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spring cleaning

#trying to get back in the posting habit #poppy #tea art #architecture

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Booty McTooty

#hewwo? #how long has this been in my inbox

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There’s a chapel in the Temple of Time.

A close space, gated, with a window to the west. The stained glass does not fill its frame as the Temple’s other windows. The bottom third remains clear, low enough for children to peek through and view the Lost Woods through the roofs and spires of Castle Town. Adults must stoop.

Vines twist around the ever-open gates. Golden and green, with bejewelled fairies wrought into the bars. A sapphire body’s wings are rubbed dark and tarnished - for luck, the townsfolk say.

There’s a shrine in the chapel in the Temple of Time.

Fairies, real ones, gather there. The seven symbols of the seven Sages encircle it in a halo of blessing. The plaque is wood, not metal or stone. Ancient red paint flakes in a spiral. There are no other marks.

The chapel is haunted, the townsfolk say. Only the pure of heart may enter. The gates warp in a way that anyone with ill intent finds themself back outside. Discordant flutes follow them. Laughter brands them unworthy.

The children of the town know better. They play safely and warmly in the light of the setting sun. They leave flowers and sweets and interesting bugs at the base of the plaque. This chapel, this shrine, is to their hero. They will all return home without care - as their hero never did.

#not really febuwhump #but febuwhump adjacent #atmospheric study #legend of zelda #loz #downfall timeline #implied mcd #temple of time #oot

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febuwhump is on hold. got a job, worked two weeks, lost the job. thrilled to exist in this postcapitalist era. lmk if anyone's down to start a commune or smth.

#venting #personal #i qualified out of 300 applicants #why am i now not good enough #i was given no explanation for my termination other than “business decision” #i will actually smash plates if i have to jobhunt online again

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21. Unresponsive

“Pravde? Can you hear me?” Ard asks worriedly. The faceless is sitting on the stage in the tavern, brought there to him after the incident.

They’d been watching Ard’s children as they strolled along the river outside town. Roxy and Cal had had a great time picking flowers and throwing pinecones into the water, respectively, until an unfamiliar merrow attacked. The noise of combat and the kids’ cries had called Isaac, patrolling nearby, to the fray. He’d attacked with magic as the merrow grappled with Pravde, hitting both. The merrow fled, the children were unhurt, but Pravde was unresponsive.

Isaac had delivered them all to Ard, the goblin having made his claim over Pravde clear. Ard tucked the children safely away into his room immediately and returned to the faceless. They weren’t more than bruised, and damp with river water, and yet…

“Pravde.” He carefully sets a hand on their shoulder. Nothing. He’s already healed them of Isaac’s powerful psionic damage, so they’re not unconscious. He can’t remove their mask to inspect them for other effects, like concussions or charms. Ard waves a hand in front of where their eyes would be. Nothing.

Soft footsteps on the stairs catch his attention. Roxy is coming down alone.

“Are you alright, darling? Where’s Cal?”

“Cal fell asleep,” Roxy shuffles in close to Ard, seeking his comfort. “Is Pravde okay?”

“I’m… not sure,” Ard admits, pulling the girl into his lap. “They’re not hurt, but they won’t - or can’t - talk right now. I’m sorry for leaving you kids alone for so long.”

“We’re okay, I just want to make sure Pravde’s okay too. The merrow was scary.” Roxy reaches for Pravde’s face. Ard moves to catch her hand.

“Ah, careful! They might be surprised-”

Roxy’s eyes glow soft white as her little fingers skim behind the mask. It’s a minute before she pulls away. “They’ll be okay later. They’re gonna have a headache, though. And a nosebleed.”

Sure enough, something about the connection draws the faceless back with an involuntary gasp. They whisper something - a name? An unfamiliar one. Pravde tucks their head down between their knees. The fabric of their tunic catches a few iron droplets.

“Pravde? How are you feeling? Honestly,” Ard asks.

They take a moment to answer. “Our. Head hurts we have. Encountered. The malfunction again. Where are the children we do not remember-”

“The kids are fine, Isaac brought you all back to the tavern,” He reassures them. “Cal’s sleeping, Roxy’s here with us. Thank you for protecting them.”

“Yes, thank you Pravde,” Says Roxy. She leans forward to give the faceless as much of a hug as she can reach. “I’m happy you’re okay.”

Despite their migraine, Pravde manages a careful hand around Roxy in turn. “We were not. Prepared for. The attack we will be. More alert next time.”

Ard offers Pravde warm, clean robes to change into while he guides Roxy back up the stairs with a promise to come tuck her and her brother in shortly. Children in bed, the goblin pauses on the landing to scrub a hand over his face. He returns to the faceless with tired eyes.

“Do you usually space out like that when… malfunctioning?”

“Unknown we. Do not experience this error often.”

Ard adds this to his mental notes on the situation.

Pravde shakily tugs a slim journal from their bag. “We will record the. Images we saw while. Incapacitated. Per your instructions.”

“How about you just tell me? Writing will only hurt your head more right now,” He suggests gently.

“We may omit details or. Speak unclearly.”

“That’s fine, Pravde. I just want a general idea of what you saw.” Ard only just keeps Pravde sitting with a cloth under their nose instead of rising into report stance.

“There was screaming. Much like: the cries of Roxy. And Cal we were fighting to protect we were. Captured struggling we could not reach the psionic magic hit and hit and hit…” Their voice trails off quietly.

A memory? A dream? “You said a name at the end, Pravde. Do you remember what it was?”

The faceless stares at the floorboards, thinking.

“Liliko.”

#memory loss #flashbacks #reference to combat #reference to magic #friendly fire #amnesia #dissociation #future sight #nosebleed #blood #migraine #reference to capture #febuwhump2024 #pravde #larp #oc #special appearance by my friend's dnd characters #ard the bard

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20. Truth Serum

The light snaps on, ruining Pravde’s night vision. They’re handcuffed to a metal table. Their whole torso aches from the blow that took them down; even with body armour, people are not intended to catch grenade blasts to the chest. They may have broken a rib or two. This is not unusual.

A shadowy figure sits across from them. “Who sent you.” The speaker has a low voice without any magical modification, likely male. They’re not any taller than Pravde, but significantly wider. Low centre of gravity - he’d be difficult to topple. Pravde works on dislocating their fingers to remove the cuffs anyway.

“I’m not going to ask you again. We’re a… specialized service, catering to our clientele very discreetly. How did you find us and who sent you?”

The specialized service has been taking children from the slums of Berphaunt to retrain as sleeper agents, smuggling intel and prohibited goods across Maud-Madir. Pravde keeps perfectly quiet as they twist their left thumb out of its socket.

The figure stands and moves around the table. Pravde stills. He pulls something from his pocket.

“I will get answers, voluntarily or not.” The man snaps the cap off a hypodermic syringe full of liquid, flicking it to dislodge any air bubbles. He’s not gentle stabbing it into the junction of Pravde’s shoulder and neck. It will bruise. The fluid stings as it rushes through the faceless’s veins.

Pravde yanks their hand free from the cuff, sloughing off a layer of skin. They don’t know what was in the needle; they don’t have the time for caution. They catch a handful of the man’s coat and nearly vomit from the wave of sparkling vertigo and agony. Ribs are definitely broken.

With a twist, the man is free and out of reach. The shadows warp his face into a carnival mask; or maybe it’s the effects of the injection. Pravde can’t think. They need to free their other hand, but the pain is so much and the dizziness distracting and the man is talking glitching pay attention-

“Once more, now that I can guarantee your cooperation. Who sent you?”

To Pravde’s horror, their mouth opens to reply.

#handcuffs #interrogation #violence #grenades #broken bones #dislocation #trafficking #child soldiers #needles #injections #reference to vomit #drugs #febuwhump2024 #pravde #larp #oc #a modern au to mix things up

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19. Please Don't

Ten-thirty am: Merlot sits and watches the loops of sausage with inevitability. “Absolutely not,” Anaranë warns. She pulls a dangling link further onto the counter.

Its disappearance is all the invitation Merlot needs. The cat seems to teleport onto the surface to snatch the loop and bolt off.

“Merlot!”

The sounds of wet chewing can be heard from the parlor. Ana groans and retrieves a fresh sausage from the pantry.

Ten-forty-five am: The chewing noises have stopped; there’s a quiet that all parents and pet owners know to be wary of. Ana pokes her head into the parlor. Merlot has several leaves in his mouth.

“Merlot, that’s my fern! You dunnae even like ferns!” Her poor potted plant looks ragged around the edges. At least it wasn’t toxic? The cat shows the average amount of remorse cats are capable of: none.

Eleven am: Anaranë shoos her pet outside to finish her elevensies in peace. She’s sitting at her desk, sausage sandwich in hand, when a clatter breaks the quiet. The hobling darts for the door to the greenhouse. Sure enough, every tool has been knocked from its peg onto the floor.

“How did you even get in-” Ah, she’d left a window open last night to catch the warm breeze. Flaxing mold-brained sapsucker. She picks up and replaces every trowel, rake, and scoop. Merlot braids himself around her ankles.

Eleven-ten am: “You’re going to stay where I can see you,” Ana scolds the cat in her arms. Since she won’t get any work done at home, she’s bringing Merlot along to the apothecary. “You can make up your shenaniganery to me and catch a few mice in the cellar, hmm?” Merlot purrs and headbutts her chin. Suck-up.

The first half-bell goes smoothly. Anaranë sweeps the shop, cat chasing the stems caught in the broom bristles. She moves on to taking inventory; reagents, materials, potions, paraphernalia.

Eleven-forty-five am: Something clinks.

Ana whirls around. Merlot is on the highest shelf, behind a line of glass beakers. He taps one gently.

“...Please don’t.”

He taps harder. Down goes the bottle. Ana sighs in defeat and retrieves the broom.

#cats #sausage theft #as a treat #plant death #reference to cat hunting #property destruction #febuwhump2024 #anaranë #merlot #larp #oc

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18. Too Weak to Move

“Yetschhh-” The wood fae sneezes himself awake. Ugh. And his headache hasn’t faded, which isn’t a great sign; he so rarely gets hangovers. Maybe his inspiring stroll through the rainstorm combined with a late night - early morning? - of feasting and drinking in the tavern had not been a good idea. Maybe.

Rowan pulls himself upward and decides no, he won’t be doing that again. The little room he’s rented twirls and flips, and his stomach goes with it. Back to bed then.

Some time later, someone knocks on his door. He blearily remembers groaning a ‘do not disturb’. Ahhh, his stomach pinches when he speaks. No more of that either.

It’s cold. He shivers. A bench scrapes the flagstones downstairs. His head pounds. The smell of the head wafts down the hall; someone must have opened the window. His gut roils.

Rowan drifts in and out of consciousness. Something grabs his arm. Then there are a group of people talking. He wishes they’d all go away and let him sleep. An ice-cold cloth hits his forehead and he tries to yell, but there’s not enough air - the slimes climbing the walls have absorbed it all. Yawning gibberling mouths float above his head, pulling at his limbs with their evil raccoon hands. He tries to bat away the potions they pour into his mouth; don’t they know he knows not to trust fae food or drink? He’s fae! It’s first-hand experience! His arms won’t move, though, so he just chokes and spits.

They must bore of his lethargy. The gibberlings fade into the ether. Rowan wonders if the same play-dead rule for bears applies to fae, then wonders if he’s ever missed seeing something that was playing dead. He does get bored when there’s nothing happening, so there’s that.

When he next opens his eyes, the slimes are gone too, and a physician sits next to his bed. Oops. “Well met, bonesy,” Is what he’d like to say. What comes out is “Werghfm.”

“You’re looking better,” The healer says. “Your fever had a good grip on you. The innkeeper called me worried that you’d died; you were fully unresponsive for a couple of days.”

“...Days?” Rowan croaks.

“You checked into the room on Saturday, yes?” The fae nods. “It’s Thursday. You’ve been out nearly a week.”

That’s… concerning. Rowan tries to roll over to face the physician and falls out of bed. “Take it easy. The innkeeper will be up with broth and tea for you in a bit.” The physician stands and packs her case, then hauls her patient bonelessly under the covers again. Gross. The covers are sweaty, the sheets are sweaty, the pillows are sweaty, his nightclothes are…gone. No, they’ve been tossed over the chair in the corner.

“Leas’ ask first,” He mumbles.

“I’ve got other patients to see, so I’ll leave your bill on the dresser.” Ugh. Bills. Rowan’s headache has a different source now.

#illness #reference to alcohol #nausea #vertigo #fever #headache #unconsciousness #hallucinations #unreality #force feeding #manhandling #febuwhump2024 #rowan #larp #oc #skipping day 17 for now

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16. Came Back Wrong

It’s a training day. The faceless shadows Master Deloscuro through Mizrah Atara. When he beckons by crooking a finger, they are there. When he hands his shopping lists to the merchants, they carry his baskets. When his bootlace unwinds in the middle of a crowded plaza, they fold to the ground clumsily to retie it.

“Correct, Pravde.”

The town militia watches them carefully. Shoppers give them a wide berth. Vendors tuck their cashboxes away. They can feel the stares. They don’t know why.

Master Deloscuro stops at a cafe for lunch. He eats slowly; he’s old, his hands shake sometimes. He spills soup down his chin. Pravde wipes it away. “Correct, Pravde.” He gives them a slice of bread. They hold it carefully until he tells them they’re allowed to eat. “Correct, Pravde.”

Later, Master Deloscuro meets with the employer of another of his patients. Pravde waits outside.

They are performing well. Master Deloscuro has not had to correct them once today. They glance through the window; Master is having a cup of tea with the employer. Pravde relaxes slightly and watches a pair of birds dip and twirl overhead.

The birds startle and vanish. There’s movement across the street. A lanky gargylen seems to detach from the stone wall.

“Pravde!”

Pravde does not know this gargylen. Is this part of training?

“Prav, it’s Smiley!” The gargylen looks both directions before running toward Pravde. “We thought you were dead! The guards hit you so hard, Prav, Liliko wouldn’t stop crying - why won’t you come home?”

Pravde has not been given permission to engage. They stay quiet.

“Prav, Lili and Bee miss you, please just tell them you’re okay-”

They have been performing well. They will not engage until Master Deloscuro tells them to.

The gargylen is crying. “Pravde, can you hear me? Why won’t you talk to me? Are you in trouble? Did we do something? Pravde!” The gargylen puts his hands on Pravde’s shoulders.

“Hey!” Master Deloscuro is at the door. The faceless stiffens. This gargylen is impeding their orders in front of him. “You there, hands off! We’ll call the guard!”

The gargylen bolts back to the alley. “Prav!” He screams.

Master Deloscuro looks Pravde over. “Are you hurt at all? Did the boy do anything to you, take anything?”

“We. Are not. Damaged.” Words are difficult, but Master looks satisfied.

“You were correct not to talk to him, Pravde. We’re done here; let’s go.”

Pravde follows the man away with the gargylen’s pleas ringing around the street.

#reprogramming #dehumanisation #servitude #suspicion #food #food control #reference to violence #reference to found family #amnesia #febuwhump2024 #pravde #larp #oc #backstory time!

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15. Who Did This to You

She knows, really, that her friends can take care of themselves. They’re all capable fighters - much more so than she is. Her friends are brave, they’re smart, they’ve been through so many experiences. She just sits in town with her shop. Sells them the elixirs they need to be successful. That’s what she knows, what she’s good at. She doesn’t go out with them.

It’s just…

Sometimes, her friends come back with scars. Open injuries. Sometimes they don’t come back at all and she runs to the resurrection circle in a panic, hoping this won’t be the last time and did she remember to say goodbye when they left?

And every time they come in and empty their purses for healing, or sheepishly wipe off blood while she yells at them to be more careful next time, she seethes. The hot sour how dare, they, these people are mine fills her body and mind and overflows and she can’t do anything to avenge the wrong except demand “Who did this to you?”

She keeps a list in her journal that ever grows, never resolved.

#reference to violence #scars #injury #reference to death #blood #febuwhump2024 #anaranë #larp #oc #the delicate balance between being a coward #and being extremely possessive and not a little bit petty

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14. Bloodstained Tiles

Pravde lurks in a shadowy recess. Partygoers mingle around them with plates and drinks. Master Swaine is in a heated discussion with a competitor; they keep a close eye on his movements. The crash of broken glass draws their notice - someone’s dropped a cup. The socialites guffaw and clap. Irrelevant. They turn back to Master Swaine. His discussion partner is gone, replaced by a woman in a large dress and larger wig.

Pravde crouches there for hours. Their stomach growls. Partiers leave half empty glasses and sauce-smeared dishes on every surface. Pravde doesn’t touch them.

Finally, the players conclude their performance. Lords and ladies say their farewells and depart to their carriages. Pravde scares the soul out of a maid by standing as she tries to collect the dirty napkins at their feet. They step over her as they approach Master Swaine, who lists side to side down the hall. “Anybody see you?” Swaine demands, then belches. Pravde shakes their head no. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”

The faceless exits the building first, scans for danger. The drive is quiet and clear. Master Swaine stumbles into them and tells them to watch it.

Something clinks.

Swaine’s carriage pulls up. Swaine wobbles into the lamplight. The footman steps down to help him in.

An airy whistle.

Pravde lunges in between Master Swaine and the banquet hall as there’s a flash from the roof. Something punches them in the shoulder. The footman yells, Swaine curses, and they jump into the carriage for cover. Pravde tries to climb up to their post beside the driver, who’s already flicking the reins at the stamping horses, but the crossbow bolt in their arm catches mercilessly on their armour. Blood dribbles down their fingers.

The driver scruffs Pravde like a kitten and drags them into their seat. The carriage takes off in a wake of blood and fear.

#party #dehumanisation #hunger #reference to alcohol #drunkenness #assassination attempt #weapons #injury #blood #febuwhump2024 #pravde #larp #oc

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13. You Weren't Supposed to Get Hurt

Otters are cute! Their big wet eyes, wriggly noses, twitchy whiskers… Rowan could sit and watch them play all day.

The caravan has stopped a few miles outside of another little town in the plains north of Berphaunt. His family are setting up their booths: beads, fabrics, metalwares, and Rowan’s favourite, fried snacks. The townsfolk will be invited to trade by nightfall.

In the meantime, Rowan keeps out of the way. His uncles’ great-grandchildren had shooed him off. He understands, he gets distracted easily. His uncles used to sit him with a brush and paint to decorate the collapsible wooden stands; Rowan’s little flowers and birds cover every surface of their wagon.

Rowan misses his uncles.

An otter chirps. Its kit nips at Rowan’s bare toes. He grins and slips it scraps of fish skin in case it’s hungry. He likes sharing, and being shared with. His clan will celebrate after a weekend of good trades, with dancing and music and feasting, sharing their wealth between the families.

“Do you dance, dyfrgi bach?” He asks the otter kit, teasing it with fish over its head. The kit jumps and tumbles. Rowan mumbles ‘dyfrgi bach, dyfrgi bach’ under his breath until the words lose meaning. He doesn’t always know where the words come from - his clan sure don’t speak this way - but they always feel right in his mouth. His family don’t question it.

The fae sits there a while more, until the mother otter stands and calls an alarm from some sound too far for Rowan to notice. They bound away to their den. Rowan washes his hands in the creek and wanders further into the valley it’s carved. He can’t see the caravan at all, but they’ll call him if he wanders too long.

He finds a deer trail, a thicket of wild raspberries, and a hawk’s nest: all quiet, like he’d scared off any wildlife, although a murder of crows scream and circle overhead. The sun isn’t more than a handswidth above the horizon by the time he turns back. He still hasn’t heard any calls, which is strange, but he shrugs it off as distraction.

“Veri, I’m back!” He huffs as he trots up the incline to the caravan. “Veri?”

He climbs up into the driver’s port facing the creek. The wagon is empty. Rowan frowns and crawls through to the door facing the circle camp.

There’s something blocking the door. Rowan isn’t very big, nor strong. He leans his full body weight against the wood. “Bogdan, open the door, that’s not funny. Emil, let me out!” His cousins don’t answer. Time to get creative.

He can just wedge an iron crowbar into the gap between the door and the frame. Ouch, but he can ask Adela to give him ointment for the rash later. The fae strains against his makeshift lever - success! The obstacle is still there, but shoved far enough that Rowan can slip-

Oh.

The obstacle was Emil. There’s an arrow through his neck.

All the booths are wrecked - crushed, burnt, and their vendors, his clan, with them. He carefully takes Adela’s hand. It’s cold. He didn’t hear a thing. That’s- he knows Ajaunti don’t live nearly so long as fae, but it’s too soon- they’re all- they weren’t supposed to, not yet, the clan should live forever and ever, generation after generation, as it always has been…

Rowan’s little flowers and birds flake from the blood-wet wood.

#reference to character death #character death #adopted character #violence #injury #blood #febuwhump2024 #rowan #larp #oc

[molassified-minipak]

12. Semi Conscious

Step left.

Step right.

Step left.

The pattering of drips on dead leaves. Pravde is leaving a trail. Inexcusable. They pull the remains of their arm further into their body.

Step right. Step left.

The trees bend around them, following the tidal swells of the forest floor.

Step right.

They can’t quite catch their balance. They hit a tree, rebound. Focus. Keep moving.

Step left.

Step right.

Step… something.

How much further? They’ve lost track. They have to get back, though, they’re obligated to report to Master Ard when injured. This was non-negotiable.

Their minds drifts with their feet. Their blood pours on.

Step.

Step.

Step.

They hit something again, hard enough to fall down this time. They think. The ground is suddenly against their mask, not their boots. They didn’t feel a thing.

Their shoulder is caught. There’s noise. Their name? They try to shake free and manage to roll over. They’re still moving… They’re floating. The sky darkens overhead, cloudless.

#injury #blood #unreality #unconsciousness #febuwhump2024 #pravde #larp #oc

[molassified-minipak]

11. Time Loop

The slog through the swampy field is exhausting. Ana’s tripped over knots of grass so many times; her trouser legs are soaked through. Blight that cartman who wouldn’t take her into town proper.

She adjusts her bags and trunks with a groan. Not that she’s not used to hard work, being the best gardener in Houdham, but that hauling is from greenhouse to market, over paving stone and packed gravel. Stupid flaxing swamp. The long walking stick she picked up miles back has been her greatest boon, and isn’t that the saddest state of her life.

Finally, finally she makes it through the gate. It’d been high winter the last time she was in Misthaven for the Yule Ball. The… smell had been less prominent with the ground frozen.

Her feet hurt. Her back hurts. Everything’s cold, she’s hungry and tired and not feeling friendly in the slightest. Where’s the tavern again?

There’s someone pacing in circles around a spindly sapling in the open green, hands in their hair. “Oi, you,” Ana calls, and hopes this isn’t a nutter, “Where can a hobling get a hot drink around here?”

The person - a young wild elf - stops dead, stares at her. What, did she get mud on her face?

“Ana!” He sounds ecstatic.

Ana squints. Does she know him? He does look familiar… “Er, Mister Finch, was it? From the Yule Ball?”

The elf’s face drops so hard Ana’s almost sorry for him. Almost. Was he expecting a different hobling called Ana?

He directs her to a low hall on the other side of the green. She offers a handshake in thanks. He accepts, but holds onto her hand a little longer than necessary. Weirdo.

“Do you need someone to go with you?” He asks hopefully.

“Er, I can manage fine, thanks.” Does he think she’s going to get lost? This cesspit podunk nowhere hamlet doesn’t have more than five permanent buildings. 

As she shoulders her things again and trudges on, she can hear the elf return to pacing and muttering under his breath.

“Stupid. Of course she won’t remember.”

Weirdo.

#reference to mental distress #amnesia #febuwhump2024 #anaranë #larp #oc #i made finch's player upset with this one :)

[molassified-minipak]

10. Killing in Self-Defense

Misthaven was quiet.

All the fighty folk had left on the newest grand adventure, leaving Anaranë home alone. Again.

Not that she minded, really. Being cooped up led to frequent squabbles among the rowdier Mistfolk, and this way she could balance her books and organize her inventory in peace.

A knock at the door has her sighing. She spoke too soon, apparently. Hopefully there’d be a sale out of it.

“Can I help you?” Ana opens the door to three unfamiliar faces, worn and craggy from rough living. More wandering adventurers?

The frontman smiles. “Is this an apothecary? There’s no one around to ask for directions.”

“Aye, I’m the head of the Misthaven apothecary. What can I do for you?”

The three shove their way inside and begin rummaging through boxes and drawers.

“Hey! Dunnae do that, s’nae yours!” Ana snatches a tin of clove from one’s hand. She’d had to special order that! “Out, all of you!”

The frontman leers and pulls out a dagger. Ana pales. She thinks about calling for help.

…There’s no one left in town. She’s on her own.

Right.

Ana raises her hands, backs slowly into the far wall - where she’d left her staff leaning in the corner.

“Hand over your register quietly,” Front growls, “No funny buis-”

He doesn’t get to finish as the end of an iron pole snaps up between his legs. Front staggers with a howl, dropping his dagger to clutch himself. His buddies shout and try to draw their weapons in the small, cramped space. Ana’s small, cramped space.

Shame about that shelf of bottles, but Ana can replace bottles. Goon one is having trouble maneuvering his sword from its sheath, and goon two really should know better than to bring a range weapon indoors. It takes too long to load a crossbow. The hobling retracts her staff, swinging the other end over front’s head to poke goon one in the eye. He trips backwards into goon two. Crossbow bolts spill to the dirt floor.

The dirt floor! Ana plants the staff between herself and the bandits for protection and pulls her trowel from her belt. She aims it towards the intruders.

“I told you. To get out.” [Activate magic item: Root Lance, 15 damage]

Front straightens up just in time to catch a writhing spear of hard, muddy roots to the throat. He’s flung backwards into the goons, knocking them outside. The root lance catches the door frame, the walls, the ceiling beams, spreading into a tangled wall of vegetation. In the middle hangs the lead bandit, coils of vine around his neck and limbs.

“Holly hocks,” Ana breathes. It worked. She slides down the wall, keeping a close eye on the door.

It feels like hours. Someone outside starts yelling. The doorway darkens between the web of branches. A blade hacks at the thicket, the bandit leader disappearing. All the adrenaline Anaranë had spent on the fight comes flooding back - she can only use Root Lance once a day - there isn’t time to apply any contact alchemy, why hadn’t she prepared any cindamite earlier - no, cindamite would blow the walls open, they could get in that way-

A looming figure, armour silhouetted against the sun, blasts into the shop. Ana screams and points her shaking trowel at- Thrundar.

“Firebug! Are you okay? Where’s- Nisandra! Get in here!” The dwarf calls.

Ana breathes again. “M’ fine, did you get him?”

“Get who?” Thrundar frowns.

“The-” She waves the trowel at the door, where the now-brittle roots are crumbling away.

“He was dead when we got here.”

What? “What?”

“You killed him, Firebug!” The dwarf’s face splits into a proud grin and he claps the hobling on her shoulder. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet!”

She’s killed someone. She killed the bandit. He’d been hanging dead in her shop doorway. She’s as bad as the rest of them. Gibberlings were one thing, pests as they are, but she’s offed an entire sentient humanoid.

“I’m a murderer,” She moans.

“Welcome to the club!” He pulls her outside into the light for the healers to look over.

#death #bandits #violence #injury #reference to asphixiation #febuwhump2024 #anaranë #larp #oc #lol whats an ending

[molassified-minipak]

9. Bees

This apple would be delicious, Rowan thinks, if it weren’t so tart. 

…Maybe the reason the farmer hadn’t picked this one was that it wasn’t ripe yet. Shame he couldn’t ask; the farmer had been nowhere in sight when he’d reached into the orchard to grab a snack. Sure and he’d had more need of it than the tree, or the farmer for that matter!

A bee bumbles lazily past as Rowan takes another bite, and an idea takes shape. Where there are bees, there’s honey. Honey and apple would make a top treat.

The fae follows the bee into a glade; a wild one, not man-grown. He collects some treefall and green moss. He pulls his spark kit from his sigil pocket, then thinks better of it. He’s feeling exceptionally lazy, and what else is sigil magic for? A quick rune and a little flame catches the fine leaves, curling the edges. The smoke is thick and pungent. Rowan laughs triumphantly and scoops the moss into the crook of a branch, lifting it to the hive and gently blowing it inside.

The effect is immediate. The bees drop like… well, flies. Eagerly, Rowan reaches into the hive.

Too eagerly.

He jostles the branch. The hive swings back and forth, and then all the bees who hadn’t gotten a whiff of smoke made their appearance at once.

Bad idea! Bad idea! Rowan yelps and drops to the ground. Swarms of angry insects keep him from grabbing for his pocket, where he’d dropped his sigil chalk. He fumbles for the branch, knocking off the glowing tip to scribble protection - hot! Too hot! More bad idea!

The stinging is getting overwhelming. The fae gives in and books it to the nearest pond, a murky, stagnant affair full of algae and dragonflies. It’s hours, it seems, til the bees cool down and return home and Rowan can crawl out to lick his swollen wounds.

All that, and he’d dropped his apple, too.

#reference to theft #bees #insects #febuwhump2024 #rowan #larp #oc

[molassified-minipak]

8. Why Won't It Stop

“Watch it!” Ana snaps as someone bumps into her in the tight apothecary space. “...Sorry. Dinnae mean it.”

Bolette side-eyes her but retreats outside without comment. Ana’s been short (don’t laugh) for a while - moreso than her typical pointed remarks.

“You good?” Finch isn’t afraid to call her out, though. Ana appreciates it…usually.

“Dinnae sleep well. S’fine.” Finch is about to say more, but a commotion in the town green demands his attention. So the day goes.

The next one isn’t much better. Ana glares at the sun, once her friend and helpmate, now an annoyance. She shoos all the guild members out to do their ‘dumbcane adventuring, and dunnae come back til you need something!’. The hobling jumps at the way the door rattles against the wall, and nearly comes to blows over poor Nisandra’s questions.

The third day, she sleeps in. Tries to. There’s a knock at her tent door: Thrundar checking in since she hasn’t opened the shop yet. Bless him - or curse him. Ana groans and pulls herself up.

The fourth time of the fourth day that she gasps as heavy footsteps shake the apothecary floorboards, she ends up putting her head down and having a cry… which, naturally, is when Finch takes advantage of his mayor’s key to let himself in.

“What’s wrong, Ana? Are you hurt?”

She can’t answer beside a shake of her head.

“Please, tell me,” the wild elf wraps an arm around her.

“S’ silly. Really, I sh-should be over this by now, s’ been a y-year…”

Finch frowns. “We haven’t even had any elemental attacks in… weeks? Just bandits, and the spiders sometimes.”

“Then wh-why won’t the nightmares s-stop? S’ dumb, I wasnae even out for long… not like you, you’ve died, and you’re fine, an-nd you dunnae like hooks and things but that’s normal to be upset about and the breathing exercises dunnae work when I’m sleeping and the garden place hasnae worked since-”

Finch can only rub her back as she rambles and she’s just. So tired. “Stoppit, told you s’nae worth fussing over. Go save the town or nap in a tree or eat a mushroom, whatever it is you do out in the woods.” Ana scrubs her eyes and straightens her hat. Finch doesn’t need her cowardly faults on his overflowing plate. “I just need a nap. Or elevensies, probably. I’ll go find the menace later and hit him with a mudball or something.” That gets a smile from Finch, despite his concern.

Ana makes another comment about how staying in the apothecary so long wouldn’t help his reputation as a ‘city-elf’ with that shifty new wild elf girl, and pushes Finch out the door.

She doesn’t sleep at all that night.

#sleep deprivation #nightmares #panic attacks #crying #ptsd #trauma #reference to character death #reference to torture #suppression #febuwhump2024 #anaranë #larp #oc