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dujour13 · 6 months

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Owlcatober 22. Nobility

“If it isn’t the Commander’s conman consort.” Daeran stood rod-stiff with both arms folded across his chest and his venom-green eyes flashing. “Honestly I’m not certain whether I’m more furious with you or with myself, to have been quite so easily hoodwinked.”

“Uh…” Woljif’s tail darted in time with his mind. Is this about that bottle of wine? The ruby cufflinks? The maps? The cut of the fake investment scheme? His eyes were wide with total innocence. “What about?”

“’Oh Count, I need a nice outfit to sit on the Knight-Commander’s council,’” Daeran mocked. “To sit on the Knight-Commander’s c—”

“Hold on, you’re mad about that?”

“I’m positively outraged!”

“But—” Woljif blinked. There were so many other things to be outraged-er about.

Daeran flipped a blond lock from his face. “That you didn’t confide in me! You could have told me it was a bid to seduce our brave and beloved bard.”

“You’re jokin’, right? You woulda laughed me outta town.”

“Touché. But I am nonetheless wounded.” Daeran stormed over to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a glass of wine and threw himself gracefully across a divan. “I’m taking credit, I’ll have you know. He did like the outfit, didn’t he?”

At the memory of Siavash’s eyes wandering down his chest – Is that a new shirt? It looks like silk – Woljif felt a flood of treacherous heat in his cheeks and pretended to search for something non-alcoholic among the Count’s bottles until it cooled down. “I guess.”

“You are so deeply in my debt you’ll require a potion of water-breathing.” It sounded like a threat. Daeran leaned forward on the divan, fixing him with a gaze of bright green shards. “Did he rip it from your trembling frame?”

“No!” Now it was Woljif’s turn to be outraged. “It cost a damn fortune.”

“Tsk. My dear Prince, you have so much to learn. Seductive apparel is meant to be ripped.”

“Really? When you got that much money, you just let people tear up your nice clothes?”

“I don’t let them, I enthusiastically encourage it! If any garment of mine did not simply cry out to be torn from my body I should be mortified.”

“Oh yeah?” It was purely academic interest that drew his gaze to Daeran’s ruffled powder-blue shirt, he would have sworn. This time Woljif didn’t catch the flush in time and had to feign a coughing fit.

“Please tell me you ripped his clothes at least,” Daeran said as soon as the fit passed.

Woljif narrowed his eyes, suspecting he was being mocked but grappling with certain doubts. Was that how you were supposed to do it? Had he messed up on some lovemaking ritual known only to the upper crust of society, and the chief was back there at the Citadel in his intact shirt feeling disappointed? Or was that just for toffs who rolled around in so much cash they didn’t know what to do with it except trash expensive stuff? Nah, more likely the Count was having a go.

He shrugged one shoulder and affected an air of confidence. “We weren’t in a rippin’ sorta mood.”

At that Daeran’s eyes lit up, though he sat very still as if to avoid scaring him off. “I see. What sort of mood was it, then? Shy, virginal probing? Frantic fumbling? And tell me, in the moment—la petite mort—is it chief? Knight-Commander? Or something soft, perhaps. Dove? Kitten?”

“I know what you’re doin’,” Woljif scoffed, moving toward the door. “And I ain’t that easy.”

“No. Stay right there or so help me. We are engaged in a game of riposte, you and I, and I believe I recall that you have made a solemn vow never to run away again.”

“Not to you.” But the Count was right about one thing. Woljif was desperate to tease from him the secrets of seduction, while he knew very well how dangerous Daeran could become when on the trail of entertainment, in this case apparently a play-by-play of his night with the chief.

“Yet you had best concoct some way to repay me or I promise you that you’ll regret it, my timorous tiefling.”

Woljif didn’t doubt he meant it. He stopped halfway to the door, calculating. Give a little, invite the obvious attack, and get the enemy to open up. “Fine. It was a romantic mood. Happy?”

Daeran certainly looked on the verge of happiness. “I’m afraid that’s too vague, my friend. Tender, trembling touches? Significant sighs? Longing looks?”

He made it sound like one of those dog-eared novels the chief kept on his nightstand, but in truth Woljif had to admit he kind of hit it on the head there, at least in some ways. He parried with “Is that so bad?”

“Oh, certainly not. Comically maudlin, but then what did I expect from Knight-Commander Butterflies?”

Despite the mockery, at the word “comically” Woljif’s brain went straight back to that night, to himself and Siavash tangled in the sheets together laughing until they cried, and it was too late to stop the huge, dopey grin that crept up and pounced on him.

“Aha.” Daeran pointed his wine glass and grinned triumphantly.

Woljif was going to have to concede defeat, but as he departed from the Count’s chambers he felt satisfied that while he’d learned little from the verbal sparring, he at least felt far surer that he hadn’t messed up with the chief. On the contrary. It might not have been the sophisticated clothes-rending dance of seduction the likes of Daeran and his dandies engaged in, but it suited him and the chief just fine. He could get everything he needed from those novels. Well, except maybe for more advice on rippable princely apparel.

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #owlcatober 2023 #woljif jefto #siavash x woljif #daeran arendae #my writing #pwotr pals #woljif

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dujour13 · 10 days

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tagged by @undyingembers (thank you🥰) to do this picrew, that sadly doesn't have Sia's hair so here he is uncoiffed but shining. Never complete without his partner in crime

tagging no pressure @the-raging-tempest, @crows-of-buckets, @miseryscrowned @dragonologist-phd & anyone else who wants to do this!

#siavash x woljif #picrew

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dujour13 · 1 year

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Woljif & Siavash by @eon-blue-apocalypse ❤️❤️❤️

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #woljif jefto #siavash #woljif #siavash x woljif #art #omg i'm still swooning over this #so tender #and the TAIL HUG

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dujour13 · 5 months

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Stab you or zap you? How about both!

Siavash & Woljif commission by @ghostmothart Thank you so much Rowan, I love this ❤️❤️❤️

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #woljif jefto #siavash #azata #siavash x woljif #the lark and the crow #art #ghostmothart #pwotr pals #my boy and his outfit

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dujour13 · 4 months

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OTP meme

Tagged by @arendaes & @arrow90-art thank you 💕💕

Couple template here & OT3/4 template here

Tagging no pressure @dmagedgoods, @molochka-koshka, @xerkanlol-il, @amatres

#siavash x woljif #ship meme #that woljif portrait by reparatus never fails #copy-pasting it giggling and blushing #the “they are” chart needed a 3rd axis for sia #drop me an ask if you want the 3d coordinates lol

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dujour13 · 4 months

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WIP Wednesday

tagged by @knight-commander thanks Cas!! 💕💕

this is a little spoilery for the game so under a cut

no pressure tagging @spyridonya, @arrow90-art, @dmagedgoods, @dragonologist-phd

#my writing #siavash x woljif #the lark and the crow #pwotr pals #pathfinder: wrath of the righteous

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dujour13 · 9 months

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During my little holiday I wanted to get back in touch with my main muses and wrote some Act I stuff, just messing around with a different kind of pacing. I might insert it into L&C but it would take some retrofitting so just throwing it out here while I decide.

Warning - it's long, 2000 words under the cut. No one is under any obligation to read this 😂

Cross-legged on his narrow bed in the Defender’s Heart, using his flipped-over guitar as a writing desk, Siavash sat staring into the distance. The last few dozen letters he’d written to Kristov had ended up in the fireplace instead of the post, tearstained and torn up for shame. He didn’t even know how to open this one. “Dear Kristov” was too cold, “My dearest” worse, and no diplomatic training could prepare him for how to break terrible news to an ex he was supposed to be over. Tears of grief, frustration and no small measure of self-pity burned his eyes as he restarted for the third time.

He pressed his thumbs to his eyes and asked himself once again whether he really needed to write personally, knowing even as he did that there was no getting out of it. The Ambassador’s attaché had been a good friend to both of them; surely letting Kristov find out about her death without a word from him would be cruel. Yet every time he set pen to parchment he caught himself wanting to spill his whole heart.

I don’t understand why everyone’s dead and I’m not. I’m wounded and it won’t heal. Demons have besieged the city. It’s cold in Mendev and all they drink is terrible beer. I’m alone. I’m scared.

I miss you.

Maybe what he really missed was someone intimate enough to complain to. It had been two years since they separated and it wouldn’t be fair to put all this on Kristov. He needed to fight the urge to write things that would hurt or upset him, just as he had when writing to his own family about his wonderful adventures in Mendev.

For someone with no shortage of friends and even less difficulty making them, it was surprising how empty he could feel at times, especially haunted by the faces of his friends and colleagues who had died in the demon attack. What a merry band of Andorens they would all have made, leading the city defense like itinerant heroes, bonding over the bad beer and the glaring example Daeran made of the dangers of nepotism. And oh, how he would be fawned over with his strange (and still quite painful) wound.

Instead, the awful task fell to him to write letters to their friends and families bearing tidings that would destroy them. And here he was, still alive for no good reason.

Hovering, his pen let a black drop spill onto “My dearest.”

Stupid. He was over Kristov, as much as could be expected. It was just a childish need to be felt sorry for. He gave himself a wan, condescending smile. Just write the damn letter, play a sad song, cry a little and buck up. There are things to do.

Just when he had it under control, the Count walked right into his room and tossed his coat on the other bed like it was his own. “Weeping again?”

“Lamenting what’s become of the last of Mendev’s great families,” he returned with a brittle smile, shoving the parchment aside. “That bed’s occupied. You’re just helping yourself to it?”

“I am indeed moving in. Don’t take it personally; I’ve rather had my fill of sappy Desnans.” He patted his stomach and grimaced as if he’d overdone it on the sweet rolls. “In fact, what would it take to get you to push the beds together and clear out? Your former roommate went for six months’ salary. He’s sleeping on the floor in the common room for that and the dignity of the realm, so that my precious person should not suffer calumny.”

“I thought heaping calumny on your family name was your favorite pastime,” said Siavash. “Anyway no luck, Daeran. I’m wounded. I’m keeping my bed.”

The Count gave an annoyed sigh. “Fine. Well, I suppose one learns to make do in a siege. Go ahead and push the beds together, if you’re so keen.”

“You’ll have to find someone else in need of a couple months’ salary I’m afraid. You know, the more you open your mouth the more you reinforce my opinions on hereditary wealth.” Siavash grabbed his guitar and headed for the stairs in search of more agreeable company.

“Opinions we happen to share,” laughed Daeran behind him.

As he padded down to the common room in his stocking feet he was only half aware that he was seeking a certain charcoal-blue face in the crowd, someone he was sure could cheer him up.

There he was—the tiefling Woljif, chatting animatedly with Father Rathimus in the corner. Selling the priest something at a siege mark-up, no doubt. But just as Siavash headed that direction, Seelah beckoned loudly from the bar. “Hey, if it isn’t the best bard in the house.”

“And the worst,” he winked. He glanced again at the tiefling across the room, who quickly shifted his gaze away when their eyes met, but not without a spontaneous brightening of the smile he was putting to work on the priest.

“Need something to grease the wheels before you get started?” Seelah signaled the bartender.

He hesitated. Not only did he balk at the beer, he would rather trade tall tales with Woljif than play a set, although the tiefling seemed occupied anyway. Still, Seelah’s grin was hard to resist. “Sure, thanks.”

She passed him a mug. “Boy am I glad some god or other tossed a bard into the mix. Gotta keep morale up for another couple days until we can mop up the Gray Garrison.”

“I’m not sure I feel so lucky,” he chuckled, forcing down a mouthful. “Glad I can do my humble part though.”

“Ha, you mean besides brandishing an angelic sword at the head of the heroic city defense?”

“Come on, all I’ve been doing is aiming everybody else in the right direction and shouting encouragement from behind you.”

Seelah winked. “Got news for you. That’s what leaders do.”

“Hey chief, you gonna play a tune?” He hadn’t even seen the tiefling make his way over to the bar but there he was, wearing a surprisingly unguarded expression, tail flicking eagerly.

“I was thinking about it,” Siavash said, suddenly much more interested in playing than he’d been a few minutes ago. “Looks like this crowd could use some cheering up.”

“You oughtta charge,” Woljif said. The shifty, calculating look was suddenly back. “Or at least pass the hat around afterwards.”

Siavash laughed. The man was a paradox. At times undisguised innocence, like looking forward to a little music or demanding an apology from Sister Kerismei, and at other times three steps ahead of everyone devising a scheme to lighten someone’s purse. “With a captive audience that’s likely to damage my popularity,” he said. “Unless I pledge the coin to a charity reconstruction fund or something.”

The tiefling’s eyes lit up. “Hells, you’re good at this, chief. Sit tight, I’ll find you a hat.”

He settled on an empty mug instead of a hat. After the first set Siavash saw him making the rounds and decided not to say anything about it, just to see where it was headed. Thus as he sat with Seelah choking down another beer he was surprised when Woljif came back and threw a leg over the bench next to him, carefully pouring the jingling contents of the mug onto the table and sweeping the coins together with both hands, eyes glittering.

“Whaddaya say, chief? Good catch. So I was thinkin’, I’ll set aside fifty percent for the charity and cut you in ten.”

“And the other forty?” he asked out of curiosity, just to see what the tiefling would say.

“Overhead.” Woljif waved a dismissive hand.

“Where are you planning on setting aside the charity money? Under the floorboards?”

“Nah, I’ll invest it. Great opportunities with the city in this condition.” And Woljif proceeded to explain how fresh food transport was currently at a standstill except for a few more intrepid ox-drivers—by which he meant smugglers—who could be prevailed upon to make the risky journey given a sufficient injection of capital.

Siavash listened rapt. Woljif seemed to “know a guy who knew a guy” for just about anything and could turn a profit on a minimum of risk all while getting desperately needed food into the city center.

Not to mention the way the corner of his mouth curled appealingly in a conspiratorial smile, and the way his eyes shone excitedly in the lamplight as he talked. Although some might see in his yellow irises the touch of the Abyss, Siavash saw only a golden gleam of intelligence and that occasional surprising softness. Hope. An eagerness he kept forgetting to hide.

Which in turn brought out Siavash’s most reassuring manner, his gentle yet soul-penetrating smile that said What is good in you is safe with me. And what isn’t strictly good too. He watched him count out the coins, sorting them into small stacks, and wondered if he’d already pocketed a handful or two of “overhead,” but also, interestingly, whether this “investment” could actually help keep the halted economy of the city alive until the demons could be chased out.

Just one detail. “Sounds good. Except I think ten is a little low for doing all the heavy lifting.”

Woljif looked up from his stacks of coins and searched his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly.

“All right, chief. Twenty-five, that suit you?”

“That’ll do. In fact, I’ll tell you what—keep it and invest it for me.”

There was that look again: clear-eyed and hopeful. “You can count on me, chief. I’ll double it for you.”

“You’re trying to pull a profit in a city under siege?” Seelah huffed, knocking her mug on the table with a frown.

Something in Woljif’s gaze shut down. He leaned back and sighed.

“We need food, Woljif needs money,” shrugged Siavash. “Sounds like a win-win to me.”

Woljif blinked at him.

“Are you serious?” Seelah echoed the look but for a different reason.

“Yes, and I think you should invest too.”

She glanced back and forth at the two of them. “You know what? Fine. I’m gonna trust you on this one. Don’t make me regret it.” And she placed a handful of coins on the table, which Woljif quickly swept into his stack.

This time when his and Siavash’s eyes met they were both on the verge of bursting out laughing.

Siavash helped himself to a couple coppers. “Let me get you a drink, Woljif.”

“Uh—sure.” Woljif watched the coin disappear and this time he really did laugh. “Tea, lots a’ honey.”

As he headed for the bar, Woljif caught himself eyeing the chief—not for the first time—and wondering if he could actually have found the real deal, the business partner of his dreams.

Yet even if so, Desnans didn’t tend to linger in one place for long. The chief had hinted to Seelah he might stay on a bit and see through whatever mission the Andoren government had sent him on here, but he’d be off to Andoran again soon enough and that would be the end of it. Or would it? Maybe that was even better! An excuse to head south to warmer climes. His ticket out of here on a whole other level.

But of course, it was only a matter of time before the partnership went south, and not in the geographical sense. On the other hand by then maybe Woljif would be set up—a tidy investment fund and a few connections around Inner Sea ports from Augustana to Merab, some new business partners on the horizon.

Or… maybe… maybe it wouldn’t go sour. That was supposed to be possible, like in the ballads or the storybooks. Sure would be nice. He could get used to that smile, that music, the nice way the chief listened and didn’t interrupt.

Hells. Last time he thought he had himself an actual, well, business partner, reality had punched him in the mouth. Literally. Repeatedly.

He decided he’d have to keep a close eye on the chief, figure out his angle. See how the pieces fit together: the bardic charm, the angelic sword, the Desnan visions, the sensible approach to morality. And not get his hopes up.

The moment the chief turned his way with the tea Woljif realized he was staring, and whatever expression he was wearing it earned him the most dazzling smile he thought he’d ever seen in his whole life.

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #pwotr pals #siavash #siavash x woljif #woljif jefto #fanfic #my writing #kind of clinging protectively to my boys rn #keeping bg3 and work away from them

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dujour13 · 7 months

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Owlcatober 2. Favorite food

the 4th and final part of The Prodigal Tiefling - also on AO3

(CW food & fluff)

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It was a pretty sweet plan.

Siavash settled his back against the cool wall of the Citadel balcony and smiled to himself as he played, while a gap in the Worldwound vapors above the west guard tower twinkled with evening stars, winking back at him like they were in on it.

His fingers had found their music again since he’d recovered Woljif alive in the Worldwound. He’d only been half aware what a weight he’d been dragging since the tiefling disappeared, but now that it was lifted song rose out of him as easily as breath again.

Not that all the weight was lifted. The night of the gargoyles he’d lost a lot of people, the flames of hope he’d kindled as Knight-Commander extinguished far too soon, and by his own negligence. Every death was like a punch to the gut, but it was the mental image of the young tiefling’s body shattered against cold Worldwound rocks that ached the most.

They’d started to be friends. Or so he’d hoped.

Of course Woljif ran that night. How could anyone blame him? He ran because he was smart enough to catch the scent of shit on the wind, and to know this new Knight-Commander was in it over his head.

But also smart enough to stay alive out there. Siavash smiled again, shifting to a more cheerful chord.

Since they got back to Drezen the tiefling seemed uncharacteristically subdued, and Siavash hoped a little welcome-back gesture might lift his spirits and let him know he really was forgiven, at least as far as the Knight-Commander was concerned.

At the same time, he had to be careful it wouldn’t be mistaken for flirting, which he definitely wasn’t. Siavash vowed to stick to his self-imposed penance—which he’d already cheated on twice in the two years since Kristov, but that didn’t really count, because neither of those guys was anyone he’d ever really fall for—

Oh.

His fingers faltered on the strings.

Right. That was why he needed to keep this strictly friendly, and yet special; hence the plan.

* * *

“Wait. Are you telling me you lugged those all the way out here into the Worldwound for the last day and a half’s march?” Lann looked at Siavash like he’d sprouted a horn.

“Yeah,” Siavash grinned.

“If you’re complainin’ I’ll eat yours,” Woljif volunteered, snatching a cherry roll from the boxful in the chief’s arms and threatening to swipe another.

“Wouldn’t want the Knight-Commander’s efforts to go to waste.” Lann swatted his hand and helped himself.

“What’sh the occasion?” Seelah asked through a mouthful.

“Our merry band of Kenabres city defenders is back together at last,” Siavash beamed. “Setting out to defeat the forces of the Abyss side-by-side once again. I thought that was worth a little celebration.”

For a moment everyone gaped at him, standing there in the Worldwound wastes in his green striped trousers, purple tunic and aqua scarf, guitar strapped across his back, smiling broadly over a box full of slightly stale cherry rolls, luminous Elysian butterflies fluttering around his head.

“Party time!” yelled Aivu, bounding excitedly across the rocks. “Pass!”

“Ready?”

As she caught the lobbed pastry it exploded into crumbs and sticky cherry filling that she licked from her grinning dragon-lips as she trotted back.

“Very promising,” Daeran mused, nibbling at the cherry roll poised on a lace handkerchief thrown over his hand like a doily. “Am I to understand that if I run off in the middle of a dire battle and then come slinking back with my tail between my legs you’ll throw us another pastry party? Next time with mimosas, I might hope?”

Woljif’s mouth was too full for a retort.

Meanwhile the succubus, on whose request they were currently headed for Greengates, stood off alone keeping an eye on the perilous terrain that lay ahead. Siavash called her over.

“Arueshalae, have one.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said meekly, dark liquid eyes lowered.

“Don’t tell me you’re watching your carbs,” said Seelah. “Sister, you can afford a cherry roll.”

“I’ll eat hers,” Woljif volunteered through stuffed cheeks.

“No, I—I just don’t think it’s right. I wasn’t in Kenabres.”

“You were there in dreams. That counts.”

At Siavash’s apparent sincerity Daeran burst into a peal of mocking laughter. “In that case I shall catch up on my beauty sleep, perchance to dream of striking down a dozen demons. For the cause.” And he settled into a languorous pose with his pack as a pillow.

Seeing Lann’s look of despair Seelah elbowed him. “Don’t be such a sourpuss. It’s not the kind of Crusade I expected when I came here either, but we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Still, Arueshalae shook her head. “Someone like me doesn’t deserve—”

“Nonsense!” Siavash cut her off. “Arueshalae, if you’d like to join our Merry Band, with all the privileges and responsibilities that entails, you must partake of the sacred cherry roll.”

Bashfully she gave in, taking up the dripping red roll in both hands and, just as she had once done with still-beating human hearts, brought it reverently to her lips.

“Haha! You’re one of us now, like it or not!” Seelah slapped her on the shoulder, rousing a swirl of butterflies.

Later when the others had wandered off to their camp occupations, Siavash found himself alone by the fire with Woljif.

“Thanks, chief,” the tiefling said, patting his stomach with a satisfied grin. “My lucky day. Cherry rolls are my favorite.”

“I know. That’s why I chose them.”

“I—huh—?”

“You mentioned it once.”

“Guess I musta,” Woljif mumbled. His tail twisted.

“I like to take note of little things like that with people,” Siavash explained, just to make sure it was crystal clear he was not flirting.

“Ah, I get it. Part a’ the diplomattin’.”

“Sometimes. And sometimes just part of being a friend.”

Woljif’s tail froze in mid-twist. He began to fidget with the cuffs of his jacket. “You really are an original, chief, you know that?”

“I could say the same of you.” Siavash pinched himself mentally. Stop.

But Woljif chattered on unawares. “I mean, if it was anybody else I’d say you’d get eaten alive out there, tryina make friends with people like me, but I dunno, somehow you pull it off. In fact I’m startin’ to think that’s what landed you the job, and what’s keepin’ this crusade goin’. I don’t bet ol’ Galfrey ever hauled snacks halfway across the Worldwound for her chums. You know how to play the game your way, chief.”

Siavash chuckled. “Nothing gets past you.”

“Ha. Looks like not much gets past you either.” Woljif glanced up and there was a conspiratorial flash in his clever yellow eyes, bordering on affectionate. Suspecting he was being played, and playing along? Suddenly he flushed and pretended to interest himself in the blank horizon of the Worldwound in the opposite direction.

And while his eyes were averted, Siavash stole another look, admiring the way his curls framed his profile in the firelight, and already planning another trip to the Drezen bakery just to see those eyes light up again, and that clever, dimpled, slightly greedy but also sincere smile that made his heart glow warm as the southern Andoren sun.

Stop. Leave the poor guy alone. “I’m glad you liked them,” he said softly as he rose. He couldn’t help placing a hand on Woljif’s shoulder on the way. “And I’m glad you’re back with us.”

Woljif’s cheeks had gone glaringly ruddy. “Yeah, me too, trust me. I mean where else can a guy get cherry rolls out here except with you—guys. Sure as hells not with Baphomet cultists.”

“So you’ll stick around?”

It took a moment for him to answer, like he was working up his courage or struggling with something. Probably, Siavash reflected with regret, all too aware he was being reeled in, and Siavash could do nothing to express his sincerity without crossing the forbidden flirting line, so he just stood there wearing his most reassuring smile and hoping that would do. Let me give you more than snacks. Please trust me.

Woljif shrugged. “Sure.”

A pause.

Woljif sighed. “I mean yeah. I’ll stick around.” Sheepishly returning the smile, the glow of firelight in his eyes was softer than he probably would have liked. “I promise.”

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #woljif jefto #siavash x woljif #fanfic #my writing #owlcatober 2023 #pwotr pals

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