#peril my dear <3

[leighsartworks216]

Moon Blood

Astarion x gn/fem!Tav/Reader

(Basically anybody who experiences periods can read this I just don't know what to tag it as)

Tav is described as having irregular periods and a heavy flow, which I know doesn't really leave it open to everyone. But it's true to my experience, so I'm sure some other irregular-period people can also appreciate this

(Also it's just a really self-indulgent story I wrote for me lmao)

Warnings: blood, blood drinking, period fic, references to sex, swearing

Word Count: 1,210

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You roll over in your bedroll again, groaning as quietly as you could as you clutch at your abdomen. An aching pain roiled just below your belly. And there it seemed determined to stay for however long it deemed fit.

Your moon bloods were always a shock - you never knew when they would happen and you never knew how long they would last, because the gods seem to think it’s funny to make it so relentlessly inconsistent. Not to mention how heavy they could be. After everything you’ve faced on your perilous journey so far, this was the fucking worst.

The pain rises to a peak. All you can do is curl in on yourself, hugging your stomach as tight as possible to will the pain away. Does it help? No. But there’s nothing else that could… Well…

You feel like an idiot when you knock on the wooden post outside Astarion’s tent. You were pretty sure he already knew of your problem, if the restlessness whenever he was near was any indication. You couldn’t imagine the temptation, but you could admire his resolve. That wasn’t why you were here.

He calls a muffled ‘Come in’ and you push aside the canvas door. You see the change instantly. The way his eyes darken with the scent of blood, his smirk more predatory than usual. You begin to wonder if this was a bad idea.

“Hello, darling,” he purrs, low and seductive. His book is set aside in favor of standing to greet you in the small space. His hands slide around your waist, nails pressing lightly into your spine. He leans down, pressing his nose to your pulse as he whispers, “You smell delicious.”

You clear your throat. “As tempting as that is…” You step back slightly, and he doesn’t try to stop you. Instead, he pulls his face from your neck and rests his hands at your sides. One more step and he would let you go entirely. “I just want to cuddle.”

He huffs, face scrunching in annoyance. “You come in here with a banquet between your legs, and all you want is to cuddle?” The irritation can hardly be read as genuine when his thumbs begin to rub circles into your hips soothingly.

“Mhm. My cramps and back are killing me,” you explain. You gesture back outside the tent. “I could go ask Gale, if you think you’ll be too tempted.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he hisses, but it’s an empty threat.

He pulls you with him back to the pile of pillows he was lounging in before, sitting down and leaning comfortably against the pile. You stopped, standing just before him, even as he nudged your hip toward him, silently telling you he was ready for you to join him.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright with…” You don’t know how to phrase it in a way that doesn’t sound strange. But your need to make sure he is comfortable wins out above everything else. “With smelling the blood all night?”

His eyes soften as he smiles. The tinge of animalistic hunger still lingers behind it, but your dismissal of his preposition has pushed it toward the back, almost entirely hidden. “I’ll be alright. I’m not starved enough to lash out at any moment, I swear.”

You frown. “You know that’s not what I’m worried about.”

He chuckles despite your scolding. “I know.” You give him a pointed look and he rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Yes, dear, I’ll be alright smelling your blood all night. Now are you going to stand there all night?”

Assured in his comfort, you finally lay down, draping yourself over him, legs slotting between each other and arms holding each other close, and your head resting on his chest. The first few times you cuddled like this, you were worried your weight would make him uncomfortable, or worse, remind him of his 200 years of abuse. But he insisted, when he didn’t want to be cradled to your chest, of course.

He rests a hand at your lower back and begins working his fingers into the aching muscles there. You sigh and relax further into him. He doesn’t need air, but his chest still rises and falls with slow breaths. It’s disconcerting without a heartbeat to accompany it, or it would be if it was anybody else. But it’s Astarion, and instead the sound of his breathing alone was soothing.

You rest there for a moment, eyes closed. The position you’ve taken eases some of the pain, hand-in-hand with Astarion’s nimble touch. For now, the pain is a little more bearable.

You lift your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you, soft and at ease, eyes round with affection. “If you want to, you can eat,” you tell him. You jump to add, “From my neck.”

He chuckles. “Thank you for clarifying,” he teases.

“Well, like you said, I’m here with a banquet. I don’t want you to suffer just because I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m hardly suffering, dear,” he assures. “But I will take you up on your offer.”

You smile as you tilt your head, exposing your neck to him. He sits up, shifting you as he does until you’re eye-to-eye, before he buries his face against the nearly-faded marks he’s left. He continues to rub your back as he uses his free hand to cup the back of your head, keeping you in place and steady. He takes his time to press kisses all around his target. Your moon blood makes you taste sweeter; your skin smells so enticing. But he can savor it later.

You only get two warnings he’s about to bite: the hand holding your head tangles its fingers in your hair, holding you more firmly in place, though still being gentle about it; and the flat of his tongue running along the old punctures.

The sharp pain of ice in your veins never lasts. His mouth sucks and tongues at the punctures, drawing your blood out with practiced ease and drinking it down greedily. You close your eyes and relax into it. You trust him. And the odd feeling of your blood being pulled from your veins like liquid through a straw and the dizziness that accompanies it is much more bearable without vision.

Once he’s had his fill, he pulls his mouth off your neck and licks languidly at the last few drops until your blood clots. He slowly lowers himself back into the cushions, careful not to worsen your light-headedness with the motion. You rest your head back on his chest like a rag doll, limp and tired. He cards his fingers through your hair a few times before simply wrapping his arm around you. He mindlessly continues to rub circles into your back, keeping the pain at bay for you to sleep.

You try to speak through half-intelligible thoughts as exhaustion and comfort begins to claim you. Mostly ‘thank you’s, though a heavily slurred ‘I love you’ surfaces once or twice. He gently sushes you. And then you’re fast asleep, as if speaking was the only thing keeping you awake.

And in the morning, well, he’s more than happy to take care of you.

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @mheerdraws @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @phantoms-fandom-blog @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars

#fanfic #fanfiction #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate tav #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate tav #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #fem reader #x fem reader #female reader #x female reader #period fic #fluff

[qtboni]

Hello, bonnie! 👋 May I please request something for the TF141 boys and König (bcz i luv him) where reader got dem cold ass hands and hugs them?

HELLO DEAR ANONNIE !! THIS WAS SO CUTE OMG IM BLUSHING SO HARD . also i might have favored könig's part a lil bit HSJDHDJ cus i wuv him too dwdw ANYW HERE YOU GO <3

╰﹒ 𝐇𝐔𝐆 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄 !

PAIRING: Task Force 141 Members X Gn!Reader

OVERVIEW: Cold hands for Cuddles <33

C/W: Entirely fluff! + kissies and huggies, little suggestive at Soap's part .

── ◜‹3◞  CAP.N JOHN PRICE :

"Oh, don't worry about that. These hands have withstood much worse."

It's a cold evening, and John is snuggled up on the couch with you, watching a movie and holding hands. He can feel the way you're trying to squeeze all the warmth you can from his hands, but they're already freezing.

Then, he noticed that your hands were undeniably cold and couldn't help but chuckle. "Mmm, looks like we've got a couple of ice cubes over here." he said, mimicking a shiver as you watch him.

"Hey!" you exclaimed and smacked his shoulder playfully, feeling the warm, soft texture of his shirt. He chuckled and squeezed your hands tighter together with his, and wraps his free arm around you, pulling you closer. He holds you in his strong arms, and had you sitting on his lap, and you can't help but feel a sense of comfort and safety.

"Don't worry, sugar," John replied, nuzzling into your neck. "These hands have been through a lot, but they're always there for you, just like I am."

You hug him back, feeling grateful for his love and warmth. John can feel the way you lean into him, as if he's your anchor in this ever-changing world. He knows then and there that he will always be there for you and that your love will never fade, even in the chilliest nights. You feel his beating heart, as if it keeps his love for you alive, even after all these years.

"You're the best," you said, snuggling closer to him.

"Of course I am," he replied with a smug grin. "But let's not forget that without me, you'd be lost in this cold, oh such cruel world. I'm your knight in shining armor, saving you from the perils of winter."

You can't help but laugh at his witty response. "You're a dork," you said, smiling.

"I know," he said, holding you tighter. "But I'm your dork, sugar. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

You feel his warm breath on your neck, as if he's whispering sweet nothings in your ear, words of pure love and devotion. He's there for you, no matter what.

As John leaned in for a kiss, you can feel the warmth of his lips against yours, making you smile. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and you felt a rush of emotions wash over you. It was as if the cold, cruel world around you disappeared, and the only thing that mattered was John and the love you share.

In that moment, you knew that you were exactly where you were supposed to be, wrapped in John's arms and sheltered from the perils of winter. And as long as you had him, everything would be alright.

── ◜‹3◞  SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY :

"I think I know just the thing to warm you up."

It's undeniably cold inside your home. "Simon," you whine, burying your face in his shoulder to steal some of his warmth. "I'm still freezing."

Simon chuckles, pulling you closer. "Oh my, you're like a popsicle in the middle of a blizzard," he teases, hugging you even tighter and clasping your cold hands into his. "But I think I know just the thing to warm you up."

"What's that?" you ask, your teeth still chattering.

"I'm going to put you in a microwave," Simon responds, deadpan.

You laugh, but he's not joking— and as he picks you up and heads to the kitchen, you realize his suggestion isn't so funny after all.

"Simon..?" You can't help but shudder as you imagine being stuck in a small, enclosed space, surrounded by the deafening hum of the microwave as it fries you alive. But Simon doesn't seem to notice your fear; his eyes are fixed on the microwave as he punches in the timer and sets it to the maximum setting.

As you wait for your fate, you can't help but wonder what could possibly possess Simon to do such a thing. Is it just his quirky sense of humor, or something deeper?

The microwave beeps to signal that it's finished, and Simon nervously opens the door. You hold your breath as you peek inside. To your surprise, the heat inside came pouring out and warming you up. But it ended as the door closed up.

"You know, love," Simon said with a chuckle. "I didn't think you'd actually take me seriously."

You turned to him. "What do you mean?" you asked, your teeth chattering still from the cold.

Simon grinned, pulling off his sweater and handing it to you. "Here, wear this. I'll keep you warm," he said, his voice full of compassion.

You hesitated, knowing that the sweater would be cold, but you were grateful for the offer nonetheless. You slipped the sweater on and felt the cold fabric against your skin. You shivered but as you leaned against Simon, you felt his warmth start to penetrate through the sweater.

"There you go," Simon said with a satisfying smile. He stroked your hair and nuzzled his face against your cheek. "All warm and cozy now."

"Thank you, Si'," you said, feeling grateful for his kindness.

"Of course, anything for you, love," he replied, kissing your forehead. You couldn't help feeling grateful to have such a warm and caring person in your life, and you resolved to show him the same warmth and care in return.

── ◜‹3◞  JOHNNY ‘SOAP’ MACTAVISH :

"It's like a portable chiller, aye?"

Johnny's eyes sparkled with a teasing twinkle as you approached him with your cold hands. He was quick to respond with his usual wit and charm.

"Cold hands, warm heart, eh?" he said with a grin, taking your hands in his and rubbing them together briskly. His warm touch sent a tingly sensation up your arms, and you felt your mood lifting instantly.

"I like it, babe," Johnny said with a wink, pulling your arms to his neck as he continued to hug you. "It's like a portable chiller, aye?"

You couldn't help but laugh at the joke, feeling your spirits lift with each passing moment. Johnny was always the life of the party, and his funny nature was one of the things that made him so attractive to you. But what you appreciated most about Johnny was his genuine kindness. He was always there for you, no matter what, and he was always quick with a joke to make you feel better.

"That's a good one," you whispered as you nuzzing closer to him, closing your eyes and enjoying the moment you two shared together.

As you stood there in his arms, you felt the warmth of his body and the familiarity of his embrace. It was a feeling that you never wanted to end, and you were grateful for his kind words and thoughtful actions. He was a constant source of comfort and laughter, and you knew that you could always count on him to make you smile.

Suddenly, with a mischievous glint in his eye, Johnny leaned in close and whispered in your ear. "Now that your hands are warm, maybe we can think about warming up the rest of you," he said, his breath hot on your skin.

Johnny's words sent a shiver up your spine, and you felt a tingle of excitement as his lips brushed against your ear. You could smell the warm scent of his breath and the musk of his body all around you, and you were aware of your heart beating just a little bit faster.

You then felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment at his teasing, but you couldn't help but smile at his playful antics. Johnny was always full of surprises, and his sense of humor was one of the things that you loved about him.

"You're too much, love," you muttered with a grin, shaking your head.

"I try," Johnny said with a smile. "But seriously, I'll warm you up. I don't want you to catch a cold."

You nodded in agreement, grateful for the concern in Johnny's voice. His arms tightened around you, and you felt your entire body warm up as his warmth radiated through you.

Johnny pulled you into a warm embrace, his body pressed against yours as you leaned into him. You felt him smile against your neck, and his hands slid down your back, his touch electric with anticipation.

Despite the playful banter, Johnny's arms were like a warm, comforting embrace around you, and you felt safe and secure in his presence. Whether he was making you laugh with his hilarious jokes or supporting you with his genuine kindness, Johnny was always there for you, and you were grateful for every moment you spent together.

── ◜‹3◞  KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK :

"You know, that felt kind of nice."

You've been outside for a while, and it's colder than usual. So when you and Kyle hugged each other goodbye, you can't help but notice how cold your hands are compared to how warm his body is. Without thinking, you wrap your arms around him and caressed his back with your cold hands.

Kyle felt a soft touch against his back.

"Oh!" He muttered, surprised by the feeling of your cold hands. At first, he was caught off-guard by the suddenness of the gesture, but as he felt the warmth and tenderness of your embrace, he relaxed and found himself enjoying the hug more than expected.

The surprise quickly gave way to pleasure as he felt a soothing sensation envelop his body. "You know, that felt kind of nice," Kyle mumbled, turning to you with a soft grin.

You were taken aback by the sincerity of his words, but you couldn't help but feel a flush of warmth spread across your cheeks.

"Really?" You smiled to yourself. As you pulled away from the hug, you saw the twinkle in Kyle's eyes. And for a moment, he felt like you were the only two people in the world.

"Yes, I didn't even realize how cold you were until your hands crawled into my back," Kyle says with a gentle smile. "But it felt kind of comforting, like you were giving me a little bit of your warmth."

You feel your heart flutter. It's small moments like this that make you realize just how much he means to you.

Your heart is racing as he pulls you closer to him, and you feel the warmth of his body surround yours. Kyle's hand then stroked your neck gently, and you closed your eyes feeling safe and loved.

"I love you, Kyle," you whisper, feeling the words pour out of you like a dam bursting.

His eyes widen, and he looks deep into your eyes. "I love you too," he says softly, and nuzzled his head into your neck.

He pulls you closer to him, wrapping his arms around you gently. You feel his warmth envelop your body, and for a moment, you feel like you're truly one with him. His heart is beating at the same rhythm as yours, and you feel a sense of connection between the two of you that is difficult to explain, but that feels so real and true.

Kyle kisses your forehead, and you close your eyes, feeling truly loved and complete.

And as you continue to hold each other, you can't help but notice how Kyle's arms tighten around you, as though he's trying to hold onto every moment of warmth he can get from your embrace.

── ◜‹3◞  KÖNIG :

"Your hands are so cold, mein liebling :(("

You and König are in his room, where he keeps his gun safe. He's been feeling a little anxious lately, and hasn't had a chance to clean his rifle in a while. So tonight, after dinner, he decided to take some time to give it a good cleaning.

It's been a while since he's held his gun, so he's surprised by how well-balanced it feels in his hands. He loves the way the metal feels against his skin, the weight of it in his grip. He takes a deep breath and begins to dismantle the gun, cleaning and checking each part carefully before putting it back together again.

He's lost in his own thoughts, focused on the task at hand, until your sudden appearance behind him.

"RAWR!" you exclaimed, a wide smile appears in your face.

König lets out a little gasp of surprise as you wrap your cold hands around him, pulling him into a tight hug. "Hase," he whines, still startled by the coldness of your hands. "Your hands are so cold."

Despite his own surprise and confusion, he can't help but feel a little bit charmed by your sudden, playful hug. He can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all.

"Hehe," you giggled and showed him your toothy grin. "That's why I'm the cuddle monster!"

You pull him closer to you, burying your cold hands beneath the warmth of the hoodie he's wearing that you've stolen from him at least three times already. He lets out a little squeak of surprise before settling back into your embrace.

But he can't help but feel a little bit of concern for you. He understands how uncomfortable cold hands can be, especially in this weather. And he can't bear the thought of having his own partner suffering like this. So, unable to resist the temptation, he decides to do something about it.

He pulls away from your embrace, feeling a little bit self-conscious about what he's about to do. But he knows that it's for your own good. He looks around for anything that might warm up your hands, and settles on the hot metal tea cup beside him. He reaches for it, careful not to spill the boiling hot water inside, and hands it to you.

The cup feels warm and comforting in your hands, the heat spreading through your body and warming up the tips of your fingers. You give him a grateful smile, and take a small sip from the tea. It's slightly bitter, probably due to the over-brewed tea. But you don't mind; the warmth it gives you makes it worthwhile. You take another sip, feeling the warmth spread through your body.

König watches you savor the tea, feeling happy that he could help you. He knows how hard you've been working lately, and he wants to make sure you're always taken care of. He can't help but feel a little bit proud of himself, knowing that he was able to make you happy with something so simple.

You finish the tea, handing the cup back to him. He takes it from you and sets it down on the table as he gives you a small smile, feeling content.

"Your hands okay now?" he asks as his thick German accent seeps through, concerned for your well-being. He grabs both of your hands and blew warm air from his lips to them, making them warmer.

You feel a wave of warmth and comfort wash over you as his warm breath hits your cold hands. In the moment, everything seems to slow down, and you feel a sense of calmness and reassurance wash over you. You can't help but feel grateful for Simon's kindness and thoughtfulness, and you can't help but smile at the genuine concern in his voice.

You nod, grateful for his kindness. "Yes, they are, thank you," you reply, still blushing from the intimacy of the moment.

He lets go of your hands, and your cheeks grow even hotter as you feel the warmth from his breath lingering on your skin. You both share an intense eye contact for a few moments, feeling a deep connection in that moment.

"I'll always take care of you, hase," he whispers, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead. You can't help but melt into his embrace, feeling his warmth wash over you like a comforting blanket. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms tighter around you, as if to protect you from the cold outside world.

A/N: hello !! i still hve a lot of ur requests to write on so pls be patient w me :)) also upd ,, i will be quite busy tomorrow bcz i hve a big event to attend to ! might hve to resume working on the reqs a day after that .

#👾 — [bonnie’s wk] #cod x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #john price x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x you #soap x reader #soap mactavish x reader #gaz x reader #gaz x you #kyle garrick x reader #cod fanfic #cod x you #cod modern warfare #ghost cod #ghost x reader #konig cod #konig x you #konig x reader #könig x you #könig x reader #tf 141 x reader #call of duty mw2 #call of duty x reader #simon riley smut #cod smut #cod fluff

[lucozadehulahoop]

A Question of Time (Astarion x f!reader/tav) part 3/?

Chapter summary: Astarion makes his choice, but his actions don't go unnoticed. Call it divine intervention.

A.N: Big thank you for the massive love on this! I've only been posting this fic for three days and the response has been overwhelming! I appreciate every single comment and it really keeps me motivated. The tag list will be posted below the cut because it's getting a bit long ahh.

Tags and T.W.:pre-bg3!Astarion, slave!Astarion, mentions of torture and abuse, demi-goddess!tav, eventual NSFW (minors stay away kindly, thank you darlings)

warning for this chapter: seggsual sention (eh more just dorks being dorks)

part 1 part 2 part 4

"Astarion, favored soul, I send you my own flesh and blood to remove you from harm, yet you do not take your chance to flee..." An ethereal voice sang to Astarion as he tried to make sense of his own surroundings.

Slowly he began to recognize the cemetery, the tombstones, his own grave... how had he ended up back there?

The moon shined brightly down on him, and slowly the origin of that voice materialized itself right in front of him.

Astarion may have not been a believer, but he could recognize a goddess when he saw one. Much like in her many popular depictions, Sehanine wore what resembled a black silk gown, the very fabric that created the shadows she was a patron of. Her hair was black and white, her skin deep blue like the ocean, and her eyes the shape of twin moons. Many were the elves who worshiped 'the Moonweaver ' dutifully.

Sehanine was also the only diety criminals and tricksters seemed to cling to. A favor from the patron of illusions and misdirection could make the difference between the success or failure of a deed carried out under the cover of night.

But she was not only the goddess those who worked in secrecy and trickery often asked for a blessing from. Love was the biggest blessing tied to her name, and many cursed her for being the protector of lovers who steeled away for a tryst in the night.

"Do not be afraid, Pale One." She smiled at him eerily. "I appear to you now to give you guidance. I am sure by now you recognize me, even though on this plane I have come to be known to many as Selùne in these times, but you have been alive since the days of the old creed..."

"Y-yes--" Astarion stammered, never once having thought he'd be entertaining a conversation with a diety.

"I know you have not once believed in anything that was not material, and I am not here to test your faith, little vampire. I have been guiding your journey through this world ever since you began to display all of those qualities that are so dear to me... the Moon has been your close ally in all of your deeds..." The goddess proclaimed. "I look out for my own, but now... you go against my design to deliver you from your wretched master. Why is it so?"

It was quite a hefty amount of information to take in all at once. Not to mention preposterous. Guidance? Protection? If Astarion had been so favored by the gods, why in the seven hells had he been crushed underneath Cazador's heel for two hundred years?

The anger didn't take long to boil up inside of him. "No. No, forgive me, your holiness, but there has to be some kind of mistake here." Astarion sneered. "I think you've got the wrong Astarion, because this one has been attacked by the Gur, turned into a vampire, and subjected to two centuries of torture at the hands of a maniac!"

Sehanine smiled down at him once more, almost as if Astarion's lament was something to be amused by. "It is not up to me to explain the trials and tribulations of mortal life, dear one... If I directly interfered with the lives of every being I wished to influence in a constant manner, then other gods would want the same and war would surely break out amongst us. I would not come to you if I did not fear great peril on the horizon. Your Master, Cazador Szaar, has joined a league with dark, dangerous forces... forces that are enemies to myself and other entities that keep the balance between good and-"

Astarion scoffed. "I fail to see, how any of this is my concern."

The goddess's eyes became pitch black and her form started to warp into something far more sinister. "Count yourself lucky I consider your quick wit as a quality, but do not make the mistake of disrespecting me again, vampire spawn." She threatened in a booming voice. "You will be turned into a sacrificial lamb to your Master's ascension to near-godliness if you do not flee now, underneath my daughter's protection."

Astarion was silent for a very long while. In fact, he could not tell how much time had passed before she finally spoke again, her voice once again gentle.

"I will not have one of my own be involved in this abomination of a rite. In fact, I will make sure Tav stops this event from coming to pass so that she may meet her destiny."

Astarion couldn't stop himself from speaking his mind once again, even at the cost of being punished by the divine. "Meet her destiny? Surely... surely you must know how powerful Cazador is. I mean, I've seen what your darling daughter can do, but she doesn't seem to have a single mean bone in her body and you might risk losing her-"

"Tav must die for Cazador and the rest of the evil he's created to be eradicated for good." Was the goddess's simply put answer.

"But... she's your daughter." Astarion failed to understand until it finally clicked in his head. "You---you set her up like a lamb for slaughter. This is why she couldn't keep away from me? Because you made her come to my rescue every time? And now she's... Hells, she's getting rid of Cazador for you and dying in the process because you can't look bad in front of your god pals? What happened to looking out for your own?"

"I may have brought her into this world, but she is not one of my own." The Moonweaver clarified." Too sweet, too good-natured. The only thing I can truly recognize is her beauty. But no, I have not spoken to her, ever. I thought it best she did not know the pain of who she truly is, nor how she will meet her end. I simply know how and when it will come to pass. Yet, it was quite surprising to see how deeply attuned to your pain she is... and in the grand scheme of things it drew her like a moth to a flame, right into Cazador's grasp..."

Astarion began to feel violently ill, and he couldn't understand why. "Wait, what do you mean, what are you talking about---"

"Oh hush now, don't tell me you care for her? I would find that hard to believe..." She grinned, her very nature compelled to be intrigued by displays of affection, especially when they bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances."However, I must go now, little vampling. But do not worry, Tav will be remembered, I will personally make sure to immortalize her in the stars for her valiant sacrifice."

"No!" Astarion cried out as he thrashed on the floor, suddenly regaining consciousness underneath Tav's tear-brimmed eyes.

She had been trying desperately to bring the pale elf back to consciousness after he'd dropped to the ground unexpectedly, his red eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body wracked by convulsions.

"Astarion!" She shook him a little more for good measure. "Astarion stay with me!" Tav let out a little sob, never having come across a physical ailment she hadn't been able to cure.

"Hells below..." Astarion cursed, slowly managing to sit up as he caught up with what had just happened.

Tav was quite a sight for a creature who hardly ever seemed to be affected by anything. Tear-stained cheeks, her hands twisting in the fabric of her dress. Astarion couldn't recall the last time someone had ever displayed worry over him. And now that he knew the truth about so many things, he didn't deem himself worthy of it. "Cheer up, sweet, I'm alright." He couldn't help but say, pinching her nose softly between his curled fingers.

"Alright?!" Tav barked at him, huffing and shooing his hand away. "You dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and then you started convulsing!" She accused as if Astarion had done so on purpose. "You were completely unresponsive for almost half of an hour! How often does this happen for you to think it's alright?"

Astarion could think of a million things to say. A close encounter with Tav's dear old mom being the explanation at the forefront of his mind. But the implications of that conversation having undeniably taken place (considering it hadn't been just some weird dream as he'd liked to have hoped) were too painful to consider. He should have been thinking about the fact that Cazador planned to sacrifice him. He should have been burning with rage at the mere thought of his death aiding his captor on the path to becoming god-like.

Instead, all he could do was laugh, enjoying the way it riled up Tav even more. "Like a what? Darling, I must say my likeliness has been compared to many things in my lifetime, but a sack of potatoes has certainly never made the list..."

"Oh well, then may I suggest that 'obtuse ass' also be included?" She retorted, getting in his face as she was completely unamused by the way he was belittling her concern.

"Do you spend a lot of time thinking about the shape of my backside?" Astarion tilted his head closer too, meaning to snap back at Tav, but instantly realizing his words had come out quite a bit softer than intended.

"I-I don't see how that's relevant..." Tav whispered, mimicking his tone as her pupils turned into the size of saucers.

"You're the one who brought it up..." Astarion shrugged, as he had a very private laugh within himself at Tav's expense. She was so gullible, he could have eaten her up.

"No! You have misunderstood me. Please, I apologize if I have made you feel--" Tav was in the middle of expressing a sincere apology when she realized Astarion could no longer contain the amusement he was having at her expense. "You are despicable!" She huffed, doing a poor attempt at shoving at his chest before getting herself back up on her feet.

Astarion chose to admire her a few seconds more from where he was sitting on the ground. "Now that, my darling... is something I've definitely been called before."

Tav crossed her arms over her chest as she adamantly checked on his capability to stand back up on his feet again. "How will you know it won't happen again?" She asked him seriously, referring to the episode that had just transpired.

"No, I'm pretty sure I'll get called 'despicable' again for days to come." Astarion attempted to avoid the question.

"I meant you fainting!" Tav insisted.

"I've... got a pretty good idea of what I need to do to stop it from happening again." Running away from this hellhole, and leaving you here none the wiser, so I don't get any more friendly reminders from your mother, Astarion thought to himself as he swallowed down a knot in his throat. He looked out the window and recognized the familiar hues of light. The day was coming and he wasn't going to be able to leave until it was over.

Astarion needed to get his affairs in order and rest. Staying simply wasn't an option.

Not to mention, he was practically starving.

His gaze began to linger extensively on Tav as she stared into the fireplace.

"You've been up all night, darling---" Astarion snapped out of his reverie and began to fret as he started closing all the window panes, making sure not a single ray of light would be able to break through. "Surely, surely it would be good for you to get some rest, no? In your room that is --- far, far away from me, I mean- I have tasks to do now. Servants are terribly, terribly busy people, you see---" He continued to ramble as he not so subtly nudged Tav out of his room, guiding her to the door. "I must get to my work-"

"But you are clearly unwell! You're the one who must rest, Astarion. You're even paler than usual-" Tav protested, turning into his arms to look up at him in defiance once more.

"May the gods help me -- no, actually let's leave them out of this -- must you stick your pretty little nose in everything I do? I can take care of myself and I'm not the helpless little critter you seem to think you've stumbled upon-" Astarion had intended on pushing Tav out of the room, but all he was doing in actuality was bringing her closer to his body.

"Well, you've certainly given me plenty of proof on that front haven't you?" Tav spat and twisted her hands in his worn-out shirt.

Just like that, they were back to arguing again, except this time it wasn't amusing for either of them.

"Proof? Is that what you want?" Astarion asked her, losing his last nerve to hunger and exhaustion.

The curtain fell, and Tav looked back into the face of a vampire.

---

A.N: hehe, oh how I like to tease you so. Okay real talk, this is now an ongoing fic. Truly, you guys have given me so much love, and I'm overwhelmed. I'm really enjoying writing this story and I thank you all for joining the ride. stay tuned for part 4!

This story is also on Ao3 btw, for the people who prefer reading it there.

tag list (if you want to be added to the tag list, just let me know!): @d0nutkaky0in @i-just-want-to-sleep-97 @omggiannarosa @dead-giirl-walking @warbwarts @mrsfullbuster500 @uwomina @iyaesakura @cheeslyy @dragon-kazansky @bambamwolf87 @chibi-chi @orsomethingelseentirely @davenswitcher @adequate-superstar @ophelias-flowerss @tragedybunny @yaimlight @the-golden-ouroboros @candyladycry @babygirlbrainrot @mariposakitten @blobs-away @biganddrunkunicorn @astarionmisc @the-garbage-central @raviolixxx

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #astarion angst #astarion ancunin #astarion fluff #bg3 astarion #bg3 x you #bg3 x tav #bg3 x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion x female tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!reader

[brightoakgame]

Burdock Available Now!

Stick closely to the path, my dear, don’t wander and don’t stray! The mists are full of secrets, the woods are full of fae; And many careless mortals they’ve spirited away— So do not go a-wandering, but on the path please stay!

Game Now Live!

When you've lost your way and nearly lost your life, will your name be enough to buy it all back?

Burdock is a dark and atmospheric fairytale with fae creatures, riddles, and danger abounding. Will you be able to navigate the perils you face and reclaim your life? Or will the mists swallow you up for good...?

Features:

Nameable Protagonist (gender left undefined)

24,000 words (roughly 2-3 hours playtime)

Four Full Endings—and multiple Bad Ones

Original Soundtrack

It's free!

Content Warnings: violence, blood, and potentially disturbing imagery and sound effects. There are no intended jump scares, and no animals are harmed—though the same cannot be promised of the protagonist!

Created for the 2023 Spooktober Visual Novel Jam by:

Character Art and Design: Remnantation

Original Soundtrack: John Åhlin

Coding: Windchimes

Logo and UI Design: ingthing

Direction, Sound Design, Backgrounds, and Writing: B.L. McDarragh

#...and now I sleep for a week ✨ #...and fix whatever bugs I inevitably missed 🫠 #burdock #spooktober 2023 #spooktober vn jam #spooktober #dark fairytale #visual novel #oelvn #interactive fiction

[waitmyturtles]

THE MORNING AFTER: ONLY FRIENDS, EPISODE 12 -- WHEN ONLY FRIENDS GOT 2GETHER-ED

TRIGGER WARNING: EVERYONE'S UP FOR CRITICISM HERE, JOJO AND TEAM, FORCEBOOK, FIRSTKHAO, ALL OF THEM. Read at your peril.

Well. Big deep breaths. I spent a lot of time on a show that had been marketed as not-a-BL, that ended as a BL. As a mom with not that much time to spend on watching and writing on dramas that were marketed incorrectly, I am feeling some kinda way (fucking pissed off).

So many people had amazing takes yesterday, on both sides of the aisle, regarding how the show ended (pro-ending here, anti-ending here, here, here, here, here, and here, and my dear friends @neuroticbookworm and @lurkingshan did heavy lifting on reblogs yesterday, so stroll on over to their blogs for more).

I want to set up a constellation of points to touch upon before I get into the meat of this post.

1) I referred quite a bit to my review of Theory of Love throughout my watch of Only Friends. In that review, I meditate on how the majority of the general global public judges sex, and casual sex, and people who have sex and/or casual sex. Generally speaking -- even in countries that makes as progressive art on sex and sexuality as Thailand and the United States -- that's a rule of thumb that I can rely on. Sex is judged by the majority of the global public.

2) I hate to say it. I cannot believe this happened. But I was right about monogamy being an ultimate theme in Only Friends. Not just a theme, fam. A theme by which people judged others for having open, casual, and consensual sex. Queer sex. Queer sex that is so very often had outside of the constraints of a monogamous relationship.

There was a reason why that holiday party was populated by couples, except for Boston, and Boston had to grovel to them in apology for their friendship. In Only Friends: monogamy wins, and casual queer sex loses.

3) Unfortunately, in part though an analysis of Cheum inside of last week that I accidentally started (ha), I see that points 1 and 2 come together to have created a fabric and framework of judgement that Only Friends ended on.

The last paragraph in this excellent post by @benkaaoi notes that the assumption by a large portion of the OF fandom that the creative choices that were made to end this series were designed to save the sanctity -- economic and otherwise -- of the shipped pairs of ForceBook and FirstKhao. This rings true to me.

Most of the BL shows that I've watched this year are older shows, through my Old GMMTV Challenge, in which I've been studying the changes over time that GMMTV and other Thai networks, have made towards their editorial choices, attitudes, and risks in producing BLs. I included Only Friends on this syllabus to note the show's impact as a kind of zeitgeist measure of how much heat and literary controversy GMMTV could take in airing increasingly progressive queer media -- even though Only Friends wasn't originally intended to be a BL.

To the theory that Only Friends needed to save the ships... and to another theory that the ships needed to be saved in the most moralistically judgmental way that I could have ever imagined (I was actually blown away by how heavy-handed this messaging was) -- I look to the ending of 2gether.

The majority general reaction to the ending of 2gether from within the existing BL fandom in 2020, was one of guffawed incredulousness. BrightWin/SarawatTine did not kiss in the first season of 2gether. It took Aof Noppharnach to come in to make Still 2gether to indicate that these two young men may have been at least vaguely sexual with each other throughout the course of their fictional relationship.

Yet, 2gether was a massive success. Many theorize it was because 2gether was the first big BL to air during the start of the COVID pandemic, and new BL fans had time to be at home and watch shows. But I posit in my 2gether/Still 2gether review that 2gether was also successful PRECISELY BECAUSE IT LACKED SEX (and by sex here, I mean plain old kissin').

As I stated earlier: sex is judged by the majority of the global public. With BrightWin NOT kissing, new fans who may have been implicitly and/or explicitly turned off by physical depictions of queer love could glom comfortably onto 2gether, and watch a BL without the "threat" of physical depictions of two men expressing their love to each other.

Subsequently, BrightWin gained massive social media followings, 2gether made GMMTV buckets of money, and GMMTV went -- well, hot diggity.

Many of us had impressions of Only Friends as...something else than it ended up being. Early on, Jojo Tichakorn, for instance, cited an early non-GMMTV, non-BL show, Gay OK Bangkok, that he and Aof Noppharnach worked on in 2016 and 2017, as being referential to Only Friends. Gay OK Bangkok centered on a group of queer friends, mostly cisgender men with Jennie Panhan in the mix, as they lived their lives and dated away in Bangkok.

I'll tell ya, GOKB didn't end the way Only Friends did, and I'll get into that more in a bit. I believe @benkaaoi, @lurkingshan, and others are absolutely right that the ultimate moralization on casual sex that this show depicted -- and how Only Friends punished Boston for his casual sex -- was an economic decision designed to reflect on the sanctity of monogamy that shipped couples like ForceBook and FirstKhao can sell back to their fans, fans that may have actually flocked to GMMTV shows from 2gether, and that demand a fantasy of devoted monogamy from both fictional characters and professional actors who are actually only just doing fan service to earn their livings. GMMTV has known for a long time how to make money, and money the network doth has made from Only Friends, and from shipping their ships around the world to service the growing fandom.

Casual sex in fiction, casual sex that breaks up the ships.... fucks that economic shit all up.

GMMTV has taught us our lesson, a lesson that we had already learned from the no-kissing rule of 2gether. Loose lips shall not sink ships at this network. And I think we lost a chance for a big and progressively artistic zeitgeist that GMMTV could have taken risks on, if it had the courage to risk depicting something truly novel.

I want to note quickly another framework that I dug into while I was watching this show. I sent a flare to @lurkingshan before I started watching the episode that I was going to, in part, watch this last episode from my personal Asian lens. I wanted to ask myself, as I was watching this disaster -- is there anything happening here that strikes my heart with fear and doom as an Asian?

Indeed, yes. I didn't expect it, but there was a dialogue on individualism vs. collectivism.

Boston. My dear, sweet Boston. Boston, named after a city so very distant from Bangkok.

Boston was punished by his group of friends because he didn't adhere to the rules of the group. His individualistic actions and preferences -- his preferences to "roll alone," as Nick stated, would not work in the frameworks of either monogamy with Nick and/or the group dynamics of the hostel crew.

The link I linked above is an amazing answer to an inquiry I posed to dear @absolutebl last year about how Asian social collectivist paradigms are depicted in BLs. In that question-and-answer dialogue, I asked ABL Sensei about the motif of queer revelations in BLs, and how seemingly straight characters respond in kind to being approached with a proposition to a queer dalliance and/or relationship. Generally speaking, the Asian collectivist mindset is to at least attempt to respond in kind to those kinds of propositions, as one's behavioral habits are designed to be responsive to others instinctually, as opposed to only servicing oneself. To only service oneself is not only seen as selfish, but also as disturbing to the general flow of public existence among one's societies. To respond in kind means that you will not cause potentially disturbing angst to another individual or group. (Collectivism explains why Asian countries performed much better with mask mandates during the pandemic than we in the States did.)

So -- Boston filming Ray, Boston sleeping with Top, created waves in the friend group. He was so severely punished for it.

And the show iterates, and repeats, Nick's preference that Boston move forward alone in Boston's life, because of Boston's tendencies to make decisions that suit himself. As an Asian-American, I mutter to myself: god forbid.

Nick will not commit to Boston -- and yet, will also condemn Boston for making his own decisions outside of the specter of a monogamy that does not exist between Nick and Boston, and that Boston will still get judged for, as referenced in the Sand/Nick conversation depicted above.

In other words: if Boston makes a decision for himself? That's punishable. Because it might hurt someone else's feelings -- a someone else that actually hasn't committed to Boston, and/or allowed Boston to commit himself to.

This group caught Boston in a moralistic and collectivist catch-22, the likes of which I just would have never expected from Jojo and team, even if the creative team faced the economic pressures of the GMMTV bigwigs. I'm sorry to state that I am beyond disappointed in this condemnation of individualism, sending Boston alone, judged, and friendless, off to New York City to live in, what, the immoral boundaries of Chelsea? Homey, get a fucking SWEET-ASS PAD, and FUCK THESE LOSERS, leave 'em BEHIND in your cloud of airplane gas emissions. See you at the La Quinta rooftop bar on 32nd Street, friendo.

Only Friends could have ended so much better. And I understand that in the Only Friends novel, published AFTER the script was finished, that it did end somewhat better for Boston (cc @jinitak, reporting from Thailand, thank you for this heads-up about the novel!).

So. Any-fucking-way. Do y'all know how Gay OK Bangkok ended?

Of many lovely endings for the various GOKB characters, an older main character, Aof, was dating a much younger character, Big. (CC to @neuroticbookworm for our quick convo on this last night.)

Aof was sex-averse. Big wanted lots of sex. Big slept with a lot of people. He loved Aof. Aof couldn't handle Big having sex with other people, and they broke up. It was a lovingly handled break-up, written just gorgeously by Aof Noppharnach.

After their break-up, I thought Big would disappear from the show. Instead. Instead! Nong Big, the little brother to the core group of queer friends that centered GOKB, was welcomed back with open arms. Arm, Pom, Sathang (played by an effervescent Jennie Panhan), and others toasted to Big, telling him he would always be family, no matter if him and his ex, Aof, had broken up. In the queer circles of friends that I'm a part of, exes are not as commonly excommunicated as they are in straight circles.

Only Friends could have been this. Something, a little something, like this.

Instead, Only Friends punished a friend for acting outside of the rules of their group.

Boston was punished because.... because Only Friends had to end up being a BL. For the sake of the moolah, for the sake of collectivism, for the sake of the shippers who'll buy tickets around the world to see ForceBook and FirstKhao perform fan service on stage.

I just didn't think that the show would be so brutal, on so many levels, in the end, to people who want to have casual sex. I don't think any of us expected this. But, it's over, it's done, and the piece has been said -- GMMTV said, no casual sex today, and here's how we actually feel about it.

I'll see you over on Gagaoolala for Playboyy. Deuces, OF.

(It was an absolute pleasure writing meta with the Ephemerality Squad -- onto the next one! @lurkingshan @neuroticbookworm @ranchthoughts @twig-tea @slayerkitty @thatgirl4815 @distant-screaming @clara-maybe-ontheroad)

#only friends the series #only friends #only friends meta #force jiratchapong #book kasidet #forcebook #topmew #top x mew #mew x top #firstkhao #first kanaphan #khaotung thanawat #neomark #neo trai #mark pakin #sandray #sand x ray #ray x sand #bostonnick #boston x nick #nick x boston #lookjun bhasidi #nonnie pitchaporn #lookjunnonnie #april x cheum #cheum x april #neo trai deserved much much better than this stupid role #ephemerality squad

[bg-brainrot]

Hugs for a Vampire (Astarion x GN!Reader) - Chapter 18: At Withers' Party

Bonus Hug - Chapter 18: At Withers' Party

Each chapter can be read as a standalone hug.

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Rogue!Tav)

Genre: Fluffy, Filling in Canon

Rating: Teen

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, post-game, epilogue, cw: alcohol, jealousy

WC: 2.1k words, 18/18 chapters

Summary: An epilogue hug! Astarion sees Rogue!Tav giving out hugs and wants one of his own.

Author's Note: This was not part of the original fic, added on after the epilogue was released, however I chose to put my own spin on the epilogue hug.

Finally, Whether you read this fic AO3, on Tumblr, or a combo of both, thanks so much for joining the hugfest! I love this vampire man, and may he have many, many more hugs <3

Ao3 | [Hug17] | Hugs for a Vampire Masterlist

It’s been six months since your victory at Baldur’s Gate.

Six months of traveling through the Underdark with Astarion, establishing a base for the vampire spawn, and figuring out your next steps together. It was perilous and difficult work, but you wouldn’t change a single thing. 

You have missed your former companions dearly though, so when you received the invitation from Withers for a celebration, the smile that broke across your face could blind a celestial. I wouldn’t miss this for anything – not even a fresh new apocalypse, you wrote back.

So that’s how you and Astarion have found yourselves above ground once again, the familiar wilderness of the Sword Coast a welcome sight, the distinguished company an even more welcome one.

Everyone seems to be doing quite well, despite how you all left each other. Lae’zel is only able to visit through a projection, and the reprieve is rather temporary for a few of your companions– namely Wyll and Karlach– However, it’s a rare opportunity and you’re incredibly grateful to have it.

The elation must be obvious on your face, as Astarion takes one look at you and laughs. His sing-song little giggle never fails to bring a smile to your face, and right now your face is liable to crack open. “Go on, dear,” he says, sensing the eager tension in your body. “Mingle! If you need me, I shall be near the wine.”

“You can mingle too, you know,” you say, though you’ve already begun to walk away.

“Invite me again after a few bottles,” he responds. You know he loves them all in his own way, but he also finds them to be a bit too much at times. Ever the stray cat, he’ll find his way to them when he’s ready, at least you hope. So you nod to him in agreement and wander off to chat with your dearest friends.

You’re so excited to see them all again that you’re practically jogging to meet them. 

Shadowheart is the first. When you get a good look at her, you see a peace in her face that you haven’t seen in any of the months you’ve known her. Something about it brings you relief. You knew they would each find their happiness without you, but seeing it firsthand is something else. Perhaps it’s because she’s looking so much more herself than ever, but before long you find yourself asking, “Could I have a hug?” The hug is caring and welcoming and everything you knew Shadowheart has always been.

Next you make your way to Karlach. She’s alive and well, which is ten times better than the last time you saw her, and you just might cry from the sight. She tells you about Avernus and about the possibility to fix her heart and you just might cry from that as well. Again, you can’t resist, especially knowing she’s been fighting for her life for six months. “Could I have a hug?” The hug is warm and strong, just like the woman in your arms.

After that, you make your way to Wyll. He’s doing rather well in Avernus with Karlach, and, when he mentions that he’s planning to ensure Karlach finds a solution to her heart, a few tears well in your eyes. Wyll is among the best of mortal and immortal men, and you’re glad he went with Karlach when you couldn’t. The grateful feeling is more than you can put into words, so you ask, “Could I have a hug?” The hug is strong and bracing and an absolute testament to Wyll’s enduring friendship.

You find your way to Lae’zel. After learning of her diligent efforts to save her people from Vlaakith, you can’t help but be awestruck by how much she’s changed. You’re inspired by her ability to learn to fight with words and stunned by how much she truly misses you. Even though she’s not there, you can’t help yourself, “Could I have a hug?” She simply clicks her tongue at you and calls you an idiot, somehow melting your heart all the same.

Eventually, you find Gale, tucked away with the tressym Tara. He’s a teacher and no longer at risk of exploding – you can’t help laughing at that, remembering the various times he almost blew you all up without the help of an all-powerful orb. Something about the way he speaks of his new role and invites you to visit, either to teach or just to spend time, makes you realize that this is what a happy wizard looks like. You love it and ask, “Could I have a hug?” The hug is all-encompassing and lengthy, much like one of Gale’s lessons in magic.

Finally, you find Halsin, dancing the night away. When you learn more about his endeavors, you find that he’s reestablishing the settlement at Reithwin, reconnecting the land to its people. He mentions that Thaniel and Oliver are no longer lonely and that the children of the settlement bring him a fulfillment he never thought possible. After regaling him of an exaggerated tale of your and Astarion’s adventures, you assure him that the two of you will visit soon to tell more. “Could I have a hug?” The hug is surprisingly gentle and comforting, and you walk away feeling quite content.

You determine that you’ll need to ask the rest, even Withers, for hugs if they’ll all be this enjoyable. But before you do that, you decide to take a moment to yourself, to process everything.

That’s how you find your way to a quiet corner, head spinning with warm, fuzzy feelings and maybe a smidge too much wine. Just being here, surrounded by some of the best people you’ve ever had the privilege to encounter, fills you with a companionship you weren’t aware you’d been missing. Astarion fills you with so much love and happiness, but this– this is different.

As if summoned with your thoughts, the vampire walks toward you, wine glass in hand. "Are you done mingling?" Sensing your mind is elsewhere, he leans closer, inspecting your glassy, faraway gaze. His hand lands on the small of your back, jolting your attention back to the present and you turn to look at him. His eyes sparkle at you with radiant joy and a hint of something else. Could that be annoyance?

You decide to focus on the joy. "Yes, I think I've managed to get good conversations out of everyone. Did you know Gale wants me to go teach at Waterdeep?" Your voice sounds incredulous, after all, you warned him: once a rogue, always a rogue. Unless he wants his students to learn how to stab more efficiently, he would do best to seek someone else.

Astarion clearly agrees, making an exaggerated, aghast expression. "You? A teacher?" He shudders in fake-fear. "My love, I pity the poor students who would be subjected to your methods."

“Hey,” you say, shooting him a glare. “I thought you were supposed to be the supportive one!”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I can only support so much, my dear.” Then he takes a long look at you, noticing how unfocused your eyes are, the flush to your face. “And from the looks of it, I may need to support your entire body before the night is over.”

You only grin at him and say, “What did I do to deserve such a caring man?”

“Yes, yes,” he says, rubbing gentle circles along your back. “Likely whatever you did to deserve the affections of every adventurer this side of the Chionthar.” His tone is joking, but the dark look on his face says otherwise.

Pushing aside your own amusement, you pull his hand from your back and lean into him. “Okay, what's the matter, love?”

“Oh nothing. I just thought my jealous days were behind me.” He sounds sullen, and you note a sad tilt to his eyebrows.

Jealous days? You groan, recalling his concern over the fiery barbarian. “Love, really truly, if I were leaving you for Karlach, I would have gone to Avernus months ago.”

He waves his wine glass at you dismissively. “I know that, and I don’t mean Karlach, contrary to all evidence thus far.” Suddenly avoiding your gaze, he takes a sip of wine and changes the subject. “No matter, let’s go ask Withers where he found this vintage.” 

“No, no, no,” you say, tugging him back to you before he can walk off. After another six months together, getting used to each other’s idiosyncrasies outside of mortal peril (mostly out of mortal peril), you knew the escape was only a ruse. He wants to talk, but he seems too embarrassed to begin. “You’re allowed to be jealous, Astarion. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me why.”

Astarion stops in his tracks, looking back at you with a pair of vulnerable red eyes. “Do you promise not to laugh?”

You take a beat to debate this, but ultimately honesty wins over and you shake your head. “I wish I could, but I do promise to try my best?”

A sigh escapes him, and you’re graced with a soft, reluctant smile. “Typical. You were truthful though, so I shall be too. I was rather jealous of…” He wipes a hand over his face dramatically. “I was jealous that you’ve gone and hugged everyone else. Gods, I sound like a child.”

It’s a good thing you only promised to try your best because an involuntary huff leaves your lips, which you'd firmly pressed together in preparation. "That is…" you gasp out.

"Idiotic? Pathetic?" Astarion supplies.

"Rather adorable actually," you say, finally allowing a snort out. “How do you always manage to be both adorable and sexy?”

You swear you can see the tips of his ears color pink, but that may just be the firelight or your own tipsy vision. He only says, “I’m quite talented.”

“Would a hug help you feel better?”

Astarion looks at you, eyes darting between yours. You can see a bit of hesitation in them, and you’re wondering why when he says, “Only if it’s not a pity hug.”

“Never,” you say, solemnly. “You know I only give hugs I mean.”

He clicks his tongue, annoyed again. He places his wine glass down on the ground with a flourish, as if preparing himself. “Yes, exactly. Which is why I’ve gone and become jealous. This is all your fault and I expect you to remedy it.”

You nod, accepting this burden with ease. “In that case… Could I hug you?” Astarion waves his hand at you as if to say, get on with it already, and you dive right in. 

The hug is loving, it’s understanding and supportive. It warms you, it cools you, and it makes you want to tackle this man to the ground in an aggressive affection– a feeling you only barely temper after a few glasses of wine. After experiencing so many hugs tonight, you find that the hug is so very perfectly him.

No, not just him. It’s the type of hug that the both of you make together. And it’s the hug you want to experience again and again for the rest of your life.

When you finally pull away from him, Astarion is smiling once more, jealousy evidently placated. “Well now, I have you every night, don’t I? Go on then, continue to bless them with your presence. I’ll be here when you’re ready. I’ll always be here, my love.”

You shake your head at him. “A lovely sentiment, of course, but you’re done hiding. Come on.”

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing as he tilts away from you.

“I said, you’re done hiding. No more shadows, they all keep asking about you and I’d rather you answer them yourself,” you say, all but dragging him back to the party now. “They miss you too, you know.”

“Darling, please. What if they ask me for a hug?” Astarion looks truly appalled at the thought.

You laugh, imagining him reacting like a cat forced into a bathtub. “You can say no, of course. But I promise not to get too jealous if you do.”

“What will it take for you to forget I ever said that?” he says, laughing and allowing himself to be dragged.

You quickly swipe his wine glass back up off the ground as you pull him along, and take a long drink before returning it to him. You only say, “At least two more bottles, though I suppose that depends on how wild Withers likes his parties.”

Hand-in-hand, you both walk off to enjoy the rest of the celebration. The night is young, the wine is flowing, and there are still many more hugs to be shared.

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #rogue + rogue #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion fluff #astarion masterlist #hugs for a vampire #hfav #gn reader #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #astarion baldurs gate #bg3 astarion

[kaeyas-beloved]

Saw the post w/ the prompt list and you said is open

If you don't mind, can you do 🥘 w/ Dazai from BSD?

(hope I did this right)

I don't mind at all Anon! (and no worries, you did it right <3)

CWs: gn!reader, petnames (dear), maybe a little ooc Dazai

Acts of service prompts: open!

[ 🥘 ] - having dinner ready for them when they arrive home

It wasn't rare for your boyfriend to greet you at the door the moment you get home, leaning in to place a kiss on your cheek. It was rare, however, for the man to greet you in the form of standing in front of you, hands folded behind his back. You stop midway on taking your shoes off, making sure to give him a glare that conveys your suspicion. "What did you do Osamu?"

"Im just greeting you, as always," comes his 'innocent' reply. His little smile that was meant to sell the idea that nothing out of the ordinary was going on did, in fact, not help his case at all. If anything, it just dug him further into whatever hole he's got himself into. You just hope there’s no actual holes involved.

For the next handful of seconds that passed you kept your gaze trained on him, analyzing all you could. There were no new injuries on his person (thank god), he didn't smell of river water or trash (thank god again) and, while he was smiling, it wasn't one that had sinister undertones. What the hell could it be then? "Don't lie to my face, what did you do?"

"I'm wounded dear. Do you really not trust me?"

"No." Yes, you actually think, but it's okay to tease him every now and then. Besides, you know that he knows you trust him with all that you are. "Either admit to your crimes dear or I'm walking out this door and having dinner with Yosano instead."

And he laughs - head thrown back and shoulders shaking as if you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. You didn't know what to expect from your empty threat, but it certainly wasn't to be blessed by the sounds of his merriment, "I was right, you are cute when you're mad." You’re truly dumbfounded but its admittedly difficult to suppress a smile of your own.

You goof, "is that what this is about? You wanted to see me mad?" you ask, resuming taking off your shoes and coat.

"No," he says, grabbing your hand the moment it’s unoccupied and encasing it in his, "I actually wanted to show you something." Oh god… spoke too soon.

Sighing, you nod in the direction of further into the house, letting him drag you to wherever it is this surprise is waiting. And a surprise it sure is.

How'd he know? When the hell did you ever say that this was your favourite? "I asked our friends if you're wondering." He really must’ve if he was able to lay out a dinner that’s exactly to your tastes. It appears freshly put out too, like he just finished pouring the last glass before you walked through the door.

You’re about to melt into a puddle of goo, embrace him and place kiss after kiss on his face when a devious idea entered your thoughts. Crossing your arms, you smirk and close your eyes, aiming for an expression between smug and smartass, “and you didn’t burn down the place? I’m shocked Osamu.”

Immediately a newfound weight bogs down your shoulder, your lover leaning himself on you, “I’m hurt! What makes you think I didn’t know how to do such a simple task like cook?” You don’t see it - you’re too busy trying to keep yourself from falling over - but he has the back of his hand pressed against his forehead, one eye closed and the other peeking towards you to catch your expression.

“Oh, I don’t know Osamu, maybe because when I first met you you smelled like a rotting corpse and when I first went to your house your dishes were staked in the sink.”

“I was going to do them later that day!” Having enough of being made fun of, Dazai reaches towards your unprotected sides, you unaware of the onslaught of torture you’re about to receive. “Besides, that didn’t stop you from loving me did it?”

“No, I suppose nOAAHHT!?” Twisting in his hold, you begin your perilous fight for air, but your lover is ruthless, not letting you go for a second. You end up bumping into the table and the chairs a few times, rattling the dishes on top. Ordinarily you’d be worried about them falling and breaking but right now you’re having too much fun with the silly man you fell in love with.

Then it happened. Looking down you find that your hand has landed right in the middle of one of the dishes. All playfulness stopped for a breath, both of you frozen as you just stood and stared… before bursting into fits of giggles, straightening up from the hunched over position you found yourselves in.

“How does this sound,” you pat at his arm, them still encircling your form, “you let me wash up and we can eat the no doubt yummy food you’ve made.”

“Fine by me,” he lets you step out of his hold, watching as you turn to leave only to stop a second after.

“Oh, and Osamu?” The man hums then makes a noise of surprise when you pull him closer, placing a kiss on his lips. Easily he kisses back, and as you pull away you drop your voice to a whisper, “thank you for making dinner, I had a rough day today, so this was really nice to come home to.”

Kissing him one last time you back up and turn to walk towards the bathroom again, leaving a smiling Osamu Dazai in the middle of the kitchen.

Tag list: @tickotaku // @spoopy-fish-writes // @xenuuu // @mariposa666haruka @quackquackmfs // @kaerui-kaisen // @lordbugs // @dontmindmebeing // @irethepotato

. . .

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#dazai osamu x reader #dazai x you #dazai x reader #bsd dazai x reader #bungou stray dogs dazai osamu #bsd osamu dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai #bsd dazai osamu #bsd dazai #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd fluff #bungo stray dogs x reader

[lendeah]

After the Weave 3.

series masterlist

Summary: Elara and Astarion go to the ball with the aim of securing support, but navigating high society comes with its own set of perils.

Pairing: Astarion x OFC!Tav, past Gale x OFC!Tav

Tags: Angst, Drinking to Cope, References to Depression, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Emotional Baggage, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Post-Break Up, Tav finds herself again with Astarion, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD.

Word count: 4.3k

Also on AO3

"Godlike power, perhaps I can live without, but you?

You're everything"

The memory tugs at my mind, that moment beneath the rich purple sky, when everything felt within my grasp beside him. I can still see it clearly - the way his eyes gazed at me, filled with adoration and vows of forever. But now, as I finish tightening the corset with a sharp pull, the long red ball gown hugging my curves perfectly, I realize that those were just empty promises. Lies upon lies.

The crimson silk hugs my curves beautifully, though as I walk the long halls, each step becomes a battle against the uncomfortable fabric that makes me trip repeatedly. A beautiful dress indeed, but one that brings discomfort and pain with every move. Just like Gale's love.

Astarion is waiting by the entrance, looking as disinterested as ever, his face a mask of boredom. He is dressed in a crimson and black suit that hugs his form in all the right places. I can't help but admire how the fabric accentuates his lithe frame, the way it compliments his pale skin and emphasizes the white of his curls.

As his eyes finally land on me, something changes in them. There's a flicker of surprise and admiration before he quickly masks it with his usual sneer.

"That is a nice dress, I wonder who made it. They sure are talented, for making you of all people look regal."

I roll my eyes, "I don't even know how they got all my measures right. I mean, I don't think anyone has ever measured me, to begin with."

Astarion smirks, his eyes roaming over my form with a hint of amusement."Ah, well, I do recall taking your measurements once. However, that was quite some time ago, my dear, so you may have forgotten it."

I frown, and then a flicker of a memory flashes through my mind, and I can see Astarion's skilled fingers and his concentrated expression as he took my measurements with meticulous precision.

"You shared my measurements with a seamstress to make this dress?" I ask, surprised that he went to such great lengths for our work at the grand ball.

Astarion's eyes become unreadable for a second, and then he nods. "Yes, of course. It wouldn't do for you to arrive at the ball looking anything less than perfect." His tone is laced with sarcasm, but I can sense a hint of sincerity behind his words.

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. "You never cease to surprise me, bloodsucker." I say, approaching him slowly. "Thank you for your help."

His smirk softens into a small smile and he bows slightly in response. "It was my pleasure, Lady Elara."

His voice is dripping with mock formality, and I can't help but chuckle at his antics. I gesture towards the door. "Shall we, Sir. Ancunín?"

Astarion extends his arm to me like a gentleman, and I take it gratefully, feeling strangely comforted by his touch.

Just as we are about to step into the grand carriage, he stops and turns to face me once again. "Are you absolutely certain about this? We can stay here if you'd like, especially after... the missive."

I wince to myself. I knew he would want to talk about the letter sooner or later, but I thought I had done a pretty good job avoiding the subject for the past few days. Aparently, it hadn't been enough.

"Yes, I'm sure. The sooner we get this over with, the better." I say dismissively.

He looks at me intently, his eyes searching for any signs of hesitation or doubt. Then, his expression softens as he nods in understanding. "Very well then, shall we go?"

We climb into the grand carriage, and make our way towards the palace where the ball is being held. The ride is a quiet one, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I steal subtle glances at the man in front of me. He looks mesmerizing, as always, with his white, tousled hair falling just so over his forehead, accentuating the sharp angles of his face. His crimson eyes, usually filled with mischief, now hold a hint of worry that he's trying to conceal, and I have to fight the urge to smooth the lines that have formed in his forehead.

I catch myself staring and quickly avert my gaze, focusing on the passing scenery outside the carriage window. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silvery glow on the city. Lately I feel like I'm constantly living in the night, between the walls of the Palace. I guess that is how Astarion's life has felt in the last few months, back in the shadows without the tadpole giving him immunity to the sunlight. I can't help but pity him, as the memories of his pale body basking in the morning light flash through my mind.

As we near the palace, Astarion finally breaks the silence between us. His voice is softer than before, almost hesitant.

"When was the last time you practiced the art of sorcery?" he asks, with his eyes still fixed on the window.

I feel myself freeze up at the question. It's been months since Gale left, and with him went my motivation to even touch a spellbook or scroll. Every hint of magic reminded me of him, and I couldn't bring myself to face that pain again.

"It's been a while," I admit reluctantly. "Since Gale left."

Astarion nods in understanding, but there is a hint of dissatisfaction in his expression. "That's a shame. You were good," he says firmly, finally looking at me.

I meet his gaze, feeling a mixture of gratitude and irritation. Astarion always had a way of cutting through the chaos in my mind and speaking truths that I didn't want to confront. He was right, of course. I had allowed Gale's departure to shatter not only my heart but also my connection to magic. A wave of regret washes over me as I realize how easily I had let go of something I loved so much, how easily I had forgotten myself.

"I know," I reply, my tone softer than I anticipated. "It's just... difficult. Every time I try to conjure a spell or tap into that part of myself, I can't help but think of him."

"Ah, I understand the pain of reminders all too well," he murmurs with a wry smile. "But Elara, you cannot let him, or anyone for that matter, define who you are or what you're capable of. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for."

His words stir something within me, an ember of determination that has been smoldering beneath the ashes of heartbreak. Perhaps he's right. Perhaps it's time to reclaim my magic. But not now, I tell myself, there would be time for that after we finish doing what we came here to do.

As we step out of the carriage and into the entrance of the castle, my mouth falls open. I didn't even know such extensive grounds could fit in Baldur's Gate's narrow streets. The palace, lit up by hundreds of lanterns and torches, looks like something out of a fairytale. The gardens are filled with colorful flowers and fountains, and the marble steps leading to the entrance are lined with statues of ancient gods.

Astarion catches me staring in awe and smirks. "Remarkable, isn't it? A chance to join the illustrious Duke at his grand ball is a rare privilege indeed."

"Wait, Duke? As in Duke Ravengaard? As in, Wyll's dad?"

Astarion nods, "Yes, the very same. I'm surprised you didn't know, it must've slipped my mind to tell you." But the mischief in his eyes tells me he most definitely didn't.

As we make our way into the grand ballroom, I find out the grand hall is just as breathtaking as the exterior. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm golden glow on everything below. People dressed in extravagant gowns and suits dance to music played by musicians in one corner of the room. As Astarion and I enter the room, all eyes turn towards us with a flurry of emotion. Some gaze at us with curious intrigue, while others openly display their desire. But the dominant reaction is one of pure fear, evident in the way they shrink back and avoid eye contact.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that have resurfaced at the sight of so many eyes on us. Astarion must sense this, because he takes my hand on his cold one and squeezes it reassuringly.

"Relax," he whispers with a smile. "Just be your usual 'Savior of Baldur's Gate' self and you will be more than fine."

As we reach the ballroom, I can see it is filled with high-ranking officials, nobles and other powerful figures, all dressed in their finest attire. I try to remember the individuals Astarion had taught me about, but there are too many and the names and occupations are mixing in my brain. In a sea of unfamiliar faces, one stands out amongst the rest. Duke Ravengard approaches us, with a welcoming smile dancing on his lips. He reminds me so much of Wyll that a wave of emotions hit me like a punch to the gut.

Before I can even say anything, Astarion steps forward and greets the man with a respectful bow. "Your Grace," he says smoothly, "allow me to introduce the Savior of Baldur's Gate. Rumor has it, she once saved you from certain death in the not-so-distant past."

I feel my cheeks heat up at the remark. The Duke's eyes widen in recognition before a warm smile forms on his lips.

"Ah, Elara. What an honor to see you again," he says, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "I've heard tales of your brave deeds for our city, and we are all in your debt."

I manage to give him a small smile and a nod.

"It was a pleasure, sir."

He chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Modesty becomes you, my dear." He says with a smile. A flicker of sadness appeared in his eyes as he asked "Have you happened upon any news of my son? I recall that the two of you were once close friends."

My heart sinks at the mention of Wyll. I haven't heard from him since he left for the Avernus with Karlac, but seeing how important Duke Ravengard is to him, I decide to be honest.

"I'm afraid I haven't heard from Wyll in quite some time."

The Duke's expression falls slightly but he nods understandingly. "I see. Well, if you do happen to come across him in your travels, please let him know that his father misses him dearly."

"I will," I promise solemnly.

He pauses for a second, and then adds "But let us not dwell on the past tonight. This is a night of celebration and joy!"

As the Duke leads us further into the ballroom, Astarion walks beside me, his eyes flickering with a mix of amusement and mischief. "Well, well, Lady Elara," he whispers. "How greedy you are, relishing in all the glory"

I roll my eyes at his teasing remark but can't help but feel a sense of pride bubbling within me. Standing in the midst of power and privilege, I can't help but feel that maybe I do deserve this recognition.

As we continue to mingle among the crowd, a smooth voice catches my attention. I turn to see a blonde elf woman approaching us, drink in hand.

"Ah, Astarion, dearest," she says with a charming smile as she reaches us. "What a pleasure to meet you again."

Astarion smiles back at her and gives her a slight bow. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Shaphyra."

I remember now. Her name is Lady Shaphyra Boldsong, daughter of one of the most influential elven families in Baldur's Gate. And she and Astarion seem to know each other quite well, by the looks of it.

"I see you have brought a lovely companion with you," she says, turning her gaze towards me. "The Savior of Baldur's Gate, no less. And she is a half-elf! What a delightful surprise."

I feel my cheeks flush once again as I am introduced for the second time tonight. But Lady Saphyra doesn't seem to mind as she bows towards me.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says warmly.

I bow back. "Likewise, Lady Saphyra."

She turns back to Astarion, with a sly smile on her lips. "I couldn't have imagined you keeping such remarkable company. Is she also lending a hand in funding the hospital?"

I tilt my head and raise a questioning eyebrow in Astarion's direction, but he remains unfazed. As if sensing that it's now my turn to take the lead, I clear my throat and confidently interject into the conversation, "Actually, Lady Saphyra, I have been heavily involved in the fundraising efforts for the hospital. It's a cause close to my heart, after the catastrophe we lived."

Lady Saphyra's expression changes, her eyes widening in surprise. "How wonderful! I must say, you are quite the impressive lady, Elara."

Astarion gives me a small nod of approval before turning back to Lady Saphyra. "Indubitably, my dear, she is a remarkable creature indeed. I daresay, any assistance we can offer in tending to these unfortunate young ones is most welcome. Even more if the help comes from someone as bewitching as yourself."

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at Astarion's practiced flattery, his smooth words and charming smile all too familiar to me by now. However, Lady Saphyra appears taken with his act, as she giggles and sips her drink before responding, "You are quite the charmer, Astarion. But I am glad to hear that you both are involved in such a noble cause. I may consider helping myself, if you treat me to a dance."

He takes her delicate hand in his and guides her gracefully towards the dance floor, their movements fluid and elegant as they join the other couples swaying to the music.

I watch them go with a mixture of amusement and relief that everything is going as intended. The rest of the night unfolds with a whirlwind of introductions and conversations. Astarion seems to know every person in the place, with most of them regarding Astarion with respect. I find myself seamlessly switching between engaging in political discussions with influential figures and gracefully gliding across the ballroom floor in elegant dances, all of this while convincing the nobles to join our very worthy cause. Just as Astarion had predicted, my presence was enough to sway many into following through with his plans.

At some point during the evening, we are approached by a group of people. Among them is who I recognize as Sir. Paddock, a human man in his sixties with silver hair and piercing green eyes. He is one of the most influential magistrates in the city, and also someone Astarion explicitly told me to beware of.

"Sir. Ancunín," he greets us with a bow before turning to me with a charming smile. "And Lady Ella, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

I give him a polite smile despite him getting my name wrong.

"You know, I didn't imagine the Savior of Baldur's Gate to be so appealing to the eye," he says with a raised eyebrow and lowers his eyes down my chest just enough to make me uncomfortable.

"Thank you for your compliment, Sir Paddock," I say stiffly.

He chuckles as if he's amused by my reaction before turning back to Astarion.

"So tell me," he says in a lowered voice, "what brings such extraordinary person here tonight in the arm of a man of the night, of all people?"

My jaw tightens at his words and I feel Astarion tense beside me. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself.

Astarion flashes his signature smirk, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Ah, Sir Paddock, always the observant one," he says with a playful tone.

"Actually, Mr. Ancunín is doing a lot of important work for the betterment of this city," I say firmly.

The man just raises an eyebrow skeptically. "And do these 'important' labors involve the draining of a certain vital liquid?" he asks with a sly smile.

The people around us shift uncomfortably at his words, although I can hear some chuckles.

I stand my ground, not allowing his insinuation to rattle me. "No, they do not".

Astarion leans in, his smile never wavering."Ah, Sir Paddock, you wound me with your choice of words," he replies smoothly. "But as for Lady Elara's presence here tonight, she graces us with her company as both a hero and a benefactor to the hospital fund. We are fortunate to have her support."

Sir Paddock's smile falters, but he quickly regains his composure."A hero and a benefactor? Impressive indeed." He glances between us, a glint of suspicion in his eyes."Well then, I apologize for my bluntness. It's just that Astarion here has quite a reputation in the city."

"I assure you, Sir Paddock, that Astarion is a changed man now," I say confidently, placing a hand on Astarion's arm for emphasis.

Sir Paddock studies us for a moment.

"You seem like an accomplished and respectable young woman," the man continues, ignoring my previous statement. "You don't need to waste your potential with... this thing."

His words strike a nerve within me and before I know it, I am speaking without thinking. "Mr. Ancunín may have a past that some frown upon, but he has proven himself time and time again as a valuable asset to this city," I retort "he is the most caring, ambitious, hard working and loyal person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. And none of you would be here if it wasn't for his labors." I finish, my voice quivering with rage.

The surrounding crowd falls into a heavy silence, their eyes darting between the three of us. Astarion himself wears a stunned expression, his typically composed demeanor momentarily cracked.

But the man just chuckles condescendingly. "Oh dear, it seems like you have quite the temper on you," he says with amusement. "But mark my words, Miss Ella. Associating yourself with someone like that will only bring you down in the eyes of this society."

My fists clench at my sides as fury courses through me. How dare he speak about him like this? Despite all of Astarion's faults and past mistakes, he has been nothing but good to me and the city. Hells, he is keeping 7000 spawn alive as we are talking!

Before I can respond, Astarion steps forward "Ah, Sir Paddock, always one to jump to the most scandalous conclusions. I assure you, Lady Elara and I are engaged in far more noble pursuits than you could ever dream of."

I shoot Astarion a grateful smile. Sir Paddock's eyes narrow as he studies Astarion. "Well, well, the rogue with a heart of gold. You've certainly managed to charm your way into the hearts of Baldur's Gate's elite, haven't you?"

Astarion smirks and bows slightly. "Charm is my specialty, dear sir. It seems even the most discerning individuals can recognize true talent when they see it."

Suppressing a laugh, I instead give his arm a tight squeeze in appreciation for his backhanded compliment.

"And now, as lovely as it has been talking with you, I believe I owe this beautiful woman a dance, so if you'll excuse us" Astarion says smoothly, extending his hand towards me.

Sir Paddock studies us for a moment "Oh, of course," he says with a forced grin. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your dance."

I glance at Sir Paddock, a smug smile gracing my lips, before placing my hand in Astarion's. With a bow, the vampire leads me away from the group, towards the dance floor. As we glide across the dance floor, the tension from our encounter with Sir Paddock slowly dissipates. The music envelops us, its melodic notes weaving through the air as if casting a spell of tranquility upon the room. I can feel his eyes on me while we dance, his hand resting gently on the small of my back, guiding me with effortless grace. I try to push the earlier confrontation out of my mind and focus on our mission, but I can't help but feel guilty for losing my temper.

"I'm sorry," I say sincerely, breaking the silence between us. "I overstepped and almost blew our plan."

"You handled Sir Paddock admirably," Astarion whispers in my ear, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and mischief. "You have quite the fiery spirit, my lady."

I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks at his words, my heart swelling with a warmth that I hadn't anticipated, "Thank you, Sir Ancunín."

For a moment, I forget about the tensions of the evening and lose myself in the rhythm of the dance.

As we sway together amidst the sea of elegant couples, Astarion leans in closer, his voice barely audible over the music. My back shivers at the closeness to his body, the feeling of his cold fingers grazing my open back.

"My dear Elara," he begins, his breath tickling my ear, "Your strength and resilience have always been a source of envy for me. But there is something I find ever more admirable from you."

"And what is it that you find so admirable?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Astarion pulls back slightly, his gaze fixed on mine. "It is your unwavering belief in the goodness of others, even in the face of their doubts and prejudices."

A small smile tugs at my lips as I listen to Astarion's words. His observation warms my heart.

"I'm not sure if that is entirely true," I say. "I have made plenty of mistakes believing others in my life."

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he tightens his grip on my waist."Don't we all?" Astarion replies. "But I've seen you in action, Elara. You have a way of bringing out the best in people, even when they don't see it themselves."

I swallow hard, his words resonating deeply within me. Astarion's observations of my character always manage to surprise me, as if he can see into the depths of my soul. For so long after Gale left, I had felt lost and disconnected from the world, but his presence back in my life had brought about a newfound clarity, a sense of purpose.

"Thank you," I say softly.

As the music begins to fade into another song, Astarion pulls me closer, his grip on my waist firm yet gentle. The room around us seems to blur into insignificance as our eyes lock, a silent understanding passing between us.

"Can I ask what Gale's letter said?" He says, breaking the comfortable silence between us.

I tense visibly at the mention of the piece of parchment, tripping on my own feet. But Astarion quickly catches me before I fall.

"I-I don't know," I stutter, trying to regain my composure.

Astarion's eyes narrow slightly. "You don't know? Did you not read it?"

I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing heart. How much should I tell him? In the short time we've been living together, Astarion has already opened himself to me in more ways than one. Yet, I can't shake the feeling of shame that washes over me at the reminder of the words written in ink.

"He said that he has started crafting Karsus' Crown" I blurt out.

Astarion raises an eyebrow, clearly picking up on my discomfort. "And that's it?"

I give a slow, resigned shake of my head. "He also said that it's over, that I should forget him and move on with my life." I say, my voice heavy with disappointment, "Oh, and of course, he made sure to mention that he's not coming back, which I guess was to be expected at this point." I laugh bitterly.

Astarion's expression turns serious at my words. "I'm sorry, Elara," he says quietly. "I know how much Gale meant to you."

"It's fine," I say with a shrug, trying to brush off the sadness that threatens to consume me. "I've had plenty of time to come to terms with it."

Astarion studies me for a moment before speaking again. "How do you feel about it?"

His question lingered in my mind. How did I feel about it?

"I...I don't know," I finally answer truthfully. "Part of me is sad, of course. But another part of me is relieved."

Astarion looks at me curiously, and I can tell he wants me to elaborate. So I take a deep breath and continue.

"I've been holding onto this hope that maybe one day we would get back together. For so many months, I really hoped he would give up his power for me," I say, feeling slightly embarrassed at my admission. "But now I can finally let go of that hope and move on with my life."

A small smile appears on Astarion's face and he nods in understanding. "I think that's for the best," he says softly.

I nod in agreement, grateful for his support and understanding. We continue dancing in silence for a few moments before Astarion speaks up again.

"You know, dear," he begins hesitantly. "He on no account ever deserved you."

I glance up at Astarion, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. I'm about to ask him what he means by that, but before I can even part my lips, a blood-curdling scream shatters the stillness of the room. In an instant, Astarion's hand is clasped around mine and he is pulling me towards the source of the cry. The corner is filled with a sea of nobles, their faces contorted with fear and shock. We push our way through the crowd, struggling against the tide until we finally reach the head of the gathering. And there, lying on the floor in a pool of crimson, is Duke Ravengard. And his lifeless body bears two deep puncture wounds decorating his neck.

#astarion ancunin #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 tav #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #baldurs gate fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #fanfic

[middleearth-polls]

Please see each moment quoted below the poll under the cut.

1. Sam finds Frodo in Cirith Ungol:

‘I can hardly believe it,’ said Frodo, clutching him. ‘There was an orc with a whip, and then it turns into Sam! Then I wasn’t dreaming after all when I heard that singing down below, and I tried to answer? Was it you?’ ‘It was indeed, Mr. Frodo. I’d given up hope, almost. I couldn’t find you.’ ‘Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam,’ said Frodo, and he lay back in Sam’s gentle arms, closing his eyes, like a child at rest when night-fears are driven away by some loved voice or hand.

2. Aragorn finds Boromir near Parth Galen

A mile, maybe, from Parth Galen in a little glade not far from the lake he found Boromir. He was sitting with his back to a great tree, as if he was resting. But Aragorn saw that he was pierced with many black-feathered arrows; his sword was still in his hand, but it was broken near the hilt; his horn cloven in two was at his side. Many Orcs lay slain, piled all about him and at his feet. Aragorn knelt beside him. Boromir opened his eyes and strove to speak. At last slow words came. ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. I have paid.’ His glance strayed to his fallen enemies; twenty at least lay there. ‘They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them.’ He paused and his eyes closed wearily. After a moment he spoke again. ‘Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed.’ ‘No!’ said Aragorn, taking his hand and kissing his brow. ‘You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!’ Boromir smiled. ‘Which way did they go? Was Frodo there?’ said Aragorn. But Boromir did not speak again.

3. Pippin finds Merry in Minas Tirith:

Pippin’s face was anxious. ‘Well, you had better come with me as quick as you can,’ he said. ‘I wish I could carry you. You aren’t fit to walk any further. They shouldn’t have let you walk at all; but you must forgive them. So many dreadful things have happened in the City, Merry, that one poor hobbit coming in from the battle is easily overlooked.’ ‘It’s not always a misfortune being overlooked,’ said Merry. ‘I was overlooked just now by – no, no, I can’t speak of it. Help me, Pippin! It’s all going dark again, and my arm is so cold.’ ‘Lean on me, Merry lad!’ said Pippin. ‘Come now! Foot by foot. It’s not far.’ ‘Are you going to bury me?’ said Merry. ‘No, indeed!’ said Pippin, trying to sound cheerful, though his heart was wrung with fear and pity. ‘No, we are going to the Houses of Healing.’

4. Bilbo reunites with Thorin after the Battle of Five Armies

‘Farewell, good thief,’ [Thorin] said. ‘I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate.’ Bilbo knelt on one knee filled with sorrow. "‘Farewell, King under the Mountain!’ he said. ‘This is a bitter adventure, if it must end so; and not a mountain of gold can amend it. Yet I am glad that I have shared in your perils - that has been more than any Baggins deserves.’ ‘No!’ said Thorin. ‘There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!’ Then Bilbo turned away, and he went by himself, and sat alone wrapped in a blanket, and, whether you believe it or not, he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse. He was a kindly little soul.

5. Beleg and Túrin reunite in the woodlands

As night drew down they were all gathered about him, and Ulrad brought a brand from the little fire that was lit in the cave-mouth. But at that moment Túrin returned. Coming silently, as was his custom, he stood in the shadows beyond the ring of men, and he saw the haggard face of Beleg in the light of the brand. Then he was stricken as with a shaft, and as if at the sudden melting of a frost tears long unshed filled his eyes. He sprang out and ran to the tree. ‘Beleg! Beleg!’ he cried. ‘How have you come hither? And why do you stand so?’ At once he cut the bonds from his friend, and Beleg fell forward into his arms.

6. Gollum finds Frodo and Sam asleep

Gollum looked at them. A strange expression passed over his lean hungry face. The gleam faded from his eyes, and they went dim and grey, old and tired. A spasm of pain seemed to twist him, and he turned away, peering back up towards the pass, shaking his head, as if engaged in some interior debate. Then he came back, and slowly putting out a trembling hand, very cautiously he touched Frodo’s knee – but almost the touch was a caress. For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far beyond his time, beyond friends and kin, and the fields and streams of youth, an old starved pitiable thing.

7. Húrin and Morwen reunite at their son's grave

But suddenly her eyes looked into his, and then Húrin knew her; for though they were wild now and full of fear, a light still gleamed in them hard to endure: the elven-light that long ago had earned her her name, Eledhwen, proudest of mortal women in the days of old. ‘Eledhwen! Eledhwen!’ Húrin cried; and she rose and stumbled forward, and he caught her in his arms. ‘You come at last,’ she said. ‘I have waited too long.’ ‘It was a dark road. I have come as I could,’ he answered. ‘But you are late,’ she said, ‘too late. They are lost.’ ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But you are not.’ ‘Almost,’ she said. ‘I am spent utterly. I shall go with the sun. They are lost.’ She clutched at his cloak. ‘Little time is left,’ she said. ‘If you know, tell me! How did she find him?’ But Húrin did not answer, and he sat beside the stone with Morwen in his arms; and they did not speak again. The sun went down, and Morwen sighed and clasped his hand and was still; and Húrin knew that she had died.

8. Isildur's son encourages Isildur to leave

Elendur, not yet harmed, sought Isildur. He was rallying the men on the east side where the assault was heaviest, for the Orcs still feared the Elendilmir that he bore on his brow and avoided him. Elendur touched him on the shoulder and he turned fiercely, thinking an Orc had crept behind. ‘My King,’ said Elendur, ‘Ciryon is dead and Aratan is dying. Your last counsellor must advise, nay command you, as you commanded Ohtar. Go! Take your burden, and at all costs bring it to the Keepers: even at the cost of abandoning your men and me!’ ‘King's son,’ said Isildur, ‘I knew that I must do so; but I feared the pain. Nor could I go without your leave. Forgive me, and my pride that has brought you to this doom.’ Elendur kissed him. ‘Go! Go now!’ he said.

9. Lúthien finds Beren in Tol-in-Gaurhoth

Then side by side from stone to stone o'er Sirion they climbed. Alone unmoving they him found, who mourned by Felagund, and never turned to see what feet drew halting nigh. 'A! Beren, Beren!'came her cry, 'almost too late have I thee found? Alas! that here upon the ground the noblest of the noble race in vain thy anguish doth embrace! Alas! in tears that we should meet who once found meeting passing sweet!' Her voice such love and longing filled he raised his eyes, his mourning stilled, and felt his heart new-turned to flame for her that through peril to him came.

10. Eärendil is greeted by Eönwë and asks the Valar for help

Therefore he turned back at last towards the sea; but even as he took the shoreward road one stood upon the hill and called to him in a great voice, crying: ‘Hail Eärendil, of mariners most renowned, the looked for that cometh at unawares, the longed for that cometh beyond hope! Hail Eärendil, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon! Splendour of the Children of Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning!’ That voice was the voice of Eönwë, herald of Manwë, and he came from Valimar, and summoned Eärendil to come before the Powers of Arda. And Eärendil went into Valinor and to the halls of Valimar, and never again set foot upon the lands of Men. Then the Valar took counsel together, and they summoned Ulmo from the deeps of the sea; and Eärendil stood before their faces, and delivered the errand of the Two Kindreds. Pardon he asked for the Noldor and pity for their great sorrows, and mercy upon Men and Elves and succour in their need. And his prayer was granted.

11. Galadriel shows Gimli understanding and kindness

‘[...] If our folk had been exiled long and far from Lothlórien, who of the Galadhrim, even Celeborn the Wise, would pass nigh and would not wish to look upon their ancient home, though it had become an abode of dragons? ‘Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone.’ [Galadriel] looked upon Gimli, who sat glowering and sad, and she smiled. And the Dwarf, hearing the names given in his own ancient tongue, looked up and met her eyes; and it seemed to him that he looked suddenly into the heart of an enemy and saw there love and understanding. Wonder came into his face, and then he smiled in answer. He rose clumsily and bowed in dwarf-fashion, saying: ‘Yet more fair is the living land of Lórien, and the Lady Galadriel is above all the jewels that lie beneath the earth!’

12. Merry, Pippin and Sam tell Frodo that they will stick to him

‘It all depends on what you want,’ put in Merry. ‘You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin – to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours – closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo. Anyway: there it is. We know most of what Gandalf has told you. We know a good deal about the Ring. We are horribly afraid – but we are coming with you; or following you like hounds.’ ‘And after all, sir,’ added Sam, ‘you did ought to take the Elves’ advice. Gildor said you should take them as was willing, and you can’t deny it.’ ‘I don’t deny it,’ said Frodo, looking at Sam, who was now grinning. ‘I don’t deny it, but I’ll never believe you are sleeping again, whether you snore or not. I shall kick you hard to make sure. ‘You are a set of deceitful scoundrels!’ he said, turning to the others. ‘But bless you!’ he laughed, getting up and waving his arms, ‘I give in. I will take Gildor’s advice. If the danger were not so dark, I should dance for joy. Even so, I cannot help feeling happy; happier than I have felt for a long time. I had dreaded this evening.’

Quote sources

J. R. R. Tolkien – The Lord of the Rings

J. R. R. Tolkien – The Hobbit

J. R. R. Tolkien, edit. Christopher Tolkien – The Silmarillion

J. R. R. Tolkien, edit. Christopher Tolkien – The Children of Húrin

J. R. R. Tolkien, edit. Christopher Tolkien – Unfinished Tales of Numenor and Middle-earth

J. R. R . Tolkien, edit. Christopher Tolkien – The Lays of Beleriand

#LOTR #The Lord of the Rings #The Silmarillion #Middle-earth #Tolkien #tumblr polls #middleearth polls #I know this is an evil one #it took me a looong time to find comparable ones #(more or less) #category: pick something #category: quotes

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

For Matthew

One of our dear crewmates, Stephanie, lost her son back in 2022. They both watched S1 together, and tragically he passed away not long after. Stephanie has been an active member of our crew for years now, and she reached out to Rhys and he made a lovely Cameo for her.

Some of you may have already seen it as she's been kind enough to share it with us previously, but after talking with Stephanie and hearing about who Matthew was, I wanted to put together a small dedication to him, and share Stephanie's words with you with her permission. 

-- Dedication --

Matthew was 39 years old when he passed away, one of the original OFMD crewmates. He was a quirky, deaf, funny, and talented man who gave the world kindness despite the struggles he went through. He loved theatre, movies, video games, local art, and independent restaurants, and made a positive impact on everyone he met.

Matthew made his debut as a professional backyard wrestler in 2002 in the Phoenix New Times, and he worked on many well known video games in the industry doing development and quality assurance. He was truly a child a learning, and a true pilar of support in the community, and spent a great deal of time laughing and bringing light and joy to the world.

With his last wish, he donated his body to science, continuing on his loving and supportive legacy. Matthew was a wonderful man that was lost far too soon and his mother Stephanie, as well as anyone who knew him miss him so very much. Below is his obituary if you'd like to learn more about this wonderful crewmate of ours. 

We salute you Matthew. You are the embodiment of all the kindness, acceptance, support, and loving things that embody Our Flag Means Death as well, and we're honored to have you amongst us in spirit. You are greatly missed, but never forgotten. 

--- Stephanie ---

"...I wanted to share something with the fandom about my journey with OFMD and wondered if any of you have experienced some personal growth right along with Ed and Stede (and of course many others in the crew).

My 39-year old son told me there was a show we had to watch that just dropped. He says "you'll love it because Taika's in it and we love pirates.” I laughed and said, “I’m in.”

I had no idea what it was about, but he and I had watched Black Sails together and he’s right—we love pirates. Within minutes of the pilot, I was completely won over and enjoying every moment of piracy on the Revenge. “What we’re about to do will be perilous . . . . “. From that moment on, I was in deep. We binged the first 3 episodes, rewinding to replay scenes and went mental when we realized that we had to wait a full week for 2 more episodes. My son and I would text about it non-stop and we both started quoting lines and getting even more invested. He was sending me meme's and screenshots and we started living our best pirate life.

By the end of the season, we had laughed, cried, and thoroughly discussed every aspect of Ed and Stede's growing relationship. We felt the pain of the cliffhanger and became “mentally devastated by what [we’ve] witnessed” and we certainly didn’t bottle it up.

We talked non-stop about the show. It became a daily thing. Articles, interviews, pictures and joining in the quest for renewal. Once it got renewed (PRIDE month), we were on the lookout for any posts or information about signs of filming, etc. We couldn't wait for the second season and were counting down the months after we knew filming wrapped.

Then the unthinkable happened. My son went into the hospital after having a slow recovery to multiple surgeries. Cliff Notes version: He was admitted and within 24 hours, he was in ICU on life support. My son had an extensive medical history beginning when he was an infant. 42+ surgeries and many air-evacs to Children’s Hospital so it was kind of the norm to go in and be out within a few days or week and be on the road to recovery again.

If you met him, you wouldn’t even know he had all the medical issues he had because he worked full time and carried himself like a stand-up comedian--always laughing and telling stories. He was a video gamer who had worked in the industry for 7 years until he had to take a leave to handle his medical issues and have a job that didn’t exceed 40 hours.. He was really a character and had a lot of funny mannerisms. 

This time was different. He didn’t rally and 10 days later he tragically died from a fungal infection that they couldn’t identify until it was too late to treat.

He died in June, 2022, and the grief has been unrelenting and unbearable. I have literally shut down and spent the months grieving and in so much pain that I can barely leave the house and see anyone. It has broken me. When I saw the actual date that S2 would drop, my emotions were so intense because I didn't know how I could possibly watch it without him. I finally went on and rewatched Season 1 to prepare for Season 2 and found myself crying through the entire 10 episodes every time I thought of his witty banter during the season.

I wasn’t sure I could handle Season 2 without him. I talked about it a lot in Grief therapy and decided I would watch it with him and for him. I would try the first episode and see if I could do it. I would imagine all the conversations we would have had.

Matthew understood being different. He was Deaf and spent so much time in and out of hospitals and was bullied and teased his whole childhood. Even with all of that, he grew up to be loving, kind, accepting of all, and a VERY FUNNY guy.

On the day I started S2, I remembered that Matthew enjoyed being on the groups on Reddit for OFMD. Having never done Reddit, I was nervous, but decided I would see if the online community would be something that would give me the thing I missed so much . . . his commentary.

I couldn't believe how it opened my world up. Everyone was so nice and open to discussion about OFMD. The banter, information and excitement has been so restorative for me. It has given me a lot of healing to say the least. 

I binged the first 3 episodes for S2 and went through it with all of you watching Blackbeard fall into the worst version of the Kraken that he had been and felt every emotion during the s2e3 Merman scene. Laughing and crying, laughing and crying, I waited for each week craving their reunion would finally happen and celebrated on-line with the entire fandom as we shared our analysis and thoughts.

Having a show that means so much to me has truly made me so happy. I loved that Ed and Stede are a middle aged couple and that they both had to grow so much to get to the point where they could be together in life as a beautiful and loving couple. I appreciated the writing so much because DJ and crew did really give us what he said he would, but in a far better way than I could have ever imagined.

I still need a s3 because I want to see Ed and Stede mature even more as a couple--no more leaving each other! I also want to see them meet up with their found family.

I want to see the new Revenge adventures, Spanish Jackie and Swede, Izzy legacy moments, Zheng, Oluwande, Wee John, Jim, Archie, Fang, Frenchie, Black Pete, Lucius, Buttons the sea gull, the perfect music and emotional parallels to past episodes and, of course, revenge for Minor Prince Ricky, Is that asking too much? I'm sure I left out so much else I want to see, but you all get it because you are stuck in this vortex right along side of me.

I dream of HBO/Max renewing this sooner rather than later so I can start thinking of when they will be filming and following all the hints that unfold. This show means so much to me and I am grateful that it exists. 

I feel like I can be a better version of an ally to the community I love so much by immersing myself within all the representation in this treasure trove of storytelling. I learn so much by seeing these relationships develop into deep and committed love and have such respect for all of us who just want to see these relationships normalized everywhere in society. We all benefit from inclusion and I am very very grateful for this show. It means more to me than I could ever explain.

I'm sorry I rambled, but I am just so appreciative of all the people in this group who just share and talk and roll around in all our in-depth chatter.

I celebrate this series and everyone that worked so hard to provide this beautiful story. I feel my son's presence every moment I watch it (on repeat) and discuss it every single day.

Izzy's (Con's) death scene touched me deeply . . . thinking about losing my son and how that felt and how I held onto him for as long as I could so I wouldn’t forget how it felt to hold him. Taika's commitment to the pain of losing Izzy felt like it paralleled all my feelings since the loss. Izzy's deathbed voice and words have lived in my heart ever since.

Con and Taika were top tier and seeing all the crew's emotions as they watched what was happening felt so raw and touching. I also felt so much from s2e3 when Ed is dead and Stede is begging him to live . . . I lived that as well, convinced that my son would somehow prove them all wrong and open his eyes. I said it over and over and when Ed opened his eyes, I just felt every single emotional hurdle.

Yes, I was a bucket of tears through it all, but I also felt a lot of healing. I’d love to hear from any of you who have had some kind of evolution or growth from this gift of a show."

----

You can reach out to Stephanie here on twitter if you'd like to discuss some of your experiences as well.  SRC: Stephanie's words per her permission. If someone doesn't have access to tumblr, they can read about Matthew on the Repo:

Cameo: Rhys Darby - For Matthew

#ofmd #ofmd crew #cw: death #our flag means death #our flag means us #cameo #rhys darby #dedication

[mouschiwrites]

hi :) so i saw u were doing the match up request things and wanted to try one! could it be for ninjago, i like men (unfortunately). lets see, soo..i’m a girl, half porto rican-half white (i was raised bilingual i know Spanish and english) have a little bit more curvy pear shaped figure, a few freckles on my cheeks, bigger lips/smaller nose, i have brown curly hair, my smile is squinty, and i have central heterochromia (the much more common, kinda lame version of having two different color eyes) where the outside of my eye is green and a sharp ring around my iris is yellow (my mom calls them my stars<3) and, yeah for appearance ig thats it. as far as personality, i’m really just like if loralai Gilmore from Gilmore girls didn’t like coffee. i love photography, art, nature, cats, i collect old post cards/old photographs, i have an old 2003 digital camera i thrifted that i bring everywhere, my favorite colors are green/pink, i love taylor swift and mitski and alex g, i read comics, i take pictures of every tree andddd… lots of other stuff but i ramble haha anyways have a wonderful day<3<3 to infinity and beyond, mars ⭐️

From one central heterochromia haver to another (yours sound so pretty tho,,)… I match you with:

Lloyd Garmadon!!

A few headcanons:

He thinks it’s so cool that you know English and Spanish

He’ll ask you how to say something in Spanish, then proceed to repeat it in the most American accent you’ve ever heard

He’s trying tho :(

You guys bond over your love of nature and comics

Lloyd loves to go on hikes/nature walks with you, and he’ll help you find neat things to take pictures of

On that note, he 100% supports your photography hobby

His room is gradually overtaken by photos you’ve given him

He’s not complaining though; he adores each and every one

As for your love of comics, you guys give each other recommendations and swap issues

You love to gush about your favorites and predict what will happen future issues

You absolutely lose your minds when you end up being right

If/when you move in together, you adopt a cat

You’re both huge cat people, so that little fuzzball gets treated like your biological child

You always speak super affectionately about it when in public, so people actually assume that it is a human baby

They’re so confused when they find out it’s a cat

This becomes a bit of an inside joke between you two

Lloyd likes to call you “dear,” “love,” and “bright eyes”

(He loves your eyes so much)

He likes to be called “baby,” “honey,” and “sweetie”

A drabble!

You smiled to yourself as you snapped a picture of a grove of aspens, their leaves tainted a sophisticated gold that was complimented excellently by the afternoon sunshine.

“Over here!” You heard Lloyd beckon, making your head snap over in his direction.

Moving away from the aspens, you came to a gnarled old tree. Lloyd was standing proudly in front of it, pointing to it with a huge grin. “Isn’t it cool?”

You nodded eagerly, readying your camera already. A few seconds passed, and the little click never came. You pursed your lips, disgruntled. “I can’t get a good angle.”

Lloyd frowned, his brow furrowing in contemplation as he stared at the tree. Then, with a sudden light in his eyes, he stepped closer to you and dropped to his knees.

“Get on my shoulders.”

You hesitated, but decided that the picture would be worth the effort. You squealed as he practically jumped to his feet, jostling you perilously.

You finally snapped the perfect picture. Grinning at your camera, you rubbed Lloyd’s head affectionately.

“Thanks, sweetie. You can put me down now.”

Lloyd hummed in thought, drumming his hands on your knees for a moment before continuing down the trail with you still on his shoulders.

“Lloyd! Put me down!” You laughed, playfully smacking his head.

“No.” You could hear the smile in his voice.

It wasn’t until you completed your walk that Lloyd finally relented and put you down.

“Finally! You rascal,” you giggled, shoving him lightly.

“Hey, you got some good pictures, didn’t you?”

You huffed. “Okay, I will admit that.”

Lloyd winked with a good-natured grin. “Glad I could help.” He kissed your cheek, grasping your hand before continuing on your path home.

And a song!

My Love Mine All Mine (Mitski)

'Cause my love is mine, all mine

I love, my, my, mine

Nothing in the world belongs to me

But my love, mine, all mine, all mine

…

My baby here on earth

Showed me what my heart was worth

So, when it comes to be my turn

Could you shine it down here for her?

Thank you for your support! You truly do mean so so much to me <33 I hope this was okay!

(divider by saradika)

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago x reader #lloyd garmadon #lloyd garmadon x reader #lloyd x reader

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

Get to Know Me tag

Ultimate Addition

Been tagged with multiple versions of this. Will do this all in one.

And maybe this will be the definitive version.

Thanks to: @herrmannhalsteadproduction here, @sleepywriter00 here, @mk-writes-stuff here and here, @dyrewrites here, @infinnative here, @buffythevampirelover here, and @mysticstarlightduck here.

Tagging @illarian-rambling @gottestod-writes @cowboybrunch @blind-the-winds @uninspired-platypuss @little-peril-stories @loopyhoopywrites @its-on-site @aalinaaaaaa @randomlettrrsqqssfxwcvhxnqbwriro @thepeculiarbird + anyone else

(y'all don't have to do all of these - pick one. Honestly you can do all of them but like...only if you really want to)

Version 1

Last Song - Driving the Last Spike (Genesis)

Currently Watching - Star Trek Voyager in my trek marathon, still have a little bit of Phineas and Ferb to rewatch, MythBusters, Whose Line is it Anyway, The Bad Batch as it comes out, and I keep forgetting the last bit of Hamster and Gretel is on D+ rip

Three Ships - uhhh the least controversial I feel will be Robin/Starfire (Teen Titans), Kirk/Spock (Star Trek), and Dakota/Cavendish (Milo Murphy's Law)

Favorite color - T E A L 🩵💚 it slaps. Btw this: 🩵 is not teal but it's the emoji that pops up when I type teal wtf teal is GREENER that's like cyan which also has the same emoji I'm sick of people calling light blue teal

Currently reading - beta reading Whispers by @magic-is-something-we-create and making my way through Purple Hyacinth on Webtoon

Currently consuming - uh just woke up will have my coffee in a bit

Place of birth - Earth

Currently location - pretty sure it's Earth

Last movie - True Lies (first time watching)

Version 2

Are you named after anyone? No my mom was sick of the family name she was given so revolted against peer pressure.

When was the last time you cried? Uhh couple days ago got caught in traffic due to an accident and went a separate way only to find myself on the feeder road with more traffic from another accident so I had to pull into a Jaguar parking lot before I got full a panic attack

Do you have kids? No please dear God. Future students are my kids.

What sport do you/have you played? Soccer when I was like in kindergarten.

Do you sarcasm? See next answer

What's the first thing you notice about someone? That they exist

Eye color? Brown

Scary movie or happy ending? These aren't opposites?? Scary movies have happy endings! So happy endings.

Any talents? Uh, writing, I guess. Media analysis. I can read fast. I'm Gen Z and can write in cursive. I kick ass at the puzzle match mini game on Wii Party.

Where were you born? *Double checks* yeah still Earth

Hobbies? Writing, reading, watching TV, scrolling through Tumblr, media analysis, watching YouTube, daydreaming, listening to music, useless data analysis

Any pets? Two cats

Height? 5'4

Favorite subject? ELAR (reading/writing) that's why I want to teach it

Dream job? See above

Version 3

Currently reading - answered this above

Last song - I'm doing this on a different day (sorry) and now it's Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Queen)

Currently watching - said above

Current fic - uh I'm just reading the stuff I already said

Current hyperfixation - brain recently has been toggling between Phineas and Ferb, Teen Titans (2003), Avatar The Last Airbender, Megamind, and my WIP The Secret Portal so uh pick one

Favorite color - T E A L

Sweet/spicy/savory - I guess savory but yeah depends on mood

Relationship status - happily dating ❤️

Last thing I Googled - Ming-Na Wen (wanted to know her age. She's 60)

Song stuck in my head - currently Somebody To Love (Queen - was listening to the greatest hits)

Favorite food - my dad's food, specifically his Cincinnati chili and his cake

Dream trip - New Zealand or Tokyo

Version 4

(highlight what describes you)

APPEARANCE

Dark hair* // I prefer loose clothing to tight clothing // I have one or more piercings // I have at least one tattoo // I have dyed or highlighted my hair // I have gotten plastic surgery // I have or had braces // I sunburn easily // I have freckles // I paint my nails // I typically wear makeup // I don't often smile// I am pleased with how I look // I prefer Nike to Adidas // I wear baseball hats backwards

*up for debate

ACTIVITIES/INTERESTS

I play a sport // I can play an instrument // I am artistic // I know more than one language // I have won a trophy in some sort of competition // I can cook or bake without a recipe // I know how to swim // I enjoy writing // I can do origami* // I prefer movies to tv shows // I can execute a perfect somersault // I enjoy singing // I could survive in the wild on my own // I have read a new book series this year // I enjoy spending time with friends // I travel during work or school breaks // I can do a handstand

*with instructions and not well

RELATIONSHIPS

I am in a relationship // I have been single for over a year// I have a crush* // I have a friend I've known for ten years // my parents are together // I have dated my best friend+ // I am adopted // My crush has confessed to me // I have a long distance relationship^ // I am an only child // I give advice to my friends // I have made an online friend // I met up with someone I have met online

*does my gf count as a crush? I still act like it lol

+am dating

^i think this is referring to romance but I do have other friends in other states

SEASONS

I have heard the ocean in a conch shell // I have watched the sunrise* // I enjoy rainy days // I have slept under the stars // I meditate outside // the sound of chirping calms me // I enjoy the smell of the beach // I know what snow tastes like // I listen to music to fall asleep // I enjoy thunderstorms // I enjoy cloud watching // I have attended a bonfire // I pay close attention to colours // I find mystery in the ocean // I enjoy hiking on nature paths // autumn is my favourite season

*I think once could be making that up

Take your bets if I'm an outdoorsy person (nope)

MISCELLANEOUS

I can fall asleep in a moving vehicle // I am the mom friend // I live by a certain quote // I like the smell of Sharpies // I am involved in extracurricular activities // I enjoy Mexican food // I can drive a stick shift // I believe in true love // I make up scenarios to fall asleep // I sing in the shower* // I wish I lived in a video game // I have a canopy above my bed+ // I am multiracial // I am a redhead // I own at least 3 dogs

*quietly

+used to

EDIT: I've decided to add onto this post whenever I get a new get to know me tag, so from here on out this was not in the original post

Version 5

I'm over 5'5 / I wear glasses or contacts (glasses) / I have blonde hair / I often wear sweatshirts (I think some of them count?) / I prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / I have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / I typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting boss face / i play sports (was in soccer in kindergarten haha) / I play an instrument (used to, violin) / i know more than one language (I know some ASL but I've forgotten most of it... ) / I can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / I have never dated anyone / I have a best friend that I have known for over five years (Cado, how has it been seven years almost????) / I am an only child

Version 6

Last song: as of answering this, technically I watched Psych so the theme song!

Favorite color: you should know this at this point in the post

Currently watching: Psych like I said, also Star Trek Voyager and a few on the side still (see above)

Sweet/spicy/savory: see Version 3

Current obsession: ...Psych but also my WIPs :)

Last thing I googled: thesaurus because I was doing the @sipofsnips and didn't have the word this morning

Favorite season: they all suck but I'll go with fall

Skill I'd like to learn: I want to draw good

Best advice: "thinking about it counts as working on it" because it's changed my outlook on how much I get done in a day, "progress is progress" for similar reasons but more general, and generally that if you burn yourself out trying to do everything nothing gets done

Woo! This was a LOT holy shit. Hope you know more about me!

#not writing #get to know me #tag game

[whimsicalmeerkat]

First & Last Lines

I did this a million years ago. I just got reminded of it and thought it would be fun to do again. Basically, post the first and last lines of the last 10 fics you posted. WIPs are welcome. Not going with any sort of strict rules, because that’s just not how I roll. Anyway, here goes!

1. hope for the future, teen wolf, derek hale/peter hale

First: As Derek flew back from his uncle's punch, he wondered just how he hadn't realized sooner that Peter was the alpha—that he was his alpha.

Last: He couldn't say he'd ever be be content with the past or that he was happy in the present, but for the first time in years he had hope for the future, and maybe that would be enough.

2. 3 Sentence Ficathon 2024: Teen Wolf, multiple pairings

First: Derek leans his head back so he can stare at the star-studded tree canopy overhead and thinks, not for the first time, that he will never get tired of seeing Stiles’ magic.

Last: “Easy for you and Derek to say—you were both born like this and you took away my chance to get out of this life,” Scott rages back, the arrows hitting Stiles in his soft parts just like they have every time he’s hurled them over the years since Stiles got him turned into a werewolf.

3. 3 Sentence Ficathon 2024: Chosen One, macy blake’s chosen one universe, multiple pairings

First: “I just feels it lacks a certain gravitas,” Eduard says, tugging at the hem of the denim jacket he considers so ugly he wonders if some of his mates are pulling a prank on him until he turns around and sees all eight of them staring at him in a distinctly horny fashion.

Last: “Fucking lions—you’re lucky I love you.”

4. with lightning in his hands, teen wolf, derek hale/peter hale/stiles stilinski

First: Stiles stares at the ruins of the Hale house and reflects that he perhaps should have taken Deaton more seriously when he told him starting to practice magic would change how he saw the world.

Last: All they have to do is wait for him to come.

5. time travel, teen wolf, derek hale/laura hale

First: Derek bursts through the door of his little apartment in New York City, yelling for his sister.

Last: "It all started in seven days from now for you and five years ago for me."

6. telepathy, black jewels, daemon sadi/lucivar yaslana

First: She’s not trustworthy.

Last: They exited the room without opposition, knowing their point was made and would not be forgotten.

7. dusk, the witcher, emhry var emreis/geralt of rivia

First: Geralt stands on the balcony outside of Emhyr’s rooms and watches the day fade into dusk

Last: Geralt could get used to having a family.

8. Trading Up, teen wolf, derek hale/stiles stilinski

First: Stiles and his (maybe?) girlfriend are walking down Main Street after dinner, holding hands and looking in the shop windows

Last: “Damnit, I need to see if I have to do actual work. While I’m checking my email, you should try to guess why Lydia didn’t turn into a werewolf. You’ll never get it, but it will entertain you while you wait,” Stiles tells Derek, then turns his attention to his laptop.

9. candy, macy blake’s chosen one universe, victor eastaughffe/orsen riggs & gus

First: “Bear!” Gus shrieks from his seat at the table.

Last: “You may have gummy bears after dinner, Gus.”

10. drift, perilous courts by tavia lark, julien sandry/whisper

First: Julien watches Whisper in the sunlight.

Last: “We’ll make sure we win.”

Tags: @dear-massacre @jammerific @shadow-wasser @thotpuppy @lavender-lotion @mrs-steve-harrington @bad-at-names-and-faces @definitively-different-drivel

#tag game #fanfic #teen wolf #chosen one universe #macy blake #chosen one universe by macy blake #black jewels #black jewels by anne bishop #black jewels trilogy #the witcher #perilous courts #tavia lark #perilous courts by tavia lark #author:whimsicalmeerkat

[steamanband]

I was gonna wait until I draw him but I think hes so funny I HAVE to share him immediately. Ok so my new OC idea. Way back when, Peter One built a fun little guy for his good pal Ralph, and it was sent to live on his Steamboat. He's essentially like a weird cousin more than a sibling to the spg bots, they call him Cousin Ralphie. His name is Ralphie Jr. <3

Never having had to face the perils of war and spending years playing music and having fun, Jr never really grasped the concept of death. So when his dear papa Ralph left one day and never returned, he figured he's stay on the boat and wait. And that's still what he's doing now. He has since grown rusted, broken and barely functional, becoming One With The Swamp. Just covered in all that gross yucky swamp stuff, to the point where what's UNDER all the moss and dirt is almost impossible to determine.

Hes an absolutely terrifying swamp monster now, spawning countless tales of a haunted boat on the bayou. Hes actually chill as fuck but no one comes close enough or stays long enough to look past how truly terrifying he is.

#hes so silly 2 me #whimsical swamp creature

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 3 - Treasure (Part I)

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII

꧁꧂

How can you just leave me standing? Alone in a world that's so cold Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The SS Woe Betide's promenade deck is a study in sun-drenched elegance.

The broad stretch of honey-gold planks is polished to a high shine. Floor-to-ceiling windows run the length of the walkway, their glass etched with sunburst motifs. Behind the glass, the water is dappled into a spray of gold and diamonds. The waves, rolling in drowsy combers of lapis lazuli and sapphire, call to mind a treasurebox tipped sideways: all its secrets spilling across the seabed.

A pirate's dream come true.

Silco’s outfit fits right in. He's clad in a loose red shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms. A worsted black waistcoat, long and narrow, drapes his angular shoulders and sways with his stride. His trousers, matching the jacket, are tailored in the style of sailor's breeches: unpleated, and tapering at the calves.  A pair of scuffed boots, pointed at the toes, complete the ensemble.

The effect is flattering, but ruthlessly functional. He looks ready to cross the gangplank to a pirate's cutter.

His smile, when he glances sidelong at Mel, is piratical too: full of teeth, and no good intent. 

"My dear," he drawls, "I asked you to lose the chiffon."

"This," Mel says, "is tulle."

"The difference?"

"A world of it."

"And yet the effect's the same."

His scrutiny is a physical paring down. Mel, not a woman given to blushes, feels a smarting heat. 

There is, she tells herself, nothing wrong with her day-gown. It's the plainest in her wardrobe. A square-necked cream frock, the hem ending at mid-calf. The bodice is a high-waisted, empire-line affair. The only adornments are the delicate golden embroidery edging the diaphanous sleeves. It's a demure look: a far cry from the haute-couture she usually favors—the ones Silco dubs Vehicles of Voyeurism. Even her calfskin boots, ankle-length and plain, are the closest she's got to seafaring. She'd chosen them, and the matching leather belt, for their durability.

Whatever her husband's plans, she'd rather not lose a pair of Tanzanite-studded Manolovas to the briny depths.

Silco, head tilted, appraises her footwear. "Are those Topside's idea of boots?"

"They're called oxfords." 

"They're a disgrace."

"You're not a shoemaker!" Exasperated, Mel smooths out her skirts. "I've never seen a pair like yours before. And my father was an admiral."

"You mean, mercenary."

"My point is: I have spent a lifetime on ships. I know seamen's boots. Those—" she gestures at Silco's, "—are anything but."

"They're Fissure-boots. We call them 'kickers'." He rotates his ankle to show her the sole. "The undersides are covered in rivets. For grip. They're useful for slippery surfaces. But if you snag them on a rail, or trip over a hatch cover, you can slip them off in three shakes of a rat's tail. All the better to run."

"Run from what?"

A ghost of a smile. "What do you think?"

"Enforcers."

"Enforcers aren't the only disasters belowground. Temblors. Fires. Cave-ins. We have all sorts." Musingly, he regards his boots. "Running's a way of life for us."

Mel thinks of her first descent into the Fissures. The smoke-clogged streets that denied visibility. The gaping pits of rubble that threatened each step. The clammy grip of moisture that slicked each surface. Everywhere she'd looked, she’d seen the endless scars of Topside's neglect. Afterward, the waft of destruction had clung to her skin. Like the phantom sensation of Silco's hand on hers, and the insinuating thread of his voice in her ear:

"Watch your step. Rough roads in Zaun."

She'd wondered how the Fissurefolk withstood their lot. Their suffering seemed unendurable: the weight of it, the sheer, crushing tragedy. No matter where her thoughts turned, it was always there: the knowledge that her city, the jewel of Progress, had been rotting away below her feet.

The people, trapped beneath, dying by degrees.

In those days, she'd been unnerved by that strange and alien world. Unnerved, too, by Silco. The duality of him was at once alluring and repulsive. His elegance was a facade, as thin as the film of iridescent oil floating on Zaun's waters.  Beneath, there was nothing but a ravenous dark. 

 And yet, she'd found herself returning. To the dark, and to him. And each time, the city's alienness seemed to peel away. The Fissurefolk, in all their idiosyncrasies, morphed from feral enigmas to fellow human beings. Even Silco, for all his unsettling contradictions, went from a terrible specter to a thrilling challenge.

A man, with his own stories. His own heartbreaks.

Bit by bit, his world had become hers. He'd made it so: with colorful tales about the murals peeking between the subterranean ruins at Factorywood. With sips of fizzy green lager brewed in the sunless cellars beneath the catacombs in Entresol. With strolls, arm-in-arm, along the pyrite studded rock formations that rimmed the shantytowns in the Sumps. He'd taught her the dances popular among the Fissurefolk—the Sumpside Waltz, the Drainpipe Fandango, the Lazy River Lope—and the meanings behind their twists and turns. He'd invited her to the most surreal festivals—the Equinox Feast, the Night of the Veiled Lady—and imparted the significance behind their customs.  He'd fed her delicacies from the food carts dotting the street corners—spiced mushroom stew, glazed eel, pickled beets—and shared the recipes behind their unique flavors.

And all the while, his voice had woven a spell. The longer she’d listened, the less Zaun seemed a hellhole, but a hidden gem. Each facet, a winking, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of human life—one as rich as any jewelbox in Piltover's Ecliptic Vaults.

Treasure, Mel thinks, isn't always gold.

"Perhaps," she dares, "I'll buy myself a pair of 'kickers'."

His brow quirks. "You'd be in for a rude surprise."

"Oh?"

"Our best boots are cobbled at the Commercia Fantastica. All the way down in the Black Lanes. You'd never find your way out."

"You'll show me."

"Will I?" His mismatched eyes take on a shrewd gleam. "And how will you compensate me?"

"By being your wife."

"Is that the new currency, now?"

"The press certainly say so."

Her mind is already sketching out a blueprint. She'll speak to one of her contacts in the publishing industry: a gazetteer of Fissure origins.  They'll contrive a series: maybe a pictorial. All the splendor of the Commercia Fantastica, faithfully rendered in glossy print. Piltover's glitterati will have their first glimpse into the heart of Zaun's manufacturing district. It will be a reminder that their cornucopia—be it custom-made or uniform—does not issue from an orifice hidden in clouds of smut. It materializes from an epicenter of artisanship: a beating, booming, pulsating hub.

One that's only a hop, skip, and jump away.

If previous efforts are a litmus for success, then one photograph of Mel in the latest 'kickers' will spark a stampede for the bootsellers' doors. In the surge, the adjacent markets will benefit: textiles, silversmiths and jewelers. And once the novelty wears off, the lull will be a soft landing for honest Fissure tradesmen eager to partner with Piltover's guilds. The latter, inured to the mercurial whims of high fashion, will now demand durability rather than design.  And the former, accustomed to the rigors belowground, will find the Piltover's middle-class an easier breed to please.

All that's necessary is a few photographs, and a dash of goodwill.

A small price, Mel thinks, for shared prosperity.

"You are," Silco says, with a degree of wryness, "scheming."

"Takes one to know one."

"I never scheme. I merely plan ahead."

"Same difference."

"Scheming requires an adversary. Planning, a vision."

"And what's yours?"

A corner of his mouth curls. "Good try."

Mel sighs. He is always maddeningly closemouthed about his agenda. It will take more than pretty prattle to pry the details loose. The only clues she can glean are from his choice of attire—and his critique of her boots.

Whatever his plan, it involves getting their feet wet.

Mel is wary. But she knows better than to fill the silence with futile queries. He proffers his arm; she takes it. Together, they stroll down the promenade deck. After a week confined to the cabin, the sea air is a heady tonic. The loose weave of her dress is a kiss against her skin.  She is still lit up like a klieg-light: her body hot and hyperaware after the morning's exertions. 

She seldom, as rule, makes love in the daytime. To her way of thinking, the act, in sunlight, loses some of its artistry. Everything reduced to the crudest mechanics. Every flaw in full relief. Even Jayce had been his loveliest in the twilight. All shadow, all suggestion.

With Silco, daylight is fast becoming her favorite hour.  Like the sun-warmed vista, she is all sensation.

Speculatively, Mel steals him a glance.  If it weren't the height of lunacy, she'd consider dragging him straight back to bed. To hell with the guests. To hell with his plans. They can return to their suite, and bolt the door. Spend the rest of the day, and the night, and the next morning, in a state of well-earned debauchery.

But the set of Silco's features warns her that's a losing battle. 

It's not tension, exactly. More a dark anticipation. Like the way he'd looked, at Zaun's Riverside Harbor, when they'd first met. He'd known then that Zaun would drag itself out of the depths. And Mel, meeting his eyes, had known too.

He'd been certain then. Now, the certainty is a riptide. And Mel, who's never been swept off her feet, can't help but be tugged along.

She's grateful for her boots. She suspects she'll need the grip.

They cross the promenade. Silco’s stroll is measured: a mark of ownership rather than a man marking time. Barely a week's span, and the ship is already seems to belong to him.  The crew, at his barest footfall, leap to attention. Even the Captain, an irascible old seadog, treats him with a distance verging on deference. Mel remembers the same phenomenon on her father's ship: the Cry Havoc. His crew were seasoned hands: calloused minds with checkered pasts. They'd spent a lifetime at sea, and encountered their fair share of the unfathomable. They were also superstitious, and possessed a healthy fear of the uncanny.

Silco, a figment of the fathoms, is uncanny through and through.

In a different life, Mel fancies, he'd be the silhouette idling on sharp rocks, his smoky voice pitched to wooing: Come, come, and never be lonely again.

Her husband, in this one, catches the eye of a passing steward. A nod is all it takes: the man turns on his heel and disappears belowdeck.

"Where is he going?" Mel asks.

"To fetch something."

"Fetch what?"

"What I've asked him to."

Another nod at a nearby sailor. The man hastens to the foredeck. There, Mel can hear a skiff—one of Piltover's quicksilvers—revving its engines. Readying to go where, Mel cannot begin to guess. They're miles off the coast. The nearest harbor—the Wuju port—is three hours away.

Unless Silco means to sail his guests directly to shore, his destination is a mystery.

Then again, she thinks, isn’t it always?

His palm cups her elbow. "Mel."

She stirs from her reverie. "What?"

"I have a request."

"A request?"

"Yes."

His hand, settling on her hip, guides her to a halt. He's not smiling. But there's a heat in his stare. It's not an easy heat to name. It's not desire, or even hunger. It's something deeper: a pull it takes everything to resist.

 "You must," he says, "make me a promise."

"You expect me to make promises, when you won't tell me a thing?"

"Only this: you're in for a surprise or two."

"Silco—"

"I've a plan. Not a pretty one. And it'll mean a bit of rough sailing. But what's true of storms is true of marriage." His mouth twitches. "There's no winners. Only survivors."

"You aren't doing a good job at selling this."

"I'm not trying to sell it. I'm only telling you that, when we're out there—in the ballroom, on the high sea—don't run."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's instinct. Trenchers run for survival. It's in our blood. Medardas run from loss. It's in yours." His eyes search hers. "I don't fault your blood. I only ask you to remember.  When the winds start picking up, and the waters get choppy, your instinct will be to take cover. But the storm's not what you think. And if you're going to stay on course, you can't retreat. You have to see this through." His thumb strokes her hipbone. "Promise."

"Even if you run us aground?"

"Do you think you've married a fool?"

"Do you think you're married to one?"

Their stares lock. The silence is charged. It is not challenge, but a quiet recognition of each others' roles. She is not a woman to expose herself to the raw elements. He is not a man to sit back and let the tides dictate his course.  Their relationship has been a negotiation, from the first to the last. Each taking a turn at the helm, and then trading it away.

Now, he's asking her to—what?

Trade, or give it up?

"If," Mel says, "there's a danger—"

"There isn't."

"But you believe I'll run."

"Not you. But the woman in there—" he tips his chin toward the ballroom, "—isn't the one who waxes poetic about painting me nude in the sunlight. She's a Medarda first, second, and last. And a Medarda always has an escape route."

"The woman in there—" Mel follows his chin, and sees, through the frosted glass, a knot of swaying silhouettes, "—is a Medarda by birth. She's married to you by choice. And I can't keep my promise, if I don't know what that choice means."

"Then I'll ask again." His eyes hold hers. "Trust me."

"Trust you? Or the man who's warned me not to run?"

"That's the point."

"Is it?"

"Trust that, whatever happens, the man you've married is the same man in that ballroom." His palm spans the small of her back. "I've no alter egos, Mel. Just moments where I show teeth, and moments where I hide them. And right now, I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater."

"For Zaun, and Piltover?"

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it?"

His mouth, mere inches from hers, crooks. "Compromise."

Mel's pulse skitters.

It's a hard bargain to swallow. A harder choice to make. And she, who's made a fine art of tipping the scales, knows that both are equally vital, if this union is to have a prayer of survival. And yet the urge to break away, to force a confrontation, is surging.

She's used to his obliqueness. She's not, and will never, be used to his unpredictability.

When he says Don't run, he means Hold your ground. When he says Surprise, he means Beware.

And when he says Compromise, he means, in his own words: Survive.

Then he says, "Trust me."

Which, she's learning, is his shorthand for, Trust yourself.

Mel's mouth pinches. Trust. Doubt. These are two sides of the same coin. His past, and hers, laid bare without veils. Moments like this, she's reminded of the enormous gamble she's taken by marrying him. She knows, from her own experience, how quickly trust can curdle into the opposite. And she knows, too, that doubt can devour the sturdiest edifice.

It had, after all, devoured her parents' marriage.

Ambessa Medarda, no sentimentalist, had not married for love. Her choice was pragmatic, and it was prudent. From a broad swathe of suitors, ranging from bluebloods to brutes, she'd selected Mel's father, a swarthy, scarred captain from the Targonian Isles. Known, simply, as Aziz, he'd possessed a devious head for deals, and a deft tongue for wooing. His clan were descended from a line of seafaring mercenaries. Over the centuries, they'd carved a bloody path on a shifting sea of wars, alliances, and compromises.

Aziz had met Ambessa during a trading venture. It had been, by all accounts, an explosive collision.

Ambessa had admired the way he squared his debts with a bladesman's exacting precision, and wielded his real blade with a cutthroat's clarity. He, in turn, was taken by her ruthless pragmatism, and her cold-eyed resolve.

There'd been no need, in the end, to seek approval from either clan. The match was mutually advantageous: her riches, and his ships, would forge a dynasty.

Theirs was not, by any metric, a love-match. Yet Mel remembers the heat, the intensity, and the sheer physicality of her parents' union. With Aziz, Ambessa became, despite her hardness, a creature of feeling. And Aziz, for all his wily ways, became a man of sentiment.

They'd quarreled often, publicly. They'd butted heads over business, and brawled over trifles. But they'd also made up in the same fashion: two titans, clashing in a storm.

Mel, since girlhood, knew never to knock on her parents' bedchamber door when she heard raised voices.

She'd witnessed the aftermath, once. After a particularly savage row, Ambessa had stormed from their marital suite, and headed for the stables. Aziz, stalking soundlessly after, had caught up with her halfway there. In the middle of the courtyard, they'd fought anew. Aziz, seizing her waist, had swung her in. Ambessa, kicking out, had knocked his legs from under him. Together, they'd fallen into the thatch of wildflowers behind the copse of cypress trees.

Their cries were not, Mel had realized with a dawning horror, cries of pain.

They'd been so preoccupied, they hadn't noticed her creeping closer. They'd not seen her stare, through the screen of foliage, as their fierce struggles devolved into a fiercer embrace. And as they did, a surreal alchemy took place: Ambessa, all wildfire and iron, began to melt. Aziz, all seaspray and stone, began to yield.

Mel, unable to tear her eyes away, saw the exact moment they transformed. A moment before, they'd been two warring elements. A moment later, they were one. And the power of it, the raw, unmitigated passion: it was a force beyond the comprehension of an eight-year-old girl.

That day, Mel sometimes thinks, is when she'd learnt that the strongest forces can be unmade by desire.

Love, fear, fury: they were not, as she'd childishly believed, discrete entities. They were all part of a single current, ebbing and flowing, and changing course with the tides.

Later, much later, her parents had subsided into a languid sprawl. Ambessa's head, pillowed on her husband's shoulder. Aziz's fingers, stirring through his wife's curls. Their bodies, twined, were a study in drowsy contentment.

"Never leave me," Aziz had whispered.

"Why should I," Ambessa had purred, "when I've already cut out your heart?"

"That you have. Now, it's yours."

Ambessa's lips, curving, had found his throat. "Then remember, Schatze, I'll do worse to any woman who dares to claim it."

Schatze.

That was her private designation for him. Treasure.

Her one and only.

And she'd meant it, Mel thinks now. Meant it in the way a warrior, who's seen a thousand battles, will fight her last. She'd fought him, and he'd fought her, and they'd taken shelter in each other. Over and over. For twenty years, their marriage was the stuff of legend: a dynastic alliance, and a private whirlwind. They'd begotten two children, lost two more before birth, and spawned a military empire.

Until their union, with the same suddenness as their collision, came undone.

Aziz had, during one of Ambessa's war-campaigns, chosen a mistress. This, in itself, was not unheard of. The men of the Targonian line were notoriously philandering, and the woman of the Medarda clan were notoriously pragmatic. Ambessa, who'd not only kept her own paramours, but had changed them with the frequency of a Piltovan noblewoman changing her gloves, had never begrudged her husband his dalliances. She'd even handpicked a few herself, including the mistress Aziz so doted upon.

The choice had proven fatal.

She was a pretty thing, Mel remembers. Pale as a lily, and shrewd as a serpent. She'd beguiled Aziz with her beauty, and bound him with her wits. In the span of months, her hold on him grew implacable. By the time Ambessa, returning from a year-long absence, realized what had happened, the damage was done.

She'd discovered Aziz gone, along with three-fifths of their battleships.

Ambessa was not a woman prone to tears. Now, her fury was a black inferno. She'd raged, and she'd razed, and she'd sworn to see the mistress decapitated, with her golden head on a pike. Her pursuit of the wayward pair had been relentless, and the carnage, legendary. She'd burnt villages to the ground. She'd sunk fleets to the bottom of the sea.

And when, finally, she'd had the chance to close her fist around her husband's neck... it was too late.

Aziz had succumbed to a tropical fever. He'd been bedridden and delirious when his ship was waylaid by Ambessa's fleet. The mistress, by then, had already fled with whatever riches she could carry. 

When Ambessa had stormed into her husband's cabin, Aziz, on the verge of death, had mustered a crooked smile.

"My lioness," he'd rasped, "have you come to finish the job?"

Ambessa's fury, like a house of cards, had collapsed at the sight of him. She'd flung her scimitar aside, and fallen to her knees at her husband's bedside. His ramblings—of repentance, of devotion, of the children he'd left behind—had been shushed by her kisses. The entire night, she'd sat vigil, cajoling and bargaining and finally, begging.

To no avail.

Aziz had perished at dawn. He'd died, as he'd lived, with a smile on his lips.

For Ambessa, the fearsome general who'd won a hundred battles, this was the first true defeat. But she'd not wept, or wailed, or rent her hair. She'd only kissed Aziz's forehead, and smoothed his lids shut. Then, with a composure born of pure iron, she'd ordered his body laid out onto a wooden funeral bier, and floated out to sea, before it was set ablaze in the Targonian custom with five dozen flaming arrows.

When the sun had set, and the smoke had dissipated, she'd hefted her scimitar and turned her eyes to the horizon.

There are a thousand and one ways a Medarda avenges a slight.

Aziz's mistress would learn them all.

And soon.

Ambessa's troops had cornered the woman, in a tiny port town along the southern coast. By then, she'd spent every last coin she'd stolen from her dead lover, and had nothing left to offer in her defense. Not that coin would've made a difference. When Ambessa, flanked by her honor-guard, arrived at the tavern where her quarry was hiding, there'd been no mercy, and no negotiation. The woman, bound and gagged, was dragged to the center of town, and flung at the feet of her former benefactress.

"For my Schatze," Ambessa had vowed, "I'll make this slow."

And she did.

In front of the entire town, she'd cut out the woman's tongue, and plucked out her eyes. She'd hacked her fingers and her toes. She'd flayed her skin, and slit open her chest. And as the woman's life bled out, Ambessa had at last carved out her heart.

It was, in its ghastly way, a fitting recompense.

In the years afterward, Ambessa had grown harder. More ruthless. The light that once shone in her eyes—that strange, fierce light, whenever she'd looked at her husband—had flickered, and faded away. She'd gone on to wage numberless wars. She'd had lovers by the score.  She'd built a legacy, and an empire.

But her husband, she never replaced.

Schatze.

She'd still call him that, whenever she reminisced. The endearment was its own admission; the sentiment, its own confession.

Ambessa Medarda did not marry for love. But she'd loved, and lost, nonetheless.

Schatze.

Mel, in the heart of herself, knows the word. It is worth its weight in gold—and the poorest possible investment. Men, as a rule, are faithless. Even the ones who seem, in the sunlight, like perfect princelings. And sharks, as a law, never stop swimming. Even if the water's blue for miles.

To trust one is to invite hurt. And to trust the other is to invite teeth.

Mel knows the price of a life-bitten heart.

And yet, in the depths of passion, she trusts Silco with hers.

Because, in the afterglow, languid and spent, she sometimes calls him Schatze, too.

Now, Mel meets Silco's stare. His eyes, even at their softest, hold an edge. But she senses no hidden blade. Only his palm, cradling the base of her spine. Only his body, a hairsbreadth from hers. And his words, in the space between: Trust me.

A choice, not a compromise.

Mel, slowly, nods.

"You'd better deliver,” she says. “I'm not sure my boots can handle anything worse than the waves."

"If you'd heeded my advice—"

"Don't."

Her tone brooks no argument. In turn, his humor melts.

He steps back, and bows. It's not a courtly gesture. It's like a wolf acknowledging a packmate. Mel, who's seen a hundred bows, is surprised by the sincerity of this one. It's a subtle, almost invisible dip. But she sees, in its execution, trust.

He, who is never truly vulnerable, is exposing the nape of his neck.

"Shall we?" He straightens with a small smile. "The parasites await."

"The parasites are our guests." Mel slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I hope you're ready to play the host."

His smile grows "Are you forgetting who I am?"

He stalks toward the ballroom door. His shadow, elongated by the sunlight, is a knife.

And Mel, her heart suddenly in her throat, knows this: She cannot run.

Even if, by a sudden inexplicable compulsion, she wants to.

The ballroom is an idyll of Art Deco delights.

A high vaulted ceiling, inlaid with mosaics of sea-nymphs, arches overhead. A chandelier, dangling like a glittering pendulum, sends a nimbus of refracted light across each polished surface.  The floor is a checkered parquet, alternating in shades of teak and rosewood. In the far-corner, a circular bar-island of carved cherrywood serves an array of spirits. A sunken dancefloor, honeycombed in a tessellation of rose marble, is ringed by a quartet of brass-trimmed alcoves. Inside, frosted glass windows, edged with intricate filigree patterns, frame different views of the blue horizon. 

Waitstaff bustle with trays of champagne flutes and silver-domed trays of hors d'oeuvres. The guests, in their daytime finery, are milling about. All seem mystified by the ship's anchorage. No doubt whispers have already begun stirring: mutiny, sabotage, ransom.

At Silco and Mel's entrance, heads swivel. The conversation eddies into silence.  

Mel thinks: It's like the moment before a battle.

She gives herself a quick mental inventory. Dress: immaculate. Persona: impeccable. Expression: impassive.

A soldier, Ambessa liked to say, is only as good as their armor.

Silco's hand, finding hers, imparts a squeeze: Ready?

Mel squeezes back. Always.

Then, falling away, they diverge to different ends of the room.

It is their formula: tried and true. He hates to be tethered. She hates to be steered. So they meet, and part, and find each other again. Two ships crossing the same sea, with a hundred currents swirling beneath.

And between them: the fulcrum of their cities' fates.

Silco drifts soundlessly to the bar. The crowd parts as he crosses. Mel, watching, marvels at the smoothness of his gait. His body, like a blade, cuts its way implacably through the tide.  Peeling it back, layer by layer, until all the pretense fall away. She notes who shrinks back, who stands their ground, who dares to come closer.  In their body-language, she reads volumes: curiosity, contempt, caution.

The Eye of Zaun has that effect. Even among the constellations of power, he exudes his own. It's nothing to do with size or swagger. It is simply that his presence, in any room, becomes a gravity well.  The most ambitious—eager for a taste of danger—drift closer. The most prudent—wary of his reputation—keep their distance.

Silco, in turn, exudes a usual glacial calm: his eyes taking in everything and giving away nothing. 

In that, Mel thinks, he is nothing like Jayce.

Jayce, a born idealist, radiated human warmth. It was a private foible and a public asset: his shining smile and his sheer, stubborn, indomitable belief in Progress.  In the beginning, Mel had been charmed his capacity for optimism. As his business partner, she'd seen the way his earnest goodwill thawed the frostiest investors. As his lover, she'd been seduced by his sheer, unabashed passion.

In a world of tepid greys, Jayce was abrash, exuberant burst of brightness. And his ardor was a gift that kept giving. He'd brought color back into Mel's life. He'd given her a glimpse of the world as it could be, not as it was: a place of endless possibility.

If they only had the will to grasp it.

She'd taken a gamble on him. And at every step, he'd rewarded her. He'd made her smile. He'd made her think. He'd made her want to be more than she was: more daring, more defiant, more dauntless. And she'd made him stronger, in turn. She'd guided him through the slippery labyrinth of politics, tempered his bullheaded choices with cool pragmatism, and steered him, on occasion, from complete disaster.

With her, he'd believed anything was possible. With him, she'd felt the same.  A perfect balance of ambition, beauty, and intellect.

The Golden Couple, the press had dubbed them.

But Jayce, for all his merits, was not a man to cut his own path. He'd never known the grinding ache of a hunger weaned by birthright. Never felt the keenness of the knife, twisting, with a mother's silence. Never known a world where privilege was not a promise kept, but a golden garotte around the throat.

For the Medardas, the ethos of power was not glory. It was survival. That was what the bloodline was bred for, and what it demanded: the need to claw its way to the apogee, and stay there.

But every apogee, a voice whispers, needs a nadir.

There is no peak without the abyss. And every climb is a fall, waiting to happen.

Jayce, born into a life of ease, never understood. And the brightness of his dream, pure and perfect, became Mel's blind spot. She'd seen the world, and their place in it: a vast, glorious expanse of the unimaginable. He'd stand by her, and she'd stand up for him, and together, they'd forge a new era.

Until, in the worst way, they had.

Their city ruptured. Their dream, in shreds. Their bond, an ash-pit.

Mel accepts the glass of pineapple juice a passing steward offers. Sipping, she thinks once more of Jayce: his easygoing smile, his boundless idealism.  Then she lets the golden memories fall away in favor of what is right in front of her: the man she'd found at the bottom of that ash-pit.

And he, finding her, had shown her a different dream. A darker one: bleeding and yet never dying. Two cities, joined, against all odds.

Rising, by any means necessary.

Their eyes meet across the room. Silco, in conversation with a sparse clutch of older men, is watching her with a quiet intensity. Under his scrutiny, she feels like a gemstone held up to the light. Like she did this morning: caught, and pinned, and in a state of sublime surrender.

A curl at the corner of his mouth says: I see you.

Mel lifts her glass in a mock-toast.

Enjoy the show.

Smiling, she steps into the fray.

If Silco is the gravity well, Mel is the sun. The moment she materializes, the atmosphere transforms: a gloriole of life. The silence swirls into animated chatter. The guests, like celestial bodies, align into orbit. A chorus of well-wishes rises: Mel, darling, how are you feeling? — Councilor Medarda, how splendid to see you on your feet!—My dearest Melusine! At last, you've emerged!

Mel, her smile calibrated to dazzle, accepts their tributes with grace. In diplomacy, timing is everything. And she, every word fine-tuned for maximum impact, knows how to walk the line between approachability and allure.  One moment she's regaling the group with a quip that dissolves them into gales of laughter. The next, she's demurring a bold overture with an artful pivot and a cool flutter of lashes.

It's an old song, and she's a seasoned player. Human emotions are a string quartet. She's learned, since girlhood, that her talent lies in knowing the right string to pluck. A smile to coax a dowager's taut cadences into a cello's mellow depth. A murmur to set off a young man's somber oboe into a high-spirited spill of arpeggios. A touch to elicit, from an aging general's lascivious violin, a full, rich chord of rapture.

And Mel: the maestra. Coaxing melody from dissonance, and bringing the whole ensemble into harmony.

Now, she plucks the closest string in reach:  the Demacian dignitary's wife. The woman's a social stalwart: moneyed, magpie-eyed, and a moralist of the first degree. Paired with a penchant for petty gossip, she is the chief purveyor of the aristocracy's scandal-mill. 

But her pedigree is a goldmine, and her support is a vital step toward Zaun's ascent into the global spotlight.

Mel, accordingly, makes her the target of a subtle campaign.

"Lady Dennings," she says, with a radiant smile. "How lovely to see you."

"Mel!" Lady Dennings, her peacock fan a blur of emerald and azure, flutters over. "By the Protector! What a fright you gave us! A week belowdeck—and nary a glimpse above!"

"I do apologize for the alarm."

"Alarm? My dear, we believed you were at death's door! And your husband, that dreadful man! He made a jape of it! Every evening, our queries about your health were met with a different tale." The fan flutters faster. "First, you were abed with ague. Then: bitten by a viper. And then—the final outrage—you were abducted by pirates!"

"Oh," Mel says, and can't quite stop the smile from curling,

"Oh? Mel, is that all you can say?"

"What else would you have me say?"

"Acknowledgment! The man's a rapscallion—and a devil!"

Mel's eyes go guilelessly round. "Devil?"

"Of the highest order!" The fan snaps shut, and the falsetto drops. "The word is, he forcibly confined you to your berth for six nights! All to conduct an infernal Fissure ritual. The bride, stripped and bound as a sacrifice to the dark gods. Then—" a shudder, "—a barbaric consummation. Is it true, my dear? Tell me it's not. Tell me you've not been brutalized in some pagan sacrament!"

Mel hides a smile behind the rim of her glass. Her mind conjures a vision of Silco, in a dark cloak, looming over her bound and naked body. The glow of his bad eye: a fire opal offset by a dozen low-burning candles.

The scenario is not, she admits, without its unholy thrill.

But the Dennings are a devoutly religious clan. Like the rest of Demacia, their stance on magic is unequivocally condemnatory. If they had their way, all practitioners of the arcane would be hung, drawn, and quartered. Even the mention of the subject is enough to provoke an apoplexy.

No doubt, during Mel's weeklong absence, Lady Dennings' imagination—and tongue—have been running rampant. Her mind, already primed to find fault with the union, will seize upon the most sordid scrap. In the process, she inadvertently reveals how little she understands of Zaun.

Or, indeed, what transpires in the privacy of the marital bedchamber.

The Dennings own marriage of a year, if Elora's reports are true, has gone unconsummated. Whether it's due to her husband's crippling bashfulness, or her own pie-eyed prudishness, is an open question. This voyage, at the behest of the Dennings patriarch, is a final bid for the pair to prove their mettle. A successful coupling—an heir—would seal a lucrative merger between their clans. Whereas a failure on both counts would see them disinherited.

Lord and Lady Dennings, on borrowed time, feel each bell-toll keenly. A pity they cannot share the same cabin together without squabbling incessantly.

Silco, possessing no surfeit of sympathy for prudish quirks and provincial qualms, has summed up the couple's predicament thus:

"Two virgins, and not a lick of sense between them."

It's a brutally sound assessment. But not, Mel thinks, without a measure of pity.

It must be excruciating to suffer the weight of a parent's expectations in such a private sphere. Not to mention the public mortification, should the failure come to light.  

Fortunately, Mel's mind has sketched out a satisfactory solution.

Somberly, she says, "It's true."

"Dear heavens! You mean—?!"

"Bound to the bedframe, with a length of silk." Mel circles a finger along the rim of her glass. "But not for reasons you imagine."

Lady Dennings, eyes wide, is already imagining a great deal. "Gracious, Mel! What was he thinking?"

"Chiefly, of my safety."

"Safety—yes!" Lady Dennings clasps one of Mel's hands in both her own. "Zaunite men are a barbaric lot! Look at their women: all pinched cheeks and blackened eyes. They're beasts, by any other name. The notion that a darling such as yourself—" another shudder, "—locked in a cabin, and subjected to deflowering...!"

Mel's eyebrows wing skyward. In her ear, she can practically hear Silco's drawl:

What, precisely, am I deflowering? Your left nostril? The right's seen its share of traffic.

Taking another sip of juice, she stifles her snort.  The Demacian peerage hold such archaic notions about chastity.  Silco, if he ever caught wind, would take fiendish delight in dismantling them.

Fortunately, Silco is elsewhere. And Mel, more fortuitously, has the perfect string to pluck.

"My dear Lady Dennings," she chides gently. "You must put aside those scurrilous pamphlets." 

"Scurrilous?"

"The ones from the gutter-press. Written, I wager, after a tankard of rotgut. I hear the stories, myself: the Fissurefolk, sacrificing virgins to demigods. Drinking the blood of newborn babes. Really, it's too much. One would think, given the scope of their enterprise, that their hours would be better employed." A sip of juice, sweet on the tongue. "They should write, instead, of Zaun's many wonders."

"Wonders?"

"Their herbal tinctures, for one." Her tone, perfectly balanced between soothing and secretive, reels the woman in. "You see, I'd been struck with a terrible fever. Sweats, delirium, and the most excruciating chills. If I hadn't been bed-bound, I might have taken a tumble down the stairs. Or flung myself into the sea."

"By the Light! And he—what, locked you up?"

"As a precaution. Nothing more.  Mine was a rather stubborn malady. After five days' vigil, Silco took it upon himself to brew a concoction. A tea, of sorts. Boiled from powdered red clover. Quite astringent, but most effective." Mel sighs. "I haven't felt so well-rested in years."

It did not occur in exactly that fashion. Mel was too woozy to summon the particulars. All she recalls is Silco's shadow looming in. A cup's rim, steaming, pressed to her lips. A bracing tang, and the slow, steady, searing drip down her throat.

She'd succumbed to sleep right after. But she'd awoken much refreshed, and lucid.

When she'd queried him, Silco had shrugged: It's a tonic for the blood. Fire it up, and sweat the fever out.

With the smallest of smirks:  Good for firing up the loins, too.

Lady Dennings is listening raptly. "He tended to you, personally?"

"Like a physician. Only sweeter." A wistful sigh. "It's a rare man who'll kneel at his lady's bedside." She doesn't, in fact, recall much kneeling. But every good story needs a spin. Diplomacy's bedrock is built on well-told fiction. "Truly, the tales of Zaunite men as brutes are wildly untrue.  In their own way, they're quite..." A delicate pause, "... devoted."

"Oh, indeed?"

"I dare not divulge too much. Modesty compels me. But..." Mel's register drops. "... I will say this: Zaunites may lack the polish of a Piltovan gentleman. But they more than make up for it with the... ardor... of their pursuit."

Lady Dennings' mouth forms a perfect 'O.' "Gracious!"

"Gracious? No. Gratifying? Certainly." Mel's lips curve. "And gratifyingly often."

Lady Dennings turns a telling shade of carnation. "Dear me. That's—how intriguing!"

"Isn't it?" Another sip, and a deeper smile. "The Fissures, I find, have much to teach us. I've only just begun my lessons. But I've made such fascinating discoveries. Did you know, for instance, that powdered red clover, steeped in tea, has an aphrodisiacal effect?"

"An aphro—really?"

"Really. It's quite potent. In fact, it can be used as an antidote for..." Then, as if remembering herself. "But forgive me. This is no place to discuss such a delicate subject. I must beg your discretion."

Lady Dennings, fan fluttering, has gone from carnation to crimson. There is, as Mel suspected, a great deal of pent-up frustration simmering below that prissy surface.

Mel makes her move: a single strum, and a long, sustained note of intimacy.

"If you're amenable," she murmurs, "I'll share more details with you. Perhaps over a quiet tea? Just us girls."

"I—yes! Of course! Red clover, you say?"

"A singular plant. It grows at the edges of the Fissure cliffs.  Many a scholar has written of the benefits." A conspiratorial dip of lashes. "You and your lord husband may find the taste a revelation."

"My, erm, husband," Lady Dennings stammers, "is quite—" fan dangling limply, "—fastidious."

"Then, my dear, it is high time he was reacquainted with his reckless youth."

"Oh, Mel, do you truly think...?"

"I shall do better." Mel imparts a light squeeze to the woman's arm. "I will send a gift with you: a small satchel, for your bedchamber. Try a spoonful, with two glasses of cold water. One for yourself. And the other, to share." A significant silence, then a final pluck. "The results, I promise, will be expeditious."

Lady Dennings' eyes take on a hopeful gleam. "How expeditious?"   

"Let's just say: by the summer's end, you'll be celebrating more than your wedding anniversary."

It works like a charm. Lady Dennings, clutching Mel's hands, exclaims, "My dear girl, you're a dove! I shall owe you a thousand favors!"

"None required." Mel's smile is sunshine through clouds. "Consider it a gift, from a dear friend."

"You darling thing! We shall have a girl's talk tonight. And afterward—" a flushing glance toward her husband, stoop-shouldered and sour-faced in the corner, "—why, we'll see what comes."

With luck, him, and you too, Mel thinks.

"Tonight, then," she says. "I'll have a basket sent up to your cabin. But remember—ssh. It is a private affair." Her fingertip, pressed playfully to her lips, earns a titillated twinkle. "Now, if you'll pardon me. I must catch up with the others."

"Oh, of course! I shan't hold you up." Lady Dennings' fan resumes its flutter. Her thoughts, plainly, are palpitating elsewhere. "And do send up the basket! I cannot wait!"

Mel, her work done, glides off.

One down, she thinks, sipping her drink. A half-dozen to go.

Red clover's effects are not, in fact, a fiction. Mel, during her research into Zaun's history, has read volumes on the subject. And experienced, firsthand, its efficacy.

She'd shared a spoonful with Jayce, back when they were together. Purely for research reasons, of course. She'd only given him a mouthful, and he'd been wild to have her—so much, she'd ended up with her dress in shreds, one slipper dangling from the ceiling fan, and the other flung straight through the window.

Afterward, Jayce had apologized shamefacedly. Mel, secretly charmed, had assured him the fault was hers.

They'd never touched the stuff again. But Mel has not forgotten.

By tonight, she suspects, neither will Lady and Lord Dennings. With luck, a little Dennings-to-be will soon be in the picture, courtesy of Mel's powdered charity. Mel, in turn, will have gained a pocketful of Dennings coin, and the political currency to bargain with Demacian traders for red clover as a mass-market commodity.

Soon, word will spread. The Fissures are in possession of miracles, in potentia.

Zaun's economy could use a healthy boost. And Piltover, by proxy, will feel the benefit.

Marriage: by any other name.

Satisfied, Mel's focus shifts to the next string.   

The string, as luck would have it, sails her way. Cevila, wife of the Piltovan exchequer: a statuesque ice-eyed blond who'd made Mel's life an unending misery back in her salad days as an emigree. A native Piltovan with close ties to House Ferros, she prides herself on her pedigree, her purse-strings, and her impeccable taste—or, in Mel's private reckoning, her impeccable lack thereof.

Since Mel's ascent into the corridors of power, Cevila's kept up an endless siege under a guise of cordiality. Barbs couched in a show of sisterhood; favors Mel cannot deny without close allies feeling snubbed; invitations she cannot refuse without offending the very people she seeks to woo.

It's a tedious dance. But Cevila's rank confers her with gravitas among the glitterati. Her opinion, when solicited, is considered gospel. 

Mel, the Madonna of Piltover, cannot afford to play the sinner.

"Cevila," she greets airily. "How are you faring?"

"Oh, my dove! Better, now that I see you're in fine fettle. But how peaked you look! It must be that frock. Quite lovely, but rather..." A critical once-over, "... plain."

Mel's smile, soft as a cat's paw, hides claws. "The style is from East Shurima.  A gift from the Sadja clan."

"Is it? That explains it. They're a droll set. All silks and scarabs. They'd wrap themselves in the city's flag, if they thought it'd give them airs." A barely-there squeeze of Mel's elbow. "No offense, my darling. I know you're a patroness of theirs."

Mel, noting the dig, pivots. "Whereas you, in your plumage, are a bird of paradise."

In fact, she resembles a harpy. The Ferros features, chipped from granite, accord the face a certain regal grandeur. But Cevila, with her penchant for feathered ostentation, has a way of transforming even the most sober attire into avian excess.

Today, she's swathed in a plum silk sheath studded with gold-chased amethysts. A matching choker, its collar encrusted with citrines, enfolds her neck. Her hair, lacquered within an inch of its life, is a helmet of pale yellow, and adorned with a nest's worth of diamond-and-pearl pinfeathers.

Mel, taking in the effect, feels an odd pang. The last time she'd worn such an extravagance of gems, it had been on the heels of her split with Jayce. Her mind had been in disarray. Her sartorial choices, likewise. Each dress, shimmering, had been a salve: a reminder that no matter how her heart ached, the rest of her could still shine.

Now, taking in Cevila's glitter, her mind pieces together a new puzzle.

"Your husband must be so proud," Mel says, "to have you on his arm."

"He is, yes." Cevila's grip, on her elbow, tightens a fraction. It's a tell, and Mel tucks it away. "Of course, his pride is not all that's on his arm."

I would doubt that, Mel thinks.

She already has the measure of Cevila's husband: a man twice her age, and whose sole claim to fame, apart from a family name two centuries old, is mediocrity incarnate. He'd married the ferocious Cevila purely for the prestige of the Ferros title She'd been, to pardon the pun, a feather in his cap.

Privately, it's no secret that his tastes run younger and far less discerning. Of late, he's been spotted frequenting the entertainment district of Zaun's Boundary Markets. More specifically, an establishment hosting two Shuriman-born dancers—brothers by blood, and by the rumor mill, bedmates.

Cevila is far from blind to her husband's proclivities. Mel, who's witnessed their tête-à-têtes at society gatherings, has noticed the strain behind their smiles. Two strangers, trapped in the same gilded cage. According to Elora's reports, she's making preparations to serve him with divorce papers. Once the split is finalized, she'll set her sights on a new target: younger, better-connected, and more importantly, better-funded.

The roster is long, and the contenders many.  Even Jayce, the poor dear, is rumored to be on her radar. 

Cevila's eye, however, is not on matrimonial bliss. Her goal is to secure enough funds to purchase a mining seam in the Fissures' southwest quadrant. Its yield is substantial: pure platinum and gold. To claim it, she's leveraged everything from her family's connections to a cadre of solicitors—to no avail.

Silco, rebuffing every overture, has made plain that the land is not for sale.

The refusal, in Cevila's view, is a personal slight. And Mel, as her chief adversary, has become a natural target.

"It is truly good to see you well," Cevila says, with a talonlike grip on Mel's elbow. "I was concerned, of course. But it was your husband who most needed a watchful eye. Why, a lesser man would've taken succor at the nearest port-of-call."

Mel, inwardly translating Harpy to Buzzard, smiles. "A lesser man, yes. Mine stayed firmly anchored."

"And decidedly taciturn! He wouldn't even deign to give an update." The twin flintlocks of her eyes turn Silco's way. "You'd think he was in mourning. His beloved, or his bachelorhood—it's difficult to say which."

Mel has yet to see Silco grieve anything beyond an errant hangnail. Cevila's remarks, as ever, serve no purpose beyond baiting her.

Taking the proffered string, Mel plays it for all its worth. "My husband is a man of few words." At least, when his tongue's occupied elsewhere. "As it is, he's accustomed to livelier pastimes. Compared to Zaun's vibrancy, a week at sea is a veritable lull." A sip, and a sigh. "Confined company does make a dull time of it."

The subtext is subtle, but unmistakable. Cevila, in her plumage, bristles.

"Confined—or refined? His manners are decent enough. But pedigree's the real test." Her chin cuts a scornful arc. "The Fissures, after all, are a pestilence pit." Then, catching herself. "I mean no disrespect, my dove. Marriage factors more than sentiment for our stripe, as we both know. One plays the hand one’s dealt. But we're women of the world, are we not? We both understand the value of preserving a legacy." Her eyes pass, speculatively, over Mel's belly. "And the consequences, should our choice fail to meet it."

The stab is plain: Silco, Fissure-born, is exemplary of his breed. Filth, mud, scum. Any child, a byproduct of that union, will bear the taint. A taint that will spread to Piltover's streets. To the halls of the High Council. To the very heart of the City of Progress.

Mel's fingers flex on the stem of her glass.  A thousand old slights, she'll bear with aplomb. But this, the freshest insult, makes her see red.

For a moment, she understands Ambessa's warpath. The primal urge, to defend at any cost. Mel has spent a lifetime keeping a lid on her own fire. But her mother's blood runs true. The anger is a hissing spark, ready to ignite. If she were a Medarda of the old guard, she would carve her name straight through Cevila's heart.

Up ahead, Silco is still slouched by the bar. Lighting a cigarette, he taps out the spent match. Behind the leisurely ribbons of smoke, his scarred profile is all insouciant angles. But Mel feels his focus like a hot brand. He has been listening, too. Not with his ears, but his eyes.  

And Cevila could find herself on the wrong side of a scope.

That decides Mel.

A Medarda's wrath is legendary. But a Zaunite's is fatal. Between their cities, there have been enough bloodbaths.

Diplomacy, and not daggers, must prevail.

So she smiles, and tugs on a subtler string.

"Legacy, yes." A slow sip of juice. "My husband and I have discussed it. In particular, provisions for the future."

"Provisions?" Cevila's keen eyes dart between Mel and the bar. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Only that the winds of change are never gentle. And when they blow, fortunes can shift." She swirls her drink. "I always caution my fellow Councilors against complacency. Or ill-advised investments in foreign ventures. A single declaration of war, and the trade-lines go dry. A few misplaced funds, and the whole enterprise goes belly-up. We must keep our assets, well, closer to home."

"Home?" Cevila repeats, astute as ever. "Or Zaun?"

"Zaun is our sister city. As it stands, her prospects are excellent. But Silco believes, and I concur, in strengthening our individual portfolios. Piltover, for instance, has ample potential for growth in the manufacturing sector. With Hextech, we have the means to revolutionize the market." Musingly, "In turn, Zaun has her mines, and the wisdom, age old, to refine their yield."

At the mention of the mines, a covetous gleam kindles in Cevila's eye. "The mines. Yes."

"Recently, the Fissure seams, thanks to diligent labor, have hit the motherlode. Soon, the output will be tripled. Even quadrupled." The morsel dangles: a succulent cut of red meat. Then: "Naturally, Silco is determined to keep the wealth concentrated in the hands of those who labored for it."

Cevila is brought up short. "In a matter of wages?"

"Oh, nothing so crass.  The miners' guild is a collective. Their assets are held in trust, for the benefit of the whole. Older seams, owned by barons, are likewise protected. But Silco believes in safeguarding his city's long-term interest. To that end, the Zaun’s recently enacted a decree for the lifelong preservation of the mines."

Suddenly, Cevila's feathers are a-quiver.  "I—I'm not quite sure I follow."

"Then allow me to clarify. For the last century, the Fissures have been a free-for-all. Foreign hands, ours and otherwise, have scooped up whatever they could. They've left the remainder in chaos. A dozen factions, battling each other for scraps. It's been a waste of resources. And, frankly, a waste of life." Her fingertips clink across the stem of her glass: a percussive counterpoint to the silence. "The Cabinet's new policy aims to restore a sense of order. No longer will foreign backers have unfettered access to the veins. Only Fissureborns—guilds or barons—will hold title to their respective stakes. All the proceeds will remain local, and invested in the betterment of the people. The clause will be embedded into the deeds. In perpetuity."

"Perpetuity?"

"Forever and a day." Mel goes solemn. "As my mother likes to say: Blood will always out. Only the children of born Zaunites will inherit the mines.  And those children, should the time come, shall have the final say in who holds ownership." 

"But Mel! Surely the Council cannot condone—"

"Dear Cevila. The Council's writ does not extend to Zaun. The Fissures, by Treaty, are a sovereign state." A grateful sigh. "I suppose it's a rare stroke of luck. By wedding a man of Fissure birth, I will enjoy greater access than most. And our children, by default, shall have the deepest roots."  She meets Cevila's eyes over the rim of her glass. "A legacy, as you say."

Cevila seems to have forgotten how to breathe. A small mercy: her talon has retracted from Mel's elbow.

"This is—well." With effort, she finds her composure. "This is unexpected news."

"Isn't it?" Mel, smiling, sets down her drink. She's dangled the lure, then snatched it away. Cevila, chewing on her loss, is now primed for any scrap. "Naturally, in wake of this decree, the demand for Fissure stones has begun skyrocketing. Do you happen to own any, Cevila? Perhaps a pendant or a bauble?"

Cevila rallies a smile. It's a ghastly effort. "I, ah, have a ring or two."

"Lovely. Their worth is about to treble. Do you remember my necklace? The blue diamond-drop?" 

"Vividly." 

"It was a gift. Designed by the artisans in the Boundary Markets. Their craftsmanship is second to none." A calculated pause. "If you're amenable, I'll speak to the artisan's guild. We can summon one of their agents to my apartments. Then, perhaps, commission a set?"

The gleam in Cevila's eyes brightens. "You—you'd do that? My dove, I couldn't possibly accept—"

"Nonsense. You are, after all, one of my closest friends. And the artisan's guild are a lovely group. They are headed by a close ally of Silco's. A Zaunite, and a first-rate entrepreneur. His family are descended from the ancient Oshra Va'Zaun line. Did you know, they once held dominion over the isthmus?"

"I do, yes." Cevila's beak wrinkles. "Until our Wardens cut off their privy purses—" re: confiscated their estates and sold the spoils at auction to foreign investors, "—and the rest were sent packing. Most sold off piles of heirlooms to stay afloat. And what's left are probably riddled with the plague."

"What's left are the mines," Mel corrects. "And Silco's friend, as fortune would have it, inherited much of the old Oshra Va'Zaun stock. He is, as they call them belowground, a gold baron."

Now Cevila's eyes are aglow. "A gold baron, you say?"

"A charming gentleman. Sadly, still unattached. But his means are considerable. And his tastes, exquisite. He is a patron of the arts. A discerning collector. I daresay he'd be an ideal candidate for a lady of your caliber."

For business—or matrimony—Mel doesn't deign to specify. She doesn't need to.

The hook is lodged deep. Cevila, her smile pure gluttony, is already planning her next coup. A Zaunite husband on her string, and gold at her fingertips. 

All it would cost her: pride, prejudice, and a single night's sleep.

"You know," she says, "I do pride myself on an eye for quality."

Mel purrs. "I have every faith that you will come away, well satisfied."

"I believe next month I have an open window. If your schedule can accommodate—"

"I'm sure we can work something out."

"Good. Good. I'll be in touch."  Cevila flicks a glance at Silco. The distaste is tinged with a new layer of intrigue. "And, of course, your husband will be present to broker the introduction?"

Mel lies, smooth as silk, "He'd be delighted."

In fact, she suspects, Silco would rather have his liver cut out. Between Zaun's bigheaded bourgeois and Piltover's self-aggrandizing aristocracy, his tolerance will be sorely tried. But, whatever else, her husband is a pragmatist. A potential trade with House Ferros is too lucrative to dismiss. Better still if it ends with a merger—literal—between Cevila and one of his barons. A symbol of unity—or, at the very least, shared gain.

Marriage: by any name.

Cevila, her high spirits restored, swans off. Pleased, Mel accepts another flute of pineapple juice from a passing steward. She is beginning to feel back in her stride. The crowd, once an unwieldy beast, is now a pliant and responsive chorus.

Serenely, she moves on to the next string. The Piltovan ambassador—an old fusspot fittingly named Hector.

As a high-ranking member of government, the voyage must suffer his presence. But Mel has heard Silco, in the privacy of their suite, wish him more than once to the bottom of the sea. One word on Zaun, and he's off: a diatribe on the perils of a lowborn populace without oversight, the undercity as the mouth of Hell, and Fissurefolk as the demons therein.

Mel, having the measure of his string, has learnt to play it deftly. Usually, she douses his rants with a few drops of sweetened condescension. Other times, she plays the ingenue, and laments his lot in life: a stalwart of the old order, trapped between the twin forces of progress and decay. If neither of those tactics serve, a flash of cleavage is enough to set him off-kilter.

Admittedly, the method is not the noblest. But she will not apologize for keeping a peaceable accord.  

"Lord Hector," she greets serenely. "How wonderful to see you."

"Mel!" The ambassador, ruddy-faced and portly, hauls himself to his feet. A plateful of trifle is hastily abandoned. "My Melusine, what a vision you are!"

"You flatterer." A kiss, pecked airily on his cheek. "I trust you're faring well?"

"Oh, the usual. Tallying the votes. Calculating the ledgers. Nothing a bit of good food can't fix." He casts a mournful eye at the trifle. "A pity the chef won't let me near the kitchens. If I could only get my hands on the caramel sauce for the mousse—"

"Now, now, Lord Hector." Mel's index finger ticks playfully. "We'd end up with a shortage."

"I'd not hoard the stuff, my girl! I'd only sample." The woebegone look is as patently false as his bawdy wink. "Sample liberally."

"Really, Lord Hector. You are shameless." Coyly, Mel tucks a dangling curl behind her ear. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were angling for a different dessert."

"Only if you're game, my dear. Though rumor has it—” Another wink, “you've already had a nibble."  

"Why, Lord Hector. Whatever are you insinuating?"

"You and that husband of yours. I'm told you were cooped up, the pair of you. Six nights, and a locked door." He chortles. "If there was no nibbling, I'll eat my hat. Is it true you'd come down with ague, or was the whole business a bedtime story?"

Mel puts on an abashed smile. "Oh, I was bedbound. But it was quite a dull affair. Fever, delirium, the works."

"Frightful! But your man looked after you, did he?" The wink becomes a leer. "Or was it he that left you bedridden? They say Zaunites are half-rabid, the lot of them. And yours, my dear, has a pack of knives for teeth. If I were you, I'd have been frightened out of my wits."

It's a vulgar turn, but Mel knows when to play her hand. "You're incorrigible, Lord Hector. My husband is the picture of civility." Her voice drops meaningfully. "And watching us as we speak."

A hasty glance over Lord Hector's shoulder confirms the fact. Silco, slouched with the remnants of his cigarette, is observing their exchange. His features project boredom. But his focus is keenly honed. Mel has the distinct sense that if Hector so much as breathed a lecherous sigh her way, he'd find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

Hector, wisely, does not test the theory.

"Well, well," he says, and clears his throat. But his manner, with Mel, becomes a good deal more circumspect. "He's a watchful sort, isn't he? But that's no surprise. The Fissures are a foul pit. It takes a hard head, or a harder fist, to survive. Why, I had a letter from my cousin last month. She was telling me how her youngest, a delicate little thing, crossed the Bridge and fell ill!"

"Of Grey Lung?"

"Heavens, no! Just the sniffles. But, mark my words, the next epidemic will be upon us soon! I still recall, in the summer of sixty-three, when the harbor was beset with the Ash Plague. Hundreds of souls, lost in a matter of days. If not for the Council's swift action, and the timely quarantine, we might've all perished!"

Mel hides her frown.

She's done her research. The Ash Plague had, in fact, claimed thousands rather than hundreds. A majority of its victims were from the Undercity. And the Council, for all its posturing, had done little to address the root cause: the filth-encrusted streets, the sewage-bloated canals, the slums packed like sardines in a tin.

The quarantine, too, was little better than a farce. Fissurefolk, sickly and suffering, were barricaded belowground. Anyone who dared defy the order faced immediate arrest. The result was a public health catastrophe.  Topside, the epidemic's spread was halted swift;y. Belowground, it raged like wildfire, and took the young, the weak, the elderly.

Mel remembers Silco, once, describing the aftermath:  Bodies piled up like driftwood. Flies swarming so thick, they formed clouds.

The smell of death in every breath.

The story is a stark contrast to the Council's sanitized narrative: the triumph of science over superstition, under Piltover's noble hand.

But in Zaun, the truth will not be silenced. The scars, never erased.

 Mel, her juice gone tasteless, thinks: If I'd not met Silco, I'd still be in the dark.

"Dear Hector," she says, mildly. "The Ash Plague was decades ago. Why revive old fears?"

"Revive? Fie! The fears, my girl, like the Fissures' insalubrious air, are ever present! My own wife, last time she braved those wretched streets, came a hair's breadth from death!"

"Death?"

"She nearly fell down a manhole! And you know what happened next?" Hector shudders. "Her high-heel got caught, and she tumbled into the muck. She had to toss the whole lot! Why, it was a nightmare. It took three stout-hearted men and a crowbar to pry her free." 

Mel's eyes meet Silco's across the room. Silco’s lips barely twitch.

He’d been present during that absurdist tableau. In fact, he'd paid the very men who'd pulled Hector's wife free. The woman, a shrill-voiced dumpling with a penchant for frills, had been too busy shrieking to thank her saviors. Afterward, though, she'd found herself recounting the narrow save with a breathless lilt. Perhaps, Mel suspects, it was all that close handling by the stout-hearted men.

Since the Crowbar Incident, as it has come to be known, Lady Hector has developed a powerful fascination with the Fissures.  Indeed, Mel suspects the only reason she's prodded her husband to invite himself to this cruise is to gather juicy tidbits about Zaun.

Her ardent curiosity, paired with Hector's fecklessness, are twin chords of opportunity. Ones that, plucked just so, will make for a profitable duet.

So Mel takes a slow sip, and lets a sympathetic smile play.

"How dreadful. But, I daresay, you and your wife will fare better now."

"Oh?"

"Zaun has developed a reputable network of guides and concierges. They know all the best districts."

"All the best?"

"I've visited them personally." She names several: a jeweler's, a chocolatier's, a clothier's. "All within a short walk along the Promenade. Your little grandson, Remi, will adore the chocolatier's wares. Truffles in the shapes of beetles. Marzipan worms. And a lovely caramelized-pear confection." Her eyes pass from the plateful of trifle to Hector's portly belly. "You, too, would enjoy a liberal sampling."

Stirred, Hector leans in. "Well, I'll be. And these shops are safe?"

"Perfectly. Travelers from Piltover and abroad flock to them. The shopkeepers, I promise, are courtesy itself."

"And, I take it, the security is sound?"

"Every shop is guarded by a retinue of trained blackguards. The streets, paved and clean, are kept free of footpads. House Medarda often hosts private soirées at the Promenade. I've never once been accosted by a ruffian—much less a rat." A pat, fond and wholly fabricated, to Hector's shoulder. "You needn't fear, dear Hector. Zaun, these days, is the very model of civilized conduct."

Hector warms visibly. "Ah, well, if it's good enough for you, what's this old curmudgeon to worry about? I'll speak to my wife. She's awfully keen to, ah, venture farther afield. She's always been a curious sort." A wink. "A bit like you, eh?" His hand, clumsily, covers hers. "Tell me. If I were to visit, could you arrange a private tour?"

Mel, who'd predicted the turn, delicately extracts her hand. "Shame on you, Lord Hector. I'm a married woman." The implication being: were she unattached, her answer would've been very different. "But if it's a personal guide you seek, I have just the one." Mel names a service: the same one Silco's crew employs. "They'll arrange tours at your convenience."

"Splendid, splendid! You, ah, must tell me more about the clothiers. A few new shirts are just the thing." Another glance at Silco, now sizing him up with a more speculative eye. "Your Trencher dresses sharp, I'll give him that. Perhaps he'll spare me a tip or two. He is a Fissureborn, after all. He must know all the best garment districts."

"Oh, he does."

In fact, the identity of Silco's tailor is a closely guarded secret. The man, a wizened Shuriman refugee, has his workshop hidden away in the depths of the Commercia Fantastica. He sews, by hand, each article of clothing to the customer's measure. Silco has two-dozen suits from him, in varying shades and cuts. Black with merlot accents, charcoal grey with blue-green brocade, two-toned midnight blue with silver embroidery.

The styles are all distinctly Zaunite. Tailored to Silco's lean frame, they evoke a serpent's sinuous grace. They are also remarkably versatile. Mel has watched them transform him, chameleonlike, from a sleek statesman to a shadowy specter, and back again.

But more than statements of sartorial flair, they serve a brute utility. The fabrics are Fissure textile: light, flexible, and impervious to damp. In a pinch, they serve as body armor: a sleeve with a cleverly-crafted sheath for a concealed blade; a snug little pouch, discreetly cut into the waistcoat, for a smoke-pellet; a garotte, lined along the edge of a cravat, to slit a stranger's throat.

Mel recalls, at a Topside gala before their engagement, the sight of Silco, turned out in formalwear: a simple black suit with a white silk pocket square. The cut was, for all its sleek simplicity, more durable than appearance suggested. She'd learned firsthand when Silco, strolling arm-in-arm with her through the night-gardens, had been waylaid by an Enforcer who'd demanded to see his identification.

Whether out of a superabundance of caution, or a bigot's crude compulsion, Mel still isn't sure.

She'd moved to intercede. But Silco had checked her with the barest skim of fingertips at her wrist. Addressing the Enforcer with politeness, but not a jot of respect, he'd asked if he looked like a trespasser. The Enforcer shot back that he looked like a cutthroat.

Silco, never one to pass up a chance for roleplaying, had obliged by nearly slitting the man's throat. 

The officer, a greenhorn, had plainly not been expecting a real knife to materialize at his jugular. In his shock, he’d dropped his truncheon and hightailed it. Mel, amused and appalled in equal measure, had turned to Silco, a chastisement on her lips.

Only to find herself scooped up into his arms, then carried up a trellis and out of sight.

They'd spent the rest of the evening, astride the rooftop's shingles, discussing trade. The only time Silco's hands had strayed from her waist was to light a cigarette. Or to cup her cheek. Or to tilt her face up to his.  Meanwhile, seven stories below, a contingent of officers had frantically been sounding the alarm to outcries of highwaymen and abduction. 

When the hounds had arrived on the scene, Silco had scoffed so hard, he'd nearly fallen down the eaves. Mel, not wishing him to break his neck, had clung tightly. Somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, she'd decided to tug him closer. He'd ended up treating her to what Zaunites called 'The Penthouse Plus'—making love right on the gritty shingles, her dress hiked up around her waist and his coat spread out beneath them.

The giddy thrill had opened her lungs. Only his mouth on hers, drinking her cries, had kept her silent.  

Afterward, smooth as a conjurer's trick, Silco had slipped them both downstairs and back into the garden. The search, by then, was over. The Enforcers, their bluster gone, had been reduced to scouring the hedges. Silco, his eyes dark with devious glee, had strolled casually past them, and into the ballroom, to fetch himself and Mel a plateful of dessert.

It had proved the scandal of the summer. Councilor Medarda, swept off at knifepoint in the middle of a gala. Then, miraculously, reappearing hours later: no worse for wear, and a good deal more cheerful, arm-in-arm with her assailant.

Whose suit, it should be noted, was perfectly intact. No rips, wrinkles, or even a rumpled lapel.

Afterward, Mel had summoned the rookie officer, and his Captain, into her office. A blistering dressing-down on misconduct was meted out. The officer had insulted her guest, and by extension, the goodwill between Zaun and Piltover. When she'd reintroduced Silco as her fiancé, the rookie's mortification was palpable.

Silco had taken the opportunity to renew his acquaintance: not with knife against the jugular, but with a smile twice as sharp, and a firm handshake that promised, without words, a fate worse than death if the man dared call him a crook again.

But afterward, alone in her chambers, Mel had found herself thinking: This is what his life has been.

Fighting to keep the ground under his feet.

And even now, at the zenith of his power, there was no place for him Topside. No welcome in these hallowed halls.  This, he'd told her, was why Zaun existed. To ensure no other Fissure child had to suffer what he had. And for him, the fight was not over. The world, not won.

Not until the last sliver of his city, and its people, were secure.

Smoothing the memory away, Mel summons a smile. "I'll do you one better, Lord Hector. Why don't we arrange an outing? You, your wife, Silco and myself. We'll tour the most exquisite spots at the Promenade. You will see that the Fissures are no hellmouth. And my husband will have the honor of escorting us, to ensure the journey is a comfortable one."

Hector's kneejerk distaste yields to temptation. Beneath his condemnation of Zaun lurks an avid desire: to sample the city's exotic otherness. Mel has seen it before, in the eyes of her fellow Councillors: a yearning for the novel, inverted into show-offish censure.

As though by damning Zaun's vices, they can exalt their own.

"We-ell," Hector relents, "if he can spare the time, I believe we could squeeze in a quick outing. It'd be, ah, good to get a lay of the land." His hand, again, gropes clumsily for hers. "A bit of a reconnaissance mission, eh? Always good to keep an ear to the ground." A third, utterly shameless, wink. "And one's eyes on the goods."

Mel, inwardly rolling her own, keeps her smile fixed. "Yours, Lord Hector, are a pair no lady could deny." Then: "You ought to return yours to the trifle. I do believe it's melting."

Lord Hector's wink falls askew. "Oh, drat! I'd best fetch another plate!"

Excusing himself, he bustles off. Mel, taking stock of her success, finishes off her drink.

A few discordant strings, but the symphony is well underway.  Soon, Piltover's entire social circuit will change its tune. That is, in sum, the spirit of this voyage.  Gathering allies. Making connections. Creating new opportunities, and exploiting old ones. Hecter's not the only guest with a taste for the unusual. Nor Cevila and the Dennings the only ones whose purse-strings, tugged the right way, will yield a hefty haul.

In time, Mel will cultivate them all.

And they, in turn, will cultivate Zaun's and Piltover's interests. 

Marriage: by any other name.

Then she hears, to the thunder of boots, a bark: "Medarda!"

Mel stifles a sigh.

It is the Noxian envoy—a damnable brute by the name of Garlen. The man is a wolf of the worst kind: festooned in blood-red, and slavering for a kill. A high-ranking brigadier of Noxus's military, he's spent his career subjugating swathes of the Ionian continent. Now, as part of a political alliance between Noxus and Piltover, he's been dispatched as a 'liaison'.

His actual duties, as far as Mel can discern, are to make a nuisance of himself. Negotiating with him is like wrestling a hound: an exercise in futility. Her gift for subtlety is met with brash disparagement. Her cleverness, dismissed as flirtatious banter.  And if she has the misfortune of sharing his company alone, he's liable to start groping. More than once, she's resorted to employing armed sentries, to dissuade his wandering hands.

In truth, the only thing keeping him from her throat is Ambessa.

The brigadier, knowing the threat of the General's retribution, is careful not to overstep. But his ambition is as deep-rooted as his lechery. He's keen to establish a foothold in Piltover. Mel, as a Councilor, makes an appealing target. Not only does she have access to the High Council's ear, but also to the coffers of the Medarda clan.

Once, to Mel's eternal dismay, he’d gotten drunk at a press junket, and dared to propose marriage to her before the cameras. A fortnight before her wedding, no less. Her fiancé—after a tiresome tirade on his low birth, his physique, his unsuitability—he'd threatened to disembowel on the spot.

Silco, who relished the pretext to make an ass out of anyone, had proposed a simpler solution: a duel to first blood.

It had been, in Sevika's blunt retelling, Like a fucking slaughterhouse.

Garlen was an able swordsman. But he’d underestimated Zaun's spirit of ruthless ingenuity. He'd walked in believing the fight was in his favor. Silco, in ten minutes, had turned the belief on its head. Then, he'd reduced the duel to a carnival sideshow.  First, he'd blinded his opponent with a faceful of sludge from the streets. Then, with a well-placed boot, he'd sent the Noxian envoy skidding into a gutter. Finally, as a coup de grace, he'd whipped out a switchblade and stabbed him. The blow, to the meat of Garlen's thigh, had nearly severed an artery.

Garlen, howling bloody murder, had been hauled away by his guards. He'd spent the rest of the week in Zaun's infirmary. The next morning, he'd boarded the ferry back to Piltover: tail tucked between his legs.

And his pride, as the Undercity saying goes, In a shit-stained shoe.

Since the incident, Garlen's been cautious about antagonizing Silco in public. But his contempt for the city is undiminished. His attitude toward Mel, accordingly, is one of open scorn. To him, she is the weakest link in the Medarda chain.

A pretty little chit, who, when the going gets tough, will cave to the strongest bidder.

The irony is not lost on Mel. Were she truly a spineless chit, she'd have sold herself a long time ago. And, likely, to a man like Garlen.  A dynastic marriage was a common means of doubling her clan's prosperity. But the prospect of a lifetime wrangling the brutish lout—enduring his crude lusts and his insufferable temper—was abhorrent. She'd never have consented to it, unless by force.

Silco, whatever else, has always respected her separateness. And his ambition to walk with her—not behind her or in front—is equal to her own. Their combined will is a potent force. One that will, in time, forge a brighter future.

For Mel, that is worth every sacrifice.

In her ear, Jayce's voice intrudes: a forlorn query in lieu of farewell.

"Even love?"

"Medarda," Garlen barks, louder. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

Mel's smile becomes an airtight lock. "Bones, Sir Galen? Aren't we feeding you enough?"

"What's the reason we've anchored off-course?" He sweeps a thick arm at the motionless horizon. "I was told we'd reach the Ionian coast before noon. The sun's almost overhead. If I don't make landfall by sundown, my troops will be wondering if I've gone missing." 

 "Surely you can wait another hour?"

"An hour? The blazes are we wasting an hour for? If we're going to float in the middle of nowhere, at least make it worth my time!" Leering, he slaps his thigh. "How about a floor-show? You look fit for one, all tarted up in that handkerchief. Why don't you sing me a song or two?"

Mel's features remain smooth. "You have, I'm afraid, mistaken me for a canary. But if you're keen for music, our orchestra would happily oblige."

"Feh. A bunch of prissy string-pullers? What use are they? Give me a proper band: men with brass pipes, and war-drums, and a real beat! Then I'll show you a performance." Garlen's eyes take their time crawling down Mel's body. "You'll see how a proper Noxian can make the ground shake."

Her countrymen, Mel thinks, are such a tiresome lot. Especially the military set. "On a ship, Sir Garlen, we call that seasickness."

"And this damn delay? What'd you call that?"

"A detour."

"Detour?" Garlen's bristly brows merge like thunderheads. "On whose blasted order?"

"Mine."

Silco materializes as if risen up from the depths.

The sunlight, white and warm, dapples the air. Yet the plunge in temperature is palpable.  It is, Mel thinks, not unlike two polarities—the dark and the light—aligning at once. A disorienting sensation, the first time it’d occurred: Silco stepping into her path, and the world tilting off its axis.

The guests, huddling closer, murmur warily. Cevila's face, heavily rouged, is a shade paler.  Lady Dennings' fan is a blur. Hector's gulp is audible. The rest of the party are paralyzed in place. All except Garlen, who has the temerity to laugh.

It's more bark than bite. He's already felt Silco's blade once. He won't tempt his teeth.

"Well, well," he sneers. "The blushing bridegroom."

"Sir Garlen," Silco returns, with a small nod. "Good of you to join us."

"I wasn't given a choice! We're supposed to be on land, not floating like a piece of flotsam."

"You're welcome to swim."

"Swim? To the Ionian strait? You're out of your mind!" Garlen strides closer, crowding Silco's space. The man is a foot taller, and twice as broad. Still, Mel notes that he stays out of striking distance. For a braggart, he's no fool. "I know you Trenchers know no qualms about playing hooky. But the rest of us have a schedule to keep. So get this ship back on course. Now."

Silco’s stare is inscrutable. "In time."

"Time? I'm a busy man. I don't have time to sit around on this damn tub!" Garlen squints suspiciously. "Unless you've hijacked this ship? ‘Cause if it's a ransom you're angling for—"

Silco’s smile is a gleam of serrated teeth. "Sir Garlen. I'm in the business of politics, not piracy."

"Hah! As if the distinction makes a difference."

Now the gleam is sharper. "I suppose it doesn't." He turns to the rest of the party. His low cadence rolls over the room like fog. "Allow me to explain. The delay is due to a last-minute excursion. We'll resume our course by early nightfall. But first, a short trip to the southern reef. A treasure hunt."

Garlen's confusion is writ large. "Treasure?"

"Enough, I'm sure, to satisfy everyone's appetite." His stare passes, one by one, over the assembled guests. "Ionia. Demacia. Shurima. Noxus." And, finally, alighting on Mel. "Piltover."

There is a susurrus of whispers. Mel, bemused, keeps the mask in place. He'd never mentioned her city was tied to this game.  Is he testing her? Challenging her?

Or—impossibility of impossibilities—bidding her to play along?

Silco goes on, "I wonder, Sir Garlen. Have you sailed this route before?"

Garlen, bristling: "I know the waters well. I've fought battles on every stretch of these seas."

"Won, too, I expect. You are a celebrated soldier. But an explorer?" A tip of the chin. "There's a difference."

"And what would that be?"

"As Councilor Medarda says, a world of it. Of course, she is referring to chiffon versus tulle. But the principle stands." A half-lidded smile. "One's for concealment. The other for transparency."

Garlen cuts in, "If you're trying to make a point, make it quick."

"My point is only this: if you've sailed the southern waters, you'll notice a peculiarity. The Ionian Strait, on Piltover's maps, is thirteen degrees north of this point. Zaun's maps, however, place it further west. A curious discrepancy. Have you considered the reason?"

"Why the blazes would I care about Zaun's maps? Noxian charts are the only ones worth a damn."

The barest nod. "Fair point. That's the charm of maps. They're carved out by conquerors. Every chart tells a story, depending on the hand that draws it. And every chart, in its way, reveals a truth—or at least a version of it. Noxus, as the reigning authority of these waters, will always be partial to its own perspective. Piltover, as a close ally, tends to lean." A beat. "Zaun’s maps tell a different story."

"Ha!" Garlen's fist thuds the closest table. "A story about slime and scum, no doubt."

"A story about survival," Silco rejoins. "About claiming a space where none existed. At least, not on paper."

A crook of his finger, and the steward from earlier rushes up. His arms are laden with rolled-up sheafs paper. Charts, Mel realizes. The largest, unfurled on the table, is marked in different colors: a web of seaways, straits and currents. Mel, scanning it, notes a discrepancy in the dimensions: the Ionian Strait appears much narrower on Piltover's cartography, whereas Zaun's chart, drawn with exacting care, depicts it as twice its width. A series of X's, in a serpentine pattern, lead from the southern reefs up to the coastline of Zaun. The same path is absent from Piltover's chart.

Silco's fingertip traces a trail marked in indigo. "This is the shortest route from Piltover's coast. We'll reach Wuju by today if we cut across here." His nail, tapping the indigo line, cuts right. "This, however, is the shortest path according to Zaun's navigation."

"Bullshit!" Garlen says. "There is no path there! That's a damned dead-end!"

Silco regards him steadily. "Is it?"

"You're wasting our time! There's nothing there except shoals!"

Garlen's disdain is tangible: a seething red cloud. Silco, immune to sulfurous fumes, only shrugs. "Shoals, yes. Or seamounts from thousands of years ago. Many, with extensive deposits of minerals. Silver, copper, lead. Even diamonds."

Garlen barks a laugh. "And you Trenchers found this how? By sniffing up the coal dust?"

Silco, unperturbed, spreads the chart with both hands. The chandelier's rays sheen his pomaded hair like a raven's wing. Beneath, his eyes are two blots of ink. "Zaun's seafaring charts, Sir Garlen, date to antiquity. In fact, most cartographers claim they're as old as the Shuriman empire—which makes them, by definition, prehistoric.  Once our city was a corollary of Shurima. Known as Oshra Va'Zaun, the City of the Sun Gates. Its routes stretched from eastern to western waters. Zaun, as its inheritor, maintains the same routes: one that, on Piltover's maps, don't even exist."

A chill tiptoes down Mel's spine.  He'd never told her any of this. Had never even alluded to such knowledge. And the way he phrases it, with such calm certainty, suggests this is no revelation.

He's known about these seamounts for a long time.

"You are," she hears Cevila interject, "speaking in hypotheticals."

"Hardly. Our seafaring charts date from centuries ago. But Zaun's current naval fleet is a vital force. Since our independence, we've updated all the ancient routes—noting, of course, changes in currents and wind patterns. Our Exploration & Survey Corps have established a nautical corridor, with dry docks along every port from Zaun to South Shurima. We've also discovered new channels and navigable passages. Some take advantage of rip current systems.  Others, thanks to hidden glyphs carved in the seabed, allow vessels outfitted with the right gems to sail directly to a corresponding outpost, between one blink and the next."

The crowd lapse into shock. Silco's voice—low-pitched, hypnotic—paints a vivid picture: a labyrinth of channels, each with a corresponding rune: a pathway between impossible places.

"You're saying," Hector dares, "they are like Piltover's Hex-Gates?"

"They function on similar principles. But their purpose is different. Piltover's Gates link distant ports for trade and communication. Ours link distant outposts for transport and protection."

"P-Protection?" Lady Dennings sputters. "From what?"

"War," Silco says bluntly.

"What?!"

"Civil upheavals. Foreign invasions. Call it what you will. Oshra Va’Zaun was a rich city. They did well to anticipate the worst. But for Zaun, the primary use of these routes is trade." His finger climbs homeward, to the northernmost rune. "This point, for example, leads straight to a small islet on Zaun's outskirts. It was once known as Smuggler's Cove. Now, it's called the Iron Pearl. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods will not be charged customs duties for transiting or storing."

There is a stir. Mel, scanning the crowd, feels a trickle of misgiving. Piltover, for decades, has had a hammerlock on premium exports. Trade taxed by the ounce. Goods vetted by bureaucratic oversight. Permits, stamped in triplicate, and revoked at the Council's whims. All to protect her city-state's reputation and interests.

Now, Silco proposes a rival haven. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods may come and go—unshackled by Piltover's red tape.

A new axis of commerce. And, Mel realizes, a double-edged sword.

If Piltover consents to the Iron Pearl's operation, it will grant greater her city access to foreign markets, and reduce import costs. But the arrangement also poses a threat: a competing port, under Zaun's governance, which will draw ships and revenue away from the City of Progress. Their status as the preeminent exporter will be—

Not erased, but halved.

Marriage: by any other name.

The guests are buzzing. Some with excitement; others with disbelief.

Hector echoes, "A Free Trade Zone..."

"It's been operating since Zaun's independence," Silco says. "Now we're in the process of expanding its capacity. The endeavor has taken years. A neutral zone, with an established route to any destination within a thousand leagues, with minimal delay. Better still, goods from anywhere in Runeterra can be stored and transited, for a modest tithe." He pauses. "All that's required is that our waters be respected. Along with the sovereign rights of our vessels."

Silence falls, heavy with implication.

Garlen, apoplectic, erupts, "Respect, hell! This is Noxian territory you're crossing!"

"Not on your maps. Nor on Piltover's." Silco regards him evenly. "Only on ours."

"Those waters, Trencher, are Noxian by right of conquest!"

"Not according to our Treaty with Piltover. These waters were ceded to us in exchange for recognition of our Independence." Silco eyes Mel sidelong. "The agreement, I believe, remains binding."

Garlen's fists curl like meat hooks. "You dare challenge our navy?"

"Breaching these waters without our permission is not a challenge. It's an act of trespass. As Zaun's ally, Piltover would be duty-bound to aid us in its defense." Silco's fingertip, tracing the Noxian routes, gently taps the demarcations. "Candidly, we'd rather not resort to childish games. Zaun welcomes Noxus' goodwill. Should your vessels wish to use our routes, you'll be issued proper credentials. You'll be charged reasonable fees for port-of-call. Your cargo will not be subject to scrutiny. In all ways, you'd be our honored guests. Provided—" His good eye slits, "—you extend us the same courtesy in return."

It is politely phrased, and delivered in the mildest tones. But the threat, its edge honed fine, cuts like a switchblade.

Garlen's face goes as red as his garb. "This is preposterous!"

"Is it? Zaun's treaty with Piltover was written with the consent of both parties. In the presence of diplomatic envoys. Noxus was among them. If your nation had a grievance, I'm sure they'd have taken issue. But the accord, I believe, is still in force."

"This is a damnable plot!" Garlen pivots to Mel. "Medarda, this is insanity! I demand you put a stop to this!"

Mel is stricken. But she is careful to let nothing show. Her mind races to mitigate the thunderheads swelling on the horizon. Noxian fury. International incident. Piltover caught in the middle. And Zaun, at the crux.

Trust me, Silco had said.

And now, it comes to this: her city caught between a rock and a hard place.

Fury sparks in Mel's chest. Half adrenalized burn-off, at finally having a concrete threat to face. Half slow-building horror, at confronting Silco’s cleverness in action. The man who, in one fell swoop, has backed her into a corner—while painting the entire thing in shades of diplomatic nicety.

Now, he is watching her.  Waiting—for what?

Then it hits her.

Waiting for me to run.

Run—the way she’d run the first night of their voyage. Run—by staying when she should've sided with him. Run—by choosing to smooth the waters, rather than spread ripples in her wake.

Run, run, run—and this is the consequence.

Mel, reeling, takes a breath. In a sense, Silco has done exactly what he'd warned: revealed a truth that cannot be refuted. Piltover's maps are, indeed, inaccurate: the product of outdated colonialism. The waters, ceded to Zaun by Treaty, are indeed theirs—as much as the treasures that lie beneath.

And, Mel realizes, Silco's maneuver has a third layer: a sly subcurrent.

He is establishing that Zaun, by virtue of charting prowess, as an entity equal to Piltover. But also adjacent to it. Not a rival, but an ally. A peer that cannot be overlooked—because its interests are too closely tied to her city's.

It is the flipside of matrimony: a give-and-take. One of substance rather than sentiment.

Except Mel cannot forgive the blindside.

Inside, rage fizzles. Her fingers curl. She nearly seizes the nearest champagne bottle, and lobs it at Silco’s head. He deserves no less. He deserves worse. The bastard. He’d planned this since the night they’d fought. To corner her in full view of her guests. To make her prove her mettle. To demand that she take a leap.

Or else, show to the world that her vows are hollow.

Seething, Mel thinks, I will make him pay.

Then, inhaling, she steps forward.

"Sir Garlen," she says. "My husband is correct. These waters belong to Zaun."

Garlen is nearly purple; a ripe plum ready to burst. "You're siding with this rat?!"

"I am stating a fact. Zaun cannot, without jeopardizing its sovereignty, rescind the right to self-governance. And Piltover cannot, without forfeiting its good standing, repudiate that agreement. To do so would violate the laws ironclad between us." Her stare locks with the warlord's. "In sum, it is not a matter of sides. Only jurisdiction. The question is, how do you, as Noxus' envoy, plan to navigate these waters?"

Garlen's jaw works. Before he can fire off the next volley, Mel lays a cautioning hand on his arm.

"Before you reply, I suggest considering the future gains. Your nation is, at present, embroiled in a number of wars.  Zaun, as a future ally, is offering to facilitate the transport of supplies—to and from Noxus's frontlines. Piltover, meanwhile, is willing to reopen discussions of a trade alliance." Beneath her lashes, Mel casts a winsome glance. "The question is, do you, as Noxus's representative, intend to pursue these opportunities?"

Garlen, a petrified bull, seems caught between charging or cowing. But, for all his bluster, the man's no fool.

"You," he growls, "are a conniving hell-bitch."

Undaunted, Mel offers a smile. "A Medarda, after all."

The warlord's teeth gnash. But his rage, though still hot, is no longer a blaze. More an ember, sullenly seething.

"So." A snort. "We're at an impasse."

Silco, at last, stirs.

"Hardly."

Rolling up the charts, he returns them to the steward. A single nod, and the man, in tandem with the staff, begin distributing life vests among the crowd. Bewildered, the guests receive the gear. Each is the same color: Zaun's trademark cadmium green.

Mel, accepting hers, is astonished by the weight. The fabric appears lined with something like lead. Runes, their meaning unknown, are stitched into the seams of the fabric.

"Impasse," Silco says, already shrugging into his own vest, "is a poor word for it." He turns to the crowd, a wary sea of faces. "I believe we are, at last, on the same page."

Hector, handling his vest with jittery fingertips, dares, "Are we—going for a swim?"

Silco smiles.

Mel feels, again, that vertiginous sensation. The world, tilting. As if currents, beneath the surface, are stirring.

And the only thing left to cling to, is the man who's dragging her down.

"Swim? No." Silco's smile spreads. "We're off on a treasure hunt."

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