asthora

[asthora]

A little doodle based of a photo of me and my bestie cosplaying a while back 

#critical role #caleb widowgast #jester lavorre

[asthora]

A fenhawke commission for @elvhenhanin

#fenhawke #fenris #hawke #dragon age #genevieve hawke #my ocs

[asthora]

Fruit

A fenhawke one shot I wrote based on a prompt a friend sent me! I am currently living in fenhawke hell and loving every minute!!!

~~

They’re in Lowtown today looking for an Antivan merchant named Vincento. They find him in the bazaar selling odds and ends, broken plates of armor and dull daggers that make Isabela cringe. Hawke gets the information out of him easily, he’s not hard to startle, but it leads their search to a temporary dead end and Hawke is left standing in the street with her companions, watching as Vincento hurriedly packs up his pitiful wares and runs off towards the docks.

“Well,” Hawke sighs as she watches him scurry away. “That was helpful I suppose but Samson doesn’t come slinking out until after sunset. Should we head to the Hanged Man?”

“You know me Hawke,” Isabela says with a wink. “I’m always game to start drinking early.”

“Anders?”

He smiles his easy, gentle smile. “I could certainly go for a pint.”

“Only a pint, magey? What about a couple of shots and we see where you can put that staff of yours?” Isabela purrs, tugging on the collar of Ander’s coat.

He blushes and swats her hand away. “We’ve still got work to do, Isabela.”

The Rivani pouts. “All work and no play makes Anders a dull boy. What about you, Hawke? Up for shots and a bit of wrestling?”

“As long as we aren’t drinking rum I’m fine with whatever.” Hawke says, her eyes sweeping across the bazaar. “By the way, has anyone seen Fenris?”

Her companions shake their heads.

Hawke bites her lip and her hand twitches towards her staff. It’s midafternoon in Lowtown. Apart from the occasional pickpocket or footpad, Lowtown is normally peaceful during this time of day. It’s when night falls that you have to watch out for ambushes and bandits. She isn’t crazy, Fenris was just here. He’d been quiet the whole day, not very happy that she’d brought Anders along to find Feynriel, but he’d been by her side since early morning when they traveled to the alienage. It’s more likely he roamed off rather than some Lowtown cutthroat pulling him into the shadows.

Anders lets out a long sigh and leans against his staff. “I’m sure he’s just wandered off, Hawke. Probably to go piss in a corner like the dog he is.”

“Maker, Anders. Really?”

“Why don’t Anders and I head to the Hanged Man and you catch up when you find the pretty boy?” Isabela smiles, stepping between the two. “Sound like a plan?”

Hawke nods but she’s not really listening anymore, nor does she really care about Ander’s snide remarks. Isabela steers Anders in the direction of the Hanged Man while she scans the stalls again, looking for a familiar head of white hair among the midafternoon crowd. It’s hot today, even more so with the dozens of people who flit from stall to stall, and she sweats uncomfortably as she meanders through the crowd. Hawke checks the weapons stand first then the man who sells plated armor and robes. No luck.

She’s getting nervous now. Fenris never just wanders off. He’s quiet, sure, but he’s not one to just disappear into thin air without a reason. Hawke takes the steps up into the portion of the bazaar where vendors and shopkeepers sell spices, exotic fruits, brightly colored linens, and fresh meat. The smell here is different from the rest of Lowtown. That weird stretch that hangs over the city can’t seem to penetrate the aroma of cinnamon, incense, and cooking meat. She passes a vendor selling candles and body oils then another who’s handing out samples of whatever mystery meat he has roasting on a spit. She takes one and eats it, idly, as she shoulders her way through the throngs of people.

Finally, she sees him.

He’s tucked between a woman selling carpets and a family of dwarves hammering away at copper jewelry. Fenris is bent over a basket of fruit, something small and brown rolling around in his palm.

“There you are,” she says cheerily. “Thought I’d lost you to some Lowtown crime lord in the market for one glowy elf.”

Fenris glances over his shoulder. “I did not mean to worry you.”

She smiles, hoping it looks reassuring. “What did you find?”

He looks at his closed palm and frowns before opening his armored fingers to reveal a small brown fruit.

“What is this?” He asks, his brow furrowed.

Hawke laughs. “Why, it’s a kiwi. What, never seen a kiwi before?”

He shakes his head and Hawke feels a bit guilty for laughing. She hadn’t meant anything by it but Fenris’ look of bewilderment is just so...cute.

“And what is this?” He asks picking up a much larger fruit from the basket, this one in shades of red and yellow.

“It’s a mango,” she says. “Do they not eat fruit in Tevinter?”

Fenris shakes his head. “Danarius did not like foods like these.”

Hawke takes the kiwi from his palm and tosses it in the air. “Everyday I’m surprised by how much I can hate that man. Do you want to know a secret?”

Fenris looks up from the mango and nods. There’s a look of innocence on his face that makes Hawke’s heart beat fast in her chest. She leans in closer. He pulls back a bit but stops when he realizes she does not mean to touch him.

“When I first came to Kirkwall,” Hawke whispers. “I’d never seen food like this either. It’s not like mango trees and kiwi vines grow in Ferelden.”

He frowns again and looks back at the baskets of colorful fruit. He points to another, this one brown and fuzzy. “Did you know about those?”

“Coconuts?” She asks, following his finger. “I’d read about them in books.”

“Are they good?”

Hawke grins. “Do you want to try some?”

He nods and reaches for his coin purse but Hawke shakes her head. “I’m buying. Think of it as a thank you for saving my ass from that greatsword wielding bastard who almost cleaved my head in two yesterday.”

The corners of his mouth jerk as if to smile. “You should watch your right flank more closely.”

She shrugs. “I don’t have to if I’ve got you around.”

Maybe she’s imagining it, but Fenris’ cheeks turn pink. He looks away before she can be sure, once more bending over the baskets. She watches him sort through the different fruits, his careful fingers turning over mangoes and pomegranates, his touch gentle as if he is afraid the fruit might fall apart in his hands. She lets him pick whatever he wants and soon they have their own little basket overflowing with oranges, kiwis, pineapple, and a whole assortment of tropical fruits. She pays for it all like she promised, glad that he’ll at least allow her perform this simple act of friendship. Fenris doesn’t like actions he perceives as pity. Hawke wonders if this means he trusts her more, maybe thinks of her more as a friend rather than a raging apostate lunatic.

He tucks the basket under his arm proudly and Hawke’s heart does that weird fluttering thing again. Maker, she can’t be possibly falling for him, can she? That’s insane. Like he would share her affections anyway, he hates all things magic and she’s about as magic as they come save for Anders. But lately she’s noticed her cheeks growing warm when he smiles and a giddiness coursing through her veins when she sees him after several days away from the city. She hasn’t dared act on these feelings, afraid she’ll scare him off if she bats her eyelashes a little too hard. She wants him to know she’s a friend, not someone who feels sorry for him, not someone who wants to use him.

He surprises her when he gently touches her shoulder then points to an empty place on the steps. “Would you...like to sit down for a moment?”

Hawke nods. Her skin tingles where he touched her and she doesn’t trust her voice not to waver so she follows him to the stairs and sits beside him. She makes sure not to sit too close, but not too far away either. He seems comfortable, excited even, as he sets down the basket and grabs one of the kiwi.

“How do you eat it?”

“Well,” Hawke smiles, taking the fruit from his palm. “I normally cut it in half then scoop it out with a spoon but we can do this instead.” 

She takes her dagger from her boot, thanking the Maker she decided to clean off the raider blood this morning, and peels away the thin skin. She glances up at Fenris as she cuts a slice. His eyes are wide in wonder. 

“Here,” she says, offering him the slice off her dagger.

He has removed his spiked gauntlets so that his hands are bare. She marvels at his long tan fingers, his gentleness as he grabs the fruit. She has never seen his bare hands this close. The lyrium markings stretch down his fingers; white, silvery lines that she cannot help but think are beautiful despite their foul origin. He pops the kiwi in his mouth and his eyes go wide.

“It is good!” He announces, his lips stretching into a grin.

Hawke smiles and cuts herself a piece. “I think It’s one of my favorites.”

“It is sour,” he says, licking the juice from his fingers. “But also sweet.”

“We got a ripe one. Good eyes, Fen.” She says, bumping him playfully with her arm. She doesn’t realize what she has done until after several seconds pass and he has not leapt away from her sudden touch. He seems shocked at his own reaction as well, his fingers hovering over the kiwi she has offered him. 

“I’m sorry.” She says, glancing up at him, under her lashes.

His fingers twitch as if coming back to life and he takes the fruit and chews it slowly. “You did nothing wrong.” He says simply.

The tension between her shoulder blades relaxes. “Do you...want to try something else? What about the orange? We can save the pineapple for later.”

He nods and wipes his hands on his trousers before reaching for the orange. He turns it around in his hands then offers it to her. “How do you eat this one?”

Hawke sets down her knife. “This one is easy. I’ll let you do it. Dig your fingernail in right there and then peel the skin back.” 

“Here?”

Hawke raches out and with her own nail she makes a mark in the soft flesh. Her hand passes over his and her skin brushes against his own, the touch featherlight but enough to send electricity running down her arms. He flexes his fingers. Did he feel it too? She dares to look up at him, blue eyes connecting with green. That flush is back in his cheeks and Hawke realizes they are very close, so close she can smell him. He smells like leather and cloves and sweat. She takes a deep breath and holds it, committing the scent to memory.

Fenris blinks, his dark eyelashes fluttering. He rips his gaze away from her own, the action painfully slow. Her eyes linger on him for a moment longer before she looks back down at the orange. He begins pulling back the skin, the orange peel falling to the steps unceremoniously. He hands her a chunk of the soft fruit and they eat together. He smiles.

“It explodes in your mouth,” he says. “The juice is sweet.”

She nods. “We had oranges back in Lothering. They somehow could make the journey that far inland. If times were good Mother would  buy enough oranges to make a pitcher of juice.”

His eyes go wide. “And that is good?”

“I honestly think it is better than the oranges themselves. I’ll ask Mother to make you some. We haven’t had it in awhile anyway.”

“That would be nice.”

He smiles softly and they finish the rest of the orange in silence. She feels their small moment coming to a close and she hopes there are more moments like this in their future. For once, Fenris is unguarded, happy. Again she finds herself damning Danarius, hating him with every fiber of her being. He took so much from Fenris. Can she help him create a life? A life that he can call his own, one without masters and bad memories? Will these small moments eventually turn into longer ones? Or will the pain she sees etched on his face refuse to leave him?

She feels his walls go back up as he slips on his guantlants and fastens the leather straps. Hawke clears her throat and wipes her hands down her trousers, trying to find that easy grin she plasters on her face for the rest of the world to see.

“I told Anders and Isabela we would meet them in the Hanged Man.” She says, standing to her full height and stretching her arms above her head.

“Was it a wise decision to leave them alone?” Fenris asks, his lips turned up in a slight smile.

“Probably not!” She says brightly. “We might have to peel their drunk asses off the floor of the barroom! At least Varric will be around to help.”

Fenris chuckles and tucks the basket under his arms. “If that is the case, then we must hurry before they are too far gone. Lead the way, Hawke.”

Hawke turns on her heel and heads back into the bazaar towards the Hanged Man where she is sure her friends have already found themselves in some sort of trouble. She glances over her shoulder, making sure she hasn’t lost him in the crowd. He’s close. Her eyes catch his own and there is a moment that passes between them that she doesn’t think can be mistaken for anything but longing. She turns her head before it can disappear. A smile breaks on her lips and she welcomes her fluttering heartbeat.

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #fenris #hawke #fenhawke #fenris x femhawke #genevieve hawke #my ocs #this is very sappy and very fluffy i'm sorry

[asthora]

The lovers at the crossroads

A step by step process and PSD file of this will be available at my Patreon on february 1st!

[asthora]

The Last Dance, Pt. 3

The board is set and it’s time for the games to begin. Benny is back in Vegas but what exactly does that mean? Benny puts his boys in their place.  Indy tugs the leash. The Mojave calls their names.  Part three of my Benny x Courier saga. Parts one & two. 

Two Weeks Later

Benny is a fucking king.

He sits at a poker table with a broad on either side.  One’s a redhead, the other a blond.  No brunettes but he ain’t one to complain about a pretty bird.  

“Blow on the dice baby,” he says. “It’s for good luck.”

The blonde winks at him, pulls back her silky hair, and blows on the dice.  He throws, not giving a shit whether his luck is good or bad.  It’s his goddamn casino so whatever money he loses goes right back into his well lined pockets.

“Oh look at that,” he says, not even bothering to glance at the dice. “A perfect roll.”

He forgets about the game.  He’s bored.  He wants to mingle.  Swank is in charge of the floor tonight so he’s got time to do a little snooping, make some connections, listen to the latest gossip on the strip.  Word on the street is, the courier hasn’t been seen in two weeks.  He certainly hasn’t seen her since their little soiree at the fort.  Much as he misses her cute little face, he doesn’t mind.  Given him the space he’s needed to figure out his next moves.

“Baby, why don’t you go get us all a drink?” He whispers to the redhead.  “And you pussycat, go see about getting the music in here turned up.  It’s so goddamn loud I can barely hear Frank’s crooning.”

His girls giggle and scatter.  Good, he’s bored.  Time to disappear.  Benny dusts off his coat and heads over to where Swank and some of his boys are lounging at the edge of the casino floor.  They straighten when they see him.  

“Ben-man!” Swank says, clapping him on the back. “You know, having you back is still the highlight of my day.”

Benny raises his eyebrows.  He’s so full of shit.  Swank was eyeing his position the day he stepped foot out of The Tops.  When Benny walked back through those doors Swank’s face fell so far he was afraid he might not get it back.  He’s glad his second is enough of a coward not to challenge him.  Sticking Swank would be a lot harder than sticking Bingo, not because Swank can best him, hell no, but because Swank ain’t bad.  But he would kill him if he had to...right?  Definitely, he thinks. Of course I would.  For Vegas.

“How’s the ole’ girl running?” Benny asks, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips.

“Humming along like a dream,” he smiles. “Ever since that broad took the helm our profits have been aces.  Never done better business, boss.”

Benny grunts and lights his cig.  Indy had his old lighter delivered to his room with a lovely little note that reminded him he was nothing more than a mutt begging at her feet.  Bitch literally drew a fucking dog after she signed her name.  

“You leaving anytime soon, boss?” Katz asks.  Benny slowly turns to the dumb, mousy lookin’ bouncer.  He can barely fill out his suit.  Benny is surprised he’s lasted this long.  Katz was one of the Boot Riders, just a kid when they sauntered through those flashing Vegas gates.

“You know Katz, it’s rude to ask a man’s business.  Anyone ever told you that?”

Katz goes red in the face. “I-I’m sorry boss.  Just, just wanted to know.”

“Yeah, well keep your wonderings to yourself.  Alright?”

Katz nods and Benny sucks on his cig.  He surveys the casino floor.  Swank hastily tells Kaz to go check on security by the door and the little runt runs off like he’s had a fire lit under his ass.

“He’s asked a good question you know,” Swank says after a few moments. “You’re sticking around this time, right?”

Benny closes his eyes slowly then opens them. “I’ll do as I please, Swank.  But for now, I’m not leaving.”

“We just gotta know,” he says quietly. “You just left us, boss.  If it weren’t for In- Benny spins and leans in close to his second.  He fucking dares Swank to say her name.  He’ll skin him alive right now if he even mentions the courier.  

“Just because I’m not here to mop up everyone’s spilled milk doesn’t mean this place goes to shit, you hear me?  We don’t need that bitch to settle our own affairs.  Understand?”

Swank is stony. “Yeah, boss.  Platinum.”

He stares at Swank for a good solid ten seconds before he turns around and walks away.  Benny smokes his cig until he reaches the filter then throws it in an overflowing ashtray by the slot machines.  Why does the courier have to pepper every single conversation, huh?  Why is she the savior?  This is his casino, his game.  His boys.  Fuck her, she doesn’t get to have a say in his kingdom.

“Calm down, Benny.” He mutters to himself, slicking back his hair and tugging at the lapels of his checkered coat.  He’s getting worked up over nothing.  He’s back.  She can’t put her dirty fingers on The Tops ever again, not until the day his heart stops beating and the his lungs stop breathing air.  And he’ll have Vegas again.  One day. Maybe not tomorrow but she can’t keep hold of his baby forever.

Benny heads up to the stairs to the theater where the Rad Pack is singing an 18 karat cover of Dean Martin’s Sway.  He heads to the bar hoping that a little drink will help calm his nerves.  He’s been too jumpy lately, not himself.

“Whiskey neat,” he says to the bartender.  He leans against the tabletop and watches the stage for a moment before he starts on another cigarette.  The bartender, Charlie, slides him his drink and he takes a sip.

“You know, I almost missed you.”

Benny jumps.  Goddamn.  There she is, creeping up on him again.  The courier stands before him, covered in Mojave from head to toe.  Looks like she just stepped into town and decided to stop by and share a few neighborly hellos.

“You ever shower, baby?” He asks.

“What’s the point in showering when I’ve got to clean up everyone’s shit?” She asks, leaning against the bartop.

“Be careful then.  Don’t want you ruining the upholstery.”

Indy rolls her clear eyes and turns to Charlie. “Gin and tonic.”

“Surprise, surprise.  Thought you might be a white wine kinda girl.” He says.

She doesn’t even bother to look at him.  Indy grabs her drink and kicks it back like it’s water.

“What have you been up to since I’ve been gone?” She asks.  Straight to business, as always.

“Cleaning up the mess I left behind.  Checking the books, stomping out cats who’ve been singing.  You ain’t one of mine if you’ve been humming a tune about me.  I don’t like rumors.”

That’s a lie.  He loves rumors.  Rumors are the sea upon which Vegas floats.  See, rumors ain’t too bad.  Somewhere in them, there’s some truth.  It was once a rumor that House had a secret army.  Then it was a fact that he could put some oomph in his securitrons and rule the desert with the flick of a button.  So yeah, he loves a good rumor.  He just doesn’t care for rumors about him.

“Good call,” Indy says. “And were any of the...cats you let go Boot Riders.”

He gives her a look.  “Now why do you care?”

“Assessing how far your loyalties lie.”  She says plainly.

He watches her.  Indy stares back.  Her brown hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail and her tanned skin is peppered with light freckles.  She could be pretty.  It’s just the Mojave on her reeks.

“I believe you’re asking questions that lie in my jurisdiction.  I’ll run my casino the way I please.”

She smirks. “Yeah, well, at the end of the day hot shot, I get to ask whatever questions I want.  Oh, and I get answers too.  One way or another.”

Benny takes a drink and tears his eyes from Indy and back to the stage.  The Rad Pack is finishing up and a dame in a sparkly red dress is taking the stage.

“So did you just stop by to ask questions or are you here for something else, pally?  Or did you just wanna swing?” He asks.

Indy clears her throat. “I don’t know what that means.  Whatever, I’m here to get your help.  Pack your bags, pally.  We’re going out to do a little reconnaissance in a few days.”

“What?”

“Do you not know what that means?  Do I need to grab a dictionary for you?”

If only he could smack this broad ten ways till Sunday he fucking would!  She’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of California.  Benny blows smoke through his nose and grinds his teeth.

“I ain’t a Harv, pussycat.  I know about reconnaissance.  I just wanna know why you’re dragging me along.”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

Benny turns back to Indy.  She doesn’t look smug for once, she looks serious.  Dead serious.  Like she knows something bad.  He straightens and puts out his cigarette.

“What am I supposed to tell my boys?” He asks lowly.

“Tell them that the courier has a business opportunity that can benefit The Tops.  Tell them nothing more, nothing less.”

“Swank will ask questions.”

“I thought you didn’t need my help running your casino?”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Benny grumbles. “I’ll handle it.”

Indy smiles. “I’ll send word when I know more.  Dust off your Mojave gear, Ben-man. “

He feels his fucking blood go cold.  It was one thing to tramp through that rad infested shithole when he was tracking the courier, it’s another to go out into with no other reason than he’s got to stay close to his handler’s heels.  Benny watches her walk out the door of the Aces with his heart hammering.  The Mojave doesn’t scare him, just reminds him of a time he thought he left behind.

The Mojave never fully lets you go.

The Singer told him that once.  Benny winces.  Another bad memory.  One he’d rather pretend didn’t happen.  He does that a lot, he pretends.  Another reason he fucked up getting Vegas.  He pretended the courier wasn’t a loose end, pretended that fucking her would solve all his problems, pretended that The Tops and Vegas were putty in his hands and he could have both and his cake.

“Stop crying in the rain, pally.” He mutters, taking one last swig and exiting the theater.

Benny stands, leaning against the railing, surveying his fragile kingdom.  Swank is back at the desk and several Chairman make the rounds, watching for thieves and tricksters.  But all is quiet on the homefront.  Except for Benny.  He feels like a swing band is going off in his head.  Then there’s that feeling in his gut like things can never be fine again.  Like he’s heading straight for nowhere a million miles a minute.

-

She sends the croaker to fetch him.  

It’s 10AM on a Saturday when Arcade, that fucking doctor goon, walks through the door.  He’s dressed like he’s ready to go scavenging through an abandoned junkyard.  Benny’s heart drops to his well shined shoes.  He knows what this means.

“You ready?” Arcade asks.  Not even a hello.

“Where we meetin’ doc?”

“Lucky 38 lobby.  You have ten minutes.”

He turns around and walks back out the door without a goodbye.  Swank is behind the check-in desk and he looks utterly confused and a bit suspicious.

“What’s going, boss?” He asks.

Benny puts on his best reassuring smile. “Got a job in the Mojave.  A business opportunity for The Tops.  I’ll be back in a few days, don’t worry about it.”

Swank just nods, brows still furrowed and a frown on his face.  Benny knows he’s trying to figure out whether to believe him or not.  He doesn’t wait around for more questions.  Benny heads up to his suite and changes into something more suited for the desert rather than his best suit.  It’s been a hot minute since he’s wandered the Wastes.  Last few times wasn’t really wandering, just passing through.  He’s heard all the stories about the Courier.  By the tall tales floating around, she should know every inch of that hellhole by now.

Benny sticks Maria into a holster and slings his bag over his shoulder.  He takes one good last look at his suite before he heads out, using one of the stairwell exits as to not draw attention to himself.  He really isn’t into some brainless Omerta reporting back to his boss that he saw the Benny stomping around dressed like a wastelander.

He crosses the street and hops up the stairs.  When he reaches for the doors he almost doesn’t expect them to open.  Not even House let him into his fortress.  Anytime the asshole wanted to communicate he did it through a Securitron.  Guess he thought real  conversation would change his luck with the next protegee.  Too bad it blew up in his face.

Benny opens the door and a lovely  gust of AC cooled air blasts him in the face.  The door shuts behind him and he’s alone, standing in a dark red and black lobby.  It’s a lot grander than The Tops, a bit more preserved too.  The carpet isn’t as bad off and the wallpaper is somehow not peeling off the ancient walls.  Benny whistles lowly.  It’s impressive, but its lonely.  It would be one hell of a casino floor if there were singing slot machines, drunk broads laughing, and a nice crooner in the corner humming some sweet little tune.  But the Courier has her wrapped up tight, and for right now the 38 is about as friendly as cactus flower.

By a bar off to the left he sees the doc and three other people.  One of them is some redhead he doesn’t recognize and the other is that fucking NCR beret.  Sitting on top of the bar, swinging her legs back and forth  like a child,  is the queen herself.  

“Did I make it on time, your highness?” He calls.  He approaches them with swagger but he’d rather be running in the opposite direction right now.  There is no bone in his body that wants to walk outside these walls.

Indy pretends to look at a watch and bites her lip.  “You’re twenty-two seconds late but I suppose I’ll let it slide.”

The redhead scowls at him and leans against Indy’s thigh. “Jesus fucking Christ I never thought this prick would ever set foot in my presence again.  Yet here he fucking is.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Cass.” Indy rolls her eyes. “You know why he’s still kicking.”

“Yeah I know,” she says.  “Doesn’t make me wanna put some lead between his eyes any less.”

Benny grinds his teeth.  “I’m getting real tired of everyone wanting me dead.”

“Then stop being such an ass.” Indy says, hopping off the bar.  She’s clean for once though her t-shirt and jeans have seen better days.  She’s already got a pistol strapped around her thigh and a hunting knife hanging from a holster on her belt.

“Before we go,” Benny says. “Tell me where we’re going.  Give me some peace of mind, baby.  I don’t like not knowing.”

She smiles sweetly, sickeningly.  It makes his stomach turn flips.

“You don’t need to know where we’re going or what we’re doing just yet.  It’s a precaution, you see.  I wanna make sure your eyes and ears in the city can’t see or hear a thing.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “Baby, the only eyes and ears here are my own and they ain’t about to go off and tell tall tales.”

Indy shrugs she takes the rifle offered by the NCR prick.  “I don’t care.  These are the rules and if you want to fight them be my guest, but there are consequences.”

Benny falls silent.  He’s not gonna get a damn thing out of this broad.  One thing's for certain, she’s stubborn.  When it comes to being in the dark, Benny has never felt so blind, but he respects her secrecy.  She’s smart, he admires that too, he just wishes for his own sake she was a little more loose lipped.

“Before we go let me introduce you to my people,” Indy says, shouldering the rifle. “This is Boone.  He is - or was - NCR.”  She points to the man with the beret and sunglasses.  

Benny smiles and claps the man on the back. “Oh I know this cat,” he says. “We spent some time together.  It was aces, wasn’t it partner?”

Boone looks at Benny and shrugs off his hand. “Don’t touch me.”

Indy ignores the exchange. “You know Arcade.  Everyone who’s ever visited the Mormon Fort knows Arcade.  And this is Cass.”  She nods to the redhead who is absolutely fuming.  She looks at him like she’s five seconds away from shivving him with a dull kitchen knife.

“Pleasure,” he says.

“You’re fucking desert trash.” Cass spits.

“Alright,” Indy puts a hand between him and the redhead. “Let’s not bloody my casino.  Just had the carpets cleaned.”

Cass takes a step back and pulls something out of her back pocket.  It’s a bottle of whiskey.  So the bitch is a drunk.  He looks at them all.  They’re all rejects, wasteland wanderers and castaways, people that not even the Mojave wanted.  Where the fuck did she find these freaks?  NCR kicked Boone to the curb and the Followers tolerate Arcade and this Cass seems like the drunk cousin you “forget” to invite over for Christmas.

Indy pushes past him and Cass. “We gotta go.  We gotta meet our contact before sundown and we’ve got desert to cover.”

Boone slings a polished sniper rifle over his shoulder and Arcade adjusts the plasma rifle strapped to his back.  Cass hangs back, nursing her whiskey and watching him with cold eyes as the four head towards the door.

“Hold down the fort Cass,” Indy calls over her shoulder. “Take good care of Rex for me!”

“Yeah yeah,” she calls. “I’ll take care of the mutt.  Don’t let the asshole with bad fashion sense stick you in your sleep!”

Indy waves and Boone opens the door.  This is it, his first act with the courier.  He shields his eyes against the sun and they set off, through the gate that separates the strip from Freeside.  They stroll past junkies and hungry kids and Kings who grin and shout “Hey there, sister!” when the see Indy walk by.  Then it’s the end of the line.  All that divides him from civilization and the desert is a bent steel gate and it’s sliding open a bit too quickly for him.  

Indy waves them forward and he follows her out of heaven and into hell.

#fallout #fallout new vegas #benny gecko #benny x courier #courier x benny #the courier #new vegas #my ocs #fallout benny

[asthora]

We Met in the Evening

Asra meets the apprentice for the first time.  This is pure fluff featuring a starry eyed baby Asra and my cute lil apprentice, Aerwyna.  This is based off Asra dialogue from book ten so spoiler alert.

There were only three days left before the count’s masquerade and Vesuvia was a boiling pot of anticipation.  Asra set up his stand behind a potions shop, counting his blessings that he was lucky enough to find an open spot so close to the marketplace.  There was a feverish feeling in Vesuvia. Vendors from all the city and beyond were heckling their wares, taking up every available inch of the city, leaving only a sliver of room for the carts and horses to pass by.  Asra had sold his masks and trinkets for several years now but this was the first time he was in the thick of things, the first time he had a proper stand.

His tent, made of colorful shawls and quilts, blocked most of the city heat.  He left the flap open and leaned against one of the tent’s poles, watching the bustling city with a smile on his face.  There were hundreds, if not thousands of people milling around, sniffing perfumes, trying on masks, and draping luxurious furs or brightly dyed scarves over their shoulders.  It  was a reminder why he loved the city.  Vesuvia was a living being during the masquerade.  Muriel didn’t understand the attraction so he stayed tucked away in the furthest, less populated corners of the city, but Asra couldn’t get enough of it.  This was his home and here it was flourishing and alive.

He returned to his table and shined his cloudy crystal ball with the hem of his shirt.  He got it from an old fortune teller by the docks who was going out of business.  Muriel said he was a fool for spending coin on it but Asra had figured he deserved it and besides, if they were ever to make money from his fortunes, he needed the prop.  No one would trust a fortune teller without a crystal ball.

Most of the fortunes Asra told were fake.  It wasn’t that he was a liar, no in fact he was quite good at it, but people didn’t want to hear the truth.  They were more likely to tip him more coin if they heard they were going to come into vast riches by the end of the year or their love life was soon to be picking up.  He felt a bit of guilt but then he remembered he and Muriel fighting over scraps in the gutter as children or stealing from fruit stands and bakers.  No, the stand was what kept them alive.  A little lie wouldn’t hurt and it wasn’t like any of the fortune tellers in the city were real.  That’s what Asra told himself, at least.  There were a few good ones but the majority were like him, exploiting the festivities for a bit of coin.

Today was no different.  He spent his time looking into the crystal ball and delivering fake fortunes.  He sold Muriel’s protection charms and some of his own carved animal figurines.  A group of ladies came by and practically cleared him of his masks and when they left, his coin purse was bulging and he could practically taste the pastries he would buy on his way home from the baker.

It was in the evening, when the sun was falling and orange and pink streaks reached across the sky, that she walked into his tent.  At first he didn’t notice her, he was too busy rearranging the masks on the table when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eyes and happened to glance up.  She was removing her hood, dark brown tresses tumbling from her orange scarf.  She looked young, around his age, and her dark skin was glowing in the evening light.  She smiled at him and gestured to the crystal ball.

“So you tell fortunes,” she said. “Are you still open for a reading?”

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times like a gaping fish before he finally stammered out a yes and led her to the small table in the back of the tent.  She sat down and crossed her hands, leaning towards the ball with that same coy smile on her face.

“Does this thing actually work?” She asked.

Asra looked sheepish and ran a finger across it’s murky surface.  For some reason, he found he suddenly couldn’t lie. “No,” he responded. “But I don’t really need it anyway.”

She raised an eyebrow and looked up at him.  Her eyes were a shocking shade of green and his heart hammered against his chest like a caged bird.  “You don’t need it?” She said.  “Then how do you tell fortunes?”

He smiled and offered her his hand. “May I?”

She nodded and took his hand lightly.  As soon as their skin touched his eyes widened.  It was almost like he had been burned but there was no pain.  “You’re a magic user,” he said. “I...wow.”

The girl ducked her head, looking a little embarrassed.  “Yet, I can’t tell my own fortune.  Pity, isn’t it?”

“No one can tell their own fortune,” Asra smiled.  “Not even I can do that.”

He looked back down at her hand and traced the lines arcing through the skin.  Whoever she was, she had some power.  While the sensation was gone he still felt her magic thrumming through her and into him.  It was warm, and when he closed his eyes and reached for the part of him that saw things, her magic jumped in response as if in recognition of his own.

Asra let the sounds of the city fade away until...there.  He could feel it.  He saw the visions in a series of pictures, all very vague, similar to the images on tarot cards.  It had taken him years to decipher what they meant but he was good at it now.  He had a lot of practice.

“You are at a crossroads,” he said. “Your past is important to you but it isn’t who you are.  It’s time to let it go.  Your aunt is right, you’re special, and memories will hold you back.”

He heard her gasp but he continued.

“Forces are brewing in the city that will change the course of your life.  It will take years before you notice these changes.  They will not occur overnight and even then, when the time comes, when your destiny meets its crescendo, you may not even realize the patterns until it is too late.  But, you will not be alone.  No, you walk a path treaded by others...treaded by m-”

Asra was cut off by a cacophony of roaring voices.  He opened his eyes to see the girl staring at him, her mouth agape and her face pale.  For a moment, they just stared at one another, but then a trumpet sounded off in the distance, and if broken from a trance, the girl shook her head and looked away.

“Something’s happening,” she said. “We should go look.”

Asra nodded and followed her to the enterene of his tent.  He drew back the flap only to be met by a wall of people.  They were trapped with no sign of being able to leave soon.  The blaring of the trumpets was coming closer and the girl stood on her toes, desperately trying to see over the crowd.

“What’s happening?” He shouted.

“It’s the Princess Nadia of Prakra!  She’s arrived in the city for the masquerade.  It’s rumoured she’s engaged to Count Lucio, that’s why she’s here.”  She said.

Asra remembered hearing about this.  He wasn’t exactly a gossipmonger but he had ears and he heard things, and all the city could seem to talk about was the arrival of the princess.  Asra hadn’t really paid much attention to the news, his expertise was more about which shops in the city were the easiest to break into and which guards could be bribed to look the other way when he needed to go unseen.  He had completely forgotten today was the day.  Apparently, he was the only one.  It appeared all of Vesuvia had swarmed to this street to watch the procession.

“Do you want to see better?” He asked.  The girl was desperately trying to peer over the heads of the crowd to no avail.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, and Asra swore she was blushing.

He smiled and bent low.  The girl hesitantly wrapped her arms around his neck and latched her legs around his waist.  When he stood to his full height he was almost dizzy.  She smelled incredible.  God help him, the scent was intoxicating, like lavender and lemongrass and freshly picked herbs.  

“Can you see?” He asked, trying to clear his head.  Why was it suddenly so hard to focus?

“Yes!” She shouted.  “Thank you!  They’re coming down the road now, look!”

Asra could just barely see over the tops of heads.  Indeed something was coming.  The trumpeteers on their horses were prancing down the street now, the royal guard following in their red and gold finery.  There were other guards too that were dressed in a purple uniform Asra had never seen.  They must have been the princess’ own guard.

The crowd was practically in hysterics now.  A onslaught of servants were walking past now, each carrying an armful of silks or baskets of foreign fruits and spices.  Gifts for the count?  Asra wasn’t sure but his mouth watered at the sight of a basket full of red pomegranates held by a particularly burly looking servant.  On his back the girl laughed and her arms tightened around his neck.

“Have you ever seen such a thing?” She asked.

No, Asra had never seen such grandeur in his entire life.  Neither had his heart ever been so light in his chest.

After the servants came a few dozen dancers and more trumpeteers before finally, the princess herself came into view.  The cheering was deafening.  The girl on his back was practically jumping up and down as she laughed in his ear and joined in the crowd, shouting at the top of her lungs.  Nadia was beautiful.  Even on her horse Asra could tell she was tall and slender.  Her purple hair was up in an elaborate braid and her crimson gaze swept over the crowd.  She was smiling but it didn’t reach her eyes.  She was much younger than Asra had imagined, but her beauty was undeniable.  The guards surrounding her deterred any unwanted ravenous citizens, but the crowd made sure its approval was heard.  By the time Nadia finally passed and was out of view Asra was sure he had gone deaf.

The girl on his shoulders was laughing and twisted her body so that she was looking right at him, inches away from his face.

“Did you see her?  Isn’t she divine?”  She asked.

Not as divine as you, Asra wanted to say.  He bit his tongue and nodded.  “Definitely looked like a princess,” he responded.

She laughed and slipped off his back. “Can you believe the crowd?  I didn’t know there were so many people in Vesuvia!”

“I suppose this will be the most attended Masquerade in ages.  How do you think they’ll find enough food for all these people?” He joked.

“I don’t know.  A better question is, how will we all fit in the palace?  You’re going to the masquerade, right?”

His smile faded and he shook his head. “No rest for the wicked I’m afraid,” he said, gesturing to his tent. “Are you?”

She nodded. “It’s my first time.  Pity you won’t be there.  It would be nice to see a familiar face.”

They smiled at each other for a few moments.  Even though the noise of the city was still at a roar, he felt as if he and this girl were in their own little world, like it was just the two of them for hundreds of miles.  Asra didn’t even know her yet, her easy presence was so comfortable, so natural, that he felt has if he had know her for ages.  He couldn’t stop staring.  Something about her was so fascinating but what was it?  Her strange magic?  Maybe it was the contrast of her brilliant eyes against her tawny skin or her tinkling laugh and intelligent gaze.  Whatever it was, Asra found himself hoping that the crowd would never clear, that they could stay in this tent and talk forever.

“How much do I owe you for the reading?” She asked, breaking him from his thoughts.

He waved his hand. “Nothing.  It’s free.”

She arched one of her dark eyebrows and frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll have to buy something from you,” she said, tapping her chin and gazing at the long table.  It was almost empty and he suddenly felt self conscious.  There was barely anything left that even he would buy.

“You don’t-”

“How about this?” She interrupted him.  She had picked up a rough carving of his, an image of a prowling fox.  It wasn’t one of his best pieces but it was charming.

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to pay for that,” he said. “It’s practically unfinished.”

“Well I absolutely adore it,” she smiled, reaching into her coin purse. “Here, take this and don’t you dare say no.”

He obediently produced his hand and she dropped three gold coins into his palm.  The fox was only priced at one and he started to object but she shook her head.

“It’s a tip,” she said. “For the reading and letting me use you as a pack mule so I could watch the procession.”

Asra laughed and gave a shaky mock bow. “It was my honor, milady.”

The girl returned his gesture with a showy curtsey and a brilliant little laugh that prickled the skin on the back of his neck.  Again he found himself hoping she would stay longer, but the girl was already wrapping her scarf around her head and tucking away her coin purse.

“I’m afraid I’ve neglected my errands too long and I must be off,” she said, disappointment in her voice. “But I thank you, fortune teller.”

“Please,” he said quickly. “Call me Asra.”

“Asra,” she repeated, drawing out his name and smiling. “Thank you.  I hope our paths cross in the future.”

He bowed his head and watched as she parted the flap and disappeared into the crowd. Asra stood still, his arms tightly wrapped around his middle, watching the fabric flutter in the breeze.  Her scent still lingered, an unmistakable aroma of fresh cut lavender and lemongrass.  He breathed it in and smiled, feeling like a complete and utter fool as he realized, he’d never even asked for her name.

#the arcana #the arcana game #asra #asra x apprentice #fan apprentice #aerwyna #my ocs #countess nadia

[asthora]

Remember

Asra talks about trying to help the apprentice remember their past but what if the apprentice remembers on their own? An AU of sorts featuring my apprentice, Aerwyna.

Aerwyna wakes up to an empty shop and a note on the counter.

I’ll be back soon.  Maybe a few days, maybe more.  Stay safe and be well.

Asra

He does this a lot, he disappears.  There’s always a hollow feeling in her chest when he leaves, a sense of utter loneliness even though right outside the window is a bustling city filled with thousands of people.  Maybe it would be better if he told her something, but he refuses.  I go somewhere you cannot follow, he says.  She asks him where that is, why can’t she follow, why is he there, but each time he only shakes his head and looks at her with sad eyes.  

I can’t tell you.  Not yet.

She doesn’t know what he means but she knows pressing him will only get more vague answers and more questions that will leave her lying awake at night.  This time though, he didn’t even tell her.  Just a note, not even a goodbye.  It stings.  She’s his apprentice, she’s been his apprentice for as long as she can remember, why can he not trust her?  He tells her she is gifted and progressing at an uncanny rate and yet, he refuses to confide in her.

Aerwyna crumples the note and throws it in the wastebasket.  Just because Asra is not here doesn’t mean the shop is closed.  She flips the sign on the door and heads to the back room to crush herbs and mix powders.  They sell potions and mixtures and salves from the herbs and fungi they find in the forest.  Asra’s recipes are the best in the city, but they aren’t the biggest reason people come to the shop.  The people in Vesuvia know Asra as a reader, a fortune teller.  It’s more nuanced than that, he tells her often, I don’t see the future, I see possibilities in the cards.

But Asra isn’t here today, and the second sign on the door is flipped to No Readings, which means the shop will be empty except for the occasional customer looking for a salve to soothe cuts or a potion for coughs.  So she spends her day leaning against the counter with Fire Magic: The Art of Offense & Defense in one hand and the other pinching herbs into a boiling pot of water.

One day passes, then another and another.  Aerwyna’s taken to watching the door for a familiar head of white hair but each night she goes to sleep in an empty shop.  A week passes.  This is the longest Asra has ever gone without sending word that he would either be returning soon or he would be traveling for a few more days.  Sometimes he sends Faust but his familiar is nowhere in sight.  She’s getting nervous.

On the tenth day, she can’t stand it anymore.  Aerwyna flips the sign on the door to Closed and heads to the back room to the only bookshelf in the shop.  Asra doesn’t let her touch these, not without his permission.  She doesn’t understand why, he says that the things in the books are dangerous but, she’s desperate.  What if he’s hurt?  What if he needs help?  One of these books must tell her how to contact him, some spell or magic that can connect her to her master so the ache in her chest will stop keeping her up at night.  Aerwyna takes down several from the shelf and carries them to a circle of pillows in the corner of the room.  She sits down and picks up the first volume, a large leather-bound book called Mirror Magicks, and opens it to the first page.

Aerwyna is blasted with a gust of wind so strong that she can’t breathe.  She’s choking.  Her vision is a splattering of colors that are slowly coming into a murky focus.  She’s in a large room, a library, a place she has never seen, yet it feels strangely familiar.  Midday light shines through a large stained glass window.  She recognizes the pattern of the glass.  It’s very colorful and in the middle is a heart, yet no matter how hard she thinks, she cannot figure out where she has seen it before.  But the sense of familiarity is not as shocking as the rest of the vision.  Aerwyna sees herself in the corner of the room, sitting on a pile of pillows, much like she sits in the shop.  She looks like herself but...different.  Someone comes into the room and the other Aerwyna looks up and smiles.  Aerwyna turns and watches as Asra walks through the door.  A tiny Faust is wrapped around his wrist and she slithers up his arm and drapes herself around his neck as Asra crouches down.  He leans in and kisses her.

Oh.

Just like that the vision is gone and she’s choking again.  Like before the sensation stops as soon as the multitude of colors snap into focus.  There’s a man this time, someone she recognizes.  She knows him as Doctor Jules but her mind whispers a different name.  Illya.  Like before Aerwyna is an outsider in the vision, and she watches as Illya leans in and presses his forehead against hers.  There Aerwyna reaches up and locks her fingers in his auburn hair.  She’s weeping.  Why is she crying?  How does she know Doctor Jules?  The woman in front of her is herself and yet it’s not.

She doesn’t get to ask more questions before she’s whisked away again.  It takes longer this time for the vision to settle.  By the time shapes form there are black spots in her vision and she is gasping for breath.  She’s in a dark bedroom.  It is a fine room decorated in crimson and gold.  In a large four poster bed situated against the wall is a man Aerwyna has only heard stories about and seen in paintings yet, she knows him.

Lucio sits propped up against a mountain of pillows.  The whites of his eyes are ruby red and his face is gaunt.  The shadows under his eyes tell a story of many sleepless nights.  Like before, there is another Aerwyna, this one pouring a dark liquid into a chalice.  The count glares at her and when she offers him the cup he knocks it away with his golden arm, sending the chalice across the room, the liquid spilling across the stones.  He’s screaming but she can’t hear him.  The sound is muffled at first but growing more clear.  She walks towards the bed.  Lucio and the other Aerwyna do not notice her presence.

“I’ll kill him,” Lucio snarls.  His voice is hoarse from sickness but it still holds its edge.

“You wouldn’t,” She says. “You wouldn’t dare kill him.  He’s trying to save you.”

Lucio sneers. “Save me?  Save me!?  I’ll kill you all!  I’m going to die because of you incompetent bastards.  If you are the best this wretched city has to offer than perhaps I am better off dead!”

“Please, Lucio,” she whispers “I am doing everything.  Don’t hurt him.”

He laughs. “Asra’s days are limited.  So are Devorak’s and so are yours.”

Aerwyna’s vision goes dark.  The count’s bedchambers disappear.  She can’t breathe.  The colors come back but they can’t seem to focus for long.  She sees flashes of Asra, of Ilya, of the countess Nadia.  She sees the garden where she and Asra confessed their love, the bar where she found Ilya so drunk he could not stand, and the moment when Lucio arrived in this very shop, her shop, to invite her to the palace.  These are not visions, they are memories.

Aerwyna can’t breathe.  She doesn’t understand.  Who is she?  Who is Asra?  Where are Ilya and Nadia?  And the fire...she sees the fire.  Lucio is burning.  His sickroom is ablaze and the smell of burning flesh is so strong that in the real world she vomits.  She remembers it all.  Aerwyna remembers Asra as a lover, Nadia as a friend, and Ilya as something more than a companion.  She remembers nights in the palace, pouring over books, the books in this very room, the books that she’s plucked from the shelves.  They were supposed to find a cure for the plague.  

She remembers Asra’s body pressed against her own, skin against skin, his lips trailing down her neck, placing gentle kisses on her collarbone.  Then there is Ilya and his burning eyes.  I love you, he says, but she doesn’t know if she loves him back.  Nadia pours her a glass of wine and Lucio burns her with his fever hot skin.  

Years of missing time crash into Aerwyna like a wave.  There are memories from before Vesuvia, from a childhood she has forgotten, in a town far away from this city.  It’s too much.  She feels the memories crushing her.  She is like an ant under a boot.  Magic took away these memories and now it is giving them back but it’s too fast, too much.  But then, there’s something cold touching her, something foreign.

“Aerwyna!” Someone shouts.  It’s from the real world, not the world of memories. “Aerwyna!”

She knows that voice.  Asra.

-

It’s dark for a long time before Aerwyna opens her eyes.

She is in her room and it’s warm.  There’s a fire in the fireplace and the window is open just enough so she can hear the tinkling of wind chimes.  Her body hurts, it aches as if she has been running for days without stopping.  It takes an effort to keep her eyes open.  Her head is pounding and she can hear her heartbeat in her ears.

There’s a sound like someone shifting in a chair.  It’s too loud and she winces.  She turns her head and the world spins and she feels like she might be sick.  

“Aerwyna?”

She knows that voice.

“Asra?” Aerwyna asks.

The room rights itself and Asra, who is sitting in the corner with Faust draped across his neck, stands.  He reaches her bed in three strides and drops to his knees.  His familiar slithers onto the bed, resting on her stomach, a comfortable and welcome weight.

“Where am I?  What happened?  You’ve been gone for days.”

He looks sad and he threads his fingers through her own.  “I am so sorry I left you, Aerwyna.  I should not have been gone so long.  If I had come back a moment later...” he stops and runs a hand down his face. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand.” She says.

“I came into the shop to found you passed out behind the counter.  You were terribly feverish.  You’re sick but I’m here now.  You’re okay.”

Aerwyna looks away.  She doesn’t remember passing out.  She doesn’t even remember being behind the counter or feeling ill.  She tries to recall what Asra is talking about but the last thing she remembers is flipping the shop sign to closed.  After that, nothing.  Whitespace.  Static.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days,” Asra says. “You frightened me, Aerwyna.  I was afraid I was too late.”

“I don’t remember feeling ill, Asra.  I don’t remember passing out or anything.”

“It’s the fever,” he says quickly.  “You were burning up, dangerously so.  I had to call a doctor.”

She licks her lips and looks away.  Faust has her head resting on her chest and she looks at her with her little red eyes and flicks her tongue.  Something feels off, but Asra wouldn’t lie to her, he has no reason to anyway.  She must have been ill for awhile and not even realized it.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Aerwyna says, turning back to her master. “I missed you.”

“And I missed you.” He smiles.  Asra rests the back of his hand on her forehead and she closes her eyes.  His hands are cool.  It feels nice.

“You’ve still got a fever,” he says. “Do you have a headache as well?”

She nods but doesn’t open her eyes.  His hand is suddenly gone and she groans in protest and hears a quiet laugh and the sound of tinkling bottles and liquids being poured.  She’s been asleep for days yet she feels exhausted.  Her thoughts feel thick like she can’t exactly think straight, and when she tries to remember the moments before she collapsed, a stabbing pain shoots through her head.

“Here,” Asra says. “Drink this.”

Aerwyna opens her eyes.  Asra is offering her a glass of some steaming tea.  It smells terrible but Asra’s teas always work.  He helps her sit up and she drinks it, only stopping when the cup is empty.  She falls back into the pillows, eyelids drooping.

“Rest, Aerwyna.  You’ll feel better in the morning.”  Asra smiles and brushes his knuckles across her cheek.  His touch is nice and she closes her eyes.  The room smells like Asra and she falls asleep, content for the first time in days.

-

Asra picks up Aerwyna’s copy of Mirror Magicks and runs his hand over the leather bound cover.  He hates the thought of putting these books behind locked doors, but what other choice does he have?  He returned three days ago to find her sprawled on the floor in the back room, this very book open to the first page.  She was covered in sick and white as snow.  He thought she was dead.  But her chest rose and fell in a quick flurry, like the beating wings of a hummingbird and relief flooded him, only to be replaced by guilt.

He performed the magic to make her forget.  Asra wiped her mind, replaced with nothingness so when she awoke, she’d chalk it all up to a fever.  He cleaned her up and put her in bed like he’d done a hundred times before in the last three years.  He feels so guilty.  When she finally remembers properly will she thank him or shun him?  

Asra places the books back on the shelves and mouths a spell.  Blue light flashes around the bookshelf and then it’s gone.  There, she won’t be able to touch the books anymore.  He hadn’t realized the powerful connection between her and these old volumes.  Foolish, most of them were from the palace.  That was why he told her not to touch them but still, he hadn’t thought it would bring back so many memories.

Faust glides across the floor and raises her head, looking at him and flicking her tongue.

“She’s safe,” his familiar says.  She bumps her head against his leg in a reassuring gesture.  He turns around and walks out of the room and up the stairs to where Aerwyna sleeps, her face unusually pale and her cheeks bright with fever.  At least he knows his magic worked, she didn’t remember the books or the memories.  He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for her hand.  It’s warm.  He squeezes her fingers and he wonders how many more lies he’ll have to tell the woman he loves.

#the arcana #the arcana game #asra #fan apprentice #julian devorak #countess nadia #count lucio #faust #asra x apprentice #aerwyna #my ocs

[asthora]

For my friend @elvhenhanin and her arcana oc!

#the arcana #my ocs #aerwyna #the apprentice

[asthora]

I'm studying abroad in Scotland right now but I do want to continue updating The Last Dance! Just don't expect timely updates. So sorry!

#benny x courier #fallout #benny gecko

[asthora]

she was never really the “lone” wanderer

#fallout #lone wanderer #charon

[asthora]

The Last Dance, Pt. 2

The Courier brings Benny back to Vegas.  He can’t tell if it’s a mistake or if she’s just playing more games.  Part 2 to my Benny x Courier saga.  Read part one here.

The Courier is playing tricks on him.

She’s got a heart blacker than an abandoned vault.  She never planned on letting him walk free, just thought it would be fun and games to see him skip off into the sunset only to reel him back in, her executioner’s axe sharpened.

“This isn’t what you think,” she tells him.  “Believe it or not.”

Yeah, like he’s going to let her fool him again.

“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes anymore, baby.  You’re here to kill me.”

Benny had been gone for almost two weeks, hadn’t even gotten the chance to leave the Mojave, when the Courier’s little NCR sniper appeared out of goddamn nowhere.  Benny was just enjoying himself a smoke at the 188 when the beret grabbed his arm, turned him in the direction of New Vegas, and with a gruff let’s go, led him to his final resting place.

“Did I not scram fast enough, pussycat?  Was I too slow?  A man’s got to take his time when he’s deciding the fate of his future.”

“No, I’m glad you didn’t leave the Mojave.  Made you easy to find.”

Oh, of course.  Her hounds only run so far from the horses.  If he had skedaddled sooner, right now he could be enjoying himself a hooker in New Reno or nursing himself a whiskey neat in some slummy bar.

“Well I’m glad I could convenience  you, baby.”

“Yeah, yeah.  You aim to please.  I’ve heard it all before, Benny.  Now it’s time for you to shut up and let me do the talking.”

Benny zips his lips and throws away the key.  She rolls her eyes.  The Courier leans back, her chair balancing on two legs, with her feet propped up on a card table.  Her scarred hands rest on her toned stomach.  Outside the tent, Benny can hear the sounds of the Mormon Fort --  babies crying, some grunts, coughing, the final scream of a dying junkie.  He winces.  Now he remembers why he made it a rule to never set foot in this place.  Benny doesn’t like to be reminded of mortality.  

“I’m not going to kill you,” she says.  “I promise.”

“Really?”

“Really.  Cross my heart and hope to fucking die.”

He smirks. “Well, now I’m convinced.”

News flash, he isn’t.  He’s got a right to be cautious of this broad but there’s something about this whole situation that makes him wonder if she’s telling the truth.

“If I decided that killing you was what I wanted to do, do you think you’d be alive right now?  Do you think I would waste any more of my time looking at your face?”

“Ouch, baby, you know my face is the finest thing for miles.”

So she isn’t planning to kill him, there’s a reason the Courier dragged him back kicking and screaming to New Vegas.  But why aren’t they partying it up in the Lucky 38’s revolting cocktail lounge?  He’s standing in front of the Mojave’s most powerful woman, yet she isn’t ruling from her castle.  Why would a queen stalk in the slums?

C’mon, think like a big-leaguer Benny-boy.

Perhaps it’s because the Mormon Fort is discreet.  Maybe, what she has to say doesn’t need the eyes and ears of certain people.  In this neck of the woods, those certain people can only be the Vegas elite.  The Families.   Freeside ain’t Vegas proper so the Families don’t tend to pay attention to the slums, a mistake he didn’t make.  Instead their feelers extend from New Vegas, skip over Freeside, and tumble out in the desert, gently probing the uncivilized world for anything that might benefit their empires.  If she wants to be invisible this is the perfect place to do it.  Not only is it free of Family spies, she’s got some aces protection.  The Courier just doesn’t stop making friends.  On his way in he spotted a few leather clad Kings milling about the perimeter and he swears he saw a Boomer vault suit sitting pretty as you please at the front gate.  

But there are bigger questions to be asking here, like why is the Courier so desperate to get away from the Families?  What does she want to keep hidden?  And most importantly, if she doesn’t plan to kill him, why is he here?

Or maybe he’s got it all wrong.  Maybe he’s thinking about this too closely.  Nah, no way.  He and the courier are the same in many ways.  She wouldn’t say it  but he ain’t afraid to admit that they are a couple of crafty scheming fucks.

“You’re hard to get rid of, Benny.  Did you know that?” She asks, picking at her bleeding cuticles.  She’s got hands like a desert scaver.

“A man once told me that before I stuck a knife in his neck.”

The Courier laughs, a flat dry laugh that makes his stomach lurch.  She looks at him and cracks a smile.

“Swank told me about that.  Your old chief, Bingo.  He wanted to keep wandering but you said no sir.  You told him the future was behind a gate, not out there,” she points to the desert.  “So you killed him and brought your people to a new eden.”

“We could sit here recalling history, baby but that won’t lead us to anywhere that we don’t already know.”  He says, his voice tight.

“I disagree,” the Courier slams her chair into the dirt and leans forward.  “Get on your knees.”

Benny’s jaw tightens.   Oh how he’d love to watch her bleed like he did with Bingo.  But his hands are tied, literally, and he’s at the mercy of this woman perhaps for the rest of his short life.  Benny gets on his knees.

“Happy?”

“I just want to remind you that we aren’t equals.  I’m about to propose something to you that might send your ego flying to the stars, so I gotta make sure all my bases are checked.”

A proposal?  What kind of proposal?  What can this bitch offer him that she hasn’t already?   His freedom was the only thing he could ask for, his life.  The only thing left to dangle in front of him is...no.  No fucking way.  Vegas is all that’s left, the only thing he wants more than life but, the Courier is far from a fool.  She wouldn’t hand over her newly won town for all the caps in the wasteland, so what is this?

“What I’m about to say stays in this tent.  It doesn’t leave your mouth.  I don’t want you even thinking about it.  Do you understand?”

“I’m understanding that you have something real secret that you shouldn’t be saying.  I’ll keep it under wraps, pussycat.  Now spill the beans.”  He says.

The Courier’s blue eyes close, then open, then close, and finally open again.  She looks pained, like whatever she’s about to say, she doesn’t want to say it.

“We’re going to make a deal.  I’m going to let you come back to Vegas and take up the mantle of head of the Chairman.  In return, you’re going to be my little lapdog.”

Is he hearing her right?  Did she really just offer him a doorway back into Vegas?  He’s so caught up in the thought of walking the halls of The Tops again that he almost misses the word lapdog.  Almost.  

He narrows his eyes.  “What do you mean by lapdog, baby?  You realize this puppy ain’t into being leashed, right?”

“Well if you want to be more than one of the common folk you’re going to have to embrace the leash and be a good boy.”

Benny spits in the dirt.  This ain’t right.  This ain’t humane.  That doesn’t mean he ain’t interested.

“Tell me why I should do this.”

She rubs her hands together and smiles.  “Because you aren’t going to settle for the wasteland and I need a inside man who can tell me everything that the Families do.  I’m not going to make the same mistake House did, I’m going to watch the power players and make sure they stay in their lanes.  I’m not letting what you did happen again.”

Oh this broad is clever!  She deserves this town better than anyone.  She knows what to do, how to treat her fickle town, how to make sure it stays in her hands.  Her judgement is impeccable.  Who better than him to spy on the Omertas and the White Gloves?  Once upon a time this was his town, and he knew how it rolled.  Benny knew every shred of gossip, every rumor, every word that came out of the mouth of the big players.  He knew when every little lord and lady fucked, slept, ate, shit, and schemed.  That kind of knowledge could quell a revolution, a fight the Courier doesn’t want happening again.  Funny to think that he once thought she wasn’t a threat.

But there are problems with this plan.  No doubt his boys know that he betrayed him.  They won’t welcome him home, no siree, and the rest of the Strip?  Well, he’s no better than a White Glove frozen dinner.

“I like your ambition but you’re missing something important.”  He says.

“Like what?”

“Swank isn’t going to let me come waltzing through those doors.  He’ll splatter my brains across the carpet as soon as he sees me.”

“Why?  He doesn’t know anything.”

What?

The Courier’s lips turn up in an amused smile.  “All Swank and the rest of Vegas knows is that some fuck shot me in the head and I took over Vegas.  I didn’t tell them that it was their boss who set my rampage in motion.”

He can’t believe this.  It’s like the bitch had this all planned out from the start.  Maybe she did, he tells himself.  She’s smart enough.

“Swank told me you often disappear for days at a time, weeks even.  All you have to do is walk back in, say you had business somewhere in the Mojave, and then it’s back to business as usual.”  

She makes it sound so easy and really, it is.  Benny is good at lying and Swank is good at believing him.  What Swank accepts, the rest of his pack with accept, and so will Vegas.  There’s a sick feeling in his gut though.  All the lies, they’re piling up.  It isn’t right to lie to your second, but Benny has been doing it for years.  He’s neck deep.  This’ll be the last lie, he thinks, then things will return to normal.  

The Courier is right, he doesn’t want to be a wastelander again.  He’s had a taste of civility and now he doesn’t think he can truly step away.  He just ain’t too keen on being a slave.

“So I get my little slice of heaven back and in return, I give you information.  Correct?” He asks.

The Courier swings her legs off the table and leans forward.  She’s so close to him.  It reminds him of two weeks ago when he was at the mercy of her blade.

“Well, that and a few other things.  You’ll do exactly as I say.  If I say jump, you say how high.  If I ask you to swim in a sea of radiation, you better be running for your swim trunks-”

“So I’m your little bitch” he interrupts.  “I get it.”

She cocks her head to the side, her jaw working furiously.  “No, you don’t.  Don’t interrupt.  You’ll spy for me and you’ll pretend like you’re just one of the boys, like you and me have never had any ties.  If I ask you to accompany me somewhere, you’ll do it.  The Tops is your kingdom, you can run it how you like, but you won’t tell me how to run Vegas, and you won’t try to run it for yourself.”

She drives a hard bargain.  Benny licks his lips and shifts on his knees, which are now aching so badly his legs have started to shake.  The way he sees it, he doesn’t have a choice.  She’ll just kick him to the curb if he says no.  There is no better way back into Vegas, there is no other option.  He’ll play his part.  For a bit.

“Fine,” he spits.  “You win.  I’ll come back.  I’ll play your game by the rules if it gets me back into my casino.”

The Courier leans back and smiles brightly.  “Perfect!”

“Who would’ve thought I’d become business partners with the broad who I put in the ground?”

“And who would have thought that broad would be pulling the strings?”  She smirks.  “Now get up.”

He stands slowly.  The Courier takes a knife from her boot and cuts the ropes around his wrists.  He’s still got scars from the Legion’s bindings.  He looks up from his hands at the courier.  She’s a good head shorter than his six feet.  This is the first time they’ve been side by side not as enemies, but as allies.  She stares up at him with cold, blue eyes.

“Arcade!” She shouts.

“Yeah?”  

Benny turns.  A Follower doctor with blonde hair and thick rimmed glasses peeks around the tent flap.

“Do you have any clothes Benny can borrow?  I don’t need him walking back into The Tops looking like he’s been dragged through the dirt.”

Arcade laughs humorlessly.  “I’m sure I have something.  Want me to make him bathe, too?  I can smell him from here.”

“That would be great.  Thanks, Arcade.”

“I aim to please.  Follow me, asshole.”  

“You’ve got lovely friends.”  Benny growls, backing away from the Courier.  She crosses her arms and sticks her hip out.

“Yeah.  I’ve got the best of the best.  Even the most disgusting now.”

Benny follows Arcade, but before he pushes the dirty cloth aside, he hesitates.  For the first time he realizes he doesn’t even know this bitch’s name.  It’s just always been the Courier or pussycat or baby.  He turns around and she raises an eyebrow.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve been so caught up in hating you babydoll, that I don’t even know your name.”

Her smirk falters then shifts into a wide smile.  

“My name is Indigo Blue.  Call me Indy.”

#fallout #benny gecko #fallout benny #fallout new vegas #courier x benny #indy #courier six

[asthora]

FALLOUT - Nuka World

#fallout

[asthora]

Solavellan commission for @myagletismissing

#dragon age #solavellan

[asthora]

The Last Dance

The Courier and Benny have their final face off and there’s only so much room for ambition in New Vegas.  Eventual Courier x Benny.

Crazy.

Goddamn mother-fucking crazy.

Benny doesn’t know if he means himself or the broad bathed in blood who’s just smashed in a Legionnaire's head with the heel of her boot.  God, he thinks he fucking loves her.  

Ha, love!

He’s confusing love for lust.  He does that often.  Once, he thought he loved a hooker but when he realized he remembered every detail about her tits, but not her name, he threw the notion of love out the window.  This is similar.  He knows the courier’s tits too.  Saw them a couple of nights ago in his suite.  Thought he would never see them again but hey, he’s thinking he might have a chance at round two if she decides to let his mangy ass go free.

A fucking pipe dream.

The courier empties a clip then uses the butt of her rifle to break one guy’s jaw then another poor soul’s nose.  Her companion, a man with a buzz cut who screams NCR even without the stupid beret, finishes them off with a few efficient shots to the gut.  Benny has never seen so much blood in his life.  Something about it is arousing.  Or rather, watching the courier do her dance of death is arousing.  The bodies, the blood, the severed limbs, it’s somehow just the right background for this celestial wasteland bitch.

How can this be the same gal he ravaged in his bed a few nights ago?  He wonders if he made it up.  A dream he conjured.  No, he couldn’t have.  The image of the courier laid out across his bed like a four course meal has been the only way he’s been able to survive the fucking nightmare he’s endured in this camp.  That night was real, just like this impossible slaughter is real.

He’s wandered into the world’s best show.  A front row seat to the showdown of the century.  She unceremoniously beheads Caesar.  Takes a fucking baseball bat to his head like it’s 2077.  A home fucking run.  Then his goddamn lapdog, Vulpes, the most evil son of a bitch from here to New Vegas and back, is just laid out like a nice steak, butchered and bloodied and fucked over until he’s ground brahmin and the courier is standing over his body triumphantly.

Benny can’t believe he bagged this broad.  

She’s a nightmare.  A daydream.  A scourge on this earth and she isn’t finished purifying the desert just yet.

The courier moves on, leaving the confines of the tent while he stays put on his knees, tied up like slaughterhouse brahmin waiting for the send off.

“Christ,” he says under his breath.

Off to the side, the severed head of Caesar is looking back at him with wide, startled eyes.  What a sight.  Any other day he would rejoice, the great Caesar is dead!  But he’d like to rejoice in the comfort of The Tops or at least somewhere that isn’t the dying black heart of the Legion.

He waits patiently, because that’s all he can do.  He listens to the sound of bullets flying and grown men screaming.  He wonders about the logistics of taking out the entire Legion camp, something the NCR has been wanting to do since the skirt wearing assholes plopped down across the Colorado.  He guesses it all came down to the fact that she had the balls where the NCR’s turned blue.   Then it helped that she had the jump on them.  She had Caesar's trust.  Never did the wrinkly old bastard think that a woman could send him flying from his pedestal.  Maybe that was all she needed.

A risky move, one Benny isn’t sure he would make, but he trusts the courier to do things right.  She has more luck than Lady Luck herself.  She’s also batshit crazy.

He’s beginning to wonder if the crazy broad is ever coming back when a weird silence settles over the camp.  There isn’t even any pathetic moaning of survivors.  The bitch killed them all.  He laughs into the void.

Dead!

The flap of the tent rustles and Benny straightens and lifts his chin, as if that’s going to help him look any more authoritative while he’s down on his knees like a New Vegas tramp.  He supposes he should have taken this time to think of how he could convince her to let him live.  But, the time has passed, and he blames dehydration and an empty stomach for the poor judgement call.

He’s as good as dead.

The courier walks towards him.  She takes big strides, walks with shoulders thrown back and her chin held high as if she’s going somewhere important.  She crouches right in front of him, so close he could count the freckles that pepper the bridge of her nose if he was so inclined.

“So pussycat,” he says.  “What’s next?”

She cocks her head  and gives him a shit-eating grin.  If he was nervous before, he’s sweating bullets now.  To think just seconds ago he was pondering walking out of this camp a free man.  The look in the courier’s eyes is downright devilish.

“I didn’t really plan this far,” she answers.  A lie.   Of course she did.  She’s like him, she sees all the angles and plans appropriately.  She knows exactly what she’s going to do and she’s gonna let him sweat over it for a few minutes.

“Time keeps on ticking, babydoll.  If you don’t make up your mind soon, we’ll be dancing in the dark.”  He laughs, but it sounds brittle and forced.  Fuck.  Charming his way out of this one is out of the question.

She laughs too.  “I like the dark.”

The courier stands up and puts a hand on her hip.  She’s wearing next to nothing, ripped jeans and a white tank top that has a few holes and more than one blood stain.  How is she not dead?  Maybe it’s all the crazy in her that keeps her kicking.  If two bullets to the noggin can’t send her off, the Legion can’t touch her.  She’s goddamn immortal and he doesn’t have a chance up against her.

“I get it pussycat.  Fair is fair.   And eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  I deserve the worst,” he says.  Trying to woo her cold cold heart with pitiful moaning isn’t his best card, but doesn’t have the ideal hand to work with.  He’s going to count his blessings and remember she didn’t stick him with that switchblade she had stuffed in her bra the other night.  She’s had the chance to kill him.  Or maybe she was just waiting for this moment.

She raises an eyebrow.  “So you’re ready to die?”

“Well,” he gives her his slickest smile, the one that makes broads collapse into his arms.  “I wouldn’t say ready.  Just accepting and  thanking god above that a barn-burner like yourself is the one to bump me off and not some common wasteland fink.”

“You know how to charm a girl, Benny.” She deadpans.

“It’s a talent, what can I say?”

She lets out a long sigh.  He can tell she’s thinking, but he isn’t sure about what.  Which way to kill him perhaps?  Is she considering crucifixion?  He wouldn’t put it past her.  But maybe, the cross isn’t her style.  A good throat slash perhaps, or maybe she wants to send him out the same way he tried to kill her.  Bam bam.  

He wishes she would just do it so he wouldn’t have to keep waiting.  He’s been on his knees for so long that his legs have gone numb.  The first few hours were torture.  He felt every grain of Mojave sand through his slacks, biting his skin and eventually making him bleed.  He doesn’t feel anything anymore, wishes that the feeling would extend to his racing heart and sweaty armpits.  He wishes she would just kill him so the fear would go away.  He hates fear.

But she doesn’t seem to want to get the show on the road because she just stands there.  She looks at him for awhile.  She chews on her lip.  Circles him, running a hand through his greasy hair.  He would like it if she wasn’t tearing at the roots.  At one point she stops and starts cleaning the blood from her fingernails with water from her canteen and a decently clean portion of his dusty checkered coat.  Benny wants to fucking scream.

“Pussycat-”

“No,” she says.  “Don’t speak.  I’m enjoying the silence.”

She goes back to her circling.  This time she has a knife.  Sometimes she pokes him with it.  Gentle, not hard, just enough to sting but not enough to draw blood.  He knows he’s being teased.  Oh, she is a nasty one.  Every single jab chips away at his oh so holy pride, his carefully crafted cool cat image.  The bitch knows where to hit him where it hurts and he isn’t sure if he should applaud her or fucking lunge and try to rip her throat out with his teeth.

Woah.  Slow down there Benny-boy.

What a thought.  What a very tribal thought.  

Goddamnit, she’s wearing him down.  He has to focus.

But he’s tired, dehydrated, and he’s pretty sure he has a concussion from all those beatings the Legion so kindly gave him.  And she keeps going and going and going.  When he think she’s going to stop, she doesn’t.  He’s a doormat.  The courier wipes her boots on his slacks, spits in his hair, prods his bruises until he makes unholy noises.

Fuck he hates her.  He loves her.

At one point, her companion, the NCR fuck with the stupid hat, comes in to check on her but she waves him away and keeps up her torture.  Isn’t she afraid of Legion reinforcements?  Doesn’t she want to get out of here?  Move on with her life and leave him bleeding into the desert like the rest of her enemies?

Benny tries to think of it in a good light.  He’s the worst of the worst.  Her number one bad guy.  He’s getting the star treatment.  Caesar wasn’t important enough for her to kick and toss around in the dirt.  He should feel flattered.  That helps prop up his ailing ego a bit.  He holds onto that as she slaps him.  Once, twice, ow.

She crouches in front of him again.  She’s even closer this time.  Like really close, like oh boy, he can smell her.  Fuck.  Her baby blues are shining like neons.  She smells like sweat and blood and gunpowder.  A heady blend of the wasteland’s choice aromas.  She smells like Boot Rider, looks like New Vegas.

“I think I’m done,” she says.  “I’m getting bored.  You aren’t mouthy today, Benny.  I’m disappointed.”

He gives a tired smile.  “Sorry, honeybaby.  You caught me on a bad day.  Blame the concussion and the broken ribs.”

The courier pats him on the shoulder.  “You’ve been a good sport, Benny.  The best out of this whole goddamn game.”

“Well now I’m flattered, baby.  You’ve been 18 karat yourself, a real gasser.” He says.

“Ready for the send out?” She whispers.

“Endsville, next stop.”

The courier smiles and runs her finger along the rusted blade of her knife.  So she’s going with the classic hack and slash.  Here she is again, catching him off guard.  What a broad.

He thinks about closing his eyes but he ain’t a fink.  He squints a little instead.  He doesn’t want to seem too eager to meet the executioner’s axe.  She leans in closer, closer, closer.  The edge of the blade is up against his throat.  It’s warm like it’s sucked up some of the Legion blood and now has a dark heart of its own.

He waits.

Any minute now.

Tick tock.

Why the fuck is she taking so long?

The courier lowers her blade and the rope around his wrists suddenly falls into the dirt.  Is this a joke?  He looks down at his bleeding wrists and flexes his fingers.  They’re stiff.  The blood rushing back into his hands is painful and his vision goes blurry for half a second.  He isn’t sure if he should rejoice just yet.  What if this is a trick?  Another cruel torture device?  He watches her carefully as she reaches behind her and pulls out Maria.

Fuck.  Maria.

His number one broad.  His companion.  His first love.

She sets it before him gently as if she were setting down a puppy.  The courier looks up at him.

“I can’t fucking kill you.  I would like to but it just doesn’t feel right.  You deserve worse than death.  Life will fuck you over more than I can.” She says.

“You letting your number one most wanted walk free?”  He can’t believe it.  He just can’t.  The bitch is crazier than he thought!  He was ready to die and now he gets to live?  No, this isn’t how this works.  This isn’t how the law of the wasteland goes.  Like he said, and eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  That’s how it goes here, that’s how it’s always been.  Even in Vegas.

The courier smiles.  “You’re a fucking prick and I hate you with every fiber of my being.  I’ll kill you one day but it isn’t today.”  She throws her canteen at his feet and stands.

“So this is it?  You just gonna let me go free?” He says, clumsily grabbing Maria and checking the clip.  One bullet.

She bites her lip.  “Free is a relative term.  I have one rule.  You can’t come to Vegas.  You step one goddamn foot across the line and I’ll blow you sky high.”

His heart drops to his stomach.  His golden city gone.  His goddamn home snatched away like a child’s toy.  Benny grinds his teeth together.  Would it be a waste to put this one bullet in her head?

Yes.

There isn’t going back to Vegas, something told him that the moment he left the courier naked and asleep in his bed.  Once he crossed into Legion territory, once his plans reached the ear of the Chairman via the courier, there was no way he could walk back into The Tops without one of his boys blowing his brains out.  He went behind their backs, lied to them.  He broke rule number one of the Boot Rider code, a code that still hadn’t faded no matter how hard he tried to scrub it out.  He’s back to being a wastelander.  A wanderer.  A nobody.  And Vegas?  Well, he trusts the courier enough to do the right thing.

“Alright,” he says.  “You’ll never see me again.  Scramsville here I come.”

“Great!  Then we’re finished here.  Time to cash out.”

He can tell it gives her great pleasure to say that.  The courier slings her rifle over her shoulder, sticks her knife in her boot, and leaves Caesar's tent for the last time.  He doesn’t move.  He doesn’t know what to do next.  All he’s got is a checkered coat, one bullet, a half empty canteen, and the memory of a golden city in the middle of the desert.  The courier has taken it all from him.  Every moment of pain, every trial, every move he’s ever made has been for nothing.

If Benny were a man of superstition, which is isn’t of course, he would maybe chalk it all up to fate.  But fate ain’t a thing.  There’s the doing and the done and the rise and the fall and this here is the fall and he’s got no one to blame but himself.  A plan ain’t perfect when you fuck up murdering the one person who needed killing the most.  So this right here, this whole fucked up situation, the reason he’s on his knees beside Caesar's detached head, is because he couldn’t do it right.

No more blaming the Courier for his mistakes.  Time to own up, stop being a fink.  Benny knows he could keep crying in the rain over spilled brahmin milk but that’s not the Vegas thing to do, that ain’t the Boot Rider code.   So he stands, shakily at first, his knees wobbling like an old man’s and when the world stops jumping and jiving he puts one foot in front of the other, unsure of where he’s going for the first time in his life.  Benny walks, his city’s lights forever behind him.

Note: This is the first part of a longer story I’m trying out. There is more just not sure when I’ll post the rest.

#fallout #benny gecko #fallout new vegas #benny x courier #courier 6 #courier #new vegas

[asthora]

A commission of @elvhenhanin‘s elves, Rhav and Revas, doing some sibling bonding in a time before the sky was ripped open 

#dragon age #lavellan #rhavaniel #revas #dragon age inquisition #my ocs

[asthora]

Silence

That famous breakup scene ft. Solas & a hearbroken Fenna

Solas has seen Fenna’s anger.  It is loud, explosive, and terrible.  Her tongue is like a knife delivering slicing words that cut deep, and her gaze, trembling like fire, burns with amber intensity.  She isn’t quiet about her anger, Skyhold knows when the Inquisitor is furious, knows to watch out.  

“Her hair isn’t why I call her Wildfire,” Varric often says.  “She’s a hot one.”

He agrees.

He expects it when it takes her into the grove.  He asks her, does she feel the thin air around them?  Does she feel the prickling of the fade reaching across the thin veil that blocks this world from the other?  

“Yes,” she tells him, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply.  He wonders if he’ll ever see her this calm again, this at peace.

Solas touches her as long as he can, lets his lips linger against hers just a second longer than he should.  Fenna tastes like a dying fire.  He swipes his tongue across her bottom lip.  She quivers and pushes her hips into him, her hands digging into the fabric of his tunic.  He pulls away first, like always.

It’s time, he tells himself, tell her everything.

He tries.  He takes a breath and speaks but the words that spill out of his mouth are not the words he intends.  He doesn’t lie to her, not this time at least, instead he takes her to the edge of the pool.  They lower to their knees slowly, gently, and he says the phrase that he spoke a thousand times over in a past much different than the present.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” he whispers.  “Now you are free.”

Fenna touches her face where the red vallaslin used to trace branches under her eyes.  She looks in the surface of the rippling pool.  He tugs her to his feet and kisses her cheeks, lets her know she is still beautiful even without the markings.

“Everything I’ve ever thought that I knew is just...nothing.  More lies, more stories.”  She says.

Solas doesn’t respond.  His heart aches.  She’s right.  If there is a time to tell her it is now but the look on her face stops him.  Should he tell her?  Would it matter?  It would just be delaying the inevitable.  But ignorance is bliss they say, and he would rather give her a chance at happiness than feed her more horrible truths.  It’s all deception though.  What is worse?  Maybe, he thinks, lying is the best option.  She will hate him but that is for the best.  He cannot be like Cullen or Blackwall.  He cannot be a simple man.  Fenna deserves a simplicity that he cannot give.

So he kisses her one last time.  He doesn’t linger.  He lets his hand glide over the soft skin of her arms and he shakes his head.

Fenna frowns.  “Solas?  What’s wrong?”

He lies.  

I’m distracting you from your duties.  

The words hurt him.  It feels like swallowing hot pokers.  He has told many lies so easily in his lifetime yet this hurts.  The look on her face is more painful than a thousand arrows piercing his flesh.  He has broken her.  He can tell.  Fenna is already so fragile, so ruined from years of self hate and alienation.  But he believes in her strength, she has shown it time and time again in the Inquisition.  She can forget him, move on, build herself a new life in the time she has left.

So he bears himself for her anger, lets her push him, lets her scream.  She deserves to be upset.  He deserves nothing.  All he can say is that he is sorry.

“You’re sorry!?” She shouts.  “That isn’t an answer, Solas!  Why!?  Why are you doing this?”

He can’t give her answers.  Not today at least.  And so he shakes his head, apologizes again, and walks away because he’s a coward and he cannot face the damage he has done to the person he loves more than himself.

 When they reach Skyhold she disappears for a day.  Everyone knows what has happened.  They stare at him, shoot poison with their gazes.  Behind his back they whisper, What went wrong? Why has he done this to the Inquisitor?

They are asking all the wrong questions.

When Fenna reappears he readies himself for the firestorm, expects her vitriol, even waits for it with open arms.  Give me your anger.  Give me all I deserve, vhenan!  He knows her burning rage better than anyone in this world and he plays the scenarios over and over again in his mind, each one more painful than the last.  He hopes they are as painful as his daydreams, more so in fact.  He doesn’t think he can quantify the hate that he deserves.

She appears in his rotunda, papers in hand.   A guise, he thinks, an excuse to put me on trial for my wrongdoings.  He steels himself for the rage.  He is ready.

“I need your signature on these reports before I can send them to Leliana.” she says.

He takes the papers and looks up, expecting to find the fiery Fenna he has seen erupt time and time again.  But she isn’t there.  She is empty.  Blank like a fresh canvas.  Her glowing eyes are dead embers.  There is nothing on her face.  The void contains more emotion.  He stares at her, arm still extended, his storm cloud eyes wide and lips slightly parted.  This is wrong.  This is not Fenna.

“Of course, Inquisitor.” he chokes on his words.  He leans over the table, his body aching like an old man as he numbly signs his name on the parchment.  He takes his time, hoping that when he looks up again his Fenna will be back, spirit restored and anger flying like fire.  But when he straightens and hands the papers back over, she is still empty.

“Thank you, Solas.”

Fenna turns and leaves.  The door closes gently behind her.  Solas feels like a ghost has just passed through him.  He swallows hard.  He thinks he should sit, maybe go through that book Dorian found for him on Tevinter spellcasting.  Perhaps, he should pour over those elvhen texts a little bit longer.  He needs to think about something else, forget about what he has just seen.

But he doesn’t move.

Maybe he should do his reports on Crestwood or study the artifact they found in the Hissing Wastes.  He should do something.  He knows he needs to at least sit down, stop staring at the door, let the mundane distract him.

But he doesn’t move.

She’s delivered him a blow more powerful than any outburst of rage.  Silence is more deafening than anger.  Silence speaks more loudly than sharp, gnashing words.  Her silence has ruined him.  He should move on, he thinks, give himself at least that comfort like he has given to Fenna.  He should allow himself to forget.

But he doesn’t move.

#dragon age #solavellan #fenna #solas #dragon age writing #lavellan