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caeslxys · 2 years

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also on the topic of meaningful consequences re: character death I don't understand the take that death in fantasy requires physical permanency to matter or give a story "stakes". death is permanent regardless. Do you really think that if they get her back, they'll just go back to normal? That these characters are not forever fundamentally changed from this, that Laudna will not be fundamentally changed from this?

That Imogen's world will be less fractured, that she won't be even more of an anxious wreck now that what she stands to lose has been put into vivid clarity? That Orym won't still carry the guilt of being the chosen, that he will be less haunted by the connections he drew to his own grief with Will to Imogen's with Laudna? That Fearne won't look at Laudna and think of that coin flip, of her choice, and what that means for her and how she loves? That FCG and Ashton won't think to this and be reminded of the people they've hurt or been hurt by, and what this effort and what this grief means for how they view the hells?

That Laudna, who has been so blasé about life and if she's alive and what being alive even means for someone like her, won't wake up surrounded by family and by love and be driven to reexamine everything she's taught herself in 28 years of isolation to cope with the trauma of Whitestone? That this, maybe, will be the driving force she needed to realize that there are things she wants to live for?

It might be that I'm just biased, but I'm not sure what stakes Laudna perma-dying adds aside from just presenting the characters with the knowledge they all already have that they can, in fact, die. that what they're up against is incomprehensibly powerful and dangerous. The stakes already feel so impossibly high when you think of what and who they are preparing to face. frankly the aftermath of this combat alone, even if everything had gone perfect and everyone had gotten back up a-okay, would have set that tone.

I don't know, regardless I'll be happy to watch whatever story they choose to tell unfold as it does, but it strikes me that so many people seem to think that death only matters if there is a physical absence.

#critical role #laudna #bells hells #I do want to specify though that this is my own interpretation of the situation from my view as a writer of the narrative #and my own interpretation of the situation as an audience member #I know death does not care for narration in real life and that dnd can be cathartic for those very reasons #that. to me. is a separate argument from what I'm trying to say here #I also have Thoughts about how. narratively. laudna coming back is the better story for Specifically bells hells and how they operate #individually and as a unit #and how I think a lot of people are blinded by the specific way molly effected the mighty nein #and I just do not think this is the same scenario At All #and also. if I may put out a more biased take. I don't necessarily Want the same impetus and the same story Again #this is bells hells! I want theirs! and they want to bring back laudna #also. like. the whole death only matters if it's permanent thing falls apart immediately bc like. it's laudna #y'know. the undead one. is her story lesser for having lived? is vox machina's?#anyway feel free to ignore this I'm just throwing thoughts out into the wind bc if I keep them in my brain I'll implode #and Twitter has a 140 character limit and I am long-winded

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happi-tree · 6 months

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dust to dust (tell me i am good enough)

“Does it ever get easier?” She asks, voice hoarse and low (you are used to this from her) and hesitant and very quiet (you are not used to this).

“What?” You ask, a knee-jerk reaction, overcome with shock that she would ask anything of you after everything you’ve done.

“Th- ugh, never mind, it doesn’t matter,” Her gaze drops to the pouch in her hands, fingers fiddling with its thick, plasticky edges, pinching at the places where it’s sealed and watching the last stubborn dregs of blood shy away from the pressure she applies.

“I wish I could tell you it does, Scary."

Or: When newly-Turned Scary starves herself from blood to the point of illness, it's up to Terry to help her recover and help her gain her footing in the new, monstrous world in which she now finds herself.

ao3

Happy Dndads Halloween Week, lovebirds! Here's my fic for day 1: vampires. It's part of a supernatural au that @kaseyskat and @llumimoon masterminded alongside me, and I'm really excited to post more about it in the coming days. Hope you enjoy!

The silence between the two of you stretches like a rubber band, chafes like an ill-fitting starched shirt. Discomfort is familiar company, though, so you allow it to settle on your shoulders and pretend the way that her glassy, red-pupiled eyes stare through you doesn’t make you want to shatter the silence.

You’ve barged into her life enough, you think, you mourn. You’re always mourning something, been mourning since you were thirteen and it never stopped.

But this isn’t about you. This is about her, the young girl that’s pushed herself up awkwardly to sit, still clutching one of the many drained pouches you brought for her. So you wait as stolen color begins to warm her pale skin, as her eyes seem to gain some lucidity.

She swallows, clears her throat, and you reach for another blood pouch, but before you can grasp it, she speaks.

“Does it ever get easier?” She asks, voice hoarse and low (you are used to this from her) and hesitant and very quiet (you are not used to this).

“What?” You ask, a knee-jerk reaction, overcome with shock that she would ask anything of you after everything you’ve done.

She looks so small like this, you think for the millionth time since she invited you through the doorway in a blood-starved haze, propped up against the headboard of her bed and tangled in pastel bed sheets. Her dyed hair falls slowly from where she has hastily tied it back, ratty tee shirt and bright pink athletic shorts swamping her malnourished frame.

“I wish I could tell you it does, Scary,” You say to her, blundering on and overstepping anyway, a habit passed down but not inherited. You can feel the weight of her new-moon eyes on you, hear the way her slightly-tremoring hands pause.

“Oh,” She says, and that one syllable, soft and fear-edged, holds denial-anger-bargaining- depression-acceptance fifty times over, its very own Atlas upholding a life made much heavier than before. You know this because you have uttered it yourself, the same tone coloring your newly-unliving throat, a few years younger than her, and here its ghost is resurrected before you. Oh.

“After a while, you adjust to it,” You reassure, “become desensitized to it, in a way. The newness wears off and eventually, it’s your new normal, but it never gets easier.”

You sigh, turning to look at her. “You can’t stop sensing the life in people, and you can’t stop wanting to take it for your own. It’s your nature now, and you can’t -” the words get stuck in your throat as you see her hands start to tremble again.

You’re unsure if it’s the right move, but you rest an artificially-warm hand atop her corpse-cold one. She doesn’t move to hold it, but she doesn’t push you away either. Her fringe obscures her eyes, and her mouth is drawn into a taut line, as if she’s trying to stop it from wavering.

“Scary, look at me, please, this is important,” You say, you beg, squeezing her hand once. She lifts her head, one eye still covered by magenta-ebony, but the other pierces into you. Good.

“You can’t keep fighting yourself like this. Your mom was worried sick, and even though I’m used to this, I was terrified when she called me. I’m sorry you weren’t given the time to be a regular kid with a normal rebellious phase-”

“- It’s not a phase, Terry,” She scoffs halfheartedly, and it brings a smile to your face.

“Not if you don’t want it to be,” You agree. “But I need you to promise me something. I need you to take care of yourself, okay? It’s hard, and it’s gross, and it feels bad sometimes, I know, but I need you to keep going. For your mom, for your friends.” For me, you think selfishly.

“I - I don’t want to keep killing things,” She admits, voice lowered to keep it from wobbling, and it feels like something you aren’t supposed to hear. Scary is a fortress of a girl, and it worries you that going this long without has atrophied her walls where they should be unforgiving.

You need to treat this moment with care, and a voice that sounds like your mother’s bounces around in your brain as you attempt to tow the line between empathy and care and pity.

“You won’t,” You say, just barely cutting off an oh, honey from the beginning. “Not right now. Maybe you will eventually -” Scary turns a shade paler and you squeeze her hand again. “But I would never ask that of you. There are other ways. I can handle it for now, if you’d like. Or your new friend would probably be more than willing to help.”

Scary shifts on the mattress. “Normal? Uh, yeah, he has already, actually, but I’ve never told him anything and I don’t know how he knows but he’s never asked me about it and it kinda weirds me out-”

“He’s an Oak kid. They have a habit for sniffing things out,” You say, lips curling at your own joke. “He’s a Good Person, they’re nice folks.”

“You seem… really weirdly certain about that.” Scary notes, question implicit.

“I know his father and uncle,” You say, smile nostalgia-tinged. “Childhood friends, actually, we go way back. Small world, huh?”

“Huh,” She says.

“Yeah,” You agree.

You remember the times you had neglected yourself when you were younger, starving until your vision fuzzed and your stomach panged and you could barely stand. You remember the way that the twins had fussed over you like mother hens. Sparrow would push blood at you while urging you not to drink too much lest you make yourself sick, hold you with his warmth surrounding you and his nose buried into the side of your neck as if reminding himself by scent that you were still there. Lark would stand guard at the threshold, pacing restlessly until you gained your strength back, gold-tinted eyes darting between you and the world beyond, hands balled into clawed fists, protective and vigilant.

You don’t have the nose that they do, but based solely on the snippets of anecdotes Scary’s mentioned, you wouldn’t be surprised if the two of them were packmates by now. The thought fills you with warm satisfaction.

You weren’t lying when you said that Normal is a Good Person - in both senses of the phrase. She needs more people in her corner, you think, and Normally Oak-Swallows-Garcia is a decent place to start.

She moves her hand out from underneath yours, only to brace herself on the mattress to sit up more fully. Her deathly pallor is a little less ashy, her expression a little less open, more lucid. Bloodshot eyes dart to the maroon-filled pouches beside you, and you wordlessly hand her another before she asks.

Scary raises a single slitted brow as she takes it from your grasp, and her hands are still far too cold for your liking, but at least their shaking has subsided.

She carefully pokes a straw through the packaging and sips, eyes going wide and dark before pulling away with a small cough.

Blood hunger is a delicate balance, you have long since learned. The longer you starve yourself, the harder it is to show restraint once you start to feed again.

She takes another small, delicate sip, and clears her throat.

“So,” she starts, “Mom doesn’t… know yet, right? About you.”

The implicit why haven’t you told her, what are you doing, why would you do this to her go unspoken but not unheard, accentuated by her pointed glare.

(The overgrown child in your mind replies to the latter with two can play at that game, and you quash him down with prejudice.)

You exhale. “No,” You reply.

Veronica is a lovely woman. Too lovely for you, many would argue, including yourself. Beautiful and kind and hardworking and supportive, she is a spot of light for you, who cannot walk in the sun.

She’s also remarkably headstrong and stubborn, you know. You see it in her daughter, immortalized in her blood: the strength of her gaze, the arch of her brow, the set of her shoulders, the calculated carelessness of her words.

However, Veronica Marlowe is also human - and one unaware of the second world that lies atop (or perhaps beneath) her own, like a second shadow or perhaps a mirage. The world you now inhabit, though you hadn’t always.

The world her daughter now inhabits, unbeknownst to her.

Though San Dimas is… safe, for your kind (and you are forever grateful to the Wilsons for that), part of you still remains a little boy, rabbit-hearted and afraid of how others might react to you. Honesty and vulnerability had never been your strong suits, but that is no excuse for your cowardice.

“I kept… trying to bring it up,” you start, glancing just to the right of her face, unable to bear the full weight of her gaze. “It’s difficult, trying to tell someone that you’re undead, that you won’t age the way they do.”

Scary looks a bit pale.

“I was going to tell her, of course! That’s always been the plan, once I… knew that it would last. That I would be a more permanent fixture in your lives. I had planned on telling both of you, but then -”

“Then,” she finishes, her frown deepening, taking a small sip from her blood bag.

“Yeah,” You reply, feeling rather helpless. “Then.”

“Hey,” Scary says, and you look up at her.

“You’re not, like… two hundred years old or something, right?”

The question shocks a burst of laughter out of you.

“God. Fuck no, absolutely not. No, I’m not that much older than I look. Oh, ew, I’m sorry if you thought-” She’s smiling, just a little, and a lopsided bit of fang pokes out from between closed lips.

“Okay, thank fuck. Not that I don’t still hate you for, like, getting with my mom, or whatever, ugh,” she grumbles, which is fair, you think. “Just, like, how -”

“Thirty-nine,” you answer for her. “I’m thirty-nine years old.”

“You’re younger than her?” She asks, bewildered. “I mean, I had kinda figured, since you… y’know,” she says, gesturing a hand at her own face. “Initially. But that was before I knew any of this.”

You simply nod in response.

Scary looks like she wants to ask something more, then disguises it with another sip at the pouch. She looks down, considering, and you wait.

“How,” she says, voice coming out strangled. A pause. “How young were you? Wh… when it happened?”

Something in you softens. Or breaks. It’s hard to tell, these days.

“Thirteen,” You tell her.

Her gaze snaps up to meet yours.

“Really?”

“Really.”

A thousand things push with each pulse of your stolen heartbeat, beating against your ribcage and rising up your throat.

I know what it’s like, to be young and angry and seeking a darkness to match the one inside your head. I get it. I can help you. You will get past this, but it’s hard. It’s so terribly, horribly hard, growing up when you know that you’ll never grow old, and it sucks shit, and I’m sorry. You’re not alone. You have me, if you invite me, but I would never ask that of you.

Her eyes bore into your own, and you wonder if she can somehow read your thoughts.

Maybe she doesn’t need to.

“When you tell her -” she sighs, growls to herself, looks up again.

“When you tell her, do you think we could tell her together?”

You smile, and it’s a fanged, monstrous thing.

“Yeah,” You respond, and though you haven’t fed yet today, you feel oddly warm. “I’d like that.”

Your smile is returned, fanged and monstrous and headstrong and bright.

“I thought you might.”

#YEEHAW i made it on time!!! barely!!!#anyway um. i started writing this before terry uh. gestures at current canon. yeah 😭😭😭#felt very cathartic to finish though!!!#happi scribbles #fic #dndads #dndads halloween week 2023 #vampires #bat and wolf #<- tag for my fics for this week ehehe :]c #anyway. hope y'all like it lmk what you think!!!

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