#wip:TSP

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I have come to the startling realization that I have talked a lot about Nix's mother, but never really told anyone much about Anderson's, even though I love her???

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Okay so...This got out of hand length-wise. I haven't really written for modern day Book 3 yet. But behold. Under the ominous eye of the Court, a Lord's heir improvises some intrigue to assure his and an ally's safety. AKA, Sydney may not trust Anderson far as she can throw him, but he helped her escape a crazy lady's plan to marry her off for politics, so she owes him one. And thus, the third spoke of the Triangle resolves itself in crisis management and snarky banter.

Sydney had seen him in a number of crises before, but never his own. 

She had always thought he looked young, but had guessed that was just what he was. Now she wondered. His parents, his older siblings, they had that ethereal look, they were timeless, but they weren't like him, or Eva. She could tell they were adults. She could also tell from the way the Court talked to them how much younger the twins were than the other immortals of their kind. In a way, she felt guilty for not questioning him sooner.

It had taken some effort to get things under control. Anderson was small, but not small enough to be manhandled easily when he was panicked, slipping in and out of reality and conciousness. Now, she was sitting on the cold tile, out of his line of sight so as not to startle him when he came to again. Her legs were freezing against the floor, no thanks to the dainty half-sheer toga she'd been dressed in for some stupid ritual she didn't understand. She'd managed to get Anderson's jacket bundled up under his head, hoping that would make things more comfortable for him, but she was starting to regret not borrowing it. All things considered, this certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd woken up on a bathroom floor.

When he did start to come around, it was slowly this time. No inherent panic. No fight in it. He stretched himself out, touched the floor - taking inventory of any injuries, she guessed - and eventually looked up, and then over at her.

"Ms. Thompson. Fancy seeing you here."

"You scared me," she admitted. He scoffed. "No, really," she said, a little too loud. "I may not like what you did back there, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to worry when something like...that happens." She scooted closer to offer her hand, but he sat up and made no effort to move any further for the moment. He looked around, she guessed taking stock of just where he was, and then gave her a curious look. It struck her that he might not remember everything. "You were...panicking about something. Then you passed out. Got sort of sick when you last woke up, so-"

He cut her off with a gesture, and a grim nod.

"What was that?" Sydney asked. She suspected she already knew. "What happened?"

"Just ghosts of ghosts, my dear," he said. She took that as confirmation. "I didn't try to fight you, did I?" She shook her head, and he seemed to relax a little. It wasn't entirely true. He'd tried, a little, but he hadn't managed to best her so it didn't seem worth upsetting him to mention it. He took a deep breath, then stilled, confusion written on his face. "It smells nice in here. Familiar. But nice familiar."

Sydney nodded, and got to her feet, stiff from sitting on the floor for too long. "I may have used some of our new pull around here to make a few requests. Lavender, chamomile, rose, and vanilla. Something the Daughters of the Sun seem to favor." She jerked her head to indicate her project. The pleasant scent rose with the steam from the suite's ornate bath.

"You're joking," Anderson said, as he hauled himself upright by the marble countertop, ignoring her offered hand again.

"It seemed like something you would like. And you were sweating buckets, so you could probably use it." If he was feeling himself enough to diss her attempted niceties, she wouldn't worry about cushioning her words.

"And you intended to be present for this?"

"If you passed out and drowned, I'd have to hear about it." His shoulders shifted slightly. A tinge of a laugh. So, things were okay, now. Back to normal. Or, as normal as this situation could be. "And besides, they...sort of think we're engaged."

"I really didn't think it would be that easy to convince them. People see what they want to see, in the end." *Your father, you mean?* she wondered, and rode the awkward silence for a moment.

"Well, I know what I don't want to see, so no worries, I won't peek." She turned her back, as exaggerated as she could in the Daughters' horrible silks. It earned another shadow of a laugh, and somehow, she felt like that was more of an accomplishment than anything else she'd pulled off that day.

The cold hand on her shoulder jolted her, but it was gone again in an instant.

A jumbled apology followed it, without a real explanation, but the tremble in the touch stuck with her. She let the thinnest thread of Light extend to touch him, to verify. He wasn't quite recovered from whatever he'd seen while he was out. He wouldn't be steady on his feet for a while yet. He just wasn't going to tell her that, if he could avoid it.

Still with her exaggerated motions of keeping her eyes up, she stepped into the bath, herself, arm extended to give him something to grab for balance.

He didn't have to ask her what the hell she was doing; the question was plain in his hesitance. Then, he sighed in resignation and let her pull him into the water.

"It will ruin that fabric," he pointed out.

"Good riddance, it's awful. Don't the Daughters ever get cold? Or need to go outside? I have done all my practicing so far while wearing pants, and I promise it has had no affect on my ability to use their magic."

"You're being awful nice for someone who doesn't trust me," Anderson said, then. He let her guide him by the upper arm until he was leaned back against her shoulder. She considered what to say to that. Even if they were back to their normal banter, it didn't seem right to remind him how little of a threat he really was like this. The hot water was slowly abating the shivering, but a sharp chill still jolted through him every so often. 

She raised her hand, letting the Light pool in her palm. She knew she couldn't heal someone's mind with it. He had taught her that. He had taught her everything she knew about Light, really, but that had been so pointed when he said it. She realized what that meant, now. *Don't waste your energy trying to fix me. I will either heal one day, or I won't.* She resisted the urge to press the magic through his temple, to test it herself. She had to trust him on that, at least. If it could have been done, he'd have done it by now. Instead, she wrapped her arm across his chest, letting her hand come to rest on his shoulder. There was no work done, no prodding examination, no Light sinking in. She just held it there, let it rest against slowly warming skin. *A nice sort of familiar*. He had taught her his style. His mother's style too, she guessed, and his sisters'. He leaned into it.

"If your goal is to put me to sleep, you're doing well."

She shrugged, jostling him just a little. "You probably need it. You've had a long day, pretending to want to marry me." *Facing your father, and the Shades, and the woman who banished you*.

"You really wouldn't want to marry me, anyway, there'd be nothing to gain from that."

"That's true."

He stopped, and sat up enough to shoot her a look. "Really? You're just going to agree with me?" He huffed, and turned back to settle against her again, arms folded in defiance. "I mean, come on, that's preposterous. If nothing else, I'm damn nice to look at." She laughed, ruffled his hair a little, smoothed it down with the perfumed water. "Talk to me like I'm useless. Bullshit. Just because we're not compatible doesn't mean you can't still stroke my ego."

She snorted, and barely heard his melodic giggle over the soft splash of the water.

"You're disgusting."

"And I get away with it, because this accent makes me sound *classy*." He nuzzled into her arm, and craned to look at the point where she held him by the shoulder. "Why did you stop that?"

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okay so first, i'm gonna hit you with number 30, out of necessity, for the cuddling prompts

O-kay!Everyone’s favorite flashback disaster duo is up, featuring...I think the youngest Nathaniel we’ve ever seen here. Which is to say, they’re not a thing yet. Nat is a 16-year-old with a crush, and Nix is a birdman with limited understanding of the human concept of personal space. For once, this is convenient.

It was late. It was cold. It was a nightmare downstairs, and Nathaniel wasn’t going back in there. He had never seen that many of the Shades in there at once, at least not out and about. It was like a holiday party, or some sick mockery of one. At least the raucous festivities kept them from noticing when he slipped out. The attic was large, accessible, full of strange antiques, but then, he’d be found if anyone came looking for him. There was a smaller space above that, it would be better for hiding. Most of them couldn’t even fit up there, really. Except that, when he reached the far end of the main attic, the small door in the ceiling was open already. A smell of fire, in a faint, crisp, magic way. No Shadow, though.

“Are you hiding, too?” he asked as he pulled himself half way up. How the Phoenix had even gotten into this space was a mystery. Nathaniel couldn’t even sit up all the way in the narrow passage to the vent window, and this man was a whole foot taller at least.

“I don’t hide,” Nix said, from his place sprawled along the entire narrow floor. His neck craned back to stare out the small slatted window.

“So you’re up here because...?”

“I like to see the sky. And I hate everyone outside. So, is this your hiding place? If I’m in your way, I can...leave.” He started to gesture, a ‘take a hike’ thumb over the shoulder move, but his elbow knocked into the exposed wall stud. Nat watched the ripple of light flutter from the crown of his head down the length of his hair, eyes flashing in what Nat guessed was frustration.

“I don’t care,” Nat lied. Nix nodded, and scooted against the wall, knees pulled up as much as possible so Nat could move. Nat pulled himself up, and then stretched out. Still, as much as he could be. To not be heard from downstairs. And because. Well. He didn’t want to impose.

A sound came from downstairs. Attic door. Someone there. Looking for him, maybe. The sounds got closer, and he heard voices, chattering among each other. He tensed, realized that he had shoved into Nix, and tensed in the opposite direction to the best of his abilities. Nix looked to him, eyes glowing soft gold. Nat didn’t know what all the colors meant, but it didn’t seem angry. Nix canted himself to the side, close enough to whisper.

“You alright?” 

Nat nodded, hoping he could see, not wanting to speak in case the others downstairs could hear.

“Hey,” Nix whispered, apparently half fearless. But then, what did something like him have to be afraid of? “I can’t see out from here. Do you mind if I-?”

Nat stared. What was this madness? Was he asking him to leave? To get out of the way to let Nix leave? To-?

Nix slid back to his original place sprawled along the passage, and, seemingly with zero effort, hoisted Nat out of the way. Once Nix had stopped moving, settled back comfortably with his view of the sky, Nat found himself draped pinned comfortably against his chest.

“Better,” Nix announced, quieter now. Nat heard it more through the vibrations of his chest than the air. Nat felt his face heat up, hoped Nix was focused enough on the stars not to look down and see him go bright red.

“...Is it?” Nat risked asking.

“I can see, they won’t be able to sense you with me in their way, and nobody’s got their spine wrapped around a two-by-four.”

Nat nodded, exhaled, relaxed, warm and safe and...Well, really, there was a lot to think about, but he would worry about that later. 

The voices in the open attic quieted eventually, footsteps moving on. The party noises died down. Nat had spent far too much of their time there watching Nix watch the stars, watching the little flicks of light the came from his eyes, flowed down strands of his hair. Wondering what the little signals meant, if something interesting had caught his attention. It occurred to him as he heard the last of the Shades wander off to wherever it was they went that he had no idea how they were going to turn themselves around to get back out the hatch, He considered asking. A small pulse of gold flickered over Nix’s features from staring eyes, and he decided it could wait.

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hi hi! care to talk Anderson at me?

Well, I mean. I'm always game for that. And all things considered, the world could use some lightening up, so, let's skim over the rough outer shell for once, and take a quick incoherent ramble at the soft side in the end...

First of all, we all sort of have a taste of the dark side already. Mob boss sense of business, totally willing to hurt bystanders to accomplish a goal. Life is devoted to utterly destroying one very specific enemy. Sleeps with a pearl-handled revolver under his pillow, just in case.

We know a little about the damaged side already, too. Chasing nightmares with chemicals and adrenaline. Rarely sober when he isn't working. Lewd, vulgar, shameless. He's survived leaner financial times by seducing wealthy men and then blackmailing them with it. He doesn't date, because he doesn't see himself as the kind to go on them. He describes himself as more the sort of boy you do something unspeakable with in a nightclub bathroom, then drag him into a grungy 24-hour diner to try to sober him up a little.

Anderson Lourandera is, for all intents and purposes, a disaster. He's a wreck and a menace in 2 different directions, and it's tough to say why people like Tawny and the Guard put up with him.

That's the secret.

Anderson Lourandera is quite possibly the most gifted Healer alive. He studied under his mother's guidance as a child, and after being banished by the leader of their order, he apprenticed under his elder brother. He taught himself what they couldn't. He learned how the Light really works in medicine, the almost imperceptible way it can speed and slow the human body. The way invisibly fine tendrils of it can be used to manipulate only very specific areas.

And it's not just talent. It's empathy, in a way, for people who've earned it. He's a whole other person, when he needs to be. He adores children, and won't let them get tangled up in his nastier plots when it isn't somehow necessary. Desperately overprotective of the people he lets into his circle. His favorite person, who he puts before anything else, is his twin sister. His reason for living, his chosen nemesis, wasn't chosen for what it did to him, but to her.

He still listens to his favorite Queen albums even though some of the songs make him cry. He's gotten pretty good at not eating things he's *deathly* allergic to, but will ignore milder allergies and sacrifice comfort when the sweet tooth calls, despite being a total baby when he's sick. He's indifferent to being hit on, ogled, and admired, but he might panic if you're legitimately kind to him. While he's used to drinking until he can't feel the bruises on his knuckles or his knees, there are select people who he will 100% let coddle him and quiet his brain a little.

None of his boots are flat. Even in a fight, his boots have heels. He doesn't notice anymore at this point. It's been 300 years, and he likes to feel tall.

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The Singer's Prophecy (TSP) | YA Contemporary Fantasy | Planned multi-part series

Sydney Thompson is The Girl. Even though she's been taught all her life that the real world wasn't like a story book, she has always heard the call of magic and adventure. It played in her head like a song on repeat until she was sure she must have been losing her mind. But when her quiet West Virginia town comes under fire - from an actual dragon - she knows it's time to take the leading role. Too bad being the subject of a prophecy isn't all it's cracked up to be, and no amount of reading could prepare her for her journey.

Jackson Alistair Lewis is The Boy. A son of the fae living in the mortal world, he has always been well-versed in the ways of magic, save for one crucial detail: he has no idea how to do anything with it. What he does know is research, and when he discovers the truth of a prophecy hidden in plain sight - as a children's story about a prophecy - he can't trust just anybody to take the hero's slot. After all, who says the knight on the white horse can't be a nerdy teenager in an antique Pontiac?

Anderson Lourandera doesn't want to be here. He's not a child, he's not a hero, and he has no interest in playing into the hands of some stupid legend. He has much better things to do, anyway, like running a business, drowning virtually all of his emotions, and fighting a relentless battle for vengeance - a quest he can finally see the end of after 200 years of tireless effort. But this line of work has left him so entangled with the magical black market that there's no getting away, especially once they enlist his help looking after a pair of go-getter Chosen Ones who never seem to look before they jump.

Also featuring:

A vigilante gang of witchy young people known as The Guard.

One exhausted Team Dad/former rock star posessed by a dark magic known as The Shadow.

One newly-appointed Team Dad/magically-gifted bird spirit who promises to do his best to make things work this time. Really.

A dangerous magical militia known only as The Order, and their petite but terrifying commanders.

One dangerously talented young doctor, the only one who has actually devoted her life to saving the world. And nobody had better try to stop her.

And including: Found family dynamics. Traditional family dynamics. Some actual decent parenting in a fantasy story. 80s music. Shapeshifting dragons. A grab-bag of folklore and mythology. A '77 Pontiac Firebird TransAm. And varied methods of perceiving magic, including Symphonic, the ability to hear magic as sound.

Current/Pending tag list: @drabbleitout @abalonetea @idreamonpaper @leave-her-a-tome

Yeeess, yes, I redid the old one first instead of changing it up, I know.

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So, Jackson occasionally switches to a form of sign language that isn't ASL, but something more common among the fae that he learned from his mother. Most people just respond to it with complete confusion, except for Sarra, who is also fae-born and understands it mostly.

Anderson, for some reason, keeps distinctly noticing that Jackson's signs are signs he doesn't understand. And I'm ??? Anderson, my dear disaster child, why do you know ASL?

Does this mean you get to be the one who teaches it to him?

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Book 1 Snippet

Does anyone else really hate the word "snippet" or is that a Me thing? Anyway, in the midst of all the background bits I've been posting, I've fleshed out a few more scenes for the actual book and I love this one, so here we are skipping ahead a bit in The Singer's Prophecy.

Nathaniel was already pacing when the team arrived and arranged themselves in his living room. By the time they were settled and he'd calmed himself enough to talk to them, Anderson had dozed off in a plush chair near the fireplace. Jackson and Sarra were settled on the floor, leaning half against the wall and half against each other. They spoke too quietly for Sydney to hear, still half dazed and trying to stay awake. Sydney was sure her body was exhausted, but she couldn't feel it. There was only the humming energy under her skin, the crackling buzz in her ears. Nathaniel looked around the room, to Nix last – deliberately, Sydney assumed, but then he didn't say anything. He stepped forward, once, then hesitated, didn't move any closer.

Sydney didn't need to look. She knew how bad it was. Even with the wound knitted closed, it was clear something was wrong. She wished she didn't know what that kind of pain, borne in secret, looked like on a person, but after seeing it in Jackson that first day, she would have recognized it anywhere, on anyone. Even on someone she hadn't believed could be hurt. Especially that. Especially Nix.. And the way he had acted about it was so odd. So secretive that he hadn't even let Tawny tend to him.

Nathaniel sighed, started to say something, started to reach out. Another Guard, a strange one, surely some new employee, interrupted by grabbing his arm.

“Are you sure that's safe, sir?” the boy asked. Nathaniel just stared at him.

“He's not a wounded animal,” Sydney snapped. She could taste the venom in her tone.

The boy held up his hands, a placating gesture, but still moved around Nathaniel to approach Nix, himself. Nix had taken a space on a sofa, but sat curled over, most of his face hidden behind his hair. The boy reached out a hand, tentative, like he would to a stray cat, and Sydney felt the disgust coil up inside her.

Nix responded with a sound, a low rumble like an approaching storm that grew louder, into a sort of snarl. He looked up, then, and unleashed a ghastly rasping hiss. The boy scrambled away, and was out the door. There was a beat of silence, before Nathaniel laughed.

“Maybe he won't come back!”

“How rude, wishing that fine young man unemployed,” Nix teased, the first thing Sydney had heard him say since they left.

“I'm just not sure he's cut out for the job, is all. So, changing the subject. You did something, didn't you?” The accusation was sudden, sharp, the laughter gone from his voice.

Something clicked together in Sydney's mind. The residual sense of magic, the thing Nix had been hiding from them. She had refused to think about the choice he had made, but a too-large part of her was glad to find out.

Nix shifted, undid the zipper on his jacket as the room watched him. The bundle of material he removed from its safe hiding place wriggled and cooed. Sydney hurried over, needing to know for real, needing to see.

“Nix?” Nathaniel asked, his voice a little loud in the hushed room. He paused, swallowed, then continued. “What is this?” He leaned over to look, as Sydney did, but when the wiggling infant gazed up at him, he jumped back. Sydney managed to stay calm, gazing into yellow eyes like a viper's.

“She's a serpent,” Nix said, sparing the briefest glance at each of them before his attention returned to the child.

Her eyelids were scaled, and glittered opalescent in the light. She reached a tiny hand up, flexing tiny fingers with claws, the same shimmering semi-translucent material as the scales. She got a hold of Nix's hair, but didn't quite tug on it, just held on and cooed at him again.

“You stole a baby dragon?” But really, when she wasn't looking at you, Sydney thought, it was hard to remember she even was a dragon. She was just a baby, with dark curls and tan skin and a big excited toothless smile and a fistful of the hair of another creature who really did seem especially human just then, too.

“I wasn't going to leave her,” Nix said.

“And you intend to keep her.” And that. Well, yes, that was definitely different.

Nix's gaze snapped up, sharp as he could move without startling the bundle in his arms. “Look, I'm not here to ask for your help, so you don't need to worry about this. I can handle it. We don't even have to stay here, if it makes you feel better.”

Idiot, Sydney thought, but managed not to say out loud.

“Dumbass,” Sarra said perfectly clearly, before taking a sharp nudge from Jackson.

Nathaniel just stared a moment, a thin line forming between his eyebrows, and then sighed. He reached out and carefully shifted the baby's weight into his own arms, coaxing her tiny dainty claws away from Nix's hair. Sydney heard, felt more than saw the glimmer of something sad wash over each of them, and almost asked about it.

“Miss Thompson,” Nathaniel said. “Do me a favor and make sure this man gets some medical attention. He'll need to rest up.” He stopped, then smiled, laughed to himself, and Sydney couldn't help but smile back at the implication. While he can.

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The Power of Love

And also the alternate future Nixaniel scene. Because it’s Fluff season, and because I sat down and thought, “The natural thought is that Nix who has the more dominant personality type, would be the one to propose, but like, what if…not?” Except this is a whole different scene, because Nat’s choice of moment would be very different. Warning that Nathaniel's PoV can get a little…stressful, I guess is the word. Not sad, really, just sort of anxious. And I know @abalonetea @drabbleitout and @idreamonpaper are following these random snippets but idk who else, so.

It was still cool out, but it wasn’t absolutely frigid, frozen, gray. That being said, it was very much still winter to Nathaniel, but Nix was a very different sort of creature. Being the sort of creature who was literally full of fire might have had something to do with that. It wasn’t so bad, really – Nix could keep it as cold as he wanted inside, as long as he was willing to share some of his inherent warmth.

Nix had decided for whatever unknowable instinctive bird reason, that this slight lapse in freezing winter was the ideal day to plant some certain type of flower that he had decided was important. Or, more likely, that one of the kids had decided was important, and whether or not they were actually Nix’s children, he was determined to spoil the hell out of them. And so, he was out in the yard, sitting on the cold ground, trying to figure out how much heat he could use to thaw the still-frozen soil without actually lighting anything on fire.

Nathaniel wondered how long it would take him to realize he could always plant the damn things in pots and just move them outside later.

That was the thing about Nix, though. He knew what he was doing, but then, the determination sometimes got the best of him. He got it in his head to do something, and he was blind to everything else. And that – Well, that was the thing that made Nathaniel hesitate. Things were a certain way, they always had been, and Nathaniel couldn’t be sure exactly what would happen if he stepped out of that pattern. If he actually followed through with the idea.

Nothing awful, of course. Nothing too severe. He already knew that. He'd also run it by Elissa, who had nearly broken him in half as hard as she'd hugged him. But then, she didn't really know them. Either of them. Not perfectly. That little seed of doubt stayed imbedded in his chest.

Nathaniel knew he was stalling. But then, it was constructive stalling. At least, it was constructive in so far as the tasks he was completing needed to be completed. Letting his thoughts drift was proving to be a poor decision. The problem in the end was how hard it was to read a man who was not particularly human. He had always still wondered, on some level, what Nix saw him as. Not in the simple, surface sense, but in the big picture imbedded down deep in his subconscious. When they'd first met, Nathaniel had been such a small, weak thing, some archetypal maiden-in-distress for a hero, despite the obvious reasons that the label didn't quite fit. He couldn't help but wonder how much of that idea of him still resided in people's minds. In one person's, specifically.

The running monologue continued, as it always did. The one that reminded him, “You know who you are and what you are capable of. He knows who you are, and has seen what you are capable of. You've survived battlefields together. Nobody could be that delusional.” He waited, breathed in, and back out. “Isn't this the sort of thing you're licensed to talk people through? What are you so afraid of? You know better.” He also took the time to remind himself that the great powerful warrior outside was in the middle of an epic struggle against a flowering plant, and reluctantly had to admit it made him feel a little better.

He was running out of simple jobs to do while stalling, wandered into the kitchen, considered making something. Sighed. Almost laughed. He'd always thought Nix's complete inability to cook anything more complex than something that came in a box with instructions was some symptom of being the perpetual bachelor for centuries. Then, he'd met Elissa, and discovered her very odd habit of eating things nobody had bothered to cook at all, and realized that Nix hadn't stood a chance. He had zero instinct for it. For what it was worth, he tried. Beyond just the concern of being stuck with that chore for eternity, Nathaniel wasn't sure he could live with the sort of person who occasionally bit into a whole fish.

That was another nice layer of reassurance. In the end, Nix did take a lot after his mother, and she had thought it was a great idea. And besides, even if this didn't work out perfectly, it wasn't like it was some big showy ordeal, he could always pass it off as just a thought, a suggestion. That was…

He had to stop questioning, if he was ever going to do anything at all. He spared a quick glance to see if the baby – not so little now, but it was hard to remember that – was still napping. It turned into a less quick glance, even though she was. She slept clinging to a fuzzy plush dragon doll that Sydney had been so unreasonably excited about finding, she hadn't been able to wait for an occasion to gift it. The words “spoiled rotten" came to mind, but not unkindly, and he found himself smiling even as he shook his head.

After another lingering moment, he made his way downstairs and out to Nix's plot of half-thawed dirt, where Nix himself was now sprawled defeated across the ground. He jumped up when he noticed Nathaniel approaching, and attempted to brush some of the ash and soil from himself.

“Hey,” Nat greeted, casually as he could, and plucked a stray leaf from Nix's hair. “I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” Nix asked, a little too seriously, when Nathaniel hesitated.

“Well, I was just wondering if you were busy.”

Nix gave a long, withering stare at the plot of frosty earth. “No,” he answered, in a dejected deadpan. “There is nothing more to be done.” Nathaniel managed to direct the bubble of laughter into the guise of a slight cough. “So, yeah, I guess I'm free for the afternoon.”

“Okay, that's good,” Nathaniel said. “What about later, though? Any plans later?”

Nix was lost, and Nathaniel was almost amused by the endearing look of him desperately trying to recall if there was some occasion he was forgetting. “I don't think so. Should I have made plans? I can probably get one of the girls to babysit for tonight.”

“Okay, okay. But what about after that, will you be free then? And the day after?” The nerves were still wound tight through his body, but there was a thrill in it, and he could feel himself grinning at just the prospect of following this tangled road to its end.

“I…I don't think I understand what you're asking,” Nix finally admitted, though the look on his face was more curious than confused, as if to ask why Nathaniel was doing this.

Nathaniel took a deep breath, caught both of Nix's hands and asked, with some finality, “What are you doing for the rest of your life?”

Nix stared at him for a long moment, but Nathaniel could see the gears turning, making sense of what he'd said, of what had just happened. The realization was a visible snap, the gold in his eyes flickering bright around dark, wide pupils – this is a happy bird look, Nathaniel realized, and he was sure his own relieved grin was nothing next to the beaming smile that pulled one side of Nix's mouth slightly higher than the other. When Nix pulled his hands free, it was only to cradle Nathaniel's face, to guide him closer. They were both still smiling, almost laughing, a little too much to kiss properly, but Nix nuzzled his face into the side of Nathaniel's hair.

“Is this a ‘Yes,’ then?”

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Okay! I'm. Still...Not totally here. Oof. But! I DID get a last-line tag from @drabbleitout and I DO actually have a bit already written that I can post for it! A bit more than a line, because I love this stupid scene. All hail, the prince of trainwrecks arrives.

“Good morning!” Kim cheered.

“It’s really not,” Anderson answered. Could have been, maybe, without Sarra pounding on the door. How she’d figured out where he was remained unexplained.

“Oh, come on,” Angelina said. “Who goes out on a Thursday, anyway?”

“It’s Friday,” Kim said, and while he appreciated her small attempt to defend him, he’d never admit it. Who needed to have such small battles fought for them, anyway? Besides that, he already knew what came next.

“Wasn’t Friday yet when he went out looking like that, though, was it?” Sarra. If it had been anyone but her, they would have had a problem on their hands. But he and Sarra had an understanding, at least, and even if they hadn’t, he was fairly certain the boots he was wearing were hers, so he probably owed her at least one free comment. Was it enough to earn her one free Emergency? It wouldn't have killed her to ask nicely, or at least to not mention that she only asked because he was sole full-powered healer she had the ability to call on at the time. He took a deep breath, focused instead on the possibility that the shoes were how she’d somehow managed to track him. Honestly, that part of the puzzle could be isolated into a decent distraction, but it was short-lived.

“Nice to see you’re all so cheerful,” an unfamiliar voice snapped from the hallway. Anderson had managed to ignore her on his way in, and Sarra had managed to keep her out of his office, but her voice somehow pierced the door, the distance, and, if the worsening of his headache was any indication, his eardrum. His patience had been shot clean through much earlier.

“Of course they are,” he answered, and hoped his distinct lack of enthusiasm was audible in his voice, as he had no intention of going back out there to deal with her in person. “Why worry? I’m the best.”

And with that, I shall tag...Hmm, @abalonetea again, and...does @a-place-of-babble play these? I haven't really gotten to catch up on your WIPs, and would love a drop of onr, if you're so inclined.

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

A Nixaniel piece! Because it’s Fluff season. But also Awards Season. And I’m a sap. This is not necessarily *not* canon. It's just not within the prequels or main trilogy. Several years after the Fulfillment of the Prophecy. Also, I have...0 idea who to tag when I do these short excerpts.

There had been a lot of hype since DawnShadow had come back to attention. And that, somehow, was still surprising sometimes, though it shouldn’t have been. Everything was in the light, now. All the magic, all the truth of who they were, what they were, what had happened. Really, it was no wonder that the world had its eye in Nix and Nathaniel again, and Nix wasn’t always so sure it was the music that made it happen. Just a strange twist of fate, some grand coincidence that put their work at center stage.

All that was to be expected. Nix also expected that they would never actually win anything, not against typical human artists who had more in common with the public, and also somehow still had far better reach. The competition was still serious, and if something wasn’t fair, wasn’t right, people would say something. Hell, people would riot. Nix still stayed at the edge of his seat. His gaze flicked back and forth, from the woman on stage, holding an envelope, wearing some sort of satin gown that still felt punk – something of Eva’s, one of a massive number of House of Light pieces he’d seen – to Nathaniel, who was sitting back casually as if he couldn’t foresee the slightest reason he would have to move.

They’d been passed over for a lot of things, back in the ‘80s. Nathaniel had spent a lot of time hiding, being hated, pretending he wasn’t who he was, and then in the ‘90s he’d had to do it again for a whole new reason. His response to their invitation had been painful. They just need something new to talk about. May as well be me again, huh?

Even with no expectations, Nat seemed disappointed, somehow. Even made up for the red carpet, Nix could see the dark circles under his eyes starting to come back, that sort of constantly melancholy look he’d worn for years. Nix’s hand was half way across the small space between them when the woman’s voice cut through the fog.

“DawnShadow – Visions of Midnight!”

Nathaniel was staring at him, eyes wide, flickering between blue and black and gray. Nix felt a laugh start to bubble up in his chest. People were cheering. Not in that Whooping, mad way they did for all fame, but in a way that was somehow really, truly excited. They were still just them. Immortal or magic or not, they’d still been the underdogs to these people. To these other artists.

Nix didn’t exactly remember getting to his feet, or pulling the still-stunned Nathaniel up after him and to the stage. He came back to himself when they were already up there, hands being shaken as the shining golden trophy was pressed toward him. As he was gesturing to the mic, to Nathaniel, coaxing him to go first. The stunned look remained, though, and while Nix would never really get tired of the look of amazement on his face, it wasn’t right, here.

“Go on, say something,” he said, softly.

Nat shook his head. Paused, took a deep breath. “It’s your song. You’re the one who wrote it,” he whispered. “You’re the one who made this happen.”

“I couldn’t do this without you,” Nix said, a little louder than he’d meant to. With a little more feeling.

Nathaniel stopped, outright scoffed. His hands moved to settle on his hips, an amusing pose to see on a man in such an expensive tux. Nix was honestly glad to have countered the strange mood Nathaniel had gotten into. He saw the snark coming a mile away, and something warm bloomed in his chest. He felt the corner of his lips pull up into an unbidden grin.

“Sure you could,” Nat answered, casually as possible, his drawled accent slipping in full force. Nix had drifted closer, didn’t remember it, but he was much closer, now, close enough to really appreciate the stubborn set of Nat’s jaw as he stared him down – or, up, as the case may have been, considering the disadvantage Nathaniel had in the height department.

“Sure I could,” Nix echoed. His hand raised up to rest on that stubborn jaw and tilt it up. “But why should I?”

The cheers picked up again, even in the moment of hesitation before he closed the thin space between them. The sound was lost, drowned out by his own pulse in his ears, the softly hummed note in Nathaniel’s sweet tenor that escaped with a sigh, warm against Nix’s face in the faint instant before their lips met again. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the voice of reason was trying to remind him that this was being broadcast live on TV. The louder part of his mind was cheering along with the crowd, as excited for himself as anyone else was. He felt Nathaniel’s fingers slide over his, move to take on the weight of the award - the actual reason they were there, after all.

Nathaniel stepped up to the mic, still a little mystified, but beaming, now, bouncing on his toes just a little as he scanned the audience, the other guests, the cameras. Nix wished he could pay more attention to what Nat actually said when he did begin to speak. He was distracted by the words he realized he would never have time to say.

Nix was the brain of the music, but Nathaniel was the life in it. The heart of it. Just as he was the life, the heart, the inspiration in Nix to keep writing it. How long had he gone writing nothing, before Nathaniel, and even after, for those decades? How had it been so difficult to realize what the difference was?

Nathaniel turned back, waved Nix over, giving him his chance to say something in the limited time that remained.

There was nothing to say, though. Everything was Nathaniel, there were no statements, declarations, answers left in his mind that weren’t just that, on repeat. All he had left was a question, and a split second to gather the nerve to ask it.

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Time After Time

This started out as a short fluff drabble of everyone's favorite disaster dads and somehow became 2.6k words and I refuse to cut it in half, so I apologize in advance.

Pulling all-nighters in between wild adventures is something Nathaniel is getting too old for. Not that he intends to ever admit that. Fortunately, Nix has appointed himself as responsible for Nathaniel's wellbeing. For... team morale...of course. Definitely not for any personal reasons, that's ridiculous.

Current tag list: @drabbleitout @idreamonpaper @abalonetea @elliereblogsmemes @writings-of-a-narwhal

---

Nathaniel rubbed at his eyes and all but glared at his laptop screen, or rather, at the sound of an interruption approaching which he couldn’t actually glare at. The door to the stairwell had opened, and far off as that was, it echoed in the underground chambers where he and his allies worked. And then, a second sound. Footsteps. Not unexpected, of course, that the person who had come down here would continue their journey, but the footfalls came with familiar, long strides, and a certain rhythm he’d gotten used to hearing, at one point. There had been a time when hearing that particular approach would have meant everything. He dreaded it.

He was already going over the possibilities of what the intrusion could be for. “What do you want?” would be the easiest opener. Alternately, a wry and sarcastic, “What did I do this time?” Or, perhaps the most universal, “I’m busy.” Followed by nothing. He listened a moment longer, fingers still on the keyboard, trying to determine if there was anything to be learned from the footsteps. They didn’t sound angry, so maybe he wasn’t about to be accused of anything. But then, they didn’t have that slight swagger of borderline-tipsy, which was the only state Nathaniel could imagine in which Nix would somehow have forgotten the new rule about keeping his distance. That might have been for the best, really, though Nathaniel couldn’t for the life of him actually put words to why. Keeping all his licensing when he wasn’t actually a practicing doctor was a challenge that involved a lot of papers and, if he could help it, enough actual focus for a few days of editing.

The door opened, and, with none of the venom he’d planned, he announced, “I’m working.”

Nix only hummed in response, and crept into the room, almost silent. Nathaniel was hardly sure how close he’d gotten until Nix’s sharp chin settled on his shoulder, a stray section of his hair tickling Nathaniel’s face as Nix peered blankly at the vast array of documents – on the screen, in notebooks, in disorganized piles around the desk. Nathaniel didn’t look, but the mental image of how far Nix must have been bent in order to lean on him like that was enough to make him smile, despite his determination to be irritated about it.

“…I have no idea what it is you actually do around here,” Nix admitted as if he’d only just realized this, despite having stayed there with them all for a matter of months. He turned just slightly, just barely enough to peer at Nathaniel, who hoped the exhaustion wasn’t too plain in his face. Who knew that was a vain hope, as Nix had probably sensed it from the hall.

“What don’t I do?” Nathaniel asked. “Everything, all of it.” All by myself, he could have added, but it was unnecessary. He felt Nix tense behind him, knew it was clear without saying it, kind of regretted implying it, dropping it like an accusation. He breathed in, tried to relax, breathed out, though it turned into a yawn half-way through. “I’m almost done editing a journal submission, but I’ve got…Shit, what? Invoices, some sort of…permits for…something. To apply for. Budget proposals. Lots of numbers.” Nix nodded, slowly, reached around him and snatched a pencil off the cluttered desk. Still mostly wrapped around Nathaniel, he started down the column of numbers on the last paper Nathaniel had indicated, making small notes to himself. “What are you doing?”

“One less thing for you to do.”

“What do you even know about accounting?”

“Had to do my own, back in the day…”

“I have a calculator, you know.”

“Good. We can check my work when I’m done,” Nix agreed, and twisted around enough to grin at Nathaniel, still a little too close. “One less screen for you to stare at.”

Nathaniel could have argued. Wanted to. But instead, he turned his gaze back to the computer. Winced. Must have done it noticeably. Because Nix had stopped scribbling and was staring at him in a silent question.

“It’s just…Do you know what a migraine is?” And God, if “Eyebrow arched judgmentally,” had a sound that could be made by pointed silence, then Nix’s response – or lack thereof – screamed it. “Okay, so you should know there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I asked Tawny, actually,” Nix admitted. “She had a lot to say on it. Something about neurological idiosyncrasies, sensory transmission, and – God, she’s absolutely brilliant, isn’t she?” It almost sounded like he basked in it, some strange distant pride that was starting to slowly melt the block of ice in Nathaniel’s chest. “So, anyway, then, I asked Anderson.” Nathaniel actually laughed before he could stop himself. “He said to treat it like a hangover, which might not be right, but I know how to do that, so it seems worth a shot.” Nathaniel gestured for him to get to the point. “First of all? No more screens, Nat,” he concluded. “Finish your edits later. Here, scoot, let me see the other papers.

“I will not, that’s ridiculous. How do you expect us both to fit in this chair?” Nix tilted his head curiously at the question, as if it were hardly a question at all. “You are not going to lean over me the entire time you’re doing my accounting just so we can share one desk chair. That’s madness. Besides, there’s not enough space for that to possibly be comfortable.”

Nix paused a moment, then, perfectly deadpan, said, “I have a series of very obvious alternatives of increasing impropriety for you. Which would you like?”

Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowed a sound that felt too much like the start of a sob. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was the pain, the exhaustion, or just the fact that this was the time Nix chose to start really sounding like Nix again. “Why does this amuse you?” Nathaniel asked, and hated the way his voice sounded, too tight, pained and weak. “Just…spare me, would you?”

Nix stood straighter, but grasped Nathaniel’s wrists, pulling him up almost effortlessly. “Go to bed. I’ll wake you when I’m done running your numbers.” Nathaniel nodded, slowly, and tried to pull away, but Nix had already snatched up the notebook in question. “Oh, no, no. You’re staying with me. You can’t be trusted. You’ve probably got work stashed all over the place to do while nobody’s looking.”

Nathaniel let out a breath that almost sounded like a bitter laugh, but with all the sound leeched out of it. “Why?” he asked, and found he couldn’t put forth the effort to finish the question.

“It’s easy for me,” Nix said, with a shrug. “And besides, I may as well pull my weight around here, if I’m staying. Why shouldn’t I?” The dodge was easy, obvious, but Nathaniel couldn’t quite muster the effort to object.

Nix all but marched out of the room, still leading Nathaniel by the wrist, though his grip was never enough to quite pull – always cautious, always careful. Nathaniel trailed behind him, lagging a little at the stairs. He felt the toe of his shoe catch a few times, but managed to stay up and moving forward. Finally, they made it upstairs, and turned the wrong way, to the wrong door.

“This is your room,” Nathaniel commented, a little too tired, a little too over everything to make it a question at all.

“You’re not to be trusted on your own,” Nix explained, as if this were obvious. “You’ll just find something else to work on.” Nathaniel didn’t argue, walked in, stopped.

“It’s freezing in here.”

“You’d be warmer if your jeans didn’t have holes in them,” Nix commented. Not a judgment, really, just a fact.

“Or you could stop leaving the window open in January.”

“It’s not, like…really that particularly open, though. Just enough to-“

“Make it freezing in here.”

Nix laughed – actually laughed, out loud, and whirled to snatch something off of a chair in the corner, tossing it in Nathaniel’s general direction. Nat promptly missed, and the item draped itself harmlessly over his head. It took a bit more flailing than he would have liked to detangle himself from what turned out to be a very dense sweater. Nathaniel stared at it a moment, before pulling it over his head. He looked down at his hands, mostly obscured by sleeve. He barely heard the footsteps come back to the entryway, and how someone of that stature could move so quietly was still a mystery. He felt the touch, feather-light, barely there, between his shoulders and nudging him forward. Nathaniel half felt like he was sleepwalking through the disorienting haze in his brain, until he’d removed his shoes and burrowed under the blankets – an actual unbelievable and frankly ungodly amount of them. He wondered with a strange sort of clarity where and how Nix had managed to acquire them all, though he chose not to question it, as it was really the only thing that made the temperature of the room tolerable.

Nix dimmed all the lights except for one soft, candle-light tinted lamp on a small table in the corner. He folded himself in a way that didn’t look especially comfortable onto a chair and, as if by magic, pulled from some unseen location yet another mysterious blanket, which he draped over his shoulders and down the back of the chair like some sort of hideous plaid cape. Nathaniel attempted to object but his words were replaced swiftly with a yawn. He wasn’t sure when he started to doze – wondered actually at why people tried to figure that out, when there was no way to know – but when he looked up again, he noticed Nix had taken a moment to locate the glasses he never bothered to wear, and leaned heavily against the desk.

“Nix,” Nathaniel said, objection framed in a single word.

---

Nix had managed not to watch and make sure Nathaniel fell asleep, though he knew it must have been nearly instant. He had still managed not to look back, taking time to change into something warmer, before returning to the list of numbers, staring until they all ran together, until his eyes burned and a ribbon of pain started to grow back into his skull. He fumbled through several desk drawers as quietly as he could before he found his glasses, polished them up a little, and put them on. They made the numbers bigger, a little, but didn’t help them resume making sense. He stared at them for a moment, a long moment, one that stretched on for possibly half an hour with no sign of resolution, until an interruption jarred him from his attempt at focus.

“Nix.”

He jumped, but still, managed not to look back. Couldn’t afford to, if he actually intended to do any sort of work. “Hm?” he asked.

“It’s late.” No more words came immediately after that, so Nix nodded his agreement and stared forcefully at the page of garbage, willing it to become numbers again. “And it’s still freezing.” And Nathaniel couldn’t possibly realize what he was asking.

“I always forget how warm it is where you’re from,” Nix admitted. “You should have somewhere else to go in winter…Somewhere warmer, maybe by the ocean…” He let his mind drift a little, could practically see the place, even if he couldn’t properly see himself ever being a real beachy sort of person. The logistics weren’t so tough. “I could probably make that happen. Somewhere we could go when it gets like this. If you’d want to.”

“That’s nonsense. You’re talkin’ nonsense,” Nathaniel drawled, in his actual voice, the southernness slipping in with sleep.

“I’m tired,” Nix said, and then stopped. Sighed. Realized he’d forgotten what he wasn’t supposed to be saying. Nathaniel, somehow while half asleep, had managed to trick him into it. He liked to think it wouldn’t have happened if he’d been properly awake, himself. If he’d really had the heart to lie. If he weren’t so curious about Nathaniel’s angle in the first place.

“Nix.” This wasn’t a question. It was a demand. Nix turned to look at him, now, saw big dark eyes staring pointedly at him. They weren’t always color when they’d met, but sometimes he couldn’t remember what they’d looked like before. It had been haunting, at first, painful, a sign of everything that had gone wrong to see the shadows in them. Now, it was just a part of Nathaniel, one little thing that made up all of him, one more thing he wouldn’t be himself without. “Why are you doing this?”

What did he say to that? What could he say?

There’s a chance I might be falling back in love with you.

Did you ever know that I was?

I’m sorry if you didn’t. I should have told you.

I hate to see you put yourself through all of this.

I like to think I’m strong enough for both of us.

I just want to do one thing for you, please, just let me do one thing.

I think I never really stopped loving you.

I never really knew the real you, did I?

I used to think that mattered, the way I remembered you, the way it was different.

I think I –

No, I don’t think, I -

“For you,” Nix said. Nothing more. Nathaniel stared, unmoving, unblinking for a long couple of seconds, before he gave a slow nod, at least tolerating this answer if not rightly accepting it. He didn’t quite sit up, but got up only enough to scoot very pointedly to one side, back pressed almost to the wall, before he retreated back beneath the mountain of blankets that shielded him from the air in the room. Of course, Nix could deny all he wanted that he minded it, the same as he could argue that he didn’t need sleep, but at the end of the day that was still his absurd fortress of warmth, and Nathaniel, well, he knew better anyway. Nathaniel also had resumed pointedly starting – waiting. “One minute.”

“Nix,” he said, sharper than the first two times, and somehow without remembering moving, Nix found himself in the still-warm space Nathaniel had made for him. “See? Better.” Nathaniel plucked the all-but-forgotten glasses off of Nix’s face, set them aside. Carefully undid the slip of black ribbon that held Nix’s hair back, ran his hand through it, toying a little with the newly-freed locks. Nathaniel smiled, a sort of sleepily dazed look, a little too close. He had faint little lines around his eyes, now, a thin streak of gray in his hair, but those things were more from stress, the stress of living, and of dying, and of having to live all over again. None of it was from time, now, and it wouldn’t be. The one gift the darkness had bestowed upon Nathaniel. This was a Nathaniel that Nix got to keep, if he could earn the right again. In one slow movement, Nathaniel closed that sliver of space with what wasn’t quite a kiss, more just a soft press into the side of Nix’s face while he was still almost laughing in tired giddiness.

Nathaniel drew away, then, but only moved enough that his head fit under Nix’s chin, face smooshed inelegantly against his chest. Nix sighed as hard as he could without disturbing him – not irritated, but not exactly relieved either, just tired, but maybe a good sort of tired, a tired that struck you only after you’d fought through something and finally made some sort of breakthrough. He waited, listened until Nathaniel’s breathing had evened out again.

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Character Creation Tag

@idreamonpaper tagged me for this one and??? Since I’ve been sort of reworking her and she somehow gets the least attention despite being the first PoV character in the series I’m going to do this one for Sydney

What was the first element of your character that you remember considering?

That she would be the youngest, and that she would be a singer. This took on a very different form, as the timeline was ridiculously different in the original concept, but. I had this image of her as sort of a cute and bubbly teenager singing with an old-school rock band.

Did you design them with any other characters from their universe in mind?

There wasn’t really anyone I associated her with, overall? Other than that I already had this kind of rocker vibe from them to patch her in with.

How did you choose their name?

Honestly? At first it was semi random, and at a point it became sort of a theme to give them the most mundane names I could think of? So Sydney got the last name Thompson. Her middle name (Marie) was a recent addition I actually stole from my one friend who has (been) stuck with me since Day 1 of this series. At one point years ago I did realize that Jackson and Sydney (and Nix, short for Phoenix) all have city names. This was not planned.

In developing their backstory, what elements of their world played the most influential part?

As much as her actual family history has been rewritten recently, a few things have always been the same. Sydney was raised by her aunt, who miiight have stolen her from her mother, and was deliberately raised with no knowledge of magic. This allows us to still be able to learn through the eyes of a main character without taking away her agency – it’s not her fault she doesn’t know, and frankly, she’s not happy about it.

Is there any significance behind their hair color/eye color/height?

Originally there wasn’t much reason to her hair color? (Sort of…a little washed out, a little silvery), but with some recent decisions it has become Important. Hers and Jackson’s eye color actually switched a couple times in early drafts. As for height, I knew I wanted Jackson to be short for a man and her to be borderline tall for a woman? And sort of decided it would be cute if they were the same height.

What do you relate to within their character/story?

There are a lot of things she has always wanted to believe in, but been afraid to. Despite liking being the “different” kid, she tended to shy away from the things that really did make her stand out. And she’s really afraid of letting fate take the wheel – she wants to make her own decisions, and is kind of pissed that she doesn’t always have all the info.

Are they based off you in any way?

Other than those couple of things listed above (I feel like that applies to a lot of people, so it’s not exactly that big a deal)? Not so much. Honestly, she fills a very important niche to a certain other character who is a lot more “me.”

Did you know what your character’s sexuality would be at the time of their creation?

I mean, even in very early versions where she was a literal child (like, 11), she definitely had some mushy crush feelings for Jackson. (*squinting at the girl* Are you actually straight? Are you like my token heterosexual character?)

How far past canon events that take place in their world have you extended their story?

I could write this series for the rest of my life. But it’s not necessarily always about this same group. I’ve got some prospective sequels, though, where let’s just say she’s mostly retired from adventuring but heavily involved in the politics of magic.

If you had to narrow it down to 2 things you MUST keep in mind while working with this OC, what would they be?

1. Describe what everything sounds like.

2. Instinct vs. Prophecy – trust no external source inherently.

What is something about your OC that makes you laugh?

Her priorities get screwy when she gets excited, and she’s somehow always in everyone’s business, even as a newcomer. She would be the type to stop an ally in the middle of an important discussion to say, “Wait, go back, you said you had a date?!” while they’re like, “Do I even know you?”

What is something about your OC that makes you cry?

Who she really is, is a major secret. And she’s the last one to know. If, at any point, someone would have figured it out and told her, it could have prevented everything…

Is there some element you regret adding to your OC or their story?

Not really? I mean, I’ve been reworking some parts of the series as I go over some changes. More like “Regret how long I spent trying to write a generic girl character before I finally figured out Who She Is.”

What is the most recent thing that you’ve discovered about your OC?

This is something I should have had years ago, buuut probably the same secret she doesn’t know – who, and what, she actually is. Which is to say, who her parents are, and who their parents are, and how that lent her the strange combination of abilities she manifests later.

Favorite OC Fact?

She is actually sort of a bookworm, and has read a lot of things in the genre of this series? And she occasionally makes decisions based on them. Namely, using weak characters as examples of what NOT to do, and questioning everything. Makes it really difficult for characters to convince her to do Prophecy things like a good Chosen One.

Hm…I don’t have much of a list for tag games, but if they want it, I’ll tag @abalonetea and @adie-dee, plus an extra for @drabbleitout if they should want it (aaand if @idreamonpaper is willing to take a tag-back, I am always interested in more from you too~)

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Disclaimer: Anderson Lourandera

So to anyone following along: this is a friendly reminder that the Anderson I drone on about, my Sweet Deviant Son, is not the same as who he is in the beginning of the series. He starts off from a very low point where he has, for more than a decade, been deliberately manipulating a guilt-ridden and broken ally to gain access to the man's daughter, who he is basically grooming to be a superweapon. He is introduced as a tricky, cold-hearted, hedonistic, single-mindedly goal-oriented menace who is kept around solely because he's too useful.

He has one of the widest-swinging arcs of any major character in the series. Early on, it will not be easy to look at this nightmare and recognize a man who only wanted to train as a healer and had his heart broken when he was barred. Adding those glimpses of his actual human side is a fascinating project for me, but they don't build up to much at first.

On the one hand, I wanted to present this now so any concerned followers can grasp how far the early appearances of this character are from where he ends up, so my own coddling of my dear idiot doesn't seem too unsettling. But on the other, I relish the hypothetical opportunity to watch future readers slowly watch his arc unfold, and so, am at this point stubbornly refusing to ammend it.

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Introduction: Elissa

Okay, after falling down a few rabbitholes of plotting (and with some gentle prodding from @abalonetea and @drabbleitout), a basic introduction...

Elissa. It's a new enough name to be suitable, but it's not new. It's a name much older than most of the nations of the world, used sometimes as an alternate title for the legend-queen Dido, founder of Carthage. Depending who you ask, it means something like "woman God," or maybe "lady fire." Legend, queen, goddess, flame - she is all of these things, maybe, or none of them. She's not sure if she came before or after that Elissa, if ever Dido was Elissa at all. Time gets fuzzy after a while...

-She was born originally somewhere in the region of the Mediterranean sea, though exactly where, she's not sure. It would be called something else now, anyway.

-She has been able to change forms since a young age. She is not sure if she can retract or draw in her wings, as she's never had any interest in trying.

-She is the only member of the main cast who has wings while in human form. They are not small, dainty things, that affix only to small points on her back. They're massive. The muscle structure in her back, shoulders, and chest is...different, to accomodate.

-On that note, standard clothing is an issue, and one she's not particularly pleased about. Shoes are also usually shunned, for no reasin other than a preference for not wearing them.

-Wild hair with feathers in it - tangled in it? growing with it? - generally full of ash and soot. Being wreathed in fire is not a clean and orderly event.

-She is the only one I would really describe as being more bird than human, but this is more by choice. She's very aware of human society, and its norms and rules. She just has no interest in following said norms or rules.

-Looks small next to some of the others - namely, her husband and her son - but is actually about 6'2".

Backstory time:

As is said in some Greek tellings of the life of the phoenix, they tend to go about 500 years at a time before being reborn. She isn't reborn as an infant, or a hatchling bird, but is very much weaker after this, no matter which form she takes. Unfortunately, in a more recent era, this allowed her to be taken captive by a group of men who believed she was...well, she didn't know exactly, but they certainly didn't seem to know what she actually was.

In thick chains she didn't quite have the strength to melt through, she was brought to several distant shores, before finally arriving on a greener, more sparcely-populated shore than she'd seen in a very long time. It was a place still unexplored, still less disturbed. And so, the moment she wasn't watched, she cried out, loud as she could, in all the tongues she knew of men, of birds, of magic things, until something answered her.

A man arrived, in a flourish of gold and dark feathers, on a gust of wind that smelled like an oncoming storm, and she knew. He was the one...the only...

He was the man who would help her kill all these bastards.

That being said she did eventually decide she actually liked him.

And so, she decided to stay, even when she had her strength back and could have returned home. Not that being home had worked out so well last time, anyway.

They really weren't the same sort of thing, when they weren't human, but it occurred to her that they could live together, have a family, so long as they were. But she wasn't human, really, and a power like hers was certainly never meant to be grown in a human child. Their son's birth was marked with a firestorm, and a pureblooded phoenix falling to ash long before that 500 years was up.

This raised an interesting problem. Since this was a thing that would have happened anyway, eventually, it occurred to her husband that she probably wasn't dead, but...was he supposed to...do something? She had explained to him that this could happen, but she'd never mentioned whether it would happen on its own. Would she simply pull back together and wake up, one day? Was there a process? Could it only happen after the rest of the 500 years?

...Would the boy's human body be able to withstand the flame in his soul?

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Anderson, checking the reports from groundhog day: Happy early spring, by the way.

Nathaniel: Thanks...I guess? Why are you telling me this?

Anderson: What? You're the one who married a bird.

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Captains of the DarkNight Guard

Angelina | Sarra | Kim

"Security," Sydney repeated. The word was slow. Skeptical. The group assembled in the underground beneath the bar all had a plainer variant of Angelina's armored jacket. Most of them were unarmed, except Sydney guessed for some sort of magic. Most weren't much older than Sydney. And most of them were women.

Angelina nodded as she scanned her crowd, paused at Sarra, a beacon of ginger hair in a crowd of dark clothing. She had summoned a screwdriver from seemingly nowhere to make a miniscule adjustment to something on a girl's wrist. Sydney realized in a distant kind of awe that it was probably some sort of prosthetic, more hidden than Sarra's but no less advanced. The girl flexed her fingers, shook out her wrist. Smiled, happy with the results.

Kim came to stand beside Sydney, watching as well for just a minute before she returned to rearranging the contents of the large pouch on her hip, just above her holster. Sydney spared a quick peek. Vials, bottles, rolls of gauze. A medic's supplies.

She looked up and Sydney flinched, knowing she'd been caught snooping.

"There's a lot more to making a place safe than people realize," Kim said, with a cryptic smile.