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minecraftbookshelf · 3 months

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Gone Fishing

Mr. InTheLittleWood I know you’re in your tags on here, walk away from this one.

(No, this isn't Marriage of State, that is still with my beta, this is something i started writing for Mermay and then semi-abandoned until these past couple of weeks.)

Mildly Dark Comedy Urban Fantasy Adventures featuring Sleep Deprived Martyn, Selkie!Scott, and Swan Maiden!Cleo and Pearl.

AO3

Rating: T on AO3

Wordcount: ~4k

Characters: Martyn InTheLittleWood, Scott Smajor, ZombieCleo, PearlescentMoon, bonus appearances by JoeHills (with accompanying breaking of the fourth wall) and Rendog.

Relationships: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss + Martyn (its not quite Divorcee Quartet imo) Background Martyn?Ren and Referenced Past Flower Husbands

Warnings: Off-screen murder and on-screen blood spatter, kidnapping, selkie tropes and the adjacent concepts

This is directly inspired by that one tumblr post (I'll link it if i ever successfully find it again) that starts out "swan maidens would be hella built and down for violence, actually" and ends with "a swan maiden and a selkie team up and do violence"

3AM calls directly after the full moon are officially Martyn's nemesis. Nonetheless, he listens to the flustered emergency dispatcher stammer through a semi-explanation of the situation. (Murder. Kidnapped mythicals. The usual. He's not even on call this week; how and why is he the only Hunter in the area?) He hauls himself out of bed, knocks on Ren's door on the way out to let him know he is leaving and grabs his keys. He pauses, halfway out the front door and texts Ren because there is no way he'll remember given that he probably didn't even wake up when Martyn knocked, deep asleep and dead to the world in a way only exhausted werewolves can manage.

It's a bit of a drive; some fancy, palace-like mansion outside town on the far side. About as far away as it can get while still being in Martyn's district.

He gets two more calls on the way over, one from the same dispatcher, one from the police on the scene, practically begging him to hurry up with all the usual frantic desperation of humans who've never encountered magic before.

He stops for coffee.

It's a right mess by the time he does arrive; multiple police complete with flashing lights. The press (complete with their own version of flashing lights) a coroners van, at least five ambulances, and an arch-fey lurking by the tree-sized bush sculpted into a pegasus.

Oh no.

Joe Hills gives a jaunty wave that Martyn returns on autopilot.

There's only one reason Joe Hills ever leaves Tennessee.

One cup of coffee is not enough to deal with Cleo.

Much less what they usually drag with them.

Maybe-if Martyn is really, really lucky-Cleo was flying solo when they got mixed up in whatever the hell this is. (Even if they tend a bit more towards arson than murder.) Maybe its just them and not any of the rest of their crew.

He slips through the frazzled crowd of medical and law enforcement personnel, taking note of the battered and sickly looking people sitting in the backs of the ambulances, all of them visibly Not Exactly Human. He recognizes the vampire in the nearest one. Her missing persons case has been sitting on Jimmy's desk at Guild HQ for almost six months now with no new leads. She's sipping on a blood packet while a nervous paramedic hovers just out of her immediate reach.

Now he just has to find someone who knows what's going on-

"Hiyaa!"

Oh no.

Scott Smajor is sitting in the entryway of the stupidly fancy house, wrapped in a shock blanket, practically beaming at Martyn around the paramedic who is very clearly just trying to do their job and is not being paid enough for this.

Martyn can relate.

Scott's smile is wide and bright, his eyes are glassy and feverish, and he's visibly shaking. There is blood spattered on his clothes. And that is just what Martyn can see around the blanket.

He should revisit that offer from the Syndicate. He's pretty sure their annual salary is double what the Guild pays. More than enough to make up for not being a strictly legal operation. Half the stuff Ren brings into their apartment would get them both imprisoned in a pocket dimension somewhere for centuries anyway, might as well go all in.

With a resigned sigh he sucks it up, sticks his hands in his pockets, and strolls up to the front steps.

"Well if it isn't our favorite friendly neighborhood black widow," he says, dry as summer in purgatory. Already piecing together the picture to form something of a complete answer to the question of 'what happened.' "Fancy meeting you here."

Scott actually has the audacity to look offended. "Excuuse you. Most of my husbands are still alive."

Based off the amount of blood spatter on his clothes and the presence of the coroners van, Martyn is going to assume that the most recent one isn't.

'Clothes' is a bit of a generous term. Scott is wearing what most people would consider appropriate-if a bit risque- for clubbing, and what Martyn recognizes as what Scott wears when he's hunting. Most strongly indicated not by what he is wearing but by one very specific and important thing he isn't. This kind of scenario usually ends in at least a week of headaches and several different levels of bureaucratic hell for Martyn that he has to deal with all on his own because Jimmy and Scott are apparently fighting or something and Jimmy reuses to touch anything to do with this nonsense with a fifty foot pole. That could also just be Jimmy deciding to be smart for once and growing a backbone at a time extremely inconvenient for Martyn in particular.

Every day, Martyn regrets getting mixed up in mythical society. If he'd known it outstripped even the smallest of small towns on the 'everyone knows everyone' front he would have run so fast in the other direction. No matter what Grian had to offer. And now he's stuck here.

"Speaking of husbands," Scott purrs, craning to look around the paramedic, ostensibly at Martyn but he's really not as subtle as he thinks in the way he scans the driveway around Martyn's car. "Where is your partner?" He's hiding it well, but his jaw is tense and his eyes pinched. It's probably been hours since he was Separated.

"So what kind of trouble did you get yourself into this time?" Martyn ignores his question and brushes past it, offering an alternate distraction he is actually willing to play along with. He does not have the energy to deal with the drama surrounding his partner and said partner's ex(?)-husband, especially when Jimmy isn't here to give a hard time over it. It already gets brought up way too much every time Scott pops up yet again, dancing merrily back and forth across the line between victim and perpetrator in yet another one of their cases.

"Are you the Guild agent?" A loud voice demands from behind him.

Martyn whirls on his heel, far more ready to trust Scott at his back than some random police. (Not that he would ever admit it.) "I am!" he responds brightly, deliberately irritating in the way he knows best. "What happened here, Officer?"

The policeman, clearly someone important by the lack of wear and tear on his...everything, pulls himself pompously up to his full, rail-thin height and peers down at Martyn over his nose. "Aren't you lot supposed to keep your rabble in check?"

Oh, its going to be like that, is it?

Martyn fixes a blandly polite smile on his face and slips his voice into something a little bit more professional. "That still doesn't answer my question. What happened here?" Behind the officer he can see Joe Hills, still lingering amongst the topiary, eyes fixed on the officer's back. Suddenly it is a lot more reassuring, knowing there is an exit strategy for the people without the protection of a government employee ID. Even if that exit strategy is one of the most dangerously unpredictable beings Martyn is aware of. Which really is saying something.

"That," The officer (Hughes, his nameplate says) jabs a finger over Martyn's shoulder, presumably at Scott. "Has murdered an upstanding citizen and has the audacity to claim immunity!"

Martyn cocks his head to the side. "From where I'm standing, you're pointing the finger at a selkie missing his skin, so yeah, there is probably immunity involved."

"Well first of all," Cleo announces their presence as they emerge from the depths of the house, trailed by a very nervous looking police officer.

They stop in the doorway to drop a bundle on Scott's head, the dark mass makes contact with his bright blue hair and unfolds to drape over him. By the time Scott has discarded the shock blanket to wrap himself in his pelt instead, Cleo has stepped past him to stand shoulder to shoulder with Martyn. They're taller than Officer Hughes, which a very petty part of Martyn appreciates. The crisp white feathers of their own skin tickle his arms as they cross their arms. There is blood spatter on their feathers.

"He didn't kill the asshole," they continue without so much as looking at Martyn. "He physically couldn't. I did. And I'd do it again."

Cleo is hardly new to scenes like this, neither are they squeamish. The combined records of the entirety of their little squad speak to that. But something about this one clearly has them rattled and angry. At least Officer Hughes is here to take the brunt instead of them turning it on Martyn.

"Chapter four of the Magical Coexistence Treaties, Section B, Paragraph 13; 'Should the autonomy of any selkie, swan maiden, or similar being be violated, any and all members of their pod/flock can take whatever measures they deem necessary to right and/or avenge the wrong and secure the freedom of the violated party or, should the victim have perished, obtain were-guild from the one who harmed them.'" Cleo rattles off the sentences that Martyn knows by heart at this point, from the frequency he's encountered them in more or less this exact context with this exact cast.

They point at Scott. "Selkie." They point to themself. "Swan." They gesture back and forth between the both of them. "Pod, flock, whatever you want to call it. And given I just retrieved his skin from the asshole's locked personal office I think his autonomy was violated enough." Their voice is deeply sarcastic in the way that only Cleo can be. Martyn is half-surprised Officer Hughes isn't on the ground bleeding from it.

"And all that was before we found the dungeon in the basement." They turn to Martyn, brushing Hughes off with as much concern as if he were a fly. "He was a collector, apparently. And he'd been at it awhile."

Martyn looks around the assembled ambulances and their occupants with a new, more critical eye. A starved and weakened vampire, a silver-collared werewolf, two nervous and twitch sirens (wrapped in damp blankets as a paramedic with a lock-picking kit fiddles with the muzzles fitted around their faces. Martyn makes a mental note; someone with flexible skills set like that might work out at the Guild. And they can always use more medical personnel.) an emaciated naga. As he turns back two more paramedics emerge behind them, carefully wheeling out a criminally (literally) small tank containing brackish water and an insensate mer.

Oh this is going to be so much paperwork.

Martyn is very glad the guy is dead. At least that means he won't have to work on a prosecution on top of everything else.

"There's more inside," Scott says behind them. Martyn glances over his shoulder and is glad to see him looking a lot less feverish and pained than before with the return of his pelt. "I got a grand tour. He's got a dragon-hide hanging on the wall in the library and a whole hall of displayed...parts."

So much paperwork.

Jimmy had better enjoy that vacation. They'll still probably be sorting this all out when he gets back.

"He was going to put me in a concrete enclosure, Martyn, he showed me. It's so ugly. Almost as bad as the rest of his house."

Of course that is equally offensive to Scott's sensibilities as his entire free will being stolen. That tracks.

There is still an elephant in the room that Martyn hasn't sen hide nor feather of at all.

"Pearl?" He asks Cleo, almost dreading the answer.

"Left already."

Suspicious, but at least it means he only has to deal with Gaslight and Gatekeep here. Or whatever they call themselves.

This time.

Because this is not the first time The Terrible Honeypot Trio, as they are unofficially referred to at Guild headquarters, have used this exact legal loophole to go after a creep or two. The murder is outside the norm, admittedly. Usually they limit themselves to theft and arson. It's a very lucrative racket for them and they have it down to a science. Dress Scott (its usually Scott; Cleo is scary and Pearl has a stab first ask questions later policy) up, flaunt his selkie status, and dangle him in front of a bunch of rich guys and see who takes the bait.

And every angle of it is legal.

Multiple Guild members are of the opinion that, whatever their (financial) motivations they are also providing a valuable public service. Their trail of victims is also a trail of overall shitty and predatory people that the Guild can make sure get nailed for something else, whether mythical or mundane in nature.

Ultimately, given that all someone has to do to not end up as a target of 'The Three Gs' is, you know, not abduct someone, they've never had a very convincing entrapment case leveled against them. Though a few of their victims have tried.

This one likely won't be, given that his blood is currently smeared all over Scott's clothes and Cleo's face.

Hmmmmm.

Martyn squints thoughtfully at the spatter on Cleo. It's hard to tell, since they've clearly been doing things, he's not going to think too hard about what, and its been smeared quite a bit...but that doesn't look like murder spatter. That looks like adjacent to murder spatter.

Which means, given that Scott couldn't, Pearl was probably the one who actually killed the asshole.

Honestly, that tracks.

Cleo and Hughes are in some kind of stare down now, Martyn would wish the officer luck but honestly, he hopes Cleo eats him alive. He ignores the two of them and turns back to Scott, who's still sitting on the front step, leaning against the door-frame. He looks tired and is shivering a little, but winks at Martyn when he notices his attention. Getting his pelt back has cleared away most of the lingering discomfort or shakiness and as annoying as it is how unruffled he seems after having just witnessed a murder at what was very clearly close proximity, it is reassuring to have him back to his usual demeanor. Despite having made a career out of it, playing the victim really does not suit Scott at all.

"See something you like?"

Martyn snorts a laugh and nudges the discarded shock blanket with the toe of his boot. "You should probably take this back."

"Awww," Scott coos at him, head cocked to the side. "You do care!"

"It's like, 6° out and you're wearing fishnets," Martyn says, somewhat proud of his deadpan and also for resisting making a joke about how fishnets seem a bit on the nose. "It's making me cold just to look at you."

Scott rolls his eyes, but concedes enough to drag the shock blanket over his lap. "You realize I don't really get cold, right? It's like, a whole selkie thing."

"Yeah, when you're in seal form, which you're very clearly not, at the moment."

"It doesn't just go away," Scott grumbles, but tucks the blanket more securely under his knees anyway.

Martyn is going to blame his fussing on still being in post-full moon mode. He'd been throwing blankets and pillows and soup at Ren all afternoon and is going to have to pick right back up where he left off when he gets back home. Ren is notoriously terrible at self-care after a transformation.

"Right," Cleo is suddenly there, looming threateningly over Martyn's shoulder. "Martyn, can you tell this idiot that he's not going to be able to arrest us so we can get on with it all."

God, Martyn hates inter-departmental politics. He leans back to peer around Cleo's shoulder at Hughes. "They're in my custody, you can't have them."

He ignores Hughes' subsequent blustering to give Scott and Cleo his full attention. "Is there anything else either of you needs, or can we get out of here?"

The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon. Martyn has spent the past several days taking care of a worn-out and antsy werewolf he is supposed to be dead asleep right now. He will send a preliminary report into HQ (text his boss a two sentence summary) and then he is done. This can be someone else's problem until he's had a minimum of twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. The murder part has already been done anyway, what's left sounds like it is much more in Research & Preservation's jurisdiction. And Medical. He'll be sure to add a whole extra sentence to that effect.

Scott and Cleo exchange a glance and shake their heads. "Didn't bring anything," Cleo says with a shrug. "I got what I came for."

Scott kicks at their ankle but also looks kind of touched. For a second and only a second, because those two don't do sappy emotions. He then kicks the shock blanket back off and begins hauling himself to his feet. Cleo gives him a hand up and he wobbles on his high-heeled boots but stays standing. Given how shaky he still looks, Martyn is counting that as a win.

He's starting to think Scott might have been separated from his skin for more than just a few hours this time. He's usually completely shaken off the effects by the time Martyn shows up. He's never seen this level of severity.

The two mythicals wander over, Scott still holding onto Cleo's arm, pacing carefully to try and hide the way he is leaning on them for support. Cleo, being Cleo, blatantly ignores the entire situation but still slows their usually brisk stride to accommodate.

"You'll have to give us a ride."

"What?" Visions of his bed vanish before Martyn's eyes at Cleo's declaration.

"You heard me," Cleo repeats, heading towards the edge of the crime scene, Scott only staggering a little bit as he keeps up. "Now where did you park, I'm ready to be rid of this place."

Martyn opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, "Excuse me?" He looks back at the topiary Joe Hills had been standing by. 'Had been' turns out to be the important part of that sentence. "What happened to-"

"He had to go pick his kid up from school, keep up, Martyn." Cleo yells over their shoulder without looking back. "He has a schedule to keep and you took too long. HE was just here to take down the wards."

"Wards?" Martyn rushes to catch up to them. "This is the first you've said about wards. What kind of wards?"

"The kind that keep people like us out," Cleo snaps back, not slowing down at all. "What kind do you think?"

They beeline directly for Martyn's car, pull open the passenger door, and push Scott into the seat. The entire time Martyn has known Cleo, they have never given up the front seat for anyone.

Martyn wonders just how close their luck came to running out this time.

Cleo closes the back seat door behind themself and then the two of them are looking at Martyn impatiently through the windows, as if he is the one acting weird.

There are not enough braincells in Sleep-Deprived Martyn's head to untangle all of this. He gets in the car.

He gives both Scott and Cleo a onceover while starting it. Now tthat they are out of sight of the masses, Scott is slumped against the door, face pale and eyes closed. Cleo is being very deliberately casual in a very Cleo way, and their face is pinched and the line that shows up on their forehead when they are stressed is definitely line-ing. The hand they have held up, pretending to pick dried blood out from under their nails, is shaking.

"Can we get chicken nuggies?" Pearl asks, her face very suddenly right in Martyn's.

Martyn does not yell or flail. Just for the record. And he certainly doesn't scream or jump.

Pearl just stares at him, eyes eerily blank behind her usual 'thrilled with violence' sparkle. She must have been laying down in his back seat. She's sitting in the middle now, next to Cleo, spattered with even more blood than the other two, in a way that bears out Martyn's theory on who actually killed the homeowner.

Her expression turns wheedling and she leans forward even more, propping her chin on the back of Scott's seat. "Nuggies?"

How is this Martyn's life.

"Fine," he sighs as he pulls out of the fancy big circle drive, leaving the oversized house and all its horrors behind them. "We can get chicken nuggies."

Ren wakes up, for a given definition of "wakes up" at...some point. Checking the clock would require opening his eyes and, between the sandy sensation and general lingering exhaustion, he doesn't really want to do that.

He can feel the sun through the curtains and his window face west. So afternoon sometime.

His stomach rumbles.

Perchance he should investigate the kitchen.

A moment of consideration and he decides it still isn't worth opening his eyes. He wraps his comforter over his head and around his shoulders as if it were a winter cape and stumbles towards the door. It takes a few moments of groping around but he manages to find the doorknob and free himself from his confines.

He can smell coffee.

Coffee and people and fast food and...blood?

Instantly set on edge, the clinging territorial instincts from the moon reaction to unexpected intruders in the home, Ren finally cracks one eye open.

Half of the sofa is taken up by a blurry white mass that, after a few blinks, solidifies into a swan sleeping on a pile of messy blankets, head tucked under one wing. A very familiar swan that is awakened enough by Ren's racket to raise their head and give him a displeased hiss, before going back to sleep, settling deeper into their impromptu nest.

His attention is pulled away from Cleo by a shuffling from the kitchen.

Pearl Moon waves at him from where she is sitting on the floor, leaning up against the partition between kitchen and sitting room, halfway through a tub of Ren's ice cream. Ren blinks back at her.

Major is sitting at the kitchen table across from Martyn, who has his face down on the surface of said table and is giving off the general smell he does anytime his emotions are best summarized as "I don't want to be here anymore."

Major looks back over his shoulder and beams at Ren, "Oh good, you're up! Come take a look at these!"

Ren shuffles closer until he can see what exactly it is the selkie has spread all over the table.

It's quite the variety, all placed carefully on Ren's good tea towels. Several trinkets of questionable origin, a cursed box of some kind that smells of fae magic, some mundane jewelry, and a small collection of potion vials. Major taps one of the un-enchanted necklaces proudly. "How would you price this lot?"

Martyn groans against the table top. "Could you at least not conduct your illegal sales in my kitchen when I'm here?"

Ren pats him on the shoulder and does his best to wake up enough to give the haul a more critical look. "Hard to say without a close examination but at least a couple thousand."

Behind him, Pearl makes a disparaging noise. "Only a couple thousand?" She says around a mouthful of ice cream. "Wow, that's cheap."

She shakes something that makes a jingling sound. "Now come look at mine!"

Martyn groans again and shoves his chair away from the table. "I'm going to go get food, if this is what you are doing now." He heads for the door.

Ren takes his chair as Pearl scrambles to her feet and joins them at the table, pulling things willy-nilly out of the pockets of her bright red jacket. He certainly wasn't planning on business on a day off when he hadn't even opened the shop, but Cleo and friends were always a good source of dubiously obtained items.

Martyn closes the front door behind him and Ren can hear him grumbling his way down the stairwell.

He can smell cheap chicken nuggets and his stomach rumbles. Hopefully Martyn brings some of those back with him.

#rain rambles #trafficblr #selkie au #life series gaslight gatekeep girlboss #inthelittlewood #smajor1995 #zombiecleo #pearlescentmoon #renchanting #rain writes fanfiction #long post is long #rendog

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rock-and-roll-hell · 8 months

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September 5, 1980

unmasked tour

Bingley hall - Stafford, England

📸: Ross Halfin

"Truth to tell, the last couple of the band's concerts I attended in the States were really very much perfunctory, going through-the-motions sort of affairs. While the gigs were enjoyable on the level of total extravagance, it was obvious that the KIϟϟ members themselves had become jaded and disenchanted with their roles, like a quartet of actors who've played the same parts in the same play for so long that their performances have become quite spiritless. But the departure of Peter Criss (always a weak link) and the arrival of the excellent Eric Carr has heralded a new beginning for the group. The Foxy fellow doesn't bother to sing 'Beth' from a stool and toss red roses into the audience, he just concentrates on the job at hand and contributes a less pedestrian, more driving beat than his predecessor, strengthening up the band's backbone for the first time in years" (Sounds, 9/13/80).

Iron Maiden, who had then recently toured the U.K. in support of their debut album, took a break for KIϟϟ' U.K. leg. KIϟϟ conducted a U.K. press conference on September 4 after arriving in country on the 3rd. The band was invited to a dinner at Legends on Old Burlington Street on the evening of the 4th. The guests included representatives from Phonogram including managing directors, product and marketing managers, and A&R/press staff.

#kisstory #1980 #unmasked #kiss #eric carr #ace frehley #paul stanley #gene simmons #kiss band #kiss army #the fox #the spaceman #the starchild #the demon

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mirrorofliterature · 5 months

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anyway enough about booker. and nicky and joe I adore you but let's talk about nile and andy (quynh snuck in too I can't help it).

- nile is such a well-crafted character and kiki layne is an amazing actress. she is just a really competent, compassionate and brave woman. I adore reading fanfic from her perspective because she's got such a cool perspective on life.

- andromache the scythian: so pretty. has gone through so much but is still so strong.

they're likeable, complex and interesting characters that are highly competent, I love fic about them, what's not to love?

personally, my favourite character is quynh because I'm an angst fiend and her long journey of recovery she would need to undergo after coming from the Iron Maiden just gets me... but I am also a big fan of:

- Nile centric fics. I don't ship Book of Nile so that does slim it down a little, but I adore post-canon fics exploring her settling into her mortality. One of my favourites is actually a canon divergence focusing on Nile and her brother: pure genius.

- Andromaquynh reunion fics

- Andy and Quynh meeting Nicky and Joe.

- Queer Quartet shenanigans

#of course statistically a lot of the fic I read is kaysanova because that's just what's out there #however whenever there is a new quynh or nile fic that catches my interest? that's always a joyful occasion #the old guard #andromache the scythian #nile freeman #quynh #I think the movie does a really good job of exploring and developing their characters so there's not much that I feel compelled to create #however post-canon or pre-canon fics of them #particularly character studies? yes #andromaquynh

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barstoolblues · 13 days

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glass of red wine. schubert's death and the maiden quartet. specific growth rate of various marine phytoplankton graph. im ready to blog

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hydropyro · 2 months

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Webs of Fate Chapter 3

ao3 link

CW: Abdirak and all that he entails

It was dark before the quartet made their way into the camp. They had returned to the Grove just in time to rescue a tiefling child from being eaten by a small coven of harpies, and to warn the Grove of the attack that would take place the following afternoon -- allowing them time to prepare.

The torturer stood from where he had been kneeling near the burning fire when Alakvyr approached, smiling at him. “I see you found the camp.”

“Yes, and it was a warm welcome.” the man replied flatly. “If you’ll permit, may I survey the camp and find a suitable place for my tent?”

The drow frowned and nodded, “Of course.” He watched the Loviatan make his way across camp, then Gale’s hand rested on his shoulder.

“What were you thinking?” the wizard asked. “Do you know what he is?”

Alakvyr laughed and lifted the lower hem of his shirt, turning his back to Gale to show him the just-scabbed over cuts across his lower back. “Yea, I know.”

When he turned back around the wizard had covered his face with one hand, his brows furrowed. “You let a Priest of Loviatar hit you ? And then you brought him to camp?” Gale’s expression then fell to one of exasperation. “You don’t want him to do it again, do you?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” the drow laughed, but then shook his head. “He said ‘ his Maiden ’ wants him to come with us.”

“Because she couldn’t possibly be responsible for this mess?”

Alakvyr hadn’t considered that. He glanced to the side where Withers stood. No one else knew what or who the skeletal figure truly was, and the drow had sworn not to reveal him to anyone. He would talk to Jergal and see if he had any insight into whether the Loviatan could be trusted. For now, it wouldn’t hurt too much to have him there.

“I’m starving ,” Alakvyr said, turning back to Gale expectantly.

The wizard only sighed and started away, toward the fire. He was the camp ‘chef’, which he had taken upon himself . He had made some comment about not trusting anyone else to recognize wild flora and fungi well enough not to accidentally poison them all, but Alakvyr thought he just enjoyed cooking.

Alakvyr hurried over to Withers, silent as a shadow thanks to growing up in the Underdark. As he passed Karlach he could hear the bard they’d rescued from camp whispering animatedly to the tiefling and the Blade of Frontiers. None of the three noticed him. Glancing further into camp it was possible that Lockpick had, but he made no motion to follow.

“ Jergal ,” he murmured, standing close to the god and facing out toward camp lest they be overheard.

“We meet again,” the impassive skeleton said, sounding tired and unenthused as always. “You are asked to address me as Withers, as agreed.”

“Of course, sorry, Withers .” Alakvyr fiddled with the broach bearing the Symbol of Kelemvor that was sewn onto the breast of his tunic. “I know you can’t -- or won’t , rather -- say much, but do you know if Loviatar is a threat?”

“Loviatar is the goddess of pain and torture. She is always a threat.”

Alakvyr rolled his eyes. “In the purview of the Absolute Crisis, is Loviatar a threat?”

Withers’s cold, blank eyes bore into Alakvyr a moment, but it seemed as though the god was looking elsewhere, likely through the planes, rather than at the drow standing before him. “I cannot see. It does not seem to be so.”

“So, can we trust the torturer?” He heard how bad it sounded once it had already been said.

Now Withers was looking at him, and he was no more enthused than before. He did not respond, and Alakvyr only nodded, knowing better than to press.

Alakvyr clasped his hands and gave a short nod to the god, then started across camp to where the Loviatan had gone.

A log had been laid down to cross a narrow stream and allowed access to a small, broken down building. They had already investigated the building before, and no one had claimed it due to the uneven stones in the floor. The soft dirt ground on the other side of the stream was much more comfortable beneath their bedrolls.

That did not stop the worshiper of pain from, and in fact may have attracted him to, erecting his small tent in the space.

“I am sure you had quite an earful from your companions?” The man asked, looking up from a book he was reading when Alakvyr stepped into the roofless building. He gave a small smile.

“Yea, don’t mind them. We’ve all been through a lot recently.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Are you comfortable?” Alakvyr asked. He knelt down beside the Loviatan, before falling back onto his hind end and crossing his legs, as resting on his knees on the stones was too painful.

“You need not concern yourself with it,” the older man said. “You have an animated skeleton in your camp?”

Alakvyr nodded. He began to say ‘ we are an odd bunch ’, but the pale grey eyes of the torturer were boring into him. Unlike Withers, who was of flat affect, the torturer had a neutral expression, but his eyes felt as though he was dissecting the drow sitting beside him.

“What is your name, Cleric of Kelemvor ?”

“Alakvyr.” He hadn’t remembered that they hadn’t been properly introduced. He had been somewhat familiar with the priest, and so it hadn’t really occurred to him. How odd and -- forward -- the torturer must think him to be. He held out a hand, which was accepted.

“Abdirak, Pain of Loviatar. I travel the lands to spread the word of my Maiden and bestow her blessings.

“Forgive me, it is odd, is it not, for a drow to be a Cleric of Kelemvor?”

Honestly, Alakvyr didn’t know. He could not remember much between the moment he’d pulled the blade to when Withers had stood over him and explained to him what had transpired -- in his typical, vague and unhelpful way.

“How long have you been a follower of Kelemvor, if you don’t mind me asking?”

There was intelligence and calculation behind Abdirak’s curious stare.

“Three days,” Alakvyr admitted, averting his gaze. He needed to tell someone what had happened to him. It seemed like the Loviatan had found an inconsistency in the drow’s story, and back at the goblin camp Alakvyr knew that he had recognized Lockpick’s true nature. Given that he hadn’t called him out, as Alakvyr himself shouldn’t have known yet , it felt safe -- perhaps -- to open up to him.

“Are you not aware of Kelemvor’s teachings?”

“Probably not as much as you,” the drow admitted.

Abdirak chuckled. “We must be well-learned for our Maiden. To understand our clients -- our charges -- in some cases our victims -- it is necessary to understand their faith, the cultures they may have come from, etcetera.

“It can help in sensing and retrieving the most pure of pain, physical and psychological.

“I sense a great pain in you, child.” Alakvyr met his eyes again, and Abdirak said, “I can help cleanse you, if you’ll allow.”

“I spoke to Minthara, a True Soul of the Absolute," Alakvyr began.

“I know of her,” Abdirak interrupted. “She is the one who invited me to assist in procuring information from the treasure hunter.”

Alakvyr paused. “Have you any loyalties to her?”

“None.” The Loviatan gestured flippantly at the notion. “I serve only Loviatar. I have no need of this Absolute nor her cult.”

He was satisfied with the response. “I told her that we would help her to raid the druid grove tomorrow at sundown.”

“The grove I was tasked with finding the location of?” Abdirak asked.

Alakvyr nodded. “But I plan on betraying her -- I will defend the grove and the tiefling refugees that are camped there.”

The Loviatan nodded, looking satisfied with the response. “You are worried?”

The drow nodded again. “I know that we can do it. They are strong people, and all of us,” he gestured around the camp that stood on the other side of the ruin’s wall. “We are all strong, too.”

“Then you should not worry.”

Alakvyr drew a breath to steel himself before saying, “Last time I helped to raid the grove with Minthara.”

The torturer frowned, deftly placing a hand to his breast and meeting the drow’s red eyes again. “Last time?”

“Six days ago I survived the crash of an illithid nautiloid.”

He continued quickly before the older man could interrupt.

“I was a fighter, sworn to Lolth and serving under Minthara Baenre. I didn’t know the full extent of my mission, only that I had to bring an artifact to her.

“I did everything I had been asked. I found and collected survivors from the nautiloid crash. I had been put onto the ship long before anyone was abducted. I was going to help and lead them to Minthara’s sector once we landed.

“I led Minthara and her goblins to the Emerald Grove, and I opened the gates, allowing the goblins to rush in and overpower those inside.

“The leader of the tiefling refugees -- Zevlor, he’s called -- I killed him myself.” Alakvyr’s heart ached at the memory. “In Zevlor’s bunker many of the other tieflings had hidden, and I stormed the bunker along with my general, Minthara. I helped her to slaughter them. They were unarmed -- begging -- pleading . But they were foulbloods. Tantamount to animals. Evil, pure evil. And the faeries of the druid grove?”

“Evil,” Abdirak murmured. He must have had an idea of Menzoberranzanian culture.

Alakvyr nodded. “Evil. They deserved the slaughter. For the glory of Lolth.

“But it ate at me -- because I knew that -- that wasn’t the case. They weren’t evil. They had welcomed us in in their greatest time of need. They’d fed us, and were willing to shelter us. With the illithid parasites in our heads, we posed a tremendous threat to them and their people -- and yet--

“So, three days ago I was not able to live with what I had done. I did not feel that I had honored Lolth, moreso that I had dishonored myself. I slit my own throat.

“And I woke up on the nautiloid ship once again.”

The Pain’s eyebrows rose, but he did not interrupt. He seemed to press his hand more firmly to his chest.

“It was explained to me, briefly, that Kelemvor had brought me back. I am an important part of resetting fate, allowing it to ‘spin along as it should’. He granted me with his powers and told me I was to defend the lives of the innocent lest they be cut unnaturally short, and, by any means, stop the Absolute .”

“So you will defend this Emerald Grove tomorrow, and destroy the True Soul Minthara’s army of goblins,” Abdirak said. “That is why you are a Cleric of Kelemvor, despite having an animated corpse in your camp, as well as a va--” he paused.

“I know about Lockp-- Astarion . But, I appreciate that you did not say anything when you realized. I shouldn’t know yet, and no one else does, either.”

The priest nodded, looking down at the book that he held closed in his lap. “I do not understand it fully, but I am less confused, now, as to why my Maiden has ordained that I travel with you. I believe I am supposed to help you in opposition to this rising cult and their ‘god’.” He closed his eyes and gave a small, pleased sigh, like one would when submerging themselves into a nice, warm bath.

“Will you fight with us?” Alakvyr asked, hope building in his chest.

“I won’t fight,” Abdirak shook his head. “I don’t fight. I can -- mind you -- but I won’t. As I don’t know for sure that these goblins are true enemies of Loviatar, it is opposed to my personal creed that I harm them.

“But, I am willing to come with you and keep you and your people in good health.”

Alakvyr nodded. “Thank you," he sighed. Any help was more than welcome. "And -- please, thank Loviatar.”

The Pain gave him a small smile and held out the blade that he had been clenching in his opposite fist. It was bloodied, and fresh blood pooled in the man’s opened palm. “Thank her yourself.”

#baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #Abdirak #Alakvyr #Webs of Fate #Loviatar #fanfic #fanfiction

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shuxiii · 11 months

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Everyday pt.20

Hanni Pham x reader pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, pt5, pt6, pt7, pt8, pt9, pt10, pt11, pt12, pt13, pt14, pt15, pt16, pt17, pt18, pt19, end

A/n yall reminder the next chapter is the last... 🥲🥲🥲 BUCKLE UP bc oh boy. Credits "every day" by david levithan.

Day 6030

I wake up only two towns away from her, in someone else’s arms.

I am careful not to wake this girl who enfolds me. Her feather-yellow hair covers her eyes. The beat of her heart presses against my back. Her name is Amelia, and last night she snuck in my window to be with me.

My name is Zara—or at least that’s the name I’ve chosen for myself. I was born Clementine, and I loved that name until I turned ten. Then I started to experiment, with Zara being the name that stuck. Z has always been my favorite letter, and twenty-six is my lucky number.

Amelia stirs under the sheets. “What time is it?” she asks groggily.

“Seven,” I tell her.

Instead of getting up, she curls into me.

“Will you be a good scout and check the whereabouts of your mom? I’d rather not leave the way I came in. My morning coordination is so much fuzzier than my nighttime coordination, and I’m always much more inspired when I’m approaching the maiden.”

“Okay,” I say, and in thanks, she kisses my bare shoulder.

The tenderness between two people can turn the air tender, the room tender, time itself tender. As I step out of bed and slip on an oversize shirt, everything around me feels like it’s the temperature of happiness. Nothing from the previous night has dissipated. I’ve woken into the comfort they’ve created.

I tiptoe into the hallway and listen at my mother’s door. The only sound is sleep-breathing, so it appears we’re safe. When I get back to my room, Amelia is still in bed, the sheet pulled back so it’s just her, her T-shirt, and her underwear. I have a feeling that Zara would not let this moment pass without crawling in beside her, but I feel I can’t do that in her place.

“She’s asleep,” I report.

“Like, safe-to-take-a-shower asleep?”

“I think so.”

“You want first shower, second shower, or both shower?”

“You can go first.”

She gets out of bed, and stops to kiss me on the way out. Her hands move under my oversize shirt, and I don’t resist. I fall right into it, kiss her a little bit longer.

“You sure?” she asks.

“You go first,” I tell her.

And then, just like Zara would, I miss her when she’s left the room.

I want it to be Hanni.

She sneaks out of the house while I’m in my shower. Then, twenty minutes later, she’s back at the door, to pick me up for school. My mother is awake now and in the kitchen, and smiles when she sees Amelia heading up the path.

I wonder how much she knows.

We spend most of the day together at school, but not in a way that limits our interactions with other people. If anything, we incorporate our friends into what we have between us. We exist as individuals. We exist as a pair. We exist as parts of trios, quartets, and so on. And it all feels right.

I can’t get Hanni off my mind. Remembering what she said about how her friends would never know me. How no one else would ever know me. How what we have together will only be us, always.

I am starting to realize what this means, and how sad it would be.

I am already feeling some of the sadness now, and it isn’t even happening.

Seventh period, Amelia has study hall in the library while I have gym. When we meet up after, she shows me the books she’s taken out for me, because they look like ones I’d like.

Will I ever know Hanni this well?

Amelia has basketball practice after school. I usually wait around for her, doing my homework. But she is making me miss Hanni too much; I have to do something about it. I ask her if I can borrow her car and run some errands.

She hands over the keys, no questions asked.

It takes me twenty minutes to get over to Hanni’s school. I park in my usual space as most of the cars head in the other direction. Then I find a place to sit and watch the door, hoping she hasn’t already left.

I am not going to talk to her. I am not going to start everything again. I just want to see her.

Five minutes after I’ve arrived, she appears. She is talking to Yeeun and a couple of her other friends. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re all involved in the conversation.

From here, she doesn’t look like someone who’s recently lost something. Her life seems to be playing on all chords. There’s one moment—one small moment—when she looks up and glances around. For that moment, I can believe she’s looking for me. But I can’t tell you what happens in the moment after, because I quickly turn away, stare at something else. I don’t want her to see my eyes.

This is the after for her, and if she’s in the after, then I have to be in the after, too.

I stop off at a Target on the way back to Amelia. Zara knows all her favorite foods, and most of them are of the snack variety.

I stock up, and before I go back into the school to find her, I arrange them on the dashboard, spelling her name. It is, I believe, what Zara would want me to do.

I am not fair. I wanted Hanni to see me there. Even as I looked away, I wanted her to come right over and treat me just like Amelia would treat Zara after spending three days apart.

I know it’s never going to happen. And that knowledge is a flash of light I can’t quite see through.

Amelia is delighted by the dashboard display, and insists on taking me to dinner. I call home and tell my mother, who doesn’t seem to mind.

I can sense that Amelia realizes I’m only half here, but she’s going to let me be half elsewhere, because that’s where I need to be. Over dinner, she fills the silence with tales from her day, some real and some completely imaginary. She makes me guess which is which.

We’ve only been together for seven months. Still, considering the number of memories Zara’s collected, it feels like a long time.

This is what I want, I think.

And then I can’t help it. I add, This is what I can’t have.

“Can I ask you something?” I say to Amelia.

“Sure. What?”

“If I woke up in a different body every day—if you never knew what I was going to look like tomorrow—would you still love me?”

She doesn’t miss a beat, or even act like the question is strange. “Even if you were green and had a beard and a male appendage between your legs. Even if your eyebrows were orange and you had a mole covering your entire cheek and a nose that poked me in the eye every time I kissed you. Even if you weighed seven hundred pounds and had hair the size of a Doberman under your arms. Even then, I would love you.”

“Likewise,” I tell her.

It’s so easy to say, because it never has to be true.

Before we say goodbye, she kisses me with everything she has. And I try to kiss her back with everything I want.

This is the nice note, I can’t help thinking.

But just like a sound, as soon as the note hits the air, it begins to fade.

When I walk inside, Zara’s mother says to her, “You know, you can invite Amelia in.”

I tell her I know. Then I rush to my room, because it’s too much. So much happiness can only make me sad. I close the door and begin to sob. Hanni’s right. I know it. I can never have these things.

I don’t even check my email. Either way, I don’t want to know.

Amelia calls to say good night. I have to let it go to voicemail, have to compose myself into the most like Zara I can be, before I answer.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her when I call her back. “I was talking to Mom. She says you need to come by more often.”

“Is she referring to the bedroom window or the front door?”

“The front door.”

“Well, it looks like a little bird called progress is now sitting on our shoulder.”

I yawn, then apologize for it.

“No need to say you’re sorry, sleepyhead. Dream a little dream of me, okay?”

“I will.”

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you,” I say.

And then we hang up, because nothing else needs to be said after that.

I want to give Zara her life back. Even if I feel I deserve something like this, I don’t deserve it at her expense.

She will remember all of it, I decide. Not my discontent. But the contentment that caused it.

Day 6031

I wake up feverish, sore, uncomfortable.

July’s mother comes in to check on her. Says she seemed fine last night.

Is it sickness or is it heartbreak?

I can’t tell.

The thermometer says I’m normal, but clearly I’m not.

Day 6032

An email from Hanni. Finally.

I want to see you, but I’m not sure if we should do that. I want to hear about what’s going on, but I’m afraid that will only start everything again. I love you—I do—but I am afraid of making that love too important. Because you’re always going to leave me, Yn. We can’t deny it. You’re always going to leave.

I don’t know how to respond to that. Instead, I try to lose myself in being Howie Middleton. His girlfriend picks a fight with him at lunchtime, over the fact that he never spends time with her anymore. Howie doesn’t have much to say about that. In fact, he stays entirely silent, which only infuriates her further.

I have to go, I think. If there are things I will never have here, there are also things I will never find here. Things I might need to find.

#newjeans fanfic #newjeans #hanni #hanni x reader #Hanni pham #newjeans imagines

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phoenixflames12 · 6 days

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I was tagged by the lovely @gohoubi- thank you, friend!

Last song: Schubert: String Quartet in C Major: D.956 II. Adagio

Favourite colour: Dark, sludgy green

Currently watching: doing a rewatch of Endeavour- going to sart s5 this weekend!

Sweet/savoury/spicy food: Savoury

Relationship status: the librarian maiden aunt who hopes to move to a small house in Oxford that has enough space for all of my books and has a spare room one day

Current obsession: 1960s/70s detectives who just can't seem to tell each other how much they mean to each other

Last thing I googled: Cable Street at the Southwalk Playhouse

Currently reading: Doing my annual reread of Sunset Song by Lewis Grassic Gibbon

Brain is mush at the moment (it's been an exhausting week) so if you see this then yes! You! You are now tagged in this!

#phoenixflames12 does memes

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mikrokosmos · 10 months

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another wacky retro classical album art found in the wold...flipping through CDs at a record & music store in our new neighborhood and found this beauty

(kicker is when I got home to play it, it wasn't even the right CD. previous owner stuck in the Tokyo Quartet playing Death and the Maiden...)

#Schubert #Franz Schubert #Trout Quintet #String Quintet #classical music #album art #funny

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chrysthetru · 7 months

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I’ve always found classical music to be so fascinating! The way all the different instruments flow to create such a strong emotional piece is amazing to me.

Suite No. 3 In D-major “air” is one of my absolute favorite pieces of all time, it’s so melancholic in nature. It’s another one of those songs that just gives me an intense vivid imagination of a place. In this case for me I always picture being behind a the clock on a tower when it’s a really rainy day. I could honestly describe the whole room I picture when I hear this song.

String quartet No. 14 in D-minor “death and the maiden” is a piece that just tells a whole story as it goes on. from the slower beginning, to the intense middle mark, all the way to waning end, this song is just beautiful.

It really makes you wonder what was going on when these songs were made? How could someone think up all the notes required for every instrument? I ponder these thoughts a lot as I listen and I hope that someone else will give these two songs a listen and understand me.

#music #my photography #clouds #aesthetic #classical composer #j.s. bach #franz schubert #Spotify

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eireanness · 9 months

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Complete! This scene is inspired by the Escaflowne drama CD Thoughts of Jeture. I thought it'd be cute to do a "what if" moment. What if Dilandau hadn't attacked at that time in Asturia? What if the characters had been able to attend the Festival of Jeture?

Just something light hearted and hopefully cute! I'm not a big fan of writing. I much prefer to read other people's works, but this is what I wrote for the scene.

"The city was abound with festivities. The echoes of laughter and song carried on the wind, minstrels were playing instruments that reminded her of a zither, lute, and some type of flute. They were singing tales of the great sea god, Jeture. Songs and poems of the tragic love story of Alia and Meifia. There were troupes doing small puppet theatres acting out tales of the heroic kings of the past, and fables for children.

Delicious scents from food wafted through the air. There were several stalls confectioneries, specialty breads, roasted meats. Young adults dressed in costumes, similar to what they were wearing, passed by; maidens clinging to their partners arms and pointing to the stalls they wanted to visit. Little games for young males to impress their female companions. A medieval type festival… I wonder if this is what they had been like on Earth too? Well… maybe without the beast people... I still can’t get used to this, she thought to herself, as she passed by a dolphin-like couple. They had wandered over to a small, less busy village square to grab some refreshments, Millerna was adamant that they try a particular beverage only served this time of year. Allen, being the ever honorable knight, took on the task to grab said refreshments. Millerna sat down at a small decorative table outside the small cafe like building. “You’ll love this drink! Vino pales in comparison, Hitomi,” Millerna gave a knowing wink to the lightweight. Hitomi rolled her eyes. The princess was elegant and regal, but had a side of mischief to her. She hated to admit it, but she did like Millerna quite a bit, aside from the Allen rivalry. But she knew that she had no chance with the knight. He flirted with her, but that was just how he was. He did it with all the palace maids… every woman he encountered for that matter. Indeed, he was just a natural charmer.

She huffed and her eyes drifted to the Fanelian king. Van was discretely looking around, his eyes scanning the locality for any sign of Zaibach interference she supposed, Always on edge…Van, can't you ever take a minute to breath? She sighed and took the time to appreciate the festive decorations.

Colorful pennant banners were strewn overheard, going from building to building. Flower boxes were filled with greenery and some had native flora. The centre was home to a simple but beautiful fountain, water spewing from the dragon heads adorning it. The crystal clear water seemed to sparkle, and the fine mist from the spray created beautiful little rainbows in the early noon sun. The little square had slightly less people at this time of day due to the main attractions being scattered around the bazaar, and in other parts of the city.

A small group of younger couples were drawn towards a quartet detting up in the far end of the square. "Oh!!” she exclaimed. “Van, let’s check that out!” Hitomi grabbed his arm and all but dragged him behind her.

Van had been deep in thought, surveilling the area. He had this feeling someone was watching them, but Hitomi’s ease and lack of concern had him wondering if maybe he was being overly paranoid? Afterall… Hitomi does have that… power which allows her to sense dangers... I can’t rely on that though. He had heard her call his name and mumble something to him, but he was still preoccupied with his thoughts. The next thing he knew, he felt a strong tug on his arm. The shock caused him to stumble slightly, but he was able to quickly regain his composure. He hadn’t expected the green eyed girl to be so forceful, or brazen. “Come on! Let’s see what they’re doing!” Millerna watched as the two made their way over to the little gathering. Her plan to act as match maker seemed to be working on the young king and his female companion. A sly smile graced her features. "Princess?" Allen had finally returned with a small tray of beverages. "Oh, Allen, perfect timing," Millerna graciously took the beverage handed to her and returned her gaze to the youthful couple. Allen's gaze wandered over to them. "I definitely didn't think I'd see him dancing. It's good to see him in higher spirits. I was worried he'd be brooding," Allen said with a small chuckle. "You have to admit. She has a certain way about her, I think it they're a good match, don't you think so Allen?" Millerna's eyes twinkled. ”It looks like they’re going to dance," she excitedly announced. "Hitomi, we don’t have time to waste on this…” he grumbled. ”Oh come on Van! Live a little! Do you know it?” ”You do realize I am a King, do you not? Of course I’d know of other countries and their traditional dances. Fanelia has one similar to this as well,” he said a slight frown forming on his features. He wasn’t really upset, he enjoyed that she treated him as someone normal. But it did hurt his pride just a bit that she apparently thought him that much of a bumpkin. ”Then let’s do it! You should try to have fun and enjoy this,” she said as she started to mimic what the other young women were doing. Their hands lifted and they were shaking the little bells at their wrists. The steps and motions looked very similar to la Moresca. Van shook his head and a very small, amused smile crept over his lips as he gave in to her whims."

#fanart #escaflowne #van fanel #hitomi kanzaki #millerna aston #vision of escaflowne #the vision of escaflowne #tenkuu no escaflowne #fanfiction #fanfic #digital art

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