let’s just leave and forget we ever saw any of this.” Angarato motioned at the human, then swam away.

Makalaure glanced at the human one more time, seeing their face twist into one of calmness like they weren’t in pain moments ago. It felt strange and somewhat wrong to him. 

He held it in and turned away as Angarato was right about one thing. It was not his business to interfere with something. 

When he tried to swim away, his mind filled with thoughts as guilt began to strike him in the heart. The human was dying, and he was turning away. He stopped in his tracks. 

“Makalaure?” Angarato turned around after he noticed the latter wasn’t following anymore. 

“I — can’t — I’m sorry.” Makalaure uttered and then quickly swam back. “Makalaure!” Angarato called out to him. 

The sea prince quickly approached the human. He began to hum softly, and the human’s body softly reacted to his voice. He felt relieved since it meant they weren’t too far gone yet. The human’s eyes opened, and he saw them gleam for a moment as his scales produced some light, thanks to the moon. They got soon shadowed, and emptiness soon followed. 

Makalaure reacted quickly and snapped the rope in half, releasing the human from its hold. He then pushed his hands under their arms and swam toward the surface. 

He gasped when he broke through the surface. He held on to the human and swam toward the boat that still floated above the surface. He grabbed its edge and used his strength to toss the human out of the water. They fell hard against the wooden flooring of the vessel and remained unmoving. 

Makalaure stared at the human anxiously as they continued to lay still, without any signs that might say they were still alive. Angarato and his brothers soon broke through the surface as well. “Have you gone mad? What do you think you’re be doing?” Angarato grabbed onto the boat, looking at the dark-haired ellon. “They’re not breathing,” Makalaure said, dread settling in his chest like the rocks the human had used. 

“They might have consumed too much water.” Angarato said. “Humans can’t breathe underwater as we can.” He added. For someone so cautious of humans, he sure did know a lot about them. Makalaure stored that information away in his mind for later.

“Try moving them to the side, helping the water to fall out from the mouth.” Tyelko suggested. Makalaure pushed the human to lay on their side, but no response was born from them, and water was not falling out.  

“It’s not working,” He said. 

“Makalaure – it might already be too late.” Angarato said with a mournful not in his voice. 

“How about you try the enchanted kiss?” One of the twins suggested. “A kiss?” Angarato questioned. “Like in the tales, a mermaid’s kiss to save the drowning sailor.” Ambarussa explained, seeming proud of remember his bed-time story. “That is just an old tale. We do not know if it’s actually true or not.” Their cousin responded, making Ambarussar collectively frown. 

Makalaure glanced at the human, seeing them unresponsive. 

“Well, whatever it is. I’m not kissing that.” Tyelko said, backing away. 

Makalaure tried to think of another solution, but he decided to go for it since there wasn’t much time to find another way. He gently grabbed the human’s head, turning them to face him before joining their lips against his. 

“What —” Angarato looked at the scene with shock. “Oh —” Tyelko said almost in a mischievous tone, trying to hide his smirk. 

After a moment, Makalaure pulled away to see if anything turned different. There was no response. He felt stupid for believing the twins until the human twitched and water sprouted out of their mouth. His cousin and brothers pulled back into the water, but Makalaure stayed near as the human started to cough violently and spill water from their throat into the sea. 

He waited for them to calm down, and soon the human looked back at him. The two held eye contact as Makalaure couldn't find himself pulling away from their eyes. It was like he was staring at a rare pearl. The human laid their head against the boat’s edge, then fell back onto the ship. 

Makalaure swam back and pulled himself up to see them. The human was lying on the floor, unconscious, but their chest was slowly moving. It made him breathe out a sigh of relief. 

As he continued looking at them, he allowed his curiosity to take over; brushing the hair off the human’s face and taking in their appearance. 

One of the twins peaked over the edge. “Are they alive?” He asked. Makalaure looked at his brother and smiled. “They’re okay.” He said, almost out of breath. 

“Congratulation, you saved a human —can we go now?” Angarato questioned impatiently. 

“We can’t leave them like this.” Makalaure frowned. “We need to bring them to the land so they will be safe.” He added. “I mean, look at them. They’re unconscious.” He pointed out. 

“We have already interfered enough. If we don’t return home, we’re going to have an earful from both of our parents and possibly receive a punishment,” Angarato explained. Tyelko decided to join in. “I mean, we could leave them to the mercy of the sea and hope their boat won’t crash into those rocks and drown again, or hope the cold won’t kill them and all Makalaure’s effort saving them won’t go to waste.” He explained, looking at their cousin. 

“Wait, does that mean we can go to the land?” Ambarussa asked excitedly. The four looked at their cousin. ”Come now, Angarato. Let’s take them quickly to the land and ensure they will be okay. I will take the blame if we get caught.” Makalaure pushed away wet hair from his face. “And don’t think of this like an interference — think of it as doing a good deed since we are saving someone’s  life here.” Tyelko added. 

“Come one, do you wish for them to die here?” Ambarusssa joined in. “Of course not —” Angarato sighed, then shook his head, “Fine, but we better do this quickly.” He said. “Yay!” The twins tossed themselves into the water excited, their brother and cousin following behind. 

Makalaure glanced down at the human and saw them slightly shaking from the cold. He looked around and saw a cover in the corner. He leaned down, pulling it over the human’s body. The shaking stopped for a moment. He smiled before taking the rope attached to the boat, pulling it away from the valley toward the port city with his brothers and cousin. 

[macvicarpipetunes]

Repertoire of Irish tunes for the bagpipe

A

All the Fine Young Men

All those Endearing Young Charms

B

the Bells of the Shannon

the Blackthorn Stick

the Black Widow's Dance

Boys of Bluehill

Brian Boru's March

By the Rising of the Moon

C

Carlingford Loch

Changing Your Demeanour

the Clumsy Lover

Come by the Hills

Cork Hill

D

Drops of Brandy

Drowsy Maggie

In Dublin’s Fair City

Dulaman

E

Emerald Echoes

Erin Shore ( Paddy's Green Shamrock Shores )

F

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

the Fields of Athenry

Finnegan’s Wake

the Foggy Dew

For Ireland I'll Tell not her Name

G

Galway Girl

Garryowen

the Green Glens of Antrim

H

The Harvest Home

I

I'll Tell me Ma

the Irishman’s Heart to the Ladies

the Irish Pub

the Irish Washerwoman

J

Jig of Slurs

John Ryan's Polka

the Jolly Beggarman

K

the Kesh Jig

L

Laugh and Half Daft

Limerick's Lamentation - pibroch

Lord of the Dance

M

Maggy

March to the Battle (Los San Patricios)

the Mason's Apron

the Minstrel Boy

Mo Ghile Mear

Molly Malone

O

Oft in the Stilly Night

Oh, Danny Boy

Oro se do Bheatha Bhaile Ebm

O'Sullivans March ( Rob Roy Theme )

Our Wedding Day ( She Moved Through the Fair ) - pibroch

P

Paddy McGinty's Goat

Paddy's Leather Breeches

the Piper's Waltz

The Price of a Pig

The Pride of Petravore Bbm

R

Raglan Road

the Rights of Man Bbm

Rising of the Moon

Rocky Road to Dublin Bbm

Rose ( theme from Titanic )

the Royal Irish Polka

S

Scarborough Fair Bbm

Scarce of Tatties

the Sick Note

Some Say the Devil's Dead

the Spanish Lady

Speed the Plough

the Star of County Down Bbm - Cm

Steal Away

Step it out Mary Bbm

Stolen Kiss

Suil a Ruin Bbm - Cm

T

There were Roses

W

the Wearing of the Green

Whiskey in the Jar

the Wild Rover

[turnsorrow]

🌟 + the wol :>

Send 🌟 + a name & my muse will talk about their bond to that character.

OH  ,  THEIR DEAREST FRIEND  ...  WHAT WOULD THE Scions have ever been without the wayward adventurer whom had come from seemingly nothing, into the very web of fate. They are a hero, through and through  :  beloved by Eorzea and beyond, the muse of a great many bards and minstrels. Suffice to say there are a great many praises that can be loft upon them, ‘til their head has grown to reach the very skies at the ego it should give them. But Alisaie stares at the wood of the table she taps ‘neath her fingers with pouted lips and gently narrowed eyes, reminiscent of emotions that she cannot quite put into words.

“I fear for them,”  she admits after some effort, her voice quiet.  “More than I believe I have ever feared for anything or anyone in this life. Eorzea and all of its people, even beyond that, have placed so much on their shoulders. It’s too much for any one person to bear, and yet they oft forget that they are not alone. If I could lighten their burden just enough so that they’d not stumble under that weight, I would, but I will never compare to them. Believe me, I have tried. They’ve climbed to heights I’m scared I won’t be able to reach when they need it most  :  and I don’t know what I’m going to do if I lose them.”  A possibility, at current, that was so, so frighteningly real.  “I don’t care for their heroics. That is to say, I am proud of what they accomplish, do not misread me. But  ...  this world at large sees them as a hero, a symbol. They’re a person, just like the rest of us. It isn’t fair that their humanity is stripped away from them, that they must remain as a symbol.”

She sighs, hands raising to massage her temples as if it will do her any good.  “They are a hero to many, but they are my friend. For every moment of clarity Eorzea sees, I watch them make a fool of themselves ‘neath closed doors. Every grand gesture they make is marked by pain they have suffered in silence, every duty cleared exhaustion they must now carry on their backs. In truth, I believe I am closer to them than I have ever been to anyone, save of course my brother. They are more family to me than my own parents. It’s a bond I have not felt since...”  Her voice drops off, one hand moving to gesture into the blank space before her.  “...since my grandfather died.”  How pained she is, to admit it.  “I will never forgive this world if it takes them from me. I will not suffer the same sacrifice twice.”

[pearlescent-princess]

Dream goes here today. It was an odd one. I'll do my best to summarize. I'm gonna say it was the pain meds and my brain finally getting sleep to sort things out because it was deep enough.

For whatever reason I hosted a group of occultists, people I knew of (or had interacted with) in passing. It was strange to have them all here near me. But I played a good host and madd sure everyone got along. I made rules for what was allowed and what was not. No magic, no summoming, only discussion and talk.

One of the guests arrived on the tail end of a storm. Their storm? I do not know. I do know that I offered a hand for them to take before they crossed the threshold into my home (domain?). I welcomed them and made a small comment about how I hoped Lev and they found it comfortable. It was different.

Further on in the dream, the group traveled together. I think through a portal, or something like it. We ended up in.. a place like New Asgard, but it was wrong. I asked the group, but the group expressed the worries. Someone familiar said they could not smell the reindeers. I asked the other with the "L" spirit about the trees and surroundings. They said it felt wrong.

I turned the time and realm around us. I asked if this was the right place. I heard confirmation it was. I followed a path illuminated as I looked that no one else saw. It brought forth a red glowing ring like a giant hoola hoop. It was releasing something, a binding or related. I grasped onto the entity's ring and squished it, but it did little. The sea spilled into the scene. It filled all up and now we bobbed in its waves.

A ship to my left. But two familiar names on horses (or were horses). Bewitched by magic. A spell broken. I spoke to a member of the group about the currents. But I lose the trail here. I just remember being an old woman scolding a young child. The loss of some legacy and greed of it. It was unusual. It moved to exchanging an earring with the person with the L entity. I was given a silver metal designed like rain drops, and they were given an oak tree design.

Immediately after I was myself but elsewhere. It was familiar in the way that was like dragon age inquisition. But I was me. I found a place to go quietly sit upon in old elven ruins. I was going to meditate and perch there for a while. There was a group below causing a ruckus about Solas being gone. I went down there to find out.

I followed a blue, glowing coin (like a shard from the game) that kept vanishing as I got near it. I knew it was guiding me somewhere. Someone had gone ahead of me to scout if it was safe. It went further into the ruins. At the heart of it, there was Solas. He looked.. ragged and worn out. [I never played Trespasser but it gave me betrayed vibes.] He spoke to me, maddened, and said "it would be fixed by his coming", some 3rd party. He opened a Dread Wolf door and left through it. I did not follow even though he left it open.

I went back. I came across a beach and walked on it. Only mused at the fact that the storyline did break my heart. The sand was soft and white. I remember seeing a crab design (in a coral swirl style) and commented about how it was a tessellation. I continued on the beach and came to a small offering temple in ruins. There was a peepy gundam, it was weird.

It ended with me meeting a chef / minstrel. She looked like Isabella, but was different. Somethint about her was familiar, and it may have been one of mine. It seemed like that at least.

No more after that though.

[sassenach77yle]

Rupert surveyed Jamie critically, with an eye to the oatstraws in his hair and the stains on his shirt. I saw his glance flicker to the oatstraws in my own hair, and a cynical grin split his face. “No wonder ye’re late, laddie,” he said, digging Jamie in the ribs. “Dinna blame ye a bit.” “Willie!” he called to one of the men outside. “We need some clothes, here. Something suitable for the laird’s nephew. See to it, man, and hurry!” Jamie looked around, thin-lipped, at the men surrounding him. Six clansmen, all in tearing high spirits at the prospect of the oath-taking and brimming over with a fierce MacKenzie pride. The spirits had plainly been assisted by an ample intake from the tub of ale I had seen in the yard. Jamie’s eye lighted on me, his expression still grim. This was my doing, his face seemed to say. He could, of course, announce that he did not mean to swear his oath to Colum, and head back to his warm bed in the stables. If he wanted a serious beating or his throat cut, that is. He raised an eyebrow at me, shrugged, and submitted with a fair show of grace to Willie, who rushed up with a pile of snowy linen in his arms and a hairbrush in one hand. The pile was topped by a flat blue bonnet of velvet, adorned with a metal badge that held a sprig of holly. I picked up the bonnet to examine it, as Jamie fought his way into the clean shirt and brushed his hair with suppressed savagery.

The badge was round and the engraving surprisingly fine. It showed five volcanos in the center, spouting most realistic flames. And on the border was a motto, Luceo non Uro. “I shine, not burn,” I translated aloud. “Aye, lassie; the MacKenzie motto,” said Willie, nodding approvingly at me. He snatched the bonnet from my hands and pushed it into Jamie’s, before dashing off in search of further clothing. “Er … I’m sorry,” I said in a low voice, taking advantage of Willie’s absence to move closer. “I didn’t mean—” Jamie, who had been viewing the badge on the bonnet with disfavor, glanced down at me, and the grim line of his mouth relaxed. “Ah, dinna worrit yourself on my account, Sassenach. It would ha’ come to it sooner or later.” He twisted the badge loose from the bonnet and smiled sourly at it, weighing it speculatively in his hand. “D’ye ken my own motto, lass?” he asked. “My clan’s, I mean?” “No,” I answered, startled. “What is it?” He flipped the badge once in the air, caught it, and dropped it neatly into his sporran. He looked rather bleakly toward the open archway, where the MacKenzie clansmen were massing in untidy lines.

“Je suis prest”

he replied, in surprisingly good French. He glanced back, to see Rupert and another large MacKenzie I didn’t know, faces flushed with high spirits and spirits of another kind, advancing with solid purpose. Rupert held a huge length of MacKenzie tartan cloth. Without preliminaries, the other man reached for the buckle of Jamie’s kilt. “Best leave, Sassenach,” Jamie advised briefly. “It’s no place for women.” “So I see,” I responded dryly, and was rewarded with a wry smile as his hips were swathed in the new kilt, and the old one yanked deftly away beneath it, modesty preserved. Rupert and friend took him firmly by the arms and hustled him toward the archway. I turned without delay and made my way back toward the stair to the minstrels’ gallery, carefully avoiding the eye of any clansman I passed. Once around the corner, I paused, shrinking back against the wall to avoid notice. I waited for a moment, until the corridor was temporarily deserted, then nipped inside the gallery door and pulled it quickly to behind me, before anyone else could come around the corner and see where I had gone. The stairs were dimly lit by the glow from above, and I had no trouble keeping my footing on the worn flags. I climbed toward the noise and light, thinking of that last brief exchange.

“Je suis prest.” I am ready. I hoped he was.

Cap 9 The gathering ~outlander

[shewhoworshipscarlin]

Bert Williams

Bert Williams (November 12, 1874 – March 4, 1922) was a Bahamian-born American entertainer, one of the pre-eminent entertainers of the Vaudeville era and one of the most popular comedians for all audiences of his time. He is credited as being the first black man to have the leading role in a film: Darktown Jubilee in 1914.[2]

He was by far the best-selling black recording artist before 1920. In 1918, the New York Dramatic Mirror called Williams "one of the great comedians of the world."

Williams was a key figure in the development of African-American entertainment. In an age when racial inequality and stereotyping were commonplace, he became the first black American to take a lead role on the Broadway stage, and did much to push back racial barriers during his three-decade-long career. Fellow vaudevillian W. C. Fields, who appeared in productions with Williams, described him as "the funniest man I ever saw—and the saddest man I ever knew."

Williams was born in Nassau, The Bahamas, on November 12, 1874, to Frederick Williams Jr. and his wife Julia. At the age of 11, Bert permanently emigrated with his parents, moving to Florida in the United States. The family soon moved to Riverside, California, where he graduated from Riverside High School in 1892. In 1893, while still a teenager, he joined different West Coast minstrel shows, including Martin and Selig's Mastodon Minstrels in San Francisco, where he first met his future professional partner, George Walker.

He and Walker performed song-and-dance numbers, comic dialogues and skits, and humorous songs. They fell into stereotypical vaudevillian roles: originally Williams portrayed a slick conniver, while Walker played the "dumb coon" victim of Williams' schemes. But they soon discovered that they got a better reaction by switching roles and subverting expectations. The sharp-featured and slender Walker eventually developed a persona as a strutting dandy, while the stocky Williams played the languorous oaf. Despite his thickset physique, Williams was a master of body language and physical "stage business." A New York Times reviewer wrote: "He holds a face for minutes at a time, seemingly, and when he alters it, bring[s] a laugh by the least movement."

In late 1896, the pair were added to The Gold Bug, a struggling musical. The show did not survive, but Williams & Walker got good reviews, and were able to secure higher profile bookings. They headlined the Koster and Bial's vaudeville house for 36 weeks in 1896–97, where their spirited version of the cakewalk helped popularize the dance. The pair performed in burnt-cork blackface, as was customary at the time, billing themselves as "Two Real Coons" to distinguish their act from the many white minstrels also performing in blackface. Williams also made his first recordings in 1896, but none are known to survive. They participated in a "Benefit for New York's Poor" held on February 9, 1897 at the Metropolitan Opera House, their only appearance at that theater.

While playing off the "coon" formula, Williams & Walker's act and demeanor subtly undermined it as well. Camille Forbes wrote, "They called into question the possible realness of blackface performers who only emphasized their artificiality by recourse to burnt cork; after all, Williams did not really need the burnt cork to be black," despite his lighter skin complexion. He would pull on a wig full of kinky hair in order to help conceal his wavy hair. Terry Waldo also noted the layered irony in their cakewalk routine, which presented them as mainstream blacks performing a dance in a way that lampooned whites who'd mocked a black dance that originally satirized plantation whites' ostentatiously fussy mannerisms. The pair also made sure to present themselves as immaculately groomed and classily dressed in their publicity photos, which were used for advertising and on the covers of sheet music promoting their songs. In this way, they drew a contrast between their real-life comportment and the comical characters they portrayed onstage. However, this aspect of their act was ambiguous enough that some black newspapers still criticized the duo for failing to uplift the dignity of their race.

In 1899, Williams surprised his partner George Walker and his family when he announced he had recently married Charlotte ("Lottie") Thompson, a singer with whom he had worked professionally, in a very private ceremony. Lottie was a widow eight years Bert's senior. Thus, the match seemed odd to some who knew the gregarious and constantly traveling Williams, but all who knew them considered them a uniquely happy couple, and the union lasted until his death. The Williamses never had children biologically, but they adopted and reared three of Lottie's nieces. They also frequently sheltered orphans and foster children in their homes.

Williams & Walker appeared in a succession of shows, including A Senegambian Carnival, A Lucky Coon, and The Policy Players. Their stars were on the ascent, but they still faced vivid reminders of the limits placed on them by white society. In August 1900, in New York City, hysterical rumors of a white detective having been shot by a black man erupted into an uncontained riot. Unaware of the street violence, Williams & Walker left their theater after a performance and parted ways. Williams headed off in a fortunate direction, but Walker was yanked from a streetcar by a white mob and was beaten.

The duo's international success established them as the most visible black performers in the world. They hoped to parlay this renown into a new, more elaborate and costly stage production, to be shown in the top-flight theaters. Williams and Walker's management team balked at the expense of this project, then sued the pair to prevent them from securing outside investors or representation. Filings in the suit revealed that each member of the team had earned approximately $120,000 from 1902 to 1904, or $3.5 million apiece in 2019 dollars. The lawsuit was unsuccessful, and Williams and Walker accepted an offer from Hammerstein's Victoria Theatre, the premiere vaudeville house in New York. A white Southern monologist objected to the integrated bill, but the show went ahead with Williams and Walker and without the objector.

In February 1906, Abyssinia, with a score co-written by Williams, premiered at the Majestic Theater. The show, which included live camels, was another smash. Aspects of the production continued the duo's cagey steps toward greater creative pride and freedom for black performers. The nation of Abyssinia (now Ethiopia) was the only African nation to remain sovereign during European colonization, repelling Italy's attempts at control in 1896. The show also included inklings of a love story, something that had never been tolerated in a black stage production before. Walker played a Kansas tourist while his wife, Aida, portrayed an Abyssinian princess. A scene between the two of them, while comic, presented Walker as a nervous suitor.

While the show was praised, many white critics were uncomfortable or uncertain about its cast's ambitions. One critic declared that audiences "do not care to see their own ways copied when they can have the real thing better done by white people," while the New York Evening Post thought the score "is at times too elaborate for them and a return to the plantation melodies would be a great improvement upon the 'grand opera' type, for which they are not suited either by temperament or by education." The Chicago Tribune remarked, disapprovingly, "there is hardly a trace of negroism in the play." George Walker was unbowed, telling the Toledo Bee, "It's all rot, this slapstick bandanna handkerchief bladder in the face act, with which negro acting is associated. It ought to die out and we are trying to kill it." Though the flashier Walker rarely had qualms about opposing the racial prejudice and limitations of the day, the more introspective and brooding Williams internalized his feelings.

In 1908, while starring in the successful Broadway production Bandanna Land, Williams and Walker were asked to appear at a charity benefit by George M. Cohan. Walter C. Kelly, a prominent monologist, protested and encouraged the other acts to withdraw from the show rather than appear alongside black performers; only two of the acts joined Kelly's boycott.

Bandanna Land continued the duo's series of hits and introduced a tour de force sketch that soon Williams made famous: his pantomime poker game. In total silence, Williams acted out a hand of poker, with only his facial expressions and body language conveying the dealer's up-and-down emotions as he considered his hand, reacted to the unseen actions of his invisible opponents, and weighed the pros and cons of raising or calling the bet. It later became a standard routine in his solo stage act, and was recorded on film by Biograph Studios in 1916.

Walker was in ill health by this point due to syphilis, which was then incurable. In January 1909 he suffered a stroke onstage while singing, and was forced to drop out of Bandanna Land the following month. The famous pair never performed in public again, and Walker died less than two years later. Walker had been the businessman and public spokesman for the duo. His absence left Williams professionally adrift.

After 16 years as half of a duo, Williams needed to reestablish himself as a solo act. In May 1909 he returned to Hammerstein's Victoria Theater and the high-class vaudeville circuit. His new act consisted of several songs, comic monologues in dialect, and a concluding dance. He received top billing and a high salary, but the White Rats of America, an organization of vaudevillians opposed to encroachments from blacks and women, intimidated the theater managers into reducing Williams' billing. The brash Walker would have resisted such an insult to his star status, but the more reserved Williams did not protest. Allies were few; big-time vaudeville managers were fearful of attracting a disproportionate number of black audience members and thus allowed only one black act per bill. Due to his ethnicity, Williams typically was forced to travel, eat and lodge separately from the rest of his fellow performers, increasing his sense of isolation following the loss of Walker.

In 1910, Booker T. Washington wrote of Williams: "He has done more for our race than I have. He has smiled his way into people's hearts; I have been obliged to fight my way." Gene Buck, who had discovered W. C. Fields in vaudeville and hired him for the Follies, wrote to a friend on the occasion of Fields' death: "Next to Bert Williams, Bill [Fields] was the greatest comic that ever lived."

Williams' stage career lagged after his final Follies appearance in 1919. His name was enough to open a show, but they had shorter, less profitable runs. In December 1921, Under the Bamboo Tree opened, to middling results. Williams still got good reviews, but the show did not. Williams developed pneumonia, but did not want to miss performances, knowing that he was the only thing keeping an otherwise moribund musical alive at the box office. However, Williams also emotionally suffered from the racial politics of the era, and did not feel fully accepted. He experienced almost chronic depression in his later years, coupled with alcoholism and insomnia.

On February 27, 1922, Williams collapsed during a performance in Detroit, Michigan, which the audience initially thought was a comic bit. Helped to his dressing room, Williams quipped, "That's a nice way to die. They was laughing when I made my last exit." He returned to New York, but his health worsened. He died at his home, 2309 Seventh Avenue in Manhattan, New York City on March 4, 1922 at the age of 47. Few had suspected that he was sick, and news of his death came as a public shock. More than 5,000 fans filed past his casket, and thousands more were turned away. A private service was held at the Masonic Lodge in Manhattan, where Williams broke his last barrier. He was the first black American to be so honored by the all-white Grand Lodge. When the Masons opened their doors for a public service, nearly 2,000 mourners of both races were admitted. Williams was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery in The Bronx, New York City.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bert_Williams

[quickspinner]

Damsel in Distress for Hire

I wrote this for the @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers sprint challenge ages ago, but life happened and I never got it edited and cleaned up. Now I have, so here it is! I used the @mlweeklyprompts prompt Bard. 

Luka reined in Sass before the gelding could clear the shadows of the trees, and eyed the keep tower with some satisfaction. It stood alone on a hill, with ground cleared around it and a wall around the courtyard, and only a single tower rising out of the fortifications. It looked like their information had been good, then. Their opponent didn’t have a large force, hence their underhanded approach. They were depending on the seclusion of this place to keep them safe, and not strength of arms. That made him breathe a sigh of relief. He of all people knew how much harm misinformation could do, and though he had done everything in his power to be sure of his information, there always was that worry in the back of his mind. 

Luka urged Sass forward at a walk. 

“Hail and well met!” he called cheerfully, waving. “I am but a single traveler, of no threat to you!” He dismounted from Sass and spread his arms wide, hands far from the rapier hanging at his side. The guards exchanged a look, but didn’t move. 

“I am a minstrel on my way from the capital to cities in the south,” Luka said, with a little bow that still kept his hands well clear of his weapon. “I’ve been travelling all night to get through these woods, and as I’ve stumbled on you here, I was hoping I could perhaps share your fire and the protection your company would afford me from the local dregs so that I may take a short rest in peace? I have some goods of my own that are better shared, if you would be so kind to allow me to sup with you.” He leaned over and reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a large bottle that glinted appealingly in the sunlight.

The guardsmen exchanged grins with each other, and invited him at once to come and share their watch, on the condition that he give them all the news he had and play a little for their entertainment. 

“Shall I not be detaining you from your duties?” Luka asked, glancing up at the Keep as he tethered Sass. “I’ve no wish to get you in trouble, nor be chased away for causing undue distraction.” He winked at the guards, who chuckled. 

“It’s light duty today,” one of them said easily, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Any force large enough to breach it will be seen from the tower long before we spy it from here, and nothing here to tempt anyone except a fine lady who barely even had any baggage. Come and give us the news!” 

It was amazing, Luka reflected to himself as he sat down, opening the bottle and pouring generous measures into the cups they they held out for him, what you could get away with when you carried a lute and some good wine.

“Aye, she was a nice one to look at though,” the second guard observed with a sigh. “I was on duty when they escorted her in this morning. A highborn lady, that, worth her weight I’m sure. Not that the higher ups tell us much.” His companion elbowed him and gave him a dark look, before turning back to waggle bushy eyebrows at Luka. 

“Ye seen many pretty ladies?” he asked, and a smile twitched at Luka’s mouth at the obvious attempt to deflect the conversation. “Bet ye have, a court songbird like you.” 

“Oh, many,” Luka agreed, hiding his distaste at the epithet. Court songbird, indeed. “Duchesses and princesses and high court ladies of every kind, but there is only one lady that holds my heart, no matter how much my eyes may wander.” He winked and the two men guffawed. Luka disguised a roll of his eyes with another deep drink from his cup. He’d been around this type enough to know what kind of humor they enjoyed. Luka turned his eyes up in the direction of the keep, hiding his scrutiny behind a dreamy expression. 

“My lady is as lovely as any princess I’ve ever seen,” Luka continued. “Clumsy, sometimes, but all the more joy in catching her, ey?” Another round of laughter. “She has beautiful dark hair, and the sweetest, most beguiling eyes you’ve ever seen, and her mouth was carved by the gods.” He sighed longingly. “And I’ve been apart from her much too long. I’m on my way back to her now, and I appreciate you sharing your fire with a lonely minstrel.” 

“There, there,” the taller man said, not without genuine sympathy, and patted Luka’s shoulder roughly. “Ye’ll be with her again soon, no doubt.” 

Luka looked toward the Keep gates and smiled as shouts began to rise in the courtyard. “I do believe you’re right,” he said, finishing the last of his cup. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen, but my lady awaits. I leave you this medicinal powder and my sincerest apologies for the headache you’re going to have in the mornings.” 

He set a small pouch on the ground, where it would be in plain sight of the men who had just slumped to the ground, unconscious. 

Luka tsked as he picked up their empty cups and examined the residue at the bottom. “More than enough to keep them out most of the day,” he murmured with satisfaction. He leaned back against his pack and waited.

Eventually, the heavy keep doors swung open, and a petite figure in a lovely velvet red dress came striding out. Luka couldn’t help his smile, or the sigh of relief and longing that passed his lips. 

She caught sight of him and scowled, completely ignoring the passed out guards that lay on the ground. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded. 

“Well met, to you as well, Marinette,” Luka laughed. His roguish smile made a mockery of his courtly bow. 

“Why are you here?” she asked again, crossing her arms. “You were supposed to wait in the capital.”

“I am no court bard, to find inspiration in perfume and flattery and empty love affairs,” Luka sniffed affectedly. “I am a seeker of adventure, and I follow my heart.”

“You dog my heels,” Marinette accused, reaching down to pull out the hidden ribbon she had worked into her gown. The dress split on the sides, and Marinette straightened, rolling the ribbon carefully around her fingers even as she glared at him. “Admit it.”

“Admit that you have my heart? Gladly.” Luka swept a bow, and Marinette rolled her eyes.

“Don’t flatter me,” she snorted. “You’re not any good at it.” 

“Shall I compliment you instead?” Luka asked pointedly, and Marinette blushed, looking away. His compliments were always far worse than his flattery, because he meant them. 

“Don’t change the subject. You were worried about me,” she accused, waving a dagger like an admonitionary finger. “I can handle myself.” 

“You can handle yourself, and me as well,” Luka grinned, and then softened his tone, dropping his courtly pretense. “But I’m always worried about you. That proves nothing except that I care about you.” He held up a furled parchment between them. “However, this is actually why I’m here. I also bring Lady Kagami’s thanks and her appreciation for your very convincing performance of a helpless highborn princess being carried off, although she feels it wasn’t a very accurate imitation of her.” 

Marinette snorted. “Kagami could have easily handled these idiots herself if her mother wasn’t such a stick in the mud. It probably would have been more entertaining for everyone if they had managed to kidnap her.” She sheathed her dagger and took the parchment, unrolling it as she added, “I hope she sent her payment as well as her thanks.” Her lips pursed as she read, and then pushed out in a pout as she looked up at him. “Okay. That’s a good reason.” 

“No point in riding all the way back just to traverse the exact same route again,” Luka agreed. “And since I was coming all this way, why not meet you at the door? I’ve stashed our supplies in a nice little campsite far enough away from this mess,” he gestured at the tower. “We can spend the night and set out in the morning.”

“We?” Marinette asked, eyebrows raising. Luka shrugged.

“I’ve no mind to let you get that far away from me for that long,” he told her, only half joking. “I’m sure there’s a noble house somewhere in the city looking for entertainment, and if not—” Luka shrugged. “Then there’s certain to be a tavern."

Marinette grimaced. “I don’t like it when you play taverns,” she muttered. “You’re far too good for that.”

“We take the pay where it comes,” Luka reminded her, plucking the parchment from her hand and tucking it back in his saddlebag.

“It doesn’t have to come with tavern wenches hanging all over you,” Marinette complained. 

Luka barked a laugh. “The noble ladies are just as bad, only more subtle,” he chuckled, mounting his horse. He extended a hand down to Marinette. “Shall we? I’m sure Tikki’s getting hungry.”  

Marinette looked up at his tall gelding and sighed. “I can get up myself,” she muttered, but she let Luka grip her wrist to give her a little extra boost. She landed across Sass on her belly with a small grunt, and then scrambled into place behind Luka. She could see the curve of his smile just before he faced forward. 

“I’m glad you’re coming with me,” she murmured into his shoulder blades. “And I’ll gut anyone who touches you.”

“My thanks, my gallant lady protector,” Luka said, patting the hands clasped around his waist. “I need fear nothing as long as you are with me, except the hour of parting.”

Marinette huffed, her breath tickling his neck. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Luka looked over his shoulder and winked. “If my heart grew much fonder of you, you would never be rid of me.” 

Marinette was silent for a moment, and then said, “Maybe I don’t want to be.” She said it very quietly, and held her breath after. Luka’s big hand covered hers again, his thumb caressing the back.

“Then maybe you should say yes the next time I propose,” came the teasing answer, and Marinette’s mouth dropped in outrage. 

“You propose every time we pass a church!” she scoffed. 

“Yes,” Luka agreed shamelessly. “How many churches do you think there are between here and the Jewel of the Southern Wastes ?” 

“Not enough to convince me to marry you,” Marinette shot back. “I like the way things are.” 

"As do I," Luka chuckled.

Marinette sniffed. "I knew you weren't serious."

"Of course I am. I will wed you the moment you say the word. But if you are content, then so am I."

"You're infuriating, you know that?" Marinette huffed. 

“There, there,” Luka laughed, patting her hand before putting his own back on the reins. “We’ve a long way to go to get there, and through some pretty sketchy territory. Maybe if you’re really lucky, we’ll get robbed.”

“You think?” Marinette perked up. “Bandits?”

“Possibly even ruffians ,” Luka teased, and laughed when she smacked his shoulder. 

“Ruffians are always broke,” Marinette complained. “I want bandits. I’m going to have to buy new dresses when we get there, I can’t wear dresses from the Northern court in the South. I’d look ridiculous.” Her eyes widened slightly. “Luka, what did you do with my dresses? You didn’t pack them yourself, did you? They’re much too delicate—”

“I had them professionally packed and sealed and sent to Lady Alya for safekeeping,” Luka reassured her. “I would never dare let harm come to your wardrobe.” 

Marinette slumped in relief. “Oh, good.” After a moment she added, “Thank you.”

Luka lifted one of her hands from his waist and kissed the palm softly. 

[little-ligi]

Febuwhump - No. 5

No. 5 - “Take Me Instead” Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 1856 @febuwhump​

Lancelot smiled as Merlin began humming. He recognised the tune as one the minstrels had been playing at the banquet the other night, except Merlin was humming it slightly out of tune.

Letting his sword still for a moment, he leant back against a tree and joined in whistling, emphasising the correct notes whenever Merlin missed one. Merlin looked up at him with a grin, then chucked a twig at his head. Lancelot easily ducked it.

“I never claimed to be able to carry a tune,” Merlin said with a laugh.

“Carry on, Merlin. I was enjoying it.” Lancelot grinned.

Merlin rolled his eyes and went back to picking herbs, humming louder and even more out of tune. Lancelot laughed and gave his sword a twirl. He’d tried helping Merlin gather the herbs, but after Merlin complaining he’d picked the wrong thing for the fourth time, he decided to stop. Instead he’d been practicing footwork, one of the drills Leon had taught him.

Continue reading on Ao3, FF.net or below! 👇

It was certainly easier to move without his chainmail. He’d forgone the armour today seeing as he was just gathering herbs with Merlin rather than out on knightly duties. But he found it almost made him revert back to his old fighting style, a little wider with his swings, a little jumpier on his toes. It reminded him of his younger self.

He grinned as he perfectly executed one of Leon’s lunge parry riposte moves. If only his younger self could have known he’d become a Knight of the Round Table.

A noise in the undergrowth behind them had Lancelot instinctively spinning around, his sword coming up to chest height as his knees dropped into a ready stance. Merlin stopped humming and looked up like a startled deer.

Four bandits burst from the trees, rushing towards them with a battle cry.

Lancelot easily stepped in front of Merlin, his sword flashing as he cut down the first man. He blocked a blow from the second and pushed him backward, knocking the third man to the floor.

He heard Merlin mutter a spell and a heavy branch broke from the tree above them with a tremendous cracking sound. It fell to knock out the fourth man who was circling around the two fighting Lancelot. He collapsed with the branch across his back.

With several quick slashes Lancelot dispatched the two bandits in front of him as well.

A yell from behind him made his heart jump to his throat. He whipped around. Whilst they had fought the four men in front of them, several others had crept up behind them.

A large man was holding Merlin, one arm tight around his neck, the other hand pressing a cloth hard against his nose and mouth. Merlin was writhing and scrabbling at the hand smothering him, but his eyes looked glazed and Lancelot could only guess there was some kind of sedative on the cloth.

He stepped forwards, raising his sword towards the man holding his friend as Merlin’s movements grew weaker.

“Don’t take another step,” said a cold voice.

Another man came forwards, twirling a dagger in his hand. He gestured and two men with crossbows came up to the sides, their weapons trained on Lancelot. Another lifted a sword to meet Lancelot’s, the blade just inches away from knocking Lancelot’s down.

“Release him!” Lancelot shouted, worried by the way Merlin’s face was going red from the pressure on his throat.

“No. Put your sword down.”

Lancelot froze as he felt a blade at his back, through his light jacket. The man in front of him lunged forwards but with the sword at his back Lancelot couldn’t parry. The other man’s sword sliced into his hand. With a cry, Lancelot dropped his sword, bringing his hand to his chest.

“Get him down,” the man with the cold voice, who seemed to be the leader, demanded. Lancelot was shoved forwards, falling to his knees painfully then being kicked in the back. He instinctively tried to catch himself but with his injured hand. The pain shooting up his arm made him collapse forwards and a heavy boot was slammed down onto his back, holding him pressed to the ground.

He turned his head, ignoring the scrape of rough earth and dry leaves, to look at Merlin. The bandits had closed in around him now.

“Is that him?” the leader asked. He was peering at Merlin, who seemed to be wavering just on the edge of consciousness.

“Yeah, I think so. Trails after the prince like a puppy.”

“Good. Tie his hands, we’ll get him back to camp.”

“What do you want from him?” Lancelot shouted, trying to use his good hand to push himself up. But the man standing on his back wouldn’t allow him even an inch.

“Prince’s manservant, isn’t he?” one said, spitting in Merlin’s face.

“The things he could tell us with the right persuasion…”

The bandits laughed as the one with the dagger dragged it up Merlin’s side, slicing his shirt and drawing a thin line of blood.

Lancelot’s heart went cold. They wanted to torture Merlin for information on Arthur.

“No!”

Merlin was manhandled as two of the men yanked his arms behind him and tied his wrists then threw him to the floor. His eyes looked blank and unfocussed and he didn’t respond when Lancelot shouted his name. One man kicked him and he moaned but didn’t move.

“Don’t hurt him! Please!” Lancelot called to the men but that just made them laugh. Merlin was kicked again.

“Get him up,” the leader said offhandedly, gesturing to Merlin.

The big man hefted Merlin up over his shoulder as one of the crossbows was swung down to Lancelot’s head.

“No, wait!” he shouted. “Take me instead!”

“Why? Who’re you, some other random servant?”

Lancelot wished he had worn his chainmail, or even just his red cloak.

“I’m a knight. One of the Round Table.”

“The who?” The foot on his back ground down, making him gasp as pain flared through his chest. His injured hand was crushed underneath his stomach and he could feel the wetness of blood seeping through the front of his shirt.

“Prince Arthur’s chosen few,” the leader said, a curious note to his voice. He crouched to look closer at Lancelot and grabbed a handful of his hair to yank his head up. “Are you indeed?”

“Explains this sword, certainly,” the man who had knocked the weapon from his hand said. He was holding Lancelot’s sword, examining the fine workmanship of the blade and the engravings on the pommel. “This is a knight’s sword.”

“So…” The leader grinned. “We’ve got ourselves one of Camelot’s finest knights. I bet you know even more than him,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the man holding Merlin.

“Let him go,” Lancelot begged. “He’s just a servant, he knows nothing. The prince doesn’t even like him,” he lied, coughing.

The man standing on Lancelot was pushed off and instead the knight was hauled up to his knees. His injured hand was agony as blood rushed to it now that it wasn’t being squashed under him. Blood dripped to the floor in a steady dribble.

The leader got to his feet with a satisfied smirk, carelessly waving a hand at the big man.

“Lose him. The knight’s a better prize.”

Merlin was dropped, his limp body thudding to the floor like a ragdoll.

Hands pulled Lancelot’s arms back and ropes were wound around his wrists, scraping painfully against the cut on his hand. His fingers were slick with blood. But he didn’t care. He let them drag him up to his feet, his eyes fixed on Merlin.

He silently begged him to move, to show any sign that he was alright. But nothing happened.

The men holding Lancelot pulled him roughly around, so he couldn’t see Merlin anymore, pushing him so he staggered. He struggled to keep his balance without the help of his arms. One of the bandits laughed and shoved him into one of the others, who growled and shoved him back again, until he was being pushed around like a child circled by bullies.

If only he could get a weapon. His sword was shoved into the belt of the bandit who’d disarmed him, the man’s hand resting on the fine pommel where it clinked beside his own plain cheap sword.

As he was shoved again he stumbled towards the man with the swords. He twisted his uninjured left hand and turned his shoulder so that his hand almost grabbed the sword from the unsuspecting man’s belt.

“Oi!” A dagger was jammed into Lancelot’s side. His knees buckled but he was held up by the large man who had his arm. The short blade was pulled out and raised to jab back in again.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The sudden voice behind them made the bandits jump and whip around. Lancelot’s heart soared as he turned as well.

Merlin’s eyes flashed gold and the man with the dagger behind Lancelot screamed as he was thrown through the air. Surprise registered on the faces of the bandits, and the crossbows swung around to point at Merlin instead.

He shoved his hands out in front of him, his eyes blazing as he shouted a spell.

The crossbowmen flew backwards into the trees.

A quick golden-eyed nod at Lancelot and he felt the ropes around his wrists snap. He spun, punching out at the man to his side with his left hand and snatching his sword back. He backed up, getting space to wield the blade around in an arc towards the leader.

Merlin shouted another spell and a whirlwind knocked them all off their feet, including Lancelot. He grunted as the wound in his side flared with pain. But he wasn’t complaining because, while he managed to stagger back to his feet, none of the bandits did.

Once he was sure all of the bandits were down, Lancelot turned to find Merlin. His friend was already hurrying towards him and Lancelot ran to his side, both catching the others’ arms to hold each other steady.

“Are you alright?” Lancelot asked, his eyes roaming over the warlock for any signs of injury. Other than a bruise forming across his neck and the thin line of blood down his side he looked fine.

“Yes, are you?” Merlin’s hands fluttered to the stab wound on Lancelot’s side, another spell on his lips as his eyes once more glowed. Lancelot felt the warmth of the healing magic spread over him, gently tugging at the wound until it was completely gone. Then Merlin pulled Lancelot’s blood covered hand to his chest, cupping both of his own hands around it, the same healing warmth circling the cut.

“I am now,” Lancelot said with a smile, his non-injured hand reaching to squeeze Merlin’s arm. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Don’t risk your life like that again!” Merlin scolded him. “You know I could have handled it.”

“Not unconscious you couldn’t.”

“I would’ve managed.”

“Of course you would,” Lancelot humoured him, pulling him into a tight hug.

[medeafive]

The BW movie has made me get back into a few old writing projects and one of them is an early medieval AU (talked about it here) set on the border between Christian and pagan territories. It’s nowhere near done but I wanted to share some of it, so here’s the beginning! Enjoy :)

***********************************************

He's still not sure whether he drew the short straw or the long straw in this whole thing. She's pretty, that's for sure, red hair and fair skin, small and somehow very round. He hasn't spoken a word with her, however, since she doesn't know their language. All communication with her, her father and her tribe has flown through a blonde woman named Sharon, who has learned their language from a missionary (who was largely unsuccessful but at least not sacrificed to the pagan gods like some before him were rumored to have been).

It's very clear that this is a matter of utmost urgency to them, if the tribal leader is willing to marry off his only daughter and give up their ancestral stele to demonstrate their conversion to Christianity. Of course, it is very unfortunate to be a pagan tribe just at the border to the Christian territories. And then the hordes of soldiers traveling to reclaim the Holy Land and to spread Christianity. Must cause an existential nervousness about whether you are next. Which they eventually would be, no doubt. Better to surrender now mostly on their terms than to be annexed and forced into submission later.

And these are their terms: the daughter of their leader marries the brother of the king (which, fine, whatever Sam wants), they give up their idols and collectively convert to Christianity, and in return nobody comes and invades them. Seems fair. Their offspring will thus rule the eastern tribe while Sam's eventual offspring will succeed the throne. That's the plan at least.

The blonde woman, Sharon, keeps whispering in his bride's ear, probably explaining and translating what the minstrels are singing. Sam, walking next to him, looks very serious. Radomil, the father of the bride, is hard to read, as always, but seems kind of sad, or solemn at least, at selling their ancestral religion for their survival. The bride to be, honestly, he has no idea. She seems fine. A little shy, smiling politely and never ever saying a word. Well, he can't look over his shoulder for too long.

The priest is already waiting in front of the closed doors of the church with the usual questions. If there's one thing they're definitely not, it's related. Sam gives him a stern look, as if that would make him answer more directly. The dowry is read aloud by Sharon, consisting of some land, a substantial amount of silver and the heretic stele which will be destroyed the following day in another symbolic ceremony. He hands the bride a small bag of gold which she will distribute among the needy as soon as Sharon whispers in her ear to do so. The priest steps forward and baptizes her to the name of Natalia, referring to the birth of Christ. They then say their vows, Sharon for Natalia who merely nods. He places the ring on Natalia's right hand and she starts distributing the symbolic coins. Then the church doors finally open.

Sharon does not step with them under the canopy of cloth, because that would really be too much, and so Natalia does not understand a word of the mass and the prayers. She sort of moves her lips along, smiling at him nervously. She's really short, dressed in blue, symbolizing purity but also accentuating her burning red hair. It's probably going to be fine and they're not going to bother each other too much. It's not like they're going to talk a lot. And Sam gets the close relation to the eastern tribe as well as relief from the pressure of the church to spread the faith. In fact, christianizing a whole tribe will increase their standing among the Christian rulers. So they all do what they have to.

When that is all through, the priest gives him the kiss of peace and he turns to Natalia to kiss her rather awkwardly. She smiles at him encouragingly which makes it slightly less bad. The priest pronounces a blessing and then they're through.

Yeah. It's probably going to be fine.

****************

It's a lavish feast, of course, becoming of their standing. Natalia, as is now her name, does not speak a word, other than whispering to Sharon to her left. Sharon is going to stay, at least, as lady-in-waiting. Bucky drinks too much, despite Sam's stern looks. There's food and drink and gifts, all broiling together. It takes forever, especially the awkward silence to his left, but then it's over and they leave for the bedchambers. Which is a whole other disaster just waiting to happen.

Somebody tries to snatch Natalia's garter on the way out, which startles her enormously, but he steers her away from that and gives that person a warning look. Sharon ushers her out before he can and the two retreat to the bedchamber, shutting the door more or less in his face, and he is left to wait while they take care of the clothing situation. God. He drinks more wine.

Sam shows up, rather quietly, and takes the glass from him. "No need to panic. Just, whatever you do, don't be yourself."

Bucky snorts. "Gee, thanks. What do you even know?"

"Nothing," Sam admits. Which is a whole other story. "The festivities are not going to end for a while, but I'll go down and write a little. Her father already left. Just don't ruin it, then everything will be fine."

"That seems like circular logic," Bucky argues back, brushing his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, whatever. Go downstairs, if you so desire."

"You do know the dressing and undressing part takes forever," Sam points out, sipping on the stolen wine. "Yes, I will leave you to it. Don't trip on your nerves."

Very helpful indeed. He really dreads this door opening. But also, he just wants to get it over with. Consummate the union or whatever. Be done with it and then figure out an arrangement acceptable to them both. Let Sam deal with the political questions of their relations to the newly christianized tribe. He's done his part. Or almost so.

It still takes an eternity until the door opens and Sharon emerges with some clothes thrown over her arm. She smiles at him politely, as she always does, and disappears without a word. He takes a deep breath and goes inside.

The newly baptized Natalia is sitting on the bed in a white nightgown, loosely fitting, her hair down and curling like crazy. She actually looks comfortable, more so than he feels, that's for sure. She smiles at him invitingly and he remembers she won't understand a word he says. He takes another deep breath and closes the door behind him.

Natalia skirts to the foot of the bed, waiting until he approaches, then pulling him in by his hand to sit on the bed, back to her. Her hands run over his shoulders down his sides, up his chest while she starts nosing his neck, breathing against his skin. He can't help but get goosebumps. She seems so much more sure of this than he does, like she just intuitively knows what to do. Or maybe Sharon told her as well. Who knows, really. He already left the coat outside so she unbuttons his vest with nimble fingers until he is merely in a simple shirt. He virtually can't move, or see her, for that matter. Her hands wander down to his belt. She kisses his neck and down to his shoulder, giving him goosebumps again. All right, maybe this will go better than just not ruining it. He groans when her hand slips into his breeches. Didn't even notice she had already opened his belt. Oh God, this feels good. Oh God. He's already warm all over. Her hand moves very calmly, getting all remaining clothing out of the way. Holy Christ. He must be burning.

She makes a purring, guttural sound right next to his ear, giving him goose bumps again. Her hand keeps stroking his loins and beyond. He's never felt anything like this. Like he's going to boil over, to explode. She edges him on, very purposeful in her movements. He groans loudly, head dropping back, eyes falling closed. Surrendering. And that's when he feels something cold press into his inner thigh.

He jerks, automatically, held in place by her stubborn hand. "If you don't hold still," she hisses into his ear. "I'll cut you and you'll bleed to death."

He almost laughs, utterly delighted by this surreal turn of events. None of this makes any sense. Like a fever dream. "What the hell are you doing? You don't even know the language."

"Yeah, sure," she returns sarcastically, pressing a second knife to his throat. Oh, yeah, she's serious. "Now shut up and listen to me, unless you want to bleed out on the floor."

"What's this supposed to be?" he asks with amusement. Probably too drunk for any of this to be real. "A rebellion? A coup?"

The knife against his thigh presses in deeper and he remembers there's an artery there. Yeah, he'd bleed out fairly quickly. She knows what she's doing. None of which, unfortunately, turns him off. "Shut up. I'm going to get our balvan back, the balvan of my people that our ancestors have worshipped for generations, so that our ancestral god can return to his temple-"

"The stele?" he interrupts her. "Big wooden thingy? That's what you're talking about?"

She snorts. "You are not going to destroy the dwellings of our gods. I will not let that happen. My people will not lose their faith in the spirits of their land, the earth, the water, the stars, the-"

"So, what's your plan?" he asks. "I assume you thought this through at least somewhat."

"You will give me the balvan," she states. "Or I will kill you."

"Solid," he acknowledges. "But I don't have your stele."

She snorts again, knife pressing into his throat. "Then I will drag you to the one who has it. And if you get dumb ideas, I'll cut you."

*************************

They make it down the stairs rather awkwardly, considering also that he is halfway undressed and she is in a nightgown which is about the same as half-naked. She probably has more knives under that. Somewhere. There's not a single guard to be seen, all down at the feast. Excellent planning, really.

She makes him push open the door to Sam's study and he is either too drunk, too lovesick or too amused to do anything other than whatever she says. And so they stumble into the dimly lit room, in a state of undress, the knives clearly visible, and yeah, with his pants down. Sam looks utterly flabbergasted. "Hey," Bucky says like a total moron. "She wants the stele back."

"Or I'll cut him," Natalia adds, though he gets the feeling she probably wasn't serious about the name.

Sam blinks a few times in rapid succession, then rubs his eyes, clearly not believing them. "Look, I get it, I also feel like slitting his throat sometimes, but-"

"Thanks," Bucky interrupts sarcastically.

"You will give me the balvan," Natalia demands. "And you will let us leave. Or else."

"I thought you didn't even speak our language!" Sam complains, further rubbing his eyes.

She snorts. "Oh, sure. You think you can just come in and take our land and our gods and our families, and we're just going to stand by like sheep, no, you will give us back what is ours, you will not encroach on-"

"I think she has a bit of a temper," Bucky remarks.

"You idiot," Sam sighs, getting up slowly. "All right. I will give you the stele. The balvan."

The knives press in a bit more, probably smelling a rat. She has to peek around him to see anything. "And you will let us leave."

"Who is we?" Sam questions. "Fine. But don't think that makes your marriage void, you won't get rid of him that easily."

Another door opens and Sharon steps in with two bags. Sam snorts. "Oh, I see. Does your father know what you're doing?"

"None of your business," Natalia hisses. "Just give her the balvan."

Sam carefully takes an object from a counter, wrapped in cloth, about the length of an arm. "Give that to me," Sharon mutters, holding out her hands. "Yes."

"This is not going to work," Sam remarks. "You know that, right? You seem smart, you must know. This is not going to change anything."

Sharon carefully stuffs the stele into one of the bags, half of it sticking out on top. "Don't tell us what to do," Natalia returns. "Now let us go."

"Oh, come on," Sam sighs. "You're not going to drag him out into the court like that."

"I'll drag him wherever I need him," Natalia returns, pushing him forward. "We're taking the back exit."

Sharon watches her back. Sam rolls his eyes as Bucky is pushed down the halls into the court. The festivities are still ongoing - the festivity being his wedding night which has gone horribly wrong - but there are some guards at the gate who look seriously disturbed at the sight before their eyes. Sam gesticulates to get their attention. "Hey! Give them two horses. Better make it quick."

The guards stare. Bucky is too drunk to be embarrassed. Natalia does not give an inch. "Two horses!" Sam repeats. "Right now! That's an order."

One of them disappears into the stables. Natalia seems a little nervous, or at least twitchy. Which is bad, given that she's holding two knives that could wound him fatally with a flick of her wrist. "Not how I imagined this going," he mutters.

She snorts. "Yeah? Your problem."

It takes awfully long, again. At least nobody else comes into the court to witness his humiliation. A guard emerges with two horses who also seem fairly confused, just as everyone else. Natalia pushes him in that direction, towards the gate, Sharon hurrying along with the bags. "Open the gate!"

The guard stares at her in utter confusion. Sam sighs. "Do as she says. We don't want her to cut my dear brother, do we."

Thanks, really. The guards look at each other, an order is an order, then proceed to open the gate. Natalia pulls him toward the horse. Sharon climbs on the other without needing any help, securing the bags. The hangbridge is lowering slowly, as if it's not quite sure that's the right thing to do. Natalia waits anxiously, blades dipping in yet a bit more, grazing his skin. She's put him between her and the guards.

The hangbridge drops, crossing the moat. She pushes him forward suddenly, toward the guards, jumps on the horse and then they're already galloping away, her nightgown riding up to her knees. Sam looks away dutifully. The guards are still flabbergasted. And Bucky, finally, gets to pull up his pants.

"We could get them," a guard tentatively suggests. "If we rode after them - my king."

"No," Sam replies. "They'll be with their tribe very soon. I don't want an open confrontation."

The guards stare after the horses disappearing into the night. Bucky saunters back to the back entrance where Sam is standing, who snorts. "Yeah, you were very helpful, you idiot."

"I'm sorry," Bucky returns with amusement. "I'm pretty sure she would have cut my dick off."

Sam sighs. "Well. She'll either come back or she'll start a rebellion."

Bucky snorts. "Oh yeah. A coin toss, really."

[crimsonheart01]

Twinkling Bright (Jaskier x Female!Reader)

A/N: This is my first Witcher anything! AHHHHH how exciting. Thank you for coming along on this journey with me! Requested by my lovely, @juniperjane​. This Bard has a strong hold on my heart. I love him so much! Geralt too, but that’s a different kind of hold *smirk* 

Prompt: “How much for the ugly Christmas sweater?”

Word Count: 2.0K words

Playlist: Like It’s Christmas - Jonas Brothers [Spotify] [YouTube]

Warnings: Mead and Ale consumption, tavern shenanigans! 

“Look at the lights Twinkling bright Twenty-four seven Every inch of Central Park Is covered in white This could be heaven.” Like It’s Christmas – Jonas Brothers

Jaskier jolted awake and regretted the motion instantly. He groaned, lifting a hand to his face. Finding no strength in his arms, he let his hand fall onto his face and scrubbed it down roughly. He kept his eyes closed and squeezed them in a grimace. His head was pounding, and there was a putrid taste in his mouth. He opened his mouth, smacking his lips together before frowning.

His mouth felt full of cotton and his throat parched. It felt as if he’d drank the entire tavern the night before. Inching his head to the right, he chanced, peeking through one eye, taking in the room he was currently housed in. It appeared that at some point, while he was still of sound enough mind, he managed to solidify a bed for the night. Closing his eye again, he racked his brain for the memory of when he paid for his room, but nothing came to light.

With a long-suffering sigh, he stretched his arms, opening his eyes as he felt a pull of whatever garment he wore over his arms. Creasing his eyebrows together, he lifted his arms into his eye line and was assaulted by a vomit green coloured jumper, barely reaching past his elbows. He turned his hands back and forth as he assessed the offending piece of clothing. It wasn’t his, and that’s all he knew for sure. He would never be caught dead in something this tacky. Bard or not, he had standards.

With another exasperated groan, he rolled over and wrapped his arms around his middle. Rolling onto his side, he tucked his head down while succumbing to the pounding in his head. With narrowed eyes, he stared at the snow-filled window across from him, allowing the sluggish recollections from the night before taking him for a ride.

~(WITCHER)~

He spun in circle after circle, watching as the lights from the candles and the fireplace blurred into one long stream. He laughed out loud, shouting the lyrics to his newest poem. He twirled down the aisle, strumming along to the beat in his head. He hopped up onto a bench, raising one leg to rest a foot onto the table. He swung his entire arm in an exaggerated strum of his lute. Pausing for dramatic effect, he stared around at the crowd, ensuring that he kept them captive in his story.

With the neck of his lute clenched in one fist, he raised both hands over his head, hummed out the next few notes and then began clapping his hands together. Rekindling the beat and with a grand smile, he urged the patrons of the establishment to join in with him. As the raucous rhythm evened out, he jumped into the table, repositioned his lute and fingered several quick notes. His voice rose above the noise, and he was met with cheers and clangs of heavy pints being hit together.

With a jaunty step, he danced down the center of the table. He spared more than a few winks to the lovely maidens watching while sharing in a lecherous chuckle with a few men along the way. He paused to accept an offered cup of ale and downed it in one go while being cheered on. With an exaggerated wipe across his mouth, he slammed the mug down on the table. The men closest to him pat his back in solidarity and acceptance.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he continued pleasing the masses with tales of the fabled Geralt of Rivia. The myth, the legend, the Witcher. Jaskier continued to shout his famous tales to those who would listen. He dropped down into a seat, allowing those near to him to bow forward and using his hands, he painted a picture of the beasts defeated by the storied man of the hour.

The night wore on, the mead running free and the bread served up, keeping his belly warm. He loved this particular time of year. He could count on several days of free food and mead, even without having to resort to telling tall, however mostly true, tales.

He reclined in his chair, moving to take a swig of his drink but missed and sloshed the contents all down the front of him. With a sad groan, he accepted his fate and let his hand hang. Swaying from side to side, with hooded eyes, he listened to the crackling of the fire. Content to sit in this spot for the remainder of his stay. Tonight had been a great night. He knew there was plenty of coin in his purse, but more than that, it was a warm place to hunker down the storm outside.

He wasn’t going anywhere. No, not tonight.

~(WITCHER)~

She pulled at one of his arms, ducking down and strapping it along her shoulders. The tankard of ale in his other hand teetered, sloshing the liquid within over the rim and down the front of his tunic. She chuckled to herself at the state of the minstrel.

“Come on, Bard.” She grunted under his dead weight, “Time for you to call it a night.”

She dragged him along, not bothering to listen to the mumblings he was rambling. As they walked towards the stairs, he caught on to the fact that they were moving and made his best attempt to mime walking. She was doing all the heavy lifting, but that was to be expected after the night he’d had. She spent a fair amount of time switching his drinks with water, but it appeared that hadn’t been enough to keep his drunkenness at a minimum.

They climbed the stairs in a messy heap. She used the wall to lean against while she all but dragged the man up each step behind her. Reaching the middle landing, she needed to pause, wiping her sweaty brow from the exertion. How was it possible that the bard weighed this much? Not wanting to lose all her steam, she fisted her skirts into her free hand and began dragging him upwards again.  

As she swung around the bannister, his head accidentally met the wall, and he cursed before laughing at himself. She listened as he went through a short monologue, making it exceptionally clear to her that he had no idea she was there nor that she was carrying him up to a free room. Shaking her head with amused annoyance, she continued.

Reaching the room, she shoved him through the door and towards the bed. As he fell back, he spread his arms out and plopped down onto the boxed bed below him. He let out a sigh of content and laid there with his legs hanging over the edge. She waited for a long moment to see if he’d acknowledge her, but nothing came.

Giving him a once over, and deciding he’d passed out cold, she shrugged to herself before leaning in and rummaging through his pockets for the coins she knew he’d collected throughout the night. Picking out the correct amount for the room, she tipped the rest back into their place. As she moved to back away, she felt his warm fingers curl around her wrist.

In preparation to scold him for trying to get out of paying for his stay, she was stunned into silence when he pointed to her with his other hand. She watched as his mouth moved, but no sound came out. It was obvious he was thinking about something difficult. She widened her eyes as she waited for him to form the words he was concentrating hard on.

“How much for the ugly Christmas sweater?” He slurred, pushing his finger closer towards her to emphasize his pointing.

She looked down at her buttoned overcoat and had to stifle a laugh. He kept up a glazed stare in her direction, entirely too serious about wanting her clothing item.

With a sigh, she rubbed the coins in her hand together, “Already paid for bard.”

He gave her an approved pout and then patted the bed next to him, “Just leave that there then.”

She stuffed her mouth against the back of her other hand at his air of utter importance at the transaction. As if he was a wealthy lord making a bargain on this sale. Choosing to take pity on him, she swiftly worked through the buttons and folded the coat next to him on his bed before backing out of the room. Closing the door behind her, she stopped to admire the silver she’d collected and smiled. Tonight had been a good night.

~(WITCHER)~

Scratching his head and feeling a bubble form in the center of his chest, Jaskier finally made his way down the stairs into the musty tavern. It was midday, but there was little to no one milling around. He stepped up to the bar and sat down, laying his effects on the stool next to him before bowing entirely and laying his forehead flat onto the surface.

A light chuckle caught his attention, and he inched his head to the left, looking up to see a striking woman who bore a vague familiarity in his unconscious mind. He blinked in an attempt to clear his mind but came up blank. Her laugh came ringing out again as if she knew that he couldn’t remember who she was.

“Rough night?” She commented, folding her rag over her hands before returning to the counter to continue wiping it down.

He let out a strangled groan, “You have no idea.”

“Ha!” She scoffed, without looking in his direction, “I think I have a better idea than you do.”

He inhaled audibly before closing his eyes again. The pounding in his head crowded his thoughts to the point where he couldn’t confidently think anything at all, except for how uncomfortable he was. He continued to lay there, succumbing to his own misery, when there was a light clink next to his ear. Dragging his eyelids open again, he spotted the metal mug sitting in front of him. The woman was leaning into the bar, watching him with quiet amusement.

“Drink it.” She encouraged.

He stared at her, conveying his confusion. He had no idea what she was offering him, and it would be unbecoming to accept a drink from a stranger, especially after his previous night.

“It’s water,” She reassured him.

With narrowed eyes, he pushed himself up to a sitting position before taking her offered peace offering and chugged it. With a smack of his lips, he placed the mug down, and she immediately refilled it. She silently observed him as he sipped at the next cupful.

“Nice outfit,” She smirked.

He immediately looked down and was assaulted again with the hideous green coloured overcoat he’d forgotten to take off. Judging by the coy grin on her mouth and the fact that the garment was two sizes too small, he figured it was hers. Gathering up his bearings, he pulled out every ounce of charm he had left in him and granted her a flirtatious smile.

“I take it I can thank you for this grotesque green number?” He quipped.

Her mouth dropped open in feigned shock at his jest, but her smile won out over. With a shake of her head and another laugh, she settled for keeping him company.

“I’ll admit, it matches your complexion this morning much more than it would mine.” She winked at him before stepping around the bar and waving a hand out to a small two-seater table, “How about you get some food and drink into you, and we’ll piece together the entirety of your night together?”

Not needing to be asked twice, he grabbed his things and followed behind her. He found himself grinning ear to ear despite his horrific hangover.