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echoes-of-the-clockwork · 3 years

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Book One: Gold (Prompto x Reader) Chapter XXXV

A couple years later, rebuilding Insomnia was still in full swing. People were beginning to return to the city after hearing their king was alive and well after the darkness was vanquished. Noctis was still trying to get used to his duties as king, but he had the help of his friends. Even Cor returned to help him. Many of the Kingsglaive returned to help with the restoration project.

Today, (Y/n) was watching Prompto puzzling as he ran around frantically in his new office located in the Citadel. Some of his papers fell off his desk, which she picked up for him. After laying them back down on the desk, she called out to him. "Prom, what is going on that requires you to be running around like a chocobo with its head cut off?"

The man, who was now sorting quickly through his paperwork while standing up, looked over at her. "Oh, right! I haven't told you yet." He looked back down at the papers and grabbed his pen, promptly signing the documents. "We're going on a vacation!"

"Huh?" She blinked in shock.

"Noct told me to take a vacation with you or he was gonna kick my ass," Prompto chuckled. "He wants us to have some alone time after spending these last two years so focused on the restoration project. We...really haven't had much time for our private life."

"Now that you mention it, we really haven't. Whenever we're done here, we always wind up crashing at home. And then when we wake up, we're back on the job."

Prompto grabbed the paperwork and turned to leave the office. Before he left, he hooked an arm around her waist, pulled her into his side, and kissed her on the cheek. "Meet me outside in ten minutes. We'll go home and pack as quick as we can and then we are outta here!" He stormed out of the room and began running down the hallway.

(Y/n) rearranged Prompto's desk before leaving the office. As she closed the door behind her, she spotted Noctis walking down the hallway. She smiled and greeted him. "Hey, Noct. Never expected you to threaten your best friend with a vacation."

"You two need some time off," Noctis said. "So do I..."

A smirk made its way on her face. "So you can spend more time with your special someone?"

The king rubbed the back of his neck with a groan. "Who told you about that?"

"Gladio did."

"Of course he did..." He combed a few stray raven locks aside. "Actually, I was hoping to find you before you and Prompto left. I was hoping you could tell me a little more about guardians."

Her eyes widen. "Wait, is this woman you like a spirit?"

"Guess Gladio didn't mention that part," he chuckled.

She smiled. "Then I'll tell you all that I can."

As Noctis and (Y/n) chatted, they had lost track of time. They didn't realize how long they'd been talking until Prompto came running down the hallway. "Hey! How could you keep me waiting?" He pouted childishly, poking her in the side playfully. "We're supposed to go on vacation together!"

"Sorry, Prom," she said. "Noct and I were talking."

"Is this about his new girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend," Noctis groaned.

"Then ask her out already!" Prompto shouted.

"You're worried about her master, aren't you?" (Y/n) asked.

"Something like that," the king sighed.

"Listen, I know you're probably worried she and her master will say no because you're the king, but there's only one way to learn the truth. Ask her and see how it goes. Don't worry about her master. And if you need my help when we get back, I will gladly lend my services."

Noctis smiled in relief. "Thanks, (Y/n)." He walked up to Prompto, patting him on the shoulder. "You two have fun."

"Oh, we totally are gonna have a ball!" Prompto grabbed the guardian's hand and dragged her out of the Citadel. They returned to their apartment, where they packed their things before leaving Insomnia.

Prompto was behind the wheel as they drove through Leide and crossed into the Duscae region. (Y/n) was wondering where he was taking her until she saw a familiar yellow sign. Her eyes widened as they pulled up to Wiz Chocobo Post. As she went to exit the car, Prompto beat her to it. He opened the door for her and took her hand in his. Closing the door, he smiled like a child in a candy shop. "There's someone that's been wanting to see you again for a long time."

The spirit allowed her beloved to drag her towards the pens. She wondered who wanted to see her since she couldn't think of anyone outside the city she knew. However, a bell of recognition went off inside her when spotting a chocobo with (f/c) feathers. "No way," she gasped. Prompto let go of her hand and she walked up to the pen occupied by her favorite chocobo. When the bird recognized her, he chirped loudly and flapped his wings in excitement. She petted the top of his head with a smile. "Hey, buddy. It's been a long time. Did you miss me?"

The chocobo nudged his beak against her cheek, making her giggle. She wrapped her arms around his neck and combed her fingers through his (f/c) feathers. "I missed you, too."

Prompto vanished to find Wiz. He rented two chocobos, one being the (f/c)-feathered bird who was fond of (Y/n). He returned to her and they took the two chocobos out of their pens. The couple left the outpost, riding atop the birds as they traveled across the Duscae region. They enjoyed the warmth of the sun and the beauty the wetlands had to offer. Prompto, of course, was still fond of photography and snapping picture after picture.

The couple stopped at the Alstor Slough and admired the catoblepases roaming through the wetlands in search of their next meal. Hopping off the chocobos, they stood at the water's edge. Prompto continues to take pictures until he was satisfied. All of a sudden, he remembered something. "Oh! I totally forgot!"

"Please don't tell me you forgot to pack something," (Y/n) groaned. "I even gave you a check list!"

He chuckled. "No, I packed everything." He shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. "I never really told you what happened the last time I came to Wiz's." Unfolding the aged, wrinkly paper, he showed her the portrait that was drawn on it.

(Y/n) took the paper from him, eyes widening slightly. "This is our portrait from Altissia..." Looking up, she stared into Prompto's eyes. "You carry it around with you?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It's also how I knew who this guy was," he said, pointing to the (f/c)-feathered chocobo. "Two years ago, I was back at Wiz's after finishing a job. It was before I learned Noct was coming back. He managed to grab the paper from my pocket and recognized you in the drawing. That's when I decided to promise to bring you back here to see him."

"I still can't believe I slept for ten years," (Y/n) mumbled sadly. "I wish I was there with you, Prom."

"I wanted you with me too, but I guess we really never get a say in what the Astrals have planned," he said. "But those ten years without you made me realize something."

"And what's that?"

Prompto took her hand in his, entwining their fingers together. "Come with me to Galdin Quay and I'll tell you."

The two mounted their chocobos and headed back to the outpost. They parted with their birds and headed to their next destination. Arriving in Galdin Quay, they took their luggage to the room Prompto paid for. After settling in their room and unpacking, they decided to get a bite to eat. At the counter of the Mother of Pearl, they placed their orders and waited patiently. As they did, (Y/n) shattered the silence lingering between her and Prompto. "Well, we're at Galdin Quay now. You gonna tell me?"

"Hold your chocobos, (Y/n)!" Prompto exclaimed. "Just...give me a couple of days to find the right words. In the meantime, we can enjoy all this delicious food and the beautiful beach!"

"All right, fine. I'll try to be patient," she sighed before poking him in the side and causing him to jump slightly. "Just don't keep me waiting too long."

Their dinner was served. Munching down on the delicious seafood, they savored every bite. When the food was gone, they paid and returned to their room for the night. The couple fell asleep after a few hours of chatting and getting comfortable in the plush bed. Their slumber was peaceful and both woke up early the next morning to relax on the beach.

(Y/n) grabbed her swimsuit and took off her nightwear. As she hooked her fingers under the elastic band of her panties, two toned arms snaked around her waist and pulled her against a bare chest. She tensed up slightly when Prompto nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck and his goatee grazed her skin. "H-Hey, that tickles!"

He chortled, kissing the side of her neck. "Sorry. I couldn't help myself."

"Are you going to let me put my bathing suit on or do I need to prepare for something more intimate?"

"Maybe later, but not right now. Even though it's very tempting seeing you like this..." He kisses her cheek before releasing her. "I'll go find us a spot while you change."

"All right. I'll be there in a few minutes."

Prompto left with all they would need to enjoy the beach while (Y/n) changed into her swimsuit. Adjusting the strings one final time, she was ready to go. Leaving the hotel room, she walked through the restaurant and crossed the boardwalk. She found Prompto not too far from the fishing pier. He had everything set out and prepared for them to enjoy their day at the beach. There were a few other people who had the same idea as them.

Crawling onto the towel next to Prompto's, (Y/n) basked in the warmth of the sun. She closed her eyes as a content sigh fell from her lips. Her eyes, however, shot open seconds later when she felt a cold substance come in contact with her abdomen. Lifting her head off the towel, she saw Prompto smiling innocently at her as he put sunscreen on her exposed stomach. "You can try acting innocent, but I know what's going on in that head of yours, Prom."

"I am not thinking dirty thoughts, I swear!" He protested.

"If you say it a little louder, you just might be able to convince yourself," she snickered.

Prompto's hand gravitated towards her sides, where he caresses his fingers against her exposed skin. A smile manifested on his face after hearing her moan slightly. "Who's the dirty one now?"

She rolled her eyes and sat up, taking him by surprise. She snatched up the bottle of sunscreen and placed her free hand against his bare chest. She pushed him down on his back into the sand and straddled his lap. She did just as he did and squirted a decent amount of sunscreen on his exposed belly. "Damn, that's cold!" He shrieked.

Now it was her turn to laugh at him. She laid both of her hands on his abdomen and began rubbing the sunscreen in. Her golden eyes were focused on his face. What caught her attention was him biting his bottom lip. Smirking, she traveled south with her hands and stopped just above the waistband of his swimming trunks. She teased him by slipping a few of her fingers under the waistband. That was just what she needed to hear the moan he's been suppressing. She removed her hands and moved them up to his chest. "Guess we're both feeling a little naughty today." She climbed off of him and got to her feet. "Let's take a dip and clear our heads before we get lost in our hormones."

(Y/n) grabbed Prompto's hand and hauled him up onto his feet. She dragged him towards the clear waters of the ocean, where they both swam for the next couple of hours. After playing a few water games with each other, Prompto swam towards the guardian and encircled one arm around her waist. He pulled her closer when she rested her head against his shoulder. They floated aimlessly, enjoying each other's touch.

After ten minutes of silence, Prompto spoke up. "Hey, (Y/n)? Remember when I said I'll need a couple of days to think about what to say?"

"Do you need more time?" She inquired.

"It's the opposite, actually. I think I know exactly what to say." He pulled them towards the shore. "Think you could wait for me on the beach? There's something I've gotta grab from my suitcase."

"Sure," she responded, wondering what he needed.

They swam back to shore. Prompto ran back to the hotel room while (Y/n) remained on the beach. She stood at the water's edge, allowing the gentle waves to wash over her feet. The sand stuck to her wet feet, but she didn't mind. It was the first time in her life she was able to enjoy the beach. Galdin Quay is the perfect spot to go on a vacation, especially if you wanted to relax on the beach. The water was clear and sparkled as the sun's warm rays casted down on the surface of the ocean.

Hearing the padding of footsteps and the faint crunch of sand, (Y/n) looked away from the ocean and saw Prompto had returned. A nervous smile was plastered on his face as he hid something behind his back. He came to a stop in front of her, swallowing hard. "Okay, I know I said I have the perfect thing to say, but I completely forgot it because of how nervous I am." He wiped at his forehead that was damp with sweat. "I think I'm sweating..."

"Try to calm down. I don't know what has you in a tizzy, but you look like you're about to pass out," she said. "Whatever you wanna say, just say it. You don't have to use any fancy words on me."

"Then I'll just come out and say it." Prompto kneeled down on a single knee and revealed the small black box he was hiding behind his back. Opening the lid, he revealed a beautiful ring with a golden diamond that matched her eyes and gemstone. Along the sides of the yellow diamond were two smaller white ones. Along the silver band were golden accents that matched the yellow diamond. "It's taken me a while to find the perfect moment to ask you, but I figured why not while we're in the most beautiful place in Lucis?"

(Y/n) stared wide-eyed at the beautiful ring. "Prom, are you...?"

"Proposing? Yeah..." He blushed in embarrassment. He looked up at her face with worry. "A-Am I doing this right? Or have I totally screwed this up?"

"N-No! You're doing just fine," she reassured him. "Please, continue."

He took a deep breath before continuing. "Those ten years without you made me realize how my life isn't complete without you. I felt so empty and useless without you. I don't ever wanna feel that way again. Will you marry this loser?"

"I don't see a loser. All I see is the man I'm deeply in love with," she smiled at him. "Of course I'll marry you, Prompto."

The man smiled back, his heart racing in his chest as he took the ring and slid it onto her ring finger. Once the ring was secured on her finger, he stood up and engulfed her in a hug. "Thank you, (Y/n)."

<--------------<<<<<

Five years have passed since Prompto proposed to (Y/n). With help from Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio, they both had a wonderful wedding. Now, the thirty-seven-year-old marksman was searching for his wife and their new addition to the family. Searching the Citadel, he found her and their four-year-old son, (S/n), in the training room.

(A/n: (S/n) stands for son's name in case some of you aren't aware. I couldn't think of any names and thought you guys would have one in mind. It's also to make this story more x reader friendly.)

(Y/n) was in her spiritual form, laying on her belly with her front paws stretched out in front of her and her back paws tucked under her. Her tails were splayed out across the marble floor as (S/n) climbed across her back and up her neck to reach her head. When he did, he outstretched a hand and began messing with the white tips of her ears. Her ears flicked over and over again at the feeling of her son's touch. They were always quite sensitive and it would always tickle her whenever someone touched them.

Prompto watched with a gentle smile. He chuckled when (S/n) managed to crawl up just a bit higher and sprawl his small body across the fox's face. "Okay, buddy," he approached them as (Y/n) lowered her head for him to grab their son. He grabbed (S/n) and lifted him off the spirit's face. "Mommy's not a jungle gym."

"But we were having so much fun!" The (h/c)-haired boy whined. The child looked over at his mother with cerulean eyes that were just like his father's. Although he was the child of a human and spirit, he looked like a normal boy with no guardian features. "Tell him, Mommy!"

(Y/n) changed back and stretched her arms up in the air. "We were, but mommy needs a nap. It's been a long day. We can play some more tomorrow, sweetheart. I promise."

An idea popped into Prompto's head. "Hey, how about you go see Gladio in his office? I'm sure he'll play with you."

"Okay!" (S/n) dashed out of the training room when Prompto put him down.

(Y/n) eyed her husband. "Are you trying to drive Gladio crazy? Or just trying to get rid of our son?"

"I would never get rid of (S/n)!" He denied. "It's to drive the big guy crazy. Besides, (S/n) loves him!"

"Looks like Gladio's the favorite uncle," she giggled.

"Speaking of the favorite uncle, Gladio's agreed to watch (S/n) for the rest of the day. You and I have some time for ourselves. What do you wanna do?"

She placed a hand on her hip with an eyebrow quirked up. "Don't you have work to do?"

"I finished early just so we could go out." He took her hand, entwining their fingers. "So, where do you wanna go?"

She smiled. "Surprise me."

"Leave it to me, milady!"

They left the Citadel and spent their time together by traveling to a few places around Insomnia. It had been hours since they left (S/n) in Gladio's care and the sun was setting. After grabbing a bite to eat and stopping by a bakery to buy some sweets, they headed home. Stepping into the apartment, they saw Gladio knocked out on the couch with (S/n) running circles around the coffee table.

"Little guy's so full of energy he wiped out Gladio," Prompto chuckled.

"Maybe we should save the sweets for later," (Y/n) mumbled.

"Mommy! Daddy!" (S/n) shouted when spotting them.

Prompto nudged his wife towards the kitchen and whispered. "Hide the sweets before he sees them. I'll keep him distracted."

The guardian quickly made her way to the kitchen and hid the items from the bakery. She placed them up high so (S/n) couldn't see or reach them. Leaving the kitchen, she found her husband and son sitting on the couch by the sleeping Gladio. She wondered what they were talking about and eavesdropped.

"C'mon, daddy!" (S/n) whined. "Tell me the story of how mommy took down that big monster again."

"You mean the behemoth?" Prompto asked.

"Yeah!"

"Whoa, hold it," (Y/n) intervened, knowing the story was gory. "Don't you think that story's a little too grown up for him, Prom?"

"Nah, don't worry about it, (Y/n). I leave out all the graphic parts," Prompto explained.

"Well, then...tell away."

While Prompto told the story, she tapped Gladio on his shoulder and gently roused him from his slumber. When the shield was fully awake, she offered him a grateful smile. "Thanks for watching him, Gladio."

"Hey, I love the kid. I'll watch him anytime you and Prompto want a night out on the town," he said, standing up.

"But what about your duties as Noct's shield?"

"Our lovely king has been really busy with his own personal affairs lately," he chuckled. "He plans on proposing to his special lady soon."

"Maybe it's about time you found your special someone."

"Trust me, I've got my eyes on a special gal. Now all I gotta do is ask her out," Gladio explained. He patted her on the shoulder. "I'm heading out. You three have fun."

"Bye, Gladio. Thanks again," (Y/n) replied.

"Anytime, (Y/n)." He walked past Prompto and (S/n), ruffling the little boy's (h/c) locks. "See ya, squirt. Make sure you don't stress your parents out too much."

"Bye, Uncle Gladdy!" He giggled, waving farewell to the man.

After hearing the door close, (Y/n) checked the time before sitting down beside her husband and son. She combed her hand through (S/n)'s messy locks. "Have you already ate, sweetie?"

"Mhmm. Uncle Gladdy ordered pizza for us. There's even leftovers in the fridge."

Suddenly, (S/n) yawned and leaned against his father's chest. He was having issues keeping his eyes open and warding off sleep. "Whoa, someone's tired," Prompto said. "It is a little past eight. I think it's time for someone to go to bed." Scooping the little boy up into his arms, he stood up from the couch.

"You wanna put him down tonight?" (Y/n) asked.

"Yeah. Meet me in the bedroom?" He questioned.

"Yeah. I'll be there shortly." She watched Prompto carry their son to his room before locking the front door and heading to the master bedroom. She crawled on to the bed, laying on her back. She stared up at the ceiling, mentally sorting through what she would need to do tomorrow. Her train of thought was derailed when she felt the mattress dip and saw Prompto looming over her. "Is (S/n) asleep?" She inquired.

"Yep," he answered before leaning down and placing a kiss on her forehead. He snuck a hand under her shirt and traced circles on her soft skin. "So..."

"What do you want?" She sighed.

"You, uh... You think we could have another kid? Y'know, so (S/n) can have a little brother or sister?" Prompto muttered, eyes full of wonderment.

"You want another kid after four years?"

"Bad timing?"

She shook her head. "No, it's just...why now all of a sudden?"

"Well, (S/n) told me how much he wanted a brother or sister while I was tucking him in. And I think having another kid would be great! I just hope it's a girl this time. I want a little (Y/n) running around."

A smirk crept onto the guardian's face. She pushed Prompto down on the bed and straddled his lap. "Well then, I guess we better get started."

<-------------<<<<<

After their sexual escapade, it was only a little past nine. Both were sweaty and in need of a shower. (Y/n) wrapped the sheets around her bare chest as she sat up. "Guess I'll have to wash the sheets again."

"I would hold off on that," Prompto chuckled.

She looked over at him, puzzled. "And why's that?"

"We're gonna enjoy ourselves again tomorrow night, and maybe even the next night..."

She smacked him on the arm. "We're lucky (S/n) didn't hear us tonight. It's too risky to do this every night, especially since his room is literally right across from ours."

Prompto smirked as he sat up. "That just means we'll have to be extra quiet." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her naked body against his. He pressed a kiss against her forehead and hair. He tucked her smaller form against his side, resting his head on top of hers. "Honestly, I'm happy with just hugging and kissing you."

She wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled closer. "Me too, Prom. To be honest, I never saw this in our future, but I'm happy it was. I love you so much."

"I love you too, (Y/n)," he whispered. "You've made me the happiest man on Eos."

"Let's continue to make each other happy as long as we can, okay?"

He nodded his head with a gentle smile. "Deal."

••••••••••END••••••••••

A/n: This marks the end of Book One: Gold! Next up is Book Two: Sapphire (Ignis x Reader). I've also made a minor change to the lineup of books. Book three has been changed from Diamond to Amethyst. Hope you guys are excited for the next book because I know I am! Love you all!!!

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#final fantasy xv #final fantasy xv x reader #ffxv #ffxv x reader #prompto argentum #prompto x reader #prompto argentum x reader

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starlocked01 · 4 years

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Terror in my Heart

AO3

Masterpost- Previous- Next

Summary: The constant stream of vulgar nonsense coming from his soulmate could not prepare Virgil to actually meet him. Content Warning: Swearing, Innuendo

Day 29 Dukexiety- You and your soulmate have a telepathic connection until you meet.

"Moist. Moist. Moist. It doesn't sound right. Moist."

"Oh my god, it doesn't sound right because it's a terrible word. Just shut up if you can't think anything else."

Virgil enjoyed the quiet for about 10 seconds.

"Moist underwear."

"I will kill you"

"How ya gonna do it?" his soulmate’s thoughts sounded perkier instantly. Virgil rubbed his temples in annoyance.

"I'm not going to plan it out for you; you'll know how to avoid me when I find you," the threat was mostly empty but his soulmate didn't have to know that. He turned back to his latest creation spinning slowly on the wheel, wetting his hands again before working the clay. He was trying to make a pumpkin-shaped vase but was having difficulties getting the flare correct.

"Do clowns use balloons as condoms?" his soulmate asked from wherever in the world he was lurking.

Virgil sighed, "I'm trying to concentrate, dicks-for-brains. Please ask literally anyone but me."

"Fine, be that way, eldritch terror in my heart," the voice sounded broken up, almost performatively sad.

Virgil smirked to himself and sang back, "sometimes you gotta bleed to know that you're alive and have a soulmate."

He could hear his soulmate giggling at that and returned to the wheel, humming the song to keep them both preoccupied.

"I'm gonna buy a squid today," Virgil was pretty used to this particular thought from his soulmate. He found it endearing when he'd info dump about the sea creatures. Sometimes Virgil even fell asleep to his soulmate crafting stories of tremendous squids rising from the depths to have tea parties with sailors and stargazers. Tea parties or sex, depending on his soulmate's mood.

The bell on the front door to his shop jingled, indicating that a customer had come in, "just one moment!" he called out, grabbing a towel for his hands and walking out to the front. Virgil found a man browsing through his creations and watched him from behind the counter. He kept humming to himself and his soulmate, waiting for this stranger to be done browsing.

The first thing Virgil noticed was the sleeve tattoo erupting out from under the man's shirt, all tentacles and eyes and beaks like a squid were trying to devour his arm. "What a coincidence," he thought to his soulmate, "someone just came in with a tat sleeve you'd adore," Virgil didn’t hear a response and figured he must be preoccupied.

The second thing he noticed was a silver streak in his brown hair. It was quite the fashion statement and he really wanted to ask the man why he'd done that with his hair. The man glanced towards Virgil and his green eyes lit up in joy, rushing over to the back display. Virgil was wary; most of these pieces he had made with his soulmate in mind and did not sell them easily.

"Oh my god! You have squids!" The voice was hauntingly familiar but Virgil couldn’t place it.

"Oh, yeah, my soulmate talks about them a lot so I end up making them," he shrugged as the man gently picked up one of his favorite pieces.

"He's so cute! How much do you want for him? I'm gonna name him Tyrone and make my soulmate think I found a hot boyfriend, when really all I found was this precious baby," the way he talked was so familiar, but Virgil was more concerned with stopping him from accidentally hurting the sculpture.

"Hey! Can you please put that down? I kinda don't want to sell it…"

"Oh, sorry. Damn and that one was so cute too," the man turned back to the other squids after putting the first one down on the counter next to Virgil, "I'm Remus. I know you didn't ask but now you know, so deal with it, bitch."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Virgil smirked. This man was very much like his soulmate and that made his heart flutter in his chest. It was then Virgil realized he hadn't heard anything from his soulmate since Remus had entered the shop. It was very unlike him to be quiet this long when Virgil knew he was awake. He started humming again, hoping to catch his soulmate’s attention.

"Oh hey! My soulmate was just singing that song like five minutes ago," Remus smiled at Virgil, and Virgil's heart melted. It felt so warm to see this stranger happy.

"Oh yeah? I was trying to distract mine from just the strangest thoughts about clowns," Virgil smiled back at Remus.

A peculiar look crossed Remus' face, "what's your opinion on the word 'moist'?" He asked suspiciously.

"You…."

"Me!"

"You came to a pottery shop for a squid?" Virgil grinned broadly at his soulmate.

"Well, was I wrong?" Remus grinned, gesturing to the shelves of squids.

"No, you weren't. Looks like Tyrone will be going home with you after all," Virgil picked up the squid that Remus had set down, fondly remembering when he'd crafted it with his soulmate in mind.

"I hope he's not the only one coming home with me," Remus replied in a voice that made Virgil blush, "what's your name, stranger?"

Virgil hid behind his bangs, "what if I don't want to tell you?"

"I come back and ask tomorrow. And the next day, and every day until you tell me," Remus grinned, reaching out to brush the hair from in front of his eyes, "maybe don't tell me so I have to come back…"

"Virgil."

"Virgil? What kind of a name is that?"

"What kind of a name is Remus?" Virgil shot back.

"A good one. One you're gonna be stuck with for the rest of your life," Remus giggled at him.

"At least I won't have to hear every single random thought that flows through your head anymore," Virgil grinned.

"Not unless I say them out loud," Remus smirked with an evil gleam in his eye. He took a deep breath before practically shouting, "I said, certified freak seven days a week-"

"Enough!" Virgil quickly cut him off, "I'm taking Tyrone in the custody battle."

"Awww our first fight. Does that mean we have apology sex now?" Remus was leaning on the counter, tall enough that he had to bend over at the waist to reach it, and bumped his eyebrows at Virgil in a way the other supposed was intended to be flirting.

"Are you flirting or apologizing?" Virgil raised an eyebrow.

"Definitely flirting. I don't know what I would have to apologize for-"

"Don't get me started," Virgil chuckled, grabbed a pen and slip of paper, and scrawled a phone number while asking, "you busy tonight?"

"If you're asking, nope," Remus leaned forward, stealing the slip of paper and a kiss, "call me when you're off and I'll take you somewhere fun," he pulled back and started to put the number in his phone, "how much for Ty?"

Virgil, flustered with the kiss and the date, waved him off, "he was always for you, Remus."

Remus took the pen and wrote his own number on the back of the paper, pushing it back to Virgil with a wink. He carefully scooped up the clay figure, kissing its forehead before turning to leave the store.

Virgil missed the constant stream of thoughts from Remus but returned to his pumpkin project, terrified- in a good way- of the date his soulmate could cook up now that he couldn’t hear him. Knowing Remus, it would be interesting.

Tag List: @stoicpanther @ifrickenhatedeverythingaboutthis @idontgiveafuckaboutshit @tsshipmonth2020

#tsshipmonth2020 #Soulmate September 2020 #dukexiety #I love my boys #virgil sanders #remus sanders #tyrone the squid #swearing #innuendo #Remus just being very Remus

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bat-besties · 3 years

Text

Courtship song

AO3

2.7k

Logince Fluff

When esteemed researcher Logan Crofter needs the help of a musician, famous saxophone player Roman Sanders gets ready for the most unusual project of his career.

Logan looked over the application again. Roman Sanders, respected saxophone player, winner of the Australian Jazz Bell Awards 2015 and 2018, with record sales in fifty countries. He outshone every other applicant, but that was what was worrying. Logan knew that his budget could not stretch to the kind of money Sanders would make at his average performance. Still, the musician had known their budget when he applied.

Trying not to overthink it too much, he dialed the number.

After a few moments, it picked up. "Hello? This is Roman Sanders speaking," said a clear, deep voice from the other end and he froze. He had not- expected him to sound like that. Whatever he had expected his voice to hold, it was not a timbre which seemed to be set to the resonant frequency of Logan's heart.

"Hello? Can I help you?"

"Yes-yes-" he snapped back into focus and cleared his throat. "Yes, this is, uh, Logan Crofter, I am accepting your application. You have reviewed the details?"

"I have! It all seems to be very organised," Roman replied. Logan felt his cheeks flood with heat.

"It is very organised," he said stiffly. "It's not your usual caliber of work, I know, but it is very serious. Very important. To me and others."

Roman laughed, not like he was mocking Logan, but in a genuine expression of excitement. "I know! It's important to me too! I always want to do something different, stretch my creativity, so this stood out to me. I think the idea is amazing. How did you come up with it?"

"Oh, you know, research- but more than a little hope. I had to also be creative, in my own way." Desperate times led to desperate measures, which for Logan were increasingly far from the approval of established methodology.

"Wonderful!"

He was suddenly afraid that Roman could hear his heart racing over the other end of the phone line. "Indeed. Indeed. So, I will email you the relevant audio files, then I can set up the studio for you for the 15th."

"Of course- I'll try and immerse myself! Truly get the feel! Any documentaries or anything you can recommend?"

"Oh, I-" Logan adjusted his perfectly straight glasses. "I'll send you a link to some," he said in a high-pitched voice. "And I can- set up the studio for you."

"Thank you, I appreciate it, Logan."

At the sound of his name in Roman's voice, he completely short-circuited. "Yesthankyougoodbye-" He hung up.

For a long moment, he stared at the blank screen of his phone almost breathless. I appreciate it, Logan.

He stood up, irritated, and wondered what in the name of Darwin had come over him. Attraction, he supposed. The musician's voice was simply...attractive.

Would it be egotistical to send Roman a documentary he himself had been interviewed in? It was most informative due to his consultation, but...perhaps it would not look best. Then again, research would probably cause him to stumble upon Logan's name-

He shook his head. He did not have time to deal with this. There were more important things at stake, and Roman Sanders could wait until the 15th.

Writing a love song would be stressful enough with a conspicuous and oft-mourned lack of a lover in his life, but as Roman trawled through the articles and videos Logan sent him, what had started as an exercise in eccentricity began to take on larger importance.

As the two emailed back and forth, the nervous, uptight voice Roman had spoken on the phone to morphed into a complete nerd delivering informative ramblings, or, in one YouTube video he'd stumbled upon, a slightly younger version of Logan almost lit up by a kind of tender curiosity.

Therefore, Roman wanted his song to be perfect, and between days practicing and nights researching, he managed to finish the piece only the day before the 15th.

As soon as he caught a glimpse of Roman's cloud of hair in the distance, Logan took a deep breath, and pulled on his best cool and professional approach. "Roman! I’m glad you were punctual."

Roman grinned at him. "I thought you'd appreciate that."

And, despite himself, he grinned back. He coughed, and then opened the door so Roman could carry his saxophone case through. "We rented out the space for hours, to give you as much time as you need."

"Thank you," the musician stepped through into the cool air-conditioned reception and wondered why Logan was flushed. "I hope you weren't waiting outside long? I am usually on time! I neither lag nor rush," he joked.

After a moment, the corners of his mouth twitched up. "Ah. Jazz joke. And no, please do not worry. I was not outside long."

As he led Roman down the corridor, he was trying not to look like he was watching him- though he also wanted to be polite- so he walked just ahead, turning his head every now and then. "Everything is prepared for you. We will overlay the drums afterwards, that idea is...really quite impressive."

"Well, the video you sent me gave me the idea! But yes," he admitted, with a bow more flamboyant than polite, "I do think the way I've worked it is quite unique."

They stopped outside the door. "Well-" Logan began, and Roman looked at him with interest. As they made eye contact somehow all the words he wanted to say fell down to bounce around his stomach.

Roman frowned in concern. "Are you alright?" Maybe the researcher got anxious, like Virgil did. "Would you rather I didn't make eye contact?"

"Oh," He adjusted his tie and looked down. "Thank you. No, I am alright with it. It is a threat display in many animals, but not necessarily humans-" He tapped the door-handle. He dimly knew he should cut off now but his clarification was already falling out his mouth. "It is especially seen as a threat among primates, and among those that is most pronounced with chimpanzees- which is why you must never look a chimpanzee in the eye and why zoos should in my opinion warn about body language of primates better, because visitors can upset them. But, then, many animals do become desensitised.” He shook his head. “But really, anthromorphising animals at all is a fool's route." His eyes darted up to meet Roman's once more.

Oh no. He was very, very cute. Roman would never have thought being informed about primate threat displays would be very interesting, but it was incredibly endearing. "You never think animals have their own thoughts and feelings?" he gently prompted.

"No, I know they do," Logan said sincerely. "But they are not the same as human thoughts and feelings."

"This isn't a little like that?" Roman teased.

Logan drew himself up. "No, this is research based."

"Have you set up the studio for me?" Roman asked with a twinkle of humor in his eye.

"I have. For you, a human-" But Roman just caught on you.

Logan unlocked the door, to reveal that the inside of the studio had been decorated with potted plants, the floor scattered with rose petals, a few candles lit, and a framed photo sat on a side-table.

"This is for your inspiration," Logan said with a slight smile. "You may serenade the photo."

Roman burst into a peal of laughter as he put down his case, then blew a kiss to the photograph.

It was a picture of a bird. It had mossy green feathers around its face, then brown ones around beady black eyes and a little beak with nostrils in it.

"I have played love songs for many people in my lifetime," Roman announced to Logan. "But never for, or on behalf of, a parrot."

The kakapo parrot is remarkable for many reasons- it is the only flightless parrot, as well as the heaviest one, and it is historically significant to the Maori. It ought to find mates with males booming to win the attention of females in arenas, but with critically diminishing numbers, competitions to attract mates are not replenishing or increasing the population. And therefore, conservationists must become creative.

"It is not a method which has been proven," Logan clarified, once again. "But any assistance in creating optimal conditions for the kakapo to meet mates is gravely needed."

Roman winked at him. "Don't worry, you already know that I can help set the mood."

"I don't know what you are-"

He undid the clips of his case, then picked up some of the rose petals. "And so, it seems, do you."

"It is of great importance this goes as well as it can do," Logan replied primly.

"Of course, of course, we need the rose petals," he said, with wide, sincere eyes. "For the atmosphere! Here we are, in the arena of love..."

"Actually," Logan couldn't help but add, "the arenas are very large. Each "court" is on average 50m apart, so I would have to be down the street from you."

Roman pouted. "But the benefit of this is you hearing me up close, not at the distance of a music arena. You have front-row tickets to one of the biggest names in Australian jazz." That was, perhaps, arrogant, but Logan appreciated him saying it like the fact it was. He said it like it was a gift to Logan that the musician wanted him to appreciate, not something he didn't deserve.

"Well," Logan conceded, "I suppose that the bird being serenaded is closer to the court."

"I am a proud parrot in my court then!" he said.

Logan nodded. "That is accurate. Judging by your voice, I am hoping your saxophone playing will also be attractive."

Roman paused. "By my voice?"

"It is objectively attractive," Logan said, completely objectively. "Therefore, I hope that your playing shall attract the kakapo parrots. To each other."

"Oh." Roman's eyes widened, then a soft smile spread on his face. "Thank you."

He bobbed his head into a nod, then gestured to the recording booth. "I have been instructed in how to use this, so I am going to go and set it up. You can start when you are ready."

"Just give me a moment to warm up."

"Of course."

As Logan fiddled with the controls to set up the recording for a new song, Roman warmed up, playing through a few scales. He didn't use anything to check his exact pitch, but it sounded right to Logan as he adjusted.

Then he paused, and nodded to Logan through the glass. "I'm ready."

Roman started with a few low, humming notes, similar to the booming of the kakapo, and Logan looked up from the controls, his heart in his chest all of a sudden. He could remember those long nights in a hide close to the arena, hearing the courtships- it was a sound which by rights should be common all throughout New Zealand. Then, the musician overlayed a few long notes, swaying and closing his eyes as he leaned into the music.

It was upbeat, with big dramatic swells every now and again, and Logan, whose mind was always leaping from thought to thought, from analysis to evaluation, was transfixed into stillness.

The smooth sounds, Roman's swaying, the way the dim light of the studio glinted off the saxophone and that earnest expression on the player's face…

All too soon, it came to an end with a final little trill.

To ward off stage fright, Roman had closed his eyes against the cute researcher and instead lost himself to his music. As he opened them again, he was met with a beaming smile and round of applause. A residue of nerves mixed with pride to thrill through him. "What did you think?"

Logan beamed. "I think it was perfect."

Roman's face heated, and his eyes crinkled as he returned a genuine smile. "Thank you! So- I'll have some water, have another take or two, and then we can see about overlaying drums and chirping?"

Logan nodded. "I think that is a good plan."

The two of them worked well together- in all honesty, Logan didn't have to input much since Roman was the expert on composition, but he was happy to cede control on a project if he was confident in the abilities of his partner. He was happy to listen to each deliberation, and provide questions if not answers.

They were finished and ready to vacate the studio half-an-hour before they needed to, since Roman helped Logan carry his props back to the van. "No- they just pair for the mating season."

"For now!" Roman declared. "My funky music will create love for a lifetime! That's a joke," he clarified.

Logan laughed. "Well, at least they have great genetic variation."

It was late afternoon creeping into evening outside the studio, and the warm air had begun to mellow and cool. "Are you staying in Auckland long?" Logan inquired.

"Only a few nights. I want to catch a show, but I don't have anything to do tonight. How about you?"

"I should be back at the sanctuary tomorrow. I would recommend the square a few streets from here if you're looking for a good restaurant. I can give you directions?"

"Oh, I don't know," Roman adjusted his saxophone case with a faux innocent expression. "I have to have this back at the hotel for safekeeping, and then it might be harder to find my way there..."

Logan furrowed his brow. "I can give you an address if you wish to use Google Maps?"

He couldn't quite work out if this was a genuine suggestion, or a gentle refusal. His hotel was close, and Logan's van on the curb. It was now or never- "You could take me," he said, with a confidence he didn't feel. "Tell me more about, uh, parrots."

Logan's heart thudded in his chest. "As a social event? Not to do with the project?"

"Social, yes."

"I'd like that." He adjusted his glasses. "I would like that very much, Roman."

They walked back to Roman's hotel, so that he could protect his saxophone, then wandered out along a quiet avenue on the way to the restaurant. The sky had dimmed to soft grey and purple, clouds scudding aimlessly across it. Side by side, they talked and laughed, glances catching on lips, on hands, on each other.

As a tentative test, Logan moved closer, so that their hands brushed together as they walked. When Roman faltered in the middle of his story about a concert, he offered his hand for him to hold.

Roman took it, raised it to his lips, and turned Logan red. Then, Logan mirrored, pulling Roman closer by their joined hands and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. For a long, still moment, they met eyes and forgot how to speak.

"I liked your playing, today," Logan said softly.

His lips parted for just a second before he could manage to say, "And I liked talking with you. Even over the emails...it has been a pleasure-" He cut himself off with a nervous laugh. "A pleasure I can't quite describe."

"We don't always need words for things." Although his hand was shaking, and his heart loud in his chest, Logan's voice was steady. "Music, body language, mutual company...there are many ways to communicate."

"Oh?" Roman murmured.

He nodded, and stroked his thumb over the back of Roman's hand. "I think so."

"Then, may I..." Slowly, he brought their joined hands over Logan's heart, and he moved his other one to cup his face.

Logan's eyes darted up to meet his, all shining with wonder. A breeze shivered through the trees, and although the evening was still balmy, he drew closer together, wrapping his arm around Roman's waist.

They stood in a tenderness of quick breaths and racing hearts, until Logan breathed, "Yes."

Roman dipped his head, and Logan tilted his up, their noses bumping into each other so the kiss was met with the beginnings of laughter. It was gentle, and curious, and as much about their clasped hands and chests pressed together and weak knees as it was the kiss itself.

They drew back for a beat. "How was that?" Roman asked, although his face was hot and Logan was starry-eyes, and he felt like he could faint.

"It was perfect," he said, thrilling again at Roman's voice so close to his face. "Just perfect. But, with these things I suppose..."

Roman stopped breathing.

A mischievous smile crept onto his flushed face. "I suppose we would be remiss for not, ah, testing further."

He burst into laughter. "Of course! Of course! Practice is the key to anything..." And they kissed again, more secure and passionate than before.

This is all based on a true story! Here is an article And here is the song!

#logince #logan sanders #roman sanders #ts fic #sanders sides fanfiction #fluff

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bibliocratic · 4 years

Note

Soulmate au for jm prompts? Any kind you want

soul-identifying marks, jonmartin, episodes 158-160 spoilers

(this prompt came into my home and beat me over the brain.)(it might not be exactly what you were after, hope it’s ok!)

–

Martin’s waging a passive-aggressive one-man war against an excel spreadsheet when the temperature, risen to bearable by the grunting old radiator in the corner, swan-dives into shivery.

“Peter,” Martin says, not exactly a greeting, as frayingly cordial as he can manage. Not absolving Peter’s intrusion with his attention, triple-pressing the right mouse button and hissing an irate oh come on when the computer refuses to bend to his will and instead freezes again.

Peter will say whatever mysterious bollocks he’s come to imply and hint at and implicate, scattering his bloody breadcrumbs. Martin will be left just as pissed off and in the dark as he was before, so he might as well get it over with so Martin can actually get some work done.

Surprisingly, Peter doesn’t say anything. That’s actually what makes Martin turn round.

Peter’s slate-shingle eyes are observing Martin’s exposed lower arms. Sleeves rolled up haphazard out of his way, folded over in messy and unmatching bunches at his elbow.

He’s studying the designs that blemish the sun-ditched pale of his freckled arm with an interest Martin baulks at. Traces with his eyes the blocky wood-cut patterns in precise and abrupt black lines that start at the line of his watch, sprout up and under his clothes. Idly, he takes his time to let his gaze traverse over the open pages of tomes unfilled with words and unbroken by ink; the landscape of woodland and tree lines and shadowy hollows of roads mysterious or untaken that mar the faint curve of his lower arm. The lantern swinging on the bough of a wintry tree, its candle recently blown out.

The eye, thick and wide, staring out at the crease of his elbow.

Peter flicks a glance up, and Martin reads something like pity there. His face heats.

“The Archivist?” Peter Lukas asks. His voice isn’t mocking. Martin isn’t sure what it it.

He hates the tone of it.

“Do you want something?” Martin responds curtly. Frosty. Tugging his sleeves back down pointedly.

Peter’s expression is ever so proud.

–

When Jon wakes up, he charts the changes death has wrought on him. Sitting on the small bed he’s set up in document storage, swaddled in the uncomforting comfort of his archives, he chronicles the new damages done. The rough tissue of scars on his arms, upper legs, chest. Pitted marks from shrapnel and debris and being in the radius blast of an explosion. He supposes it could be worse.

He thumbs at the faded, almost unrecognisable nazar just below his shoulder, the crossed compass and ruler nearby in the same state. The colour bleeding out of them like they’ve been left too long in the dark. He doesn’t think about his parents much. Not in a long time. His memories sanded down to an uncertain rote recollection that his brain is equally as likely to have invented as not. He doesn’t recall enough to miss them, but there must be something there for him to still bear them on his skin.

There’s a bleary shape splotched on his inner wrist. Forming like the build-up of sediment, the slow grind of tide, and it has been doing so for months, since before he died.

It’s almost fully realised now. He rubs at the shape of it tentatively as though the colour might run if he’s too rough with it. The delicate fawn-brown of its wings, the beaded black circle of its eyes.

He knows who it represents. Impossible not to, really. It’s his representation after all. The complex understanding of a human being realised as imagery and flowering on his skin.

He stares at the nightingale for the longest time.

–

When Martin was nine, struck by the well-echo hollow in his chest, unable to articulate the shamed and hot tears his mother would scold with a cluck of disappointment, he tried to clean the clock off his right leg. Sitting in the bath with the water gagging with too many bubbles, he scrubbed at the cogs and mechanical intestines of the thing, seeing the lies of his father in how it was wound, not wanting it, because surely if his dad had loved him then he wouldn’t have left, and if he didn’t then why should Martin boast his love so obviously. He held and scrubbed until his skin was pink and scalded and he’d started to wince. But connection doesn’t work like that, and so the clock never disappeared, and Martin tried to ignore it every time he took a shower.

Turns out the Forsaken was good for something after all.

–

“How’s the poetry?” Jon stammers at him, so obviously, earnestly angling to drag out their impromptu meeting. Martin wants to be anywhere else but here.

“Jon, I really need to – ”

“Oh. Yeah. I – sorry, I-I know you’ve got… your thing with Peter Lukas.”

“It’s not like that – ”

“I-I know, I know, sorry, I didn’t mean…” Jon stops. His eyes – and were they always so gaunt, so hungry in his face? – have stopped trying to both catch and avoid Martin’s gaze apparently simultaneously, and they’ve snagged instead on Martin’s collar. For a moment, something too thirsty catalogues the pale and vacant skin of his throat, where the purple hooded bells of monkshood usually thronged. Their leaves had grown spikier as he’d aged, stretching out to his Adam’s apple in a bid to form a collar of choking vines.

“Martin…” Jon stares at empty skin, and his expression blooms into something comprehending and distraught.

“I have to go, Jon,” Martin says forcefully. He doesn’t give Jon much of a chance to reply.

He doesn’t want Jon’s sorries. Doesn’t need his worries or his understanding.

He just wants him to be safe.

–

The nightingale sings entangled by coarse and insidious brambles. Jon’s taken to holding his hand over the pattern, like shielding with a careful hand a wind-tossed, guttering flame, when the hunger starts to gnaw though him like frostbite.

It doesn’t stop there. The emblems grow into iconography, twist into tableau. The pictures grow and spread simply as moss, and Jon doesn’t despair because he doesn’t have the space for it any more.

Jon’s evidence has always been discrete. The stamped shapes for his parents like memorial images were all he held for the longest time. Something started to flourish for his grandmother, when she took him in, and he tried to show her the blotched shape in a childish effort to bring them closer. She hadn’t needed to stay anything. She pursed her lip and strained an apologetic glance and he knew even at that age that there was nothing, would be nothing in kind, decorating her skin for him. That choked the image like weeds, and it faded quickly as the passing of inclement weather.

The space, at his jutting hip-bone, was only later taken up by Georgie’s mark. That one never faded quite like the image for his grandmother or for his parents, but it went sun-stained and overexposed long before they broke up.

Martin’s imagery is not so subtle.

It swallows up his arm, roils over his shoulder-blades, infects the untouched skin over his collar bone.

Jon takes to wearing longer sleeves.

–

Martin’s skin has always taken easily to marking. Some people do, he guesses. Wear their hearts on their sleeves, on their throat, on their stomach. Martin’s a scattered museum of loves that he’s tended to over the years, unrequited affections or spluttered out romances.

He’s pleased, in those early days, that nothing ever bruises on his skin for Jon. He likes Jon, even fancies him, for a long time. And it’s annoying, because Jon can be a real arse, but it’s manageable. Jon doesn’t make him go hot at the nape of his neck or make him stumble over his words. His presence encourages harmless daydreams and flights of fancy, but Martin’s under no illusions.

And then Jon listens to his statement. Sits him down, and believes him, and doesn’t break eye contact the whole time.

And Martin had felt, dazedly, Seen. For the first time in a long time.

The first eye had opened up around then like an unclenching fist under his ribs. He’d seen it a week later. Had thought oh and had quickly dressed to cover it.

It’s not the first mark this love leaves him. In time, it scores him with tooth marks and sailor’s knots of worry, and eyes, always eyes, blinking open over his flesh.

He loses the one on his ankle first. Scratches at the space where it was, touching the crease where his sock has dug a band around his skin, right where the line used to bisect the thick and dark pupil.

Then the one on his lower back. His upper thigh. His left wrist.

It’s for the best, Martin, Peter says when he catches him looking at the undamaged patch of skin these absences leave behind.

Martin doesn’t disagree.

By the time Lukas banishes him to the mercy of Forsaken, thwarted and cheated and feeling something almost human, Martin’s skin has already been entirely washed clean.

–

There’s a nightingale on Jon’s wrist. It’s one of the first things that catches his vision, that refocuses from blurry in this undemanding nothing. The colour is too vivid, lurid in this desaturated landscape.

The bird is nestled, or maybe caught, in a twisting of brambles but its beak is open in song.

“Look at me, and tell me what you See,” Jon asks him, and Martin wonders if maybe Jon’s been carrying around his own heart on his sleeve for a while now.

–

His mother’s flowers don’t grow back when he vacates the Lonely. His father’s clockwork finally cleansed from him. The leaves and keys and umbrellas of the numerous small loves and connections he’s now lost the taste of.

Martin’s skin remains unblemished and clear, and he wonders if the Lonely took this capacity from him.

Jon’s hand is dry in his. And nothing blooms on Martin’s arms but a sensation like prickling, like pins and needles, settles under his skin, and Martin holds on just as tightly.

–

There was a downpour on the way back to the safehouse. The sky splitting with a cascade of rain, sheets moving in waves and quickly transforming dewy grass into boggy swamp-land. Their waterproofs, such as they are, have done a poor job and failed to live up to their name, and Jon is dripping a cloud’s-worth of rainfall from his hair alone as he crosses the threshold. Martin, no different, water draining off him like guttering, tuts. Helps him strip the sucking, soaking outer layers off, frigid fingers fumbling with the pull of the zip. Jon awkwardly gets in the way in his efforts to return the gesture, making a face at the sodden slump of Martin’s waterlogged woollen jumper as it hits the floor. Martin catches his t-shirt on his nose as he tries to pull it over his head, trying to unbutton and kick off his clinging trousers in one motion.

He doesn’t feel embarrassed. Doesn’t cross his mind to be. It’s hard, when Jon’s snickering as he nearly trips over his own legs in his efforts to shake his legs free, when they’ve been clung to each other like tethered buoys each night, coddled by the unbroken dark.

“I’ll get dry clothes,” Martin says, the first to have divested himself of most of his clothes, and he bounds upstairs, damp feet squeaking and slipping, longing for a hot shower as he trails puddles into the bedroom. He throws on thick pyjama bottoms, is half wrenching on an errant t-shirt before he realises it’s Jon’s and has to rifle around for a spare one of his own before he slips it on. He collects some clothes for Jon and rushes back.

Jon’s managed to get off his own trousers, slopped in a pile of fabric by his feet, the skin goosepimpling and dark hair standing stark from the chill. He’s pulling his sticking vest off over his head as Martin returns.

Martin sucks in a gasp. Jon blinks, confused for a moment before a reddening mark stripes across the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, splotches at the dip of his neckline.

“What…?” Martin starts, staring at the tapestry on his skin, and he can’t help it.

Before, Tim would joke that Jon loved his job more than he loved people. Was probably conservatively decorated in little stylisations of his perpetually present tape-recorders, probably had a library over his heart. It was something he said as a joke at the beginning and hissed as a recrimination by the end, and Martin and Sasha (and later only Martin) would tell him off, tell him to keep it down, that it wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t his business. But if Jon had been marked, they wouldn’t have known. They were hidden under crisp shirt sleeves and well-placed collars even in summer.

The nightingale, wings scratched by thorns, was the first image Martin had ever seen Jon wear. He’d expected that to be it, had hoped such an emblem was meant for him, but it, well, it is dwarfed in comparison to the harmony of colour struck over Jon’s body like a collage.

Every piece of skin that is not torn up and jagged with scars has been brought into the striking shock of deep blues and blacks that slide and ring over dark skin. A choir of imagery that Martin can’t decipher immediately, like a jigsaw he has to step back from, the artworks all wrapped up in each other, each feeding off the other. There are nightingales, some grounded on thin wind-touched branches, some held mid-flight; these become a stylised compass pointing north. There’s the solid structure of a lighthouse taking up most of his gangly upper arm, its lower levels painted in a sea bound mist, or it could be the curling wisps of inviting steam. His stomach, curving concave, is overwhelmed by the imperious crags of icy cliffs, the rocks dashed by high foaming waves, above which hangs the ribboning line of northern lights. On the sea, a sturdy boat tipping on the water, its spinnaker puffed out and billowing in defiance.

There is so much, so much of Jon taken up, painted in testament, and for a long moment, Martin doesn’t understand.

Jon looks at his feet, and then glances, almost shyly, at Martin’s unpainted throat, his blank arms. Visibly steels himself, moves his gaze up to meet Martin’s.

“It…” he begins, before he breathes in, sets his spine straight. “You. It’s – it’s you. In case, in case you didn’t know.”

“Can – ?” Martin asks, and his fingers are twitching, yearning to trace the lines, to memorise their shapes, and Jon blinks again and then makes a nervy nodding motion.

Martin’s about to reach out before he remembers that Jon’s half-naked and dripping wet in the hallway, that the stone flags will be frozen on his feet, that now is perhaps not the ideal time.

Later. After they warm up, after they shower and the gas boiler grunts and complains and then near-burns them with hot water, after they dress in pyjamas warmed on the radiators, after they go upstairs. Martin runs his hand reverently, shakily over the lighthouse, the compass, the boat, the birds, wonders if this is how Jon sees him, how Jon understands him, wonders why he’s taken up so much space. Looks at all the pictures that are both isolation and sanctuary, song and sorrow and strength, tries to decipher what Jon sees in him.

“There’s so much,” he marvels softly, scarcely believing, hovering the pads of his fingers over the horizon line of a lightening sky, the peaking gleam of a sunrise at Jon’s lower back, the anchor bound in twisting rope around his ankle bone, the up shoots of snow-drops and lily-of-the-valley not far away. Most people get one image, maybe two or three, as proof of meaning to another person, as a tangible reflection of connection. Martin has an entire gallery exhibited across Jon’s body.

“You mean so much,” Jon says softly in response, like that explains it. Maybe for him, it does.

He charts the other bold designs he finds. Realising that for all his earlier pretences, Jon has not, and never has been an island. There’s Daisy’s faintly rusted golden chain caked in mud and blood around his other ankle, Gerard Keay’s thick leather-bound book, its open pages wreathed in fire, the near-vanished marks for his parents, for Georgie, the scant others who came into his life and left their mark.

There might have been an eye, wide and open and unyielding, and it would stare out at the bottom of Jon’s throat if it wasn’t for the rush of wild-flowers also grown there, snow-drops and holly-berries obscuring its vision.

Jon asks him, falteringly, as though unsure of forming the question in his mouth, what Martin had. Before the sea-salt wash of Forsaken cleaned them from him.

And Martin points to where his mum, his dad, his old loves left their remembrances on him. Carefully, honestly, he tells Jon about the tooth marks clamped around limbs like he’d been bitten, because it was not always a kind love Jon made him feel. The eyes that near the end had swarmed like frog-spawn around his middle, slashed across his back like a constellation. The forbidding forest on his arm, the lantern.

Jon strokes the places where he would have seen these things.

“If they don’t come back….” Martin says, and Jon hums.

“They might not,” he says. “That’s… that’s OK.”

“But…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon says, and he touches at the space where he would have marked Martin ever so kindly. “Something new might show up. In time.”

“Yeah?” Martin croaks, and it’s not a question of if it will or not. Jon’s looking up at him, a smile on his face, his whole body inked with how much he feels, all the words he finds so difficult to express writ large on his body. Martin’s heart feels too big for his chest. And he wonders what meaning they might make of each other together.

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #tma #prompt fic #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #soulmates au #sort of #episode 160 minor spoilers i guess

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azvolrien · 3 years

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Gryphon Beach Party

I’m not even going to pretend that this has much of a plot; it’s more of a slice-of-life thing, winding up characters and letting them bounce off each other, with a fair helping of worldbuilding. It also ended up quite a bit longer than I’d intended when I started, but I was having fun.

In the spring of Asta’s second year living in Stormhaven, she decides to attend an important cultural festival and makes a new friend into the bargain. What Happens Next Will Shock You! (no it won’t)

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There had only been one to start with, but as the afternoon went on more and more had joined the parade until a whole flock of young gryphons hurtled around the College, all screaming something over and over at the top of their collective voice.

Asta attempted to tune it out. “So, remind me how many of the day students have decided to start boarding?”

Matron Inkfoot sat up on her haunches and double-checked her clipboard. “Seven first-year apprentices, four second-years, and one third-year.”

“A third-year? It doesn’t usually take them that long to decide.”

“It is out of the ordinary,” said Inkfoot, nodding, “but Ffion Howell’s family are moving out of the city in a month, so she’ll have to start boarding on a full-term basis. The others will be week boarders.”

“Right.” Asta scribbled the details in her notebook. “Will the dormitories require any reshuffling to make room for them?”

“No, there are enough free beds,” said Inkfoot. “The actual floor space is running somewhat low, but the new dorm annexe should be ready by the end of the summer before the next batch of first-years arrive.” She hung her clipboard from one of her harness straps and dropped back to all fours.

“Good, that ought to simplify things,” said Asta just as the bell rang to signal the end of the day’s last lessons. “I’ll amend the apprentice records in the admin office and see to it that the kitchen staff know how many breakfasts and dinners they’ll need to account for. And then…” The chorus of gryphons outside had fallen silent at the bell, but as soon as its echoes faded they took up their cry even louder than before. “…And then I give up. What are they chanting out there?”

Matron Inkfoot cocked her head, angling her ears to listen properly. The tip of her tail flicked to and fro in amusement. “Arakhasthan,” she said, making the kh and the sth into a resonant click in her throat and a sort of roughened hiss from the sides of her beak.

Asta rolled the word over in her mind a few times. “I don’t think I have any hope of pronouncing that properly,” she admitted. “What does it mean? I assume it’s Gryphic, but…”

“No, humans always have trouble with Gryphic,” said Inkfoot. “You just don’t have the right vocal structures. It’s why our names are usually in Imperial. Arakhasthan means something like ‘time of new feathers’.”

“Oh, the New Feather Festival?” said Asta. “Tigerhide mentioned something about it earlier but I didn’t know what she meant.”

Inkfoot nodded and half-spread her wings to display her glossy new flight feathers, each one a deep gold-brown tipped with black and almost five feet long. “It’s when we celebrate the end of the spring moult, when everyone loses their winter plumage and gets their summer coat instead.”

“I did notice the gryphons were all looking a bit, um…”

“Scruffy?” suggested Inkfoot, her tail-tuft twitching again.

“I was going to say ‘unkempt’,” said Asta, “but it didn’t seem polite to comment.”

Inkfoot made a soft clicking sound in her throat – the gryphon equivalent of a light chuckle – before she cocked her head in the other direction and her crest-feathers raised slightly in a curious ‘frown’. “Were you not here for last year’s festival? I know you came to Stormhaven that Hawk Moon. Sirakithi, in the Kiraani calendar.”

Asta stared into space for a few seconds, counting the months backwards on the joints of her fingers. “I was living in Stormhaven by then, yes, but I was on a trip up to Northold around this time of year.”

“That explains it, then. There aren’t as many gryphons up north – they don’t make such a big fuss about Feather Fest. Do you think you’ll come this year?”

Asta blinked and drew herself up a little. “I – well. Is it allowed? I’m not exactly…”

“A gryphon?” said Inkfoot with another flick of her tail-tuft. “Or from Stormhaven?”

“Well, both, I suppose, but I meant being human.”

“No, no, plenty of humans come to the festival,” Inkfoot assured her. “There are some parties in the city – you might’ve spotted bundles of shed feathers hanging from lampposts and so on – but the big get-together will be on Aberystrad Beach tomorrow. Quite a lot of the wizards like to attend; I’ll be shepherding a few apprentices myself.”

Asta gave it a few seconds’ thought. “I… need to get this up to the admin office,” she said, holding up her notebook. “But after that… I suppose it might be nice to get out of the city for a few hours.”

She was far from the only person to have made that decision. The next day was perfect weather for a festival – clear skies and a light breeze off the sea, with the warmth of late spring before the oppressive heat of high summer properly rolled in from the south – and there were so many people trying to leave Stormhaven that there was a queue for the north road. Asta drummed her fingers on Pardus’s saddle-pommel as she waited her turn to pass through the Soldier Gate. Stormhaven’s city walls were not as substantial as Kiraan’s old fortifications, now long overtaken by urban sprawl and only encircling a small area around the Emperor’s palace, but they were still more than twenty feet tall, five feet thick at the base, and a more than adequate barrier to everyday passage; while there were smaller gates for pedestrians around the walls, each of the main ones was only wide enough for two lanes of traffic. There were no checks, however, and the guards waved Asta through without delay. Outside the wall, she tapped Pardus in the ribs with her heels and spurred the construct into a brisk trot. Even past the gates, the road was busy with a steady stream of carts, carriages, pedestrians and beasts of burden both natural and constructed, but the pace soon picked up and as the city fell behind, the road widened until Pardus could overtake the slower traffic and accelerate to a flat-out gallop.

Aberystrad Beach was a few miles north of the city, but Pardus at full tilt ate up the distance in less than a quarter of an hour, easily keeping pace with the cloud of gryphons soaring above and outstripping many of them. The well-signposted turnoff soon came into sight up ahead, and Asta tugged on the reins to steer Pardus down the narrower, more winding side-road to the beach. Rolling dunes covered with wiry marram grass rose up to either side until the paving was completely engulfed; only the trail of footprints and wheel-marks through the soft, dry sand gave any sign it should be there. The sand slid under Pardus’s paws as the construct slowed to a walk and crested the last dune before the beach.

After five years in the Sea Lochs and more than one in Stormhaven, Asta sometimes felt she was used to the sight of the Western Ocean, but she seldom had a view with no buildings or hills in the way. Out here, beyond the city walls and on top of the dunes above the beach, there was nothing to obstruct the view, and for a long while she forgot to do anything but stare. There was a chain of islands out there somewhere, she knew, but they were far enough from the coast that even on such a clear day there was no sign of them. A single ship – three masts, so not Captain Steel’s Curlew – was under full sail a couple of miles offshore, bound for the north, but otherwise only a few white dots of seabirds and the shadow of the odd small cloud broke up that vast expanse of blue-grey-green stretching to three horizons.

Below the mottled green-yellow of the dunes and with the tide well out, the beach was a long, broad sweep of white sand split in two by the River Ystrad, its broad, looping channel shallow enough to easily wade through. Above the river, a natural outcrop of some rock hard enough to withstand the sea had been carved into a huge statue of a gryphon – more than twice the height of the city walls – sitting up and gazing out to the west. Years of wind and waves had worn its front claws smooth, leaving only vague shapes to show the sculptor’s intent, but its head with its alert stare, fierce hooked beak and pointed ears could have been carved yesterday and the detailing of the feathers on its half-folded wings was still clear even from a casual glance. A few of its flesh-and-blood cousins perched atop its head and on ledges at its shoulders and haunches, but far more had staked out little campsites along the sand below.

There was no shortage of humans as Inkfoot had said, but if the gryphons did not truly outnumber them, the numbers were as close to equal as Asta had ever seen; hundreds of gryphons had set up colourful blankets and sunshades all along the beach, lounging on the warm sand, while others queued at food stalls just below the dunes where scents of cooking meat billowed up from fire pits dug into the sand. Still more gryphons circled above, soaring effortlessly as they caught rising thermals beneath their wings. A small group was hard at work down the beach attempting to erect two thin poles almost as tall as the huge sculpture, perhaps markers for a game of some sort. Snatches of music and voices raised in song – enthusiastic if not always tuneful – drifted on the air. And yet, for all the bustle of the festival, the beach was big enough that it did not feel crowded, and when Asta rode down from the dune she easily found a free space for herself and Pardus beside one of the statue’s hind feet. She climbed down from the saddle, laid her travel rug out on the sand, and had Pardus lie down for a backrest before she unpacked her picnic from the saddlebags. There was no one she recognised in sight – or at least, no one she dared to approach unasked – so instead she sat back against Pardus’s flank to drink her tea and watch the goings-on.

A few of the airborne gryphons had stopped their lazy circling and, while the others drew back to fly in a vast ring around them, launched into some kind of aerial performance, twisting into loops and rolls and locking talons to fling one another across the sky. Some had clipped brightly-patterned streamers to their feathers while others trailed strings of polished metal discs from their legs and their tails, turning the whole display into a riot of colour and light to shrieks of approval from the audience. A band struck up on a stage below – two gryphons with a harp and a set of drums, and three humans with flute, guitar and fiddle – but it wasn’t clear if they were setting a beat for the flyers above or just playing along with them. A crowd quickly gathered around the stage to dance along.

Between the cheering, the music and the thunder of wings it was absolutely deafening, and the Asta of two years ago would have been terrified – not just of the general uproar but of the gryphons themselves, of their talons like grappling hooks and their beaks that could shear through bone – but now, after the journey south with Steel, Pirate and their crew and then months of living in Stormhaven and working with Inkfoot and the College messengers, it was no more threatening than any other festival. The gryphons may have been huge carnivores who showed more expression in their feathers than their faces, but they were people as much as any human or elf.

Asta had just finished her first cup of tea when one young man peeled off from the crowd around the stage and trotted over to her, almost tripping over a trio of small, fluffy gryphon chicks who were making a determined effort to bury an older male up to his neck in sand.

“Want to dance?” he asked, holding out one hand with a cheerful grin. Asta glanced up from her mug, and something in her throat and her stomach came to a juddering halt. Fair skin, dark hair, incredibly blue eyes – not Daro, of course not him, that wasn’t fair on this innocent stranger, but-

“That’s very kind of you,” Asta stammered once her voice would obey her. “But I- I think I’m fine where I am for now.”

“Are you sure? You could-”

A shadow fell over both of them. “The lady gave you her answer,” said a new voice, this one a deep, gravelly rasp. The young man swallowed, nodded, and retreated back to his friends on the makeshift dancefloor.

Asta shaded her eyes and squinted up at the gryphon who had just landed on the statue’s foot. “He meant no harm,” he said. “He’s a good lad; son of an old friend from the army. But I like to see a ‘no’ is respected. Mind if I sit?” Asta shook her head and he hopped down onto the sand at Pardus’s tail, clutching a leg of meat in his claws. His feathers were an unassuming dark tawny colour with off-white barring on his wings, and like many gryphons he wore a harness around his chest. However, where most of the harnesses Asta had seen were made of leather and often decorated with carvings and medallions, this one was sternly utilitarian – all tough, heavy canvas dyed a dull grey-green – and its only decoration was an old rank insignia pinned to one shoulder-strap. Even without it and his comment about the army she would have thought him an ex-military sort: he had clearly and literally been in the wars, for half of his tail, one ear and a toe on his left foreclaw were all missing, and various odd ridges and discoloured patches in his feathers suggested more scarring beneath them.

As she watched – surreptitiously, from the corner of her eye – he took a waxed cloth from one of the satchels on his harness, spread it on the sand, and carefully laid the haunch on top before he pinned it in place with his talons and began to tear away strips of meat with the tip of his beak. The outside had been seared brown over one of the fire pits, but the inside was so rare it was almost still bleeding.

“What is that?” asked Asta. “Beef?”

“Horse,” he said with his mouth full, and flicked his head back to tip the flesh down his throat. “Want some?”

“I… Wh… No, I brought my own food. But thank you for offering.”

He gave a little shrug with his wings as if to say your loss and returned his attention to his meal. “Kiraani, are you?” he asked once he had stripped it to the bone. Asta nodded, and he lowered his head to the sand to scrub away the juices crusting on his beak. “Thought so. Last time I was in arm’s reach of one of your lot was during the war.”

“Um.”

He clattered a laugh in the back of his throat. “I won’t hold it against you. Bravest soldier I ever met was an Imperial scout I ran into in the Darkwald. Fought like a tiger, he did – not many humans’ll square up to a full-grown gryphon with just a knife to hand, but he left quite the mark. Would’ve liked to know him better, if we’d met under different circumstances.”

“Is that what happened to, um…” Asta nodded towards his missing toe.

“Ayah. What happened to this, too.” He turned to look at her squarely, and she narrowly stifled her horrified recoil down to a twitch. The same wound that had taken his ear had carved a huge gnarled scar down that side of his face, leaving a deep notch in the bony ridge above the empty eye socket and twisting the corner of his beak into a permanent grimace. He laughed again, waving what remained of his tail from side to side, and lifted a talon to his intact brow ridge in an informal salute. “Flight Captain Redbolt, lately of the Second Assault Wing.”

Asta smiled despite herself. “Asta zeDamar, still working at the College of Sorcery’s admin office.”

“Ah, the College? You’d know Inkfoot, then.”

“Oh, yes, we often work together to sort out one thing or another.”

Redbolt gave a little sigh and looked up at a small, wispy white cloud high above. “Had quite a crush on her when we were both younger, but she was never interested. Wanted to focus on looking after the little wizards.”

“They do take a lot of looking after.”

“Talking of schools,” said Redbolt, “here’s something I’ve wondered for a while. I know how we remember the Darkwald War. How’s it taught in Kiraan?”

“Well, there’s a certain degree of embarrassment there,” admitted Asta. “As if a lot of the people writing textbooks aren’t really sure how the army of a nation as small as Stormhaven faced down the Legions and won.”

“I’m not sure ‘won’ is the right word. Felt more like everyone just got tired and stopped.”

Asta nodded acknowledgement of the point. “But otherwise it’s a lot more honest and even-handed than you might expect, both about how it started and ended and everything in between. The main focus from a tactical standpoint tends to be on the wizards and the gryphons – though you can tell in some of the older books that they hadn’t quite wrapped their heads around you being people rather than just well-trained animals.”

“In the end, are we not all just well-trained animals?” said Redbolt with such exaggerated soulfulness that Asta snorted with laughter. “You know, the books – ours and yours – always gloss over how boring it was most of the time. Lots of long stretches of just sitting around waiting for something to happen, with the odd quick burst of-” he paused for an instant, glanced at her, and obviously changed what he had been about to say, “-heart-stopping terror.”

“The Voynazhi priesthood don’t really like to focus on that part for some reason,” said Asta drily.

Redbolt chuckled. “Me, I always wonder how many priests of Voynazh have actually seen battle.”

“And how many would find another vocation if they did.” Asta looked down at her hands for a moment and asked, more quietly and with some hesitation, “Have you ever met a berserker?”

“One or two over the years. One or two.” Redbolt opened his beak in a gaping yawn and scratched under his jaw with a talon. “Deadly fighters, but they don’t make good soldiers. Don’t work well in a team; can’t hold a formation. What makes you ask?”

“I… used to be a slave,” said Asta. Redbolt cocked his head slightly but offered no comment. “Up in the Sea Lochs. I escaped, but before I made it down to Stormhaven I… I lived with this woman for a few weeks. Roan.” Absently, Asta brushed her fingers against her lips. “She lived alone, a long way out on the coast miles from anywhere. And she was a berserker. I suppose I wondered… I’m not sure. If berserkers were usually loners like that, or if that was just how she was.”

“Didn’t spend enough time with them to know,” said Redbolt. “Yours, well… Clearly not so much a loner that she wouldn’t let you stay with her.”

“No, I suppose not.” Asta fell silent and gazed out at the horizon. “I hope she’s all right by herself up there.”

Redbolt looked from Asta to the sea and back again, quietly scraping his talons through the sand, then got to his feet and stretched out his wings to their full extent, his feathers reaching thirty feet from end to end. Despite his buzzardish markings, his wing conformation was more eagle than hawk – long, broad, and almost rectangular – and he was the biggest gryphon Asta had met so far, taller than Inkfoot and more heavily built. “Tell you what,” he said. “They’ll be starting the ring toss in a few minutes. I can give you a lift up there if you want a better view.” He pointed up to the statue’s head high above them.

“Ring toss?”

He laughed. “Not the kind you’d see at a funfair.” Asta bit her lip, looking with some apprehension at the statue towering above. Redbolt cocked his head, lifting his crest a little, and went on more soberly. “By the sun’s egg and the sky’s breath,” he said, “you are safe with me.”

Asta had spent enough time with Inkfoot to know how serious an oath that was to a gryphon. Some did follow human religions – she had once seen one making an offering at a shrine to Kura – but most kept to their own nameless sky-gods. She nodded, stowed what was left of her picnic back in the saddlebags, and stood up.

“Ever flown before? Nah? I’ll give you the – ah – crash course now, then.” He took a belt made from the same canvas as his harness from one of his satchels and passed it over. “First, you can’t sit up like you can on a horse or a construct, or even a gryphon walking; the balance and the wind resistance’ll be all off. So…” He bent his forelegs and nodded for her to climb onto his back. “You’ll want to get your knees on the back of my wing joints first, just where they meet my shoulders – gods, do you have bird bones yourself? You hardly weigh a thing – and belt yourself to that back strap, then lie flat on your belly and put your arms forward over my wings. You see those loops on the harness collar? Put your wrists through them and hold on where they join the main strap, like you’d hold one of those handles that stop you falling over on a tram. There you go.”

“You’ve done this before?” asked Asta.

He nodded and walked away from the statue. “Every military gryph big enough to carry a human gets the training. Never know when you’ll need to pull one of your mates out of a sticky situation. Ready?”

“I think so.”

Redbolt rocked back onto his hind legs and leapt into the air with one massive downward stroke of his wings. Asta’s knuckles turned pure white, but the straps held; within seconds, they were soaring in a wide circle above the sea faster than Pardus could run. Asta looked down over Redbolt’s shoulder, watching his shadow skim over the waves. The sun-warmed water was a beautiful clear turquoise over the white sand beneath; more than a few festival-goers were taking a swim and throwing a ball around. As Asta watched, one of the gryphons flying above folded their wings and dropped in a breakneck stoop right into the water with an enormous splash, only to resurface to enthusiastic cheers with a silver fish clutched in their talons.

Another, lazier beat of Redbolt’s wings carried them higher, before his outstretched feathers found a thermal that bore them upwards until they were above the statue’s head. Asta lifted her own to catch the wind on her face.

“Make some room down there!” roared Redbolt. Half a dozen gryphons looked up from their perches around the statue’s ears and promptly scattered, leaving Redbolt free to glide in for a landing. He flared out his wings and the fan of feathers at the base of his tail to slow himself, lowered his hind claws to the carved stone, and dropped to all fours. “There we go,” he said as the other gryphons reclaimed their space. Asta unbuckled the safety belt, slid down from his back, and peered over the edge of the statue’s head. Pardus still lay on the sand where she had left it, some fifty feet below. “I’ll say this for you,” said Redbolt, hooking a precautionary talon into the half-belt at the back of her coat. “You’ve no fear of heights. Last rider I carried screamed his head off the whole time.”

“No, I’d say heights are one of the few things that don’t scare me,” said Asta, sitting down cross-legged at the edge.

“Evidently,” said one of the other gryphons, this one a younger female with grey-and-white plumage and long pointed wings. “When was the last time you gave a human a ride?”

Redbolt shrugged. “Four, five years ago? I’ve kept up with the weight training in the meantime, though. Oh – Asta, this is my niece Gull. Gull, Asta. Thought she’d get a better view of the ring toss from up here.”

“Ooh, yeah, you get the best view of the game from up here!” said Gull, her tail-tip drumming on the stone behind her. “Tunnel Fifteen’s put together a really strong team this year, but I was just talking to Stoat here and he thinks the Windstone Wing are the ones to watch.”

“They’ve got a very good defence this year,” said Stoat, whose feathers did indeed give him a resemblance to the animal: mostly a reddish-brown, but with a white bib down the front of his neck and a black tail-tuft. “But it’s true, Tunnel Fifteen has some very quick players. Slate is one of the best flyers out there; the Wing’ll have to account for her if they end up against the Fifteens in the tournament. Who do you think’s in with the best chance?” he asked Asta.

This was met with a blank stare.

“You don’t… actually know how it works, do you?” said Gull. “Oh, well, it’s pretty simple. Each team has five players; they have to try and get the ring onto their team’s goalpost, but they have to throw it; if anyone’s touching the ring when it goes over the post, the point doesn’t count. A game lasts either an hour or seven rings’ worth of play, whichever’s shorter. If there’s a draw after an hour, they have a tiebreaker round.”

“And no biting or clawing the other team,” added Stoat. “You draw blood, you’re out of the game.”

“It’s not as interesting since they added that rule,” said Redbolt, his tone so bland that Asta couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Gull cuffed him on the back of his head with one wingtip as the first two teams took flight above the game field, marked out from each other by different colours on their harnesses. Another gryphon with a blue-and-white harness – presumably a referee – flew overhead and dropped a foot-wide wooden ring from their talons, and both teams launched into play.

Asta had very little idea what was going on despite the running commentary Gull and Stoat provided for her, but it was surprisingly engrossing nonetheless. Ring toss, it turned out, was a fast-paced game of skill and agility where the airborne players flung the ring to their teammates or intercepted it from their opponents so quickly that it was difficult to keep track of where it was until it landed on the goalpost and slid down to a hook a couple of feet below the top. None of the games lasted the full allotted hour, and a few of the more uneven ones barely went a minute between the referee dropping the ring and a point being scored.

The tournament final had just started – as it turned out, neither Tunnel Fifteen nor the Windstone Wing had made it there – in the late afternoon when Stoat pricked up his ears. “Asta, you said your name was?”

“Yes?”

“Someone’s yelling for you.”

Asta leant forwards over the edge of the statue – Redbolt held on to her coat again – to see Fayn, Wygar, Inkfoot and a handful of blue-clad apprentices from the College gathered around Pardus and looking in all directions except up. Fayn cupped both hands around her mouth and shouted again, then shrugged and said something to Wygar that Asta couldn’t make out.

“Up here!” called Asta, waving one arm. They looked up at that; Inkfoot half-spread her wings, but folded them again at some comment from Fayn. Wygar nodded, stepped back, took a quick run-up, and clambered up the side of the statue as quick as a squirrel. He had abandoned his usual long blue coat in favour of a sleeveless shirt, baring his wiry, well-toned arms and the flowing blue tattoos on his shoulders. A couple of the apprentices giggled and nudged each other at the sight.

“I hope you’re wearing plenty of sun cream,” was Asta’s only response when he reached the top.

“Thought you were afraid of heights?” said Redbolt, his tail twitching.

“Yes, Fayn and I are both well-protected,” Wygar assured her. “And I’m afraid of flying,” he added to Redbolt. “I like heights just fine. You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Redbolt shook his head to muffled laughter from the other gryphons. Wygar turned back to Asta. “Fayn and Inkfoot spotted your construct down there and were worried when they couldn’t see you anywhere.”

“Oh. Well, it’s very kind of them to be concerned, but I’m quite all right. Redbolt here carried me up so I’d have a better view of the ring toss.”

Redbolt rubbed the back of one talon against the scar on his face. “Thought she looked like she needed cheering up,” he mumbled.

“Inkfoot was right,” said Wygar, grinning. “You are an old softy.”

“Oh-ho-ho, you want to have that conversation again, boyo?”

“…You two clearly have some history together,” said Asta as Gull, Stoat and the rest of the gryphons quietly backed away.

“All journeyman warmages are put through a course of gryphon-riding practice,” said Wygar in an extremely neutral voice.

“You make it sound like some horrible torture,” said Redbolt. “‘Warmage’.”

“The good Flight Captain here is of the opinion that no mage who hasn’t actually been to war should be permitted call themself that,” said Wygar.

“I can see where he’s coming from,” said Asta slowly.

“Thank you!” said Redbolt.

“But if Stormhaven hasn’t seen an actual war in twenty years, surely there can’t be that many people in active service today who do fit that criteria.”

“Which is my point,” said Wygar. “But the way he goes on, you’d think I’d never even been in a playground fight!”

“Reckon you’re just going to have to agree to disagree on this one, lads,” Gull interrupted. “Look, the ref’s just dropping the last ring now.”

The referee hovered above the pitch at the exact midpoint between the two goalposts and released the ring from their talons. Immediately both teams lunged into action. One big pale-feathered gryphon with crest-feathers long enough to mark him as male even from that distance grabbed the ring in his beak and hurled it halfway across the pitch with a flick of his head. One of his teammates stretched out their talons to catch it, but before it even reached them a smaller, quicker player from the other team intercepted it and threw it in a high arc to one of their own teammates, who batted it further up with their tail. One player with pointed falcon-like wings, hovering above the fray like a kestrel, hooked their talons through the ring and beat their wings, flying for the goalpost, but the pale gryphon half-folded his wings and barged into them with his shoulder.

“Is that allowed?” asked Asta as the crowd gasped.

“Didn’t draw blood,” said Redbolt with a shrug.

The ring fell, but the pale gryphon’s teammate reclaimed it before it hit the ground and threw it to a player circling above the other goalpost. They caught it in their beak, passed it into their talons, and dropped it. The ring fell neatly over the post, the referee rang a bell to signal the end of the match, and the air exploded with gryphons cheering themselves hoarse.

�� “What was that team calling itself again?” asked Wygar over the uproar.

“They’re the Crag Shadows,” said Gull. “New team, they’ve never entered the Feather Fest tournament before, nobody thought they’d get this far – but look at them!”

The captain of the losing team touched beaks with the leader of the Crag Shadows – Asta presumed that was the equivalent of shaking hands – and led their team off the pitch as the victors lined up between the goalposts and looked up at the sky. Asta hadn’t noticed in the excitement, but everyone who had been flying overhead had landed, leaving just one imposing figure in the air.

Lady Starfeather, the chieftain of all the gryphons of Stormhaven, glided above the crowd and landed neatly on the pitch, settling on her haunches. The white tips on her otherwise jet-black feathers seemed to glitter in the sun, which had not yet begun turning red but was well past its zenith. The Crag Shadows bowed low, their beaks almost scraping the sand, before their captain straightened up and accepted the trophy – just a ring painted gold – from Starfeather’s talons. They touched beaks for the briefest of moments before Starfeather drew back and the team captain reared back on their hind legs, holding the ring above their head in both front claws.

The cheers that followed almost totally drowned out the sound of another gryphon landing on the statue’s head. “You all need to clear the summit,” she announced. Like Redbolt, she wore a tough canvas harness, but it was dyed a vivid shade of red with a strip of gold braid down one side of her collar and she wore a sort of ornamental diadem-helmet, its bands of polished steel framing her face. The brass chestpiece of her harness, almost big enough to count as a breastplate, was engraved with a five-pointed star framed by raised wings.

Redbolt stood up. “Time for the fledgling parade?” he asked. The newcomer nodded. “All right. Well, you all heard the Wing Guard – clear off, the lot of you!” Gull, Stoat and their friends took flight, leaving only Redbolt, Asta and Wygar on the statue’s head.

“Need a lift back down?” asked Redbolt wickedly. Wygar just scowled at him, nodded to Asta, and clambered down the side of the statue. “Ah, he knows I don’t really mean anything by it,” Redbolt added when he caught the disapproving look on Asta’s face.

“Does he, though?”

“Well… Hm. Hop back aboard and I’ll take you back to the ground, eh? Truth be told,” he added as they glided down from the statue, “if it came to a real fight between him and me, unless I caught him off-guard, I’d be ash. No illusions there.”

“Who, Wygar?” They reached the ground not far from where they had first taken off; Asta unbelted herself from Redbolt’s harness and dismounted. “I know he’s technically a warmage, but I see him around the College a lot; he’s really more of one of those harmless, slightly scatterbrained academic types.”

“Oh, really? Ask that harmless academic about his body count some time.”

“…You can’t be serious.”

“I watched his Master’s exam,” said Redbolt. “He turned a bladehound into a puddle of molten steel.”

“Wait, really? But those are-” Asta ran one hand back through her hair, attempting to reconcile that image with Wygar currently standing stoically as Inkfoot attempted to clean a smudge from his face with a handkerchief, much to the undisguised amusement of both Fayn and the apprentices. “That is… an odd idea to think about.” She shook her head as if to chivvy the thought away. “You said something to that guard about a ‘fledgling parade’?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s an old gryphon custom,” said Redbolt as they walked back over to Pardus and the others. Asta unbuckled the saddlebags from Pardus’s harness and dismissed the construct into its summoning stone. “Though ‘parade’ is putting it a bit strongly. Every Feather Fest, all the youngsters who’ve just finished growing their first lot of flight feathers gets presented to her Ladyship up on top of the statue.”

“It’s not mandatory,” said Inkfoot, tucking her handkerchief into one of her bags. “But a lot of families like to mark the occasion in some way – your first flight under your own power is a big milestone.”

Lady Starfeather took off from the game pitch and flew up to the statue’s head where she landed on top of the beak, in easy view of everyone watching from the beach below. Young fledgling gryphons – not much bigger than the chicks, but with proper structure to their wing feathers and the beginnings of their adult markings instead of fluffy grey down – fluttered up out of the crowd towards her. Each one was accompanied by an adult, perhaps a parent or an older sibling. Complete silence fell on the beach, even among the humans, as one by one the adults escorted the fledglings up to sit in front of their chieftain for a moment. With each one, Starfeather lowered her head to inspect them, made some statement that none of the watchers below could hear, and lightly touched her beak to theirs before they and their escort glided back down. A hint of orange had come into the sun by the end.

“I remember my presentation, years and years ago,” said Inkfoot once the last fledgling was back on the sand. Starfeather remained on the statue’s beak, lying down with her front claws folded over each other. “That wasn’t with Starfeather, of course – her uncle Lord Eclipse was in charge back then.”

Redbolt chuckled. “I remember old Eclipse! Now, there was a gryph with a sense of humour.”

“Wait,” said Wygar, rubbing the back of one hand against his face. “Lord Eclipse died in – Inkfoot, how old are you?”

“Ninety-seven,” said Inkfoot brightly.

“Have you told me that before?” said Fayn, wide-eyed. “I don’t think I knew that.”

“Neither did I, and you practically raised me from age twelve!” said Wygar.

“That’s a slight exaggeration,” said Inkfoot. “You did go back to your parents’ house every weekend.”

“Hundred and three over here,” put in Redbolt.

“…Huh.” Asta ran one hand through her hair. “You do give off a certain aura of ‘old soldier’,” she said to Redbolt, whose crest lifted slightly. “But I had no idea you were that old!”

“Well, you haven’t known me very long,” said Redbolt, waving his tail. “Should have another fiftyish in me, all going well.”

“Fayn, you’ve been in Stormhaven longer than I have,” said Asta. “Did you know gryphons could live to be that old?” Fayn shook her head.

“I knew that they could,” said Wygar. “I just didn’t know Inkfoot, specifically, was that old!”

Inkfoot just shrugged.

“If it makes you feel any less out of place,” said Fayn quietly as her husband quizzed Inkfoot for further details on the ages of the various gryphons he knew, “this is my first time at the festival too. Wygar talked me into it – I’m not fond of crowds, but I get on well with Inkfoot.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” asked Asta.

Fayn laughed, nodding. “She’s a likeable person. Besides, Wygar’s actually got more of a role to play this year than just attending.” She cleared her throat and stood forwards, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the bonfires?” she asked.

Wygar swore, prompting a chorus of “Ooooooh!” from the apprentices, and ran off.

“He’s quite a fast runner,” commented Asta.

“He is, isn’t he?” said Fayn with a fond smile as Inkfoot led the apprentices off to one of the food stalls. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t really have speeds between ‘stroll’ and ‘sprint’.”

“What was that about bonfires?” said Asta.

“That’s a human thing,” said Redbolt. “Before the first humans came to our land, we gryphons didn’t make much use of fire. But they have their own traditions for this time of year, so a bit got added into the festival. They light those big ones you can see along the beach at sunset,” now that he pointed them out, Asta could indeed see the wood and brush piled in heaps along the tideline, “and the littler ones in between. Folk line up to jump over the small ones for some reason.”

“Oh, Beltane!” said Asta. “Yes, I’ve read about that. It’s sort of a fertility-luck ritual thing. The fire-jumping, that is.”

“How is jumping over a fire going to help with fertility?” asked Redbolt.

“That’s… a good question,” said Fayn, frowning.

“I’m sure there’s some reasoning behind it,” said Asta. “It’s not really a Kiraani tradition – I’ll have to read up on it.”

People returned to their little camps along the beach, chatting amongst themselves, until finally the sun touched the horizon and Lady Starfeather got back to her feet, flanked by the Wing Guards in their red-and-gold uniforms. She spread her wings, took a deep breath, and roared out over the sea. The roar of a gryphon was a higher, shriller sound than that of a lion, but still deeper and more resonant than the cry of a hawk and far more impressive than the chirping of an eagle. Standing at the edge of the water, Wygar stretched up one arm at her call and clicked his fingers. A brilliant spark flared around his upraised hand and every one of the bonfires erupted with flame, instantly burning as hot and as bright as if they had already had hours to build up.

“He didn’t really need to do that,” said Fayn, clicking her own fingers. “That was just for show. He could’ve woken those fires with a thought.” Her voice was exasperated, but there was no disguising the pride in her smile.

“See what I meant?” said Redbolt to Asta, quietly enough that Fayn wouldn’t overhear. “Ash.” Asta nodded.

Wygar ran back over to them, and had just been dissuaded from explaining the precise technique he had used when Starfeather raised her wings for silence again and, once she had it, began to sing.

After more than a year in Stormhaven, Asta had heard many different sounds a gryphon’s voice could produce. She had heard them speak, roar, laugh and screech. She had never heard them sing. Starfeather’s voice was nothing like the high piping of birdsong; like her roar, it was a more resonant sound that reminded Asta curiously of drumming. Other gryphons took up the song, even Redbolt; humans, their voices incapable of the Gryphic words, had to settle for humming the melody. Soon it felt like almost everyone on the beach had joined in. Wygar had closed his eyes to listen; Fayn leant against his side and held his hand tightly.

Asta sat down on the sand, folding her arms around her shins as she listened. The lyrics meant nothing to her – she would have to ask someone for a translation – but the tune somehow conveyed a deep sense of renewal and belonging. Life goes on, the gryphons sang. We are a family, and we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.

“Are you all right?” asked Redbolt once the song was over and Wygar and Fayn had gone to join the line of couples waiting to jump the fire.

Asta sat up, blinking. She hadn’t even realised she was crying until she lifted one hand and felt the tear-tracks down her face. A few different explanations came to mind, but somehow the only one that made it past her lips was the truth. “I want to go home,” she said quietly.

“Ah-hm.” Redbolt looked around. “Well… I can give you an escort, if you don’t want to go by yourself in the dark. Or you can maybe tag along with Inkfoot if she hasn’t already taken the apprentices back to the College. Where’s home?”

Asta thought. Her flat near Stormhaven’s northern wall didn’t even register; instead her mind went to the house where she had grown up back in Kiraan, then considered Lady MacArra’s fine manor overlooking the water in Duncraig, and finally settled on an old stone tower by the sea, where hens pecked through a little vegetable garden in the shelter of an outer wall and water horses rested on the rocks after dark. “A very long way from here,” she said, watching the fires.

“Ah. That kind of home.” Redbolt sighed and lay down on his front beside her. He laid Pardus’s saddlebags across his shoulders and took out Asta’s tea flask. It had held its temperature throughout the day and the tea was still hot. He handed it to Asta; she unscrewed the cap and poured herself a cup. “Tell me a bit more about your berserker.”

Asta sipped her tea. “She’s… Have you seen the portrait the museum has of Lady Meredith?” Redbolt nodded. “It reminds me of her. She’s tall, very tall, with long red hair she usually keeps in a braid and fair skin with hundreds of little freckles. Lots of tattoos on her face and her arms, and maybe more under her clothes.” She smiled. “And strong, too. Very nice arms. I expect she could pick me up like a kitten if the mood took her, but she was always gentle with me while I was staying with her. Her eyes are… Do you know Captain Steel, from the Curlew? They’re grey like hers, like… well, like steel. Piercing, is the word. Like they see right to the heart of you.

“She’s not always talkative – there’s a shyness there – but she always answered whatever questions I had and if I needed to talk, she listened. Really listened, not just sat in the same room while I spoke. I don’t think I’ve known anyone who listened to me like she did.” Asta took another sip. “The man I escaped from recaptured me after a month in her home and tried to take me back to his family’s castle near Duncraig.” Redbolt’s wings came up in a protective stance Asta recognised from Steel, though he didn’t seem aware he had reacted. “She killed him and his guards and put me on the next ship south – Curlew – to here, where I’d cross the border to freedom and be well out of reach if his family came looking for revenge. That – fighting the guards – was the only time I ever saw her go berserk. Maybe it should have scared me, but…”

“But you felt safe with her,” finished Redbolt.

Asta nodded. “I thought a lot about it on the journey south, and after I’d got settled here. Whether what I felt for her was real or if I’d just fixated on the first person to show me some kindness after… after a very trying period in my life.”

“And?”

“And… a lot of people have been kind to me since I got to Stormhaven. Surely those feelings would have faded by now if that was all there was to it.” She sighed and wrapped both hands more snugly around her cup. “What about you? Any romance in your life?”

“Nah, not for a long time.” Redbolt stretched out his front claws, curling his tail as far around one hind leg as it could go. “Even among gryphons, the ladies prefer a fellow with both eyes and all his toes.”

“Well, you’ve been very gallant with me today. I’m sure any lady would be lucky to have you.”

“Ah, well.” Redbolt scratched his remaining ear. “You looked like you could use an outrider for the day.”

“It was very kind of you.”

Redbolt folded his wings again. “I flew north once, a long, long time ago,” he said, watching the silhouettes around the fires. “Followed the coast all the way up to the great ice. Kept away from humans mostly – they’re not so used to us up there, or at least they weren’t back then – but I ran into the odd hunting party or trade caravan in the Sea Lochs, up in the hills or out on the water. Seemed a nice place to live – peaceful, even in the towns.” He sighed. “I’m no seer to go telling the future, but… I have a feeling you’ll find your way back one day.”

“I certainly hope so. I’m just… Not entirely sure when.”

“Give it time, and keep your eyes open,” advised Redbolt. “You never know when you’ll get your chance.”

Asta finished her tea and packed the flask back in the saddlebag. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything you’ve done today.”

Redbolt nodded. “Do you want an escort back to wherever you’re staying?” he asked. “A lot of folk just sleep on the beach – Wygar and Fayn would probably let you share their camp if you want to stay until morning.”

“I’m sure they would,” said Asta, “but I wouldn’t like to impose. I think I’d rather go back to my flat, if you really wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s no trouble.” Redbolt stood, stretched, and looked back at his wings. “Though I don’t think I have it in me to fly you all the way there. You ride your construct and I’ll follow.”

The road back to the city was well-lit with lampposts every fifty feet, but it was still reassuring to have Redbolt prowling alongside Pardus while Asta rode at a walk or soaring above when she spurred the construct into a run. The sky was fully dark by the time Asta reined Pardus in outside 103 North Wall Street and climbed down from the saddle.

“Where do you stay, out of interest?” she asked as she removed the saddlebags and dismissed Pardus.

“Got a nice cosy eyrie up in Gryphonroost,” said Redbolt, flicking his beak in the general direction of the gryphons’ traditional home beneath the Crag. “Reward for my long service – don’t you worry about me.” He gave another little salute, tapping one talon against his scar. “Could show you around some time, if you haven’t been up to the tunnels yet.”

Asta smiled, lifting the saddlebags onto one shoulder. “I’d like that, actually. Maybe next Starsday?”

“Sounds good. I’ll meet you at the west ramp around noon?”

“I’ll see you there.”

“Sleep well, then.” With a last nod, he took flight and vanished into the dark. Asta let herself into the stairwell and climbed to her flat on the third floor. All things considered, it had been a rather interesting day.

---

Asta gets on rather well with gryphons - once she’s used to them she finds them less intimidating than other humans - and in return they’re quite protective of her. Gryphons in general have a tendency to go ‘is anyone gonna adopt that’ and then not wait for an answer, even if the object of their interest is a grown adult in their late twenties. Redbolt made a passing comment once about how easy it had been to fly carrying her (she’s 5′5″, a fairly average height for a woman, but she is quite slim; Roan could indeed pick her up like a kitten) and the others got very concerned she wasn’t eating enough and started offering her snacks.

Further gryphon trivia:

The corners of a gryphon’s beak can curve up enough to mimic a human-style smile, but it isn’t a natural expression for them. They generally only do it if they’re trying to put a human at ease (or freak them out, whichever). A natural ‘smile’ for a gryphon is lightly flicking the tip of their tail from side to side, while waving their entire tail from side to side is a more effusive ‘grin’. Redbolt missing half of his tail means that other gryphons sometimes view him as much more stern than he really is.

Leadership among the gryphons is hereditary up to a point. That point is when the others decide that the current chief isn’t doing a good enough job and they elect someone new. Lady Starfeather’s family line have been in charge since her grandmother (Eclipse’s mother).

Although gryphons are longer-lived than humans - a hundred and fifty years is a fairly average lifespan - they mature more quickly; a ten-year-old gryphon is physically and emotionally an adult, roughly equivalent to a twenty-year-old human.

Redbolt was originally called Goshawk from his wing markings. ‘Redbolt’ is essentially a nom de guerre that people started using consistently enough that it just became his nom de paix as well. Lord Eclipse was named such not for any markings but because he was such a huge gryphon that people used to joke he blocked out the sun whenever he took flight.

#az writes stories

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soloplaying · 3 years

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Don’t Starve: RoG

I wasn’t going to make a post for this one. It was supposed to be a chill evening game to waste time for a couple hours. All of the settings were on normal and Wilson was as ready to go as he ever is. Honestly, I didn’t expect to live very long.

270 in-game days (nearly four in-game years) later...

Not as uneventful as expected!

...The giants are still assholes. Especially the mysteriously teleporting Bearger. Feast your eyes on its handiwork:

Highlights of the game below the cut:

Year 1:

Found a winter set piece (fridge, chest of winter gear, thermometer)! It’s like the obsidian staff and circle in Shipwrecked; opening that fridge is a mistake you only make once. I destroyed it with a hammer during the first winter.

No bearger or moose-goose and the dragonfly despawned before I could actually fight it. I took down the deerclops pretty easily, though. Good thing because that was the only time I saw it during the entire game.

Got two meat effigies up in record time. Another good thing because, even though I didn’t need in them in Y1, I needed both of them very early in Y2.

Made an Old Bell after a rampaging beefalo in heat took out Glommer in my camp.

Discovered that there are ZERO mandrakes in the world. Every square inch of the surface has been explored since then, not a single scrap of the map is blacked out. No mandrakes.

Took out the first walrus group with ease and the MacTusk dropped the Tam O’Shanter and tusk. Since then, my tusk walking stick has become my most valuable item.

Year 2:

I realized that I wasn’t going anywhere soon so started looking into the more resource-intensive crafting items.

Bee boxes. Evil bees.

The bearger put in its first appearance and was way more trouble than I expected. Not only did it kill me when I didn’t realize my armor had broken, but when I respawned at a meat effigy in my camp, it teleported to my location and was there to greet me when I cracked out. It destroyed half of my camp before the honey in my fridge put it to sleep and I was able to call on Big Foot to stomp it. I don’t remember it being able to teleport to my location before...

I died again a few minutes later when night fell and I found that (a) I didn’t have the resources to make a fire or torch anymore and (b) the bearger had destroyed my fire pit. I had to kill a beefalo to make a new meat effigy the next day.

The moose-goose was more trouble than necessary. It came down from a forest towards my camp during the evening so I had to fight it after dark, then a pack of hounds attacked me at the same time. Oh, and we were in the beefalo prairie right next to my spider nests. Eh, I got hurt more than expected and my sanity tanked, but I didn’t die and I kept the moose-goose from laying eggs. Success!

The dragonfly despawned as soon as it was out of sight. Again.

No deerclops for whatever reason. I found the clockworks while preparing for its arrival, though! Plenty of gears to go around, after that.

Mines...? I don’t remember if I descended into the depths in Y2 or early Y3.

Year 3:

Bearger and dragonfly mysteriously despawned once they were out of sight, this time. Deerclops didn’t bother to show up again and the moose-goose was ridiculously easy to take down. It didn’t even break my armor or make a dent in my health.

I finished exploring the surface (literally everything is filled in on the map, now) and most of the first layer of the caves. About...85%? There are gaps in the middle of swamp and cave spider areas but I really have no interest in filling those in. I already have the opening to the deeper depths and I’ve been cheap-shotted by enough nightmare beaks in my time.

Did I mention I got cheap-shotted by nightmare beaks and crawling nightmares? At least the depths worms haven’t been awful.

Explored the second layer of the depths during multiple full nightmare cycles. The whole map has been outlined and the labyrinth is fully explored.

...Unsurprisingly, the Ancient Guardian murdered me a lot.

Finished crafting everything necessary for survival and setting up supply chains. Started working on magic stuff - most of which I have never and will never use.

Year 4:

Finished crafting all of the recipes I care to. Anything left either requires seasonal ingredients or materials from the giants.

When I went hunting for slurper pelts, I found an unnervingly high number just laying around on the ground. Do depths worms murder slurpers while the player isn’t down there?

The bearger pulled its whole ‘teleporting to the player’ schtick again and magically appeared in the middle of my camp after I left it fighting tree guards in a forest a ways away. I intended to fight it the normal way (helmet, armor, tentacle spike) but then it murdered Glommer and Chester. I said ‘screw it’, froze it with my ice staff, and called Bigfoot to whack it. Twice. Now I have an insulated pack.

Everything but three farms was destroyed. Everything. See the picture above? That’s from this catastrophe. I took the opportunity to clean up and reorganize afterwards, but my enthusiasm was gone.

Deerclops was a no-show again and the moose-goose either followed its example or it’s going to appear in the last few days of spring. I’m not into summer so the Dragonfly hasn’t put in an appearance but I assume it will spawn and immediately despawn again.

Oh, also, I died to an eye plant for the first time ever. I wasn’t paying attention, sped down the path with my walking stick and sanity gear (Tam O’Shanter and...I don’t remember. Either a breezy vest or dapper vest. Raincoat’s also a possibility. Something with no armor value.) and I was in the middle of them before I realized they were there. Two eyes grabbed me, one on each hand, and the others pulled me down. At least I was only, like, ten feet from my base.

I’ve done everything worth doing on the surface, the only thing left in the caves is exploring what few dark spaces remain, and there’s plenty to do in the depths but I have no interest in messing with the Ancient Research Stations, the Ancient Guardian, or the Nightmare Cycles.

Other:

I haven’t exhausted the game’s potential, but I really don’t want to mess with the depths this time. I’ve done that and it never stops being annoying. I also don’t want to wait for the giants to spawn so I can get their materials - that would take ages. And I’m not going to spawn anything in on the sly - possible or not, I’m playing this straight so that would be cheating.

The only thing left is moving on to a different world but I’m not interested; I think I’m played out. It’ll be a bit before I play Don’t Starve again.

#Don't Starve #Wilson #Don't Starve: Reign of Giants #Don't Starve: RoG #The bearger killed Glommer and Chester #So I took drastic action #Bigfoot was happy to back me up #270 days

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thenightling · 4 years

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The first Raven (a very short Sandman fan fiction)

The First Raven

Disclaimer: This is a very short Sandman fan fiction. The Sandman belongs to Neil Gaiman and DC comics.

This short one shot story is very loosely based on this piece by @artwinsdraws but I was a little kinder to Lucien. I think he’s going through enough right now with the current The Dreaming comics.

The First Raven:

“Milord, I have served you loyally and faithfully this past millennium…” The speech was well practiced but the tone still revealed a certain nervousness and lack of ease. His voice trembled with uncertainty.

“What is your point, Lucien?” The Dreamlord sounded weary.

Morpheus was seated on his Nightmare Throne. The whole of it looked to be carved from dark wood and had a Gothic aesthetic to its design. There were three steps leading up to the ornate throne itself and upon those steps, on either side, were small pumpkins. Pumpkins had not yet been introduced to Europe at this point but Morpheus and his raven were not in Europe. They were in The Dreaming. And he rather liked the look of them.

The throne was well designed and candles were fixed on the high back of the seat. Spider-webs made of silk dandled at certain parts as part of the decorative intention.

Morpheus, himself, matched the throne in his own, long, black robes. His eyes were almost entirely black save for the tiny star-like pupils. And he had wild, dark hair. He was painfully thin and his skin was as white as bone. The sleeves of his robes were belled and as such easily fell down his skinny arm when he rested his elbow on the armrest of the throne so that his hand was under his own chin.

He looked at the black bird that stood on the ground in front of him. He watched the bird with intent and perhaps some discrete affection.

“Sire,” The raven said, “I have become weary of my post. I wish to continue to serve you in some capacity but…”

“But no longer as my raven?” The Dreamlord sounded disappointed.

“Well… Uh… Yes.” He said meekly, fearing his lord’s well-known wrath.

“I see.”

The raven cringed with dread, knowing his lord’s temper. The cringe came when he saw that Morpheus was rising from his seat on the throne.

Morpheus descended down the stairs of the throne and stopped at the raven. He knelt down and offered his arm for the raven to perch on the dark sleeve of the robe.

“Lucien, you have served me well this past millennia, it is true. And if you wish to retire from your post, I owe you a boon as payment for your service to me. Perhaps I can see to that boon benefit us both.”

“But I-“

Morpheus made a “Shhhh.” sound as he placed a finger to the black beak, without fear of being bitten by his raven.

“If you wish to continue to serve me that can be arranged. But I have had time, Lucien, ample time to prepare for your inevitable retirement and what is owed to you and what shall be done with you, provided your consent, of course.”

The raven was considerably worried now. Was he angry and just toying with him? Was he secretly furious that his raven would want to no longer be his raven? Nervously he took perch on Morpheus arm, careful not to let his talons pierce the soft, black velvet of the sleeve, and Morpheus rose to stand.

He walked with Lucien toward a staircase that had not been there a moment before.

Morpheus walked with his raven, up a long, curving, staircase, to a set of grand doubled doors that almost appeared to be made of gold, and maybe something far stronger than gold hidden under the gilded platting. These were doors Lucien had never seen before but some part of him felt a rush of excitement at what might be behind them.

Morpheus placed his hand against the heavy, gilded, doors and the doors easily gave way to his touch.

Beyond the doors was a room that seemed as wide and expansive as the castle as itself, if not more so. There were stone tablets with carvings engraved into them, resting against the walls. There were slotted shelves, with perfect square openings. And in each square was a perfect Greek or Roman scroll. There were texts from Mesopotamia written on untreated lamb’s skin. There were hand-bound volumes of the new and gorgeous invention, the book. There were many books already. More than what Lucien imagined existed in the Waking world.

These were things that Lucien loved dearly. Poetry, art, plays, history… All compiled here in this grand repository. He had never seen such a thing.

The raven flew from his perch and began to fly through the stacks and shelves, exploring the texts that were easy to see, the ones pinned to walls or in display cases of transparent glass.

He flew back to Morpheus and flapped his wings to stay at face level with him. This grand collection of stories and knowledge was all he could ever dream of, all his little heart had desired.

“My Lord… Is this- is this Heaven?”

“No. But it could be your Heaven. Do you want it?”

“Me?” Lucien’s little raven eyes seemed to swell to double their size. Had he been human they might have been welling with tears. Even now they seemed glassy with emotion.

“This new library will house all the stories that are dreamed of. Every tale that was never told and yet dreamed of by the potential author will be here. Along with their Waking works, of course.”

“My lord, I- I don’t know what to say…”

“Say you will be my librarian. Consent to this change of position and this library will be yours forever.”

“Oooh, yes.”

“Very good.” There was a twinge of something like a smile on the edges of Morpheus’ mouth. “What form would you like to have?”

“What form?”

“Yes. You are no longer my raven. You could physically remain a raven but I am under the impression you don’t want that. And it would make your new duty somewhat difficult, though not necessarily impossible…”

“Do you want to be human?”

“Well, not exactly…” Lucien said with careful thought. “Humanish, I suppose. It’s been so long I don’t think I know how to be a human. But I wouldn’t mind thumbs, and hair. And… Ooooh, may I be tall?”

“You may.” Morpheus actually looked amused. He imagined it could sometimes get frustrating to have the size of a bird and not be able to reach things without the aid of flight.

“Taller than you?” he asked cautiously. “Say… about a head taller thank you?”

Morpheus walked from him and ran a pale, bony finger over one of the book spines to his left. “You would have to be tall to reach some of the higher shelves with ease.” He said thoughtfully.

“I don’t want to look the way I did… before I was your raven. I want to be someone new. Can you make me a body specific to being your librarian?” Lucien had not always been a raven but he was not fond of remembering who or what he had been before then and Morpheus was obliged to not remind him. Though Lucien had been the first raven, Morpheus had consciously decided that if he sought new ravens to serve him, he would pick souls that had not quite like being human anyway.

“I can.”

Morpheus moved to the raven. He reached for the leather pouch that hung at his own hip and drew out a fistful of the glittering, magical sand. He scattered this over the raven. Lucien shut his eyes with uneasy anticipation.

Morpheus’ cunning fingers went to work as if he was sculpting soft clay.

Lucien barely felt the transformation but as he changed, each aspect of the metamorphoses seemed perfectly natural. White fingers lightly stroked the feathers on top of Lucien’s head. Before he realized it he had hair the color of dry, autumn leaves. It was very much brown.

His nose, though human, was still somewhat beak-like. He felt the nimble fingers lightly tugging at what was fast becoming human-like (or elf-like) ears. The ears were pointed as many of Morpheus’ creations had pointed ears. Morpheus rather liked pointed ears. The skin tone was Caucasian and light. The eyes were brown, like the hair.

Lucien knew his eyes were changing when he felt the fingertips lightly rest against his eyelids. The magick tingled through him. When the tingling faded Lucien finally opened his eyes. He moved toward a mirror that hung on the wall and he was certain had not been there a moment before. He examined himself, the new face- quite different from his original human one. He approved of the beak-like nose. And the soft, expressive, brown eyes. He even liked the hair, it almost felt like feathers.

He was wearing a suit of new clothing. And he looked down at his hands, flexing the fingers. They felt good. They felt natural. He turned to his side, where his lord now stood. And he looked down at Morpheus. How small and child-like his lord looked to him from this height! He looked around himself in wonder and then grimaced.

“What’s wrong?” Morpheus asked, like a painter who might have just learned his latest masterpiece had a flaw.

“It’s- It’s nothing… It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Lucien lightly touched the eyelids. “It’s all satisfactory, milord. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful… I very much appreciate the height. But...”

“But?”

“It’s the eyes… I saw so much clearer as a raven, so far, and with impeccable detail. These eyes are weak and the words in the spines blur from a distance.” He frowned. “It’s rather blurred and faded compared to how I saw as a raven.”

“You would prefer to have kept your raven eyes?” Morpheus raised his hand as if to ready himself to undo some of his work. Raven eyes sized to fit a human head-like wouldn’t be too difficult.

Lucien shook his head. “No. I like the look of them. I just...”

“You just want to see as you saw as a raven but retain those eyes?”

Lucien nodded, reluctant to ask for such a thing.

Morpheus reached into the pouch at his hip and took out a fistful of glittering dreamsand. He scattered this into the air and caught the thing that was taking form. He placed the round spectacles on the bridge of Lucien’s nose. “There.”

Lucien pushed the spectacles the rest of the way up his face. From behind the glass he saw precisely as he had with his raven eyes. “Oh! Oh, that is much better! Thank you, Milord!”

There was that trace of a smile again on Morpheus’ face. “Does this make you happy, my librarian?”

“It is all I have ever wanted.”

“Then it is yours. This is your reward for serving me as my raven. You will serve me now as my librarian.”

And so Lucien the Librarian was born.

The End

#Neil Gaiman's The Sandman: Fan fiction #Lucien The Librarian #Morpheus #Dream of The Endless #The Sandman

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years

Text

Mutilated Mannequin (Part 5)

Azula still feels out of it, for the better part of her Saturday, she remains in bed, curled up and trying not to think too much. She doesn’t know what she is going to say when she gets back to school with a bandaged nose. She could say that she had fallen or run into something but she isn’t known to be clumsy, quite the opposite. Even if she were, the alteration isn’t subtle. I

She resists the urge to touch her nose, she can’t feel it at all, not even a throb. It is as numb as she was promised.

When she finally pulls herself up, she feels sick. There is some feeling in her nose and it is the sensation of blood. She is glad for the nasal drip pads. She wanders her way to the bathroom, she knows very well that she shouldn’t. That she is only going to bring herself distress.

No less, Azula opens the door, she has to brush her teeth and comb her hair anyhow. She can’t let her hygiene got to shit because of this. Though she doesn’t plan on changing out of her pajamas; she needs at least some degree of comfort.

Her reflection looks tired and weary. Her eyes are as puffy and purple as promised, she can’t wait for that to go away. Beneath the bandages, she can’t see the exact damage that her nose sustains but it does look quite swollen. She swallows and begins brushing her teeth. She doesn’t feel beautiful at all.

She wanders into the kitchen, normally the smell of pancakes would draw her, she no longer has that pleasure. She slides into her chair.

“What happened?” Zuko asks.

Azula only shrugs.

“Your sister is getting surgery.” Ozai cuts in. “The kind that you ought to be getting.”

“I already got rid of the scars.” Zuko argues.

“Not the ones on your ear.”

“I have hair to cover that.” Zuko grumbles, he untucks his hair from behind his ear and moves it to the front. “See.” He crosses his arms. “I said I was done with that cosmetic surgery shit.”

Ozai sets his fork down with a false gentleness. “If you keep talking to me like that you will be in need of it.”

Azula silently cringes on his behalf.

“Your sister knows what needs to be done, she isn’t crying about it.”

Not that he can see, Azula thinks. But she is, she absolutely is. This first operation is already hard to swallow and he has three more lined up for her. She takes a deep breath and tries to remind herself that she wants this, that it is for the best. That if it goes well, she will finally have a date to homecoming.

.oOo.

“You need to relax, Sokka.” Katara sighs as they near her locker. “The first major debate isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Kat, I don’t have any dialogue prepared! Azula probably has a novella of points ready.”

“She can have as many points as she wants, that doesn’t make her any less cold. People want a friendly class president, someone that they can approach.” Katara pauses. “She might be really organized and extremely smart. But she’s really intimidating and hard to talk to.”

Sokka nods, “then why is she…” he lifts his hand, “and I’m down here.” He holds his other hand beneath the first.

Katara rolls her eyes, “because she scares people. And because her good friends Chan and Yue are up there.” She sighs as she pulls out an armful of textbooks. “You’re going to do fine, Sokka. You may not be the brightest, you’re kind of an annoying idiot, actually.”

“Hey!” He nudges her bicep with his shoulder.

“But you’re really funny and your easy to talk to. People like that.” She glances at the clock. “Oh, crap! I’ll talk to you at home, Sokka!” She wishes that she had more time to let him respond. Such isn’t the case, she sprints down the hall and into her first class of the day. Heaven knows that Zhao is a stickler about people being late for algebra. She certainly doesn’t want to have to solve one of his challenge equations in front of the class.

“Running late?” Yue steps in front of Katara.

“Yeah, so…” she gestures for Yue to move.

“I’ll move if you give me that dorky keychain.”

Katara looks at the adorable rubber duck dangling on her backpack. It is blue in color with a teal beak and a teal hibiscus on its head. “No way!”

“Hmmm...then I guess that you don’t want to get to class that badly.”

“Yue, you know that this keychain is…”

“Important to you? That mommy gave it to you after your first swim meet? You didn’t even win.”

“She never cared about that.” Katara mutters.

“Yeah she seemed nice, it’s too bad that she had cancer.”

Katara balls her fist. She is already going to be late, she might as well add attacking another student to her detention slip. She steps forward.

“Don’t do it Katty.” Toph calls. “I know garbage cans that are worth fighting more than she is.” Before Katara can make the decision to end her flawless record, Toph has her hand and is pulling her down the hallway. “Besides, you only have thirty seconds, maybe forty, if you’re lucky, to keep your perfect attendance certificate.

Katara sighs, but decides that Toph is ultimately right. She bursts through the door just as the bell rings.

Zhao seems to frown and tucks his stack of tardy slips back into his desk draw. “And here I thought that I’d get the honor of giving you your first strike.”

Katara, panting lightly and with a half smirk says, “not this time, Zhao.”

.oOo.

“Oh. My. God.” Yue gasps.

Azula, taking care to avoid hurting herself, buries her face in her hands, partly in embarrassment and partly in aggravation.

“You got a nose job, didn’t you?”

“And what if I did?” Azula grumbles. She feels the table dip as Chan seats himself.

“Holy shit, dude.” He mutters. “Who did you fight?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Azula replies, her voice sounds as awful as face must look. The bruising has faded some, but her eyes still appear purple and yellow in some spots.

“I got you something.” TyLee smiles. She sets an icepack in Azula’s palm.

“Thank you, Ty.” She holds it lightly over her nose.

“Does it hurt?” Mai asks.”

“Not yet.” Azula frowns. She wonders if she should just tell them exactly what had happened. She supposes that it is better for her to do so than for Yue to make a scene of it. She doesn’t have to be wholly truthful. “Look, I was helping Zuzu move some stuff around in his room and he accidently hit me in the face with one of those long wall shelves.”

Yue rolls her eyes. “Did he punch both of your eyes too? I know what plastic surgery looks like.”

“You can’t even spot the difference between your mashed potatoes and your corn.” Azula gestures to her lunch tray.

“But I can spot a nose job when I see one.” Yue crosses her arms.

“Why’d you want surgery?” Mai tilts her head.

“My father wanted me to get it, okay?” She huffs, it isn’t entirely untrue.

“Didn’t he do the same thing to Zuko?” TyLee asks.

Azula nods as Mai mutters, “I had to hold his hand the whole time. But he was extra nice that week.”

“What’s it going to look like?”

“I don’t know, Chan. Can we just eat?” She takes a sporkful of mashed potatoes.

.oOo.

Katara sends Sokka a text, asking him to pick her up from astronomy at around 4:00. She is pretty sure that he doesn’t mind, he’s been itching for any excuse to drive since he got his licence. Even though his pickup truck is a complete beater, he’s been showing it off at every opportunity.

She can’t wait until they actually begin stargazing, she already knows how to use a telescope. Being outside would grant her the freedom to distance herself from Yue. Evidently, Yue is plenty occupied for the time being and from the look of it, Azula isn’t getting any pleasure from her company this evening. Katara observes Azula collecting her belongings and moving to a different table. She can’t tell if Yue and her cluster of ditzy friends have kicked her out or if the girl had simply had enough of that nerve grating voice. Either way around, Azula looks rather isolated.

For a moment, Katara considers sitting by her, she doesn’t really have friends in the club either. But she has little trust for the girl. Her father routinely makes things difficult for Hakoda and Azula herself is ridiculously stand-offish. Besides, she can’t betray Sokka like that. She can’t see herself getting along with someone like Azula anyhow. The last time she’d tried to bond with a member of that family it ended with Zuko trying to steal Aang from her in the most pathetic breakup rebound that Katara had ever seen. No, that family is off limits, she can’t imagine that Azula is a friendly sort of person anyhow.

.oOo.

Azula taps her fingers on the desk, she just wants to look at stars and take her mind off of things. She wishes with all of her heart and soul that Yue hadn’t tagged along. She ruffles through her bag and pulls out her ice pack. She holds it to her nose and ignores Yue’s girlish giggles.

God, she is already giving her a hard time and she still thinks that this whole thing is all Ozai’s idea. She supposes that, at this point, it mostly is. She inhales deeply, she really needs to figure out how to tell her father that she doesn’t want to go through with the next three procedures.

A few droplets of blood spatter on her hand and she remembers that she needs to change the pads. She exucses herself and wanders into the bathroom. She takes another deep breath, feeling wholly uncomfortable doing this by herself. But she’d rather be alone than ask Yue for help. She brings her fingers to her nose, they are shaking. She wonders what would happen if she did this wrong. She doesn’t want to find out.

She bites her lip and returns to the classroom, lingering in the doorway and scanning the classroom for someone approachable. Yue and her cluster of fools are eliminated right away. The only other familiar face is Katara’s, though she doesn’t know the girl that well at all.

Yet, Katara is alone and away from snooping ears. Azula holds her head high and approaches the girl with a stiff, “come with me.” It rests somewhere between a command and a request. Due to her nature, Azula suspects that it sounds more so like a demand.

Katara crinkles her brow. “What for.”

This time she sounds less certain, “I-I need help with something.”

“Ask Yue?”

Azula begins to crinkle her nose and hisses in pain. “No!” She whispers through gritted teeth. “Yue is...not helpful.”

“What do you need help with?”

Azula begins walking away, hoping that curiosity will compel the other girl. She lingers by the mirror, looking down at the pads. There is a thin trail of blood leaking into her mouth. She dabs it away with one of those scratchy school bathroom napkins.

She hears a shuffle behind her. “What do you need help with?”

She motions to the nasal drip pads. “I need to swap them out.”

“How am I supposed to help?”

"I." She pauses. "I don't know, I guess that I just want someone to be here if I do it wrong. I think that you can handle this job."

"Do you want my help or not." Katara replies with a roll of her eyes.

"I wouldn't have dragged you here if I didn't."

"Then, maybe, act like you want me here. Or I'll..."

"No, don't leave." She says a little softer.

"Let's just do this thing and get back to reviewing the functions of a telescope."

Azula nods and exhales in relief.

#Avatar #Azula #Katara #Zuko #Sokka #Toph #Mai #TyLee #Aang #Fanfiction

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the-ravens-requiem · 5 years

Text

The Beginning

The alchemist's shop seemed to have manifested itself out of the gloomy air that surrounded Darkwood late one autumn night.

The sun rose over the trees, the morning fog lifted -- and there the cottage sat, surrounded by a garden and a tall iron fence. The building itself was situated on a flat piece of land near the lake, where weeds and brambles had grown in the past. On a wooden sign in front of the cottage, there was a picture of a black bird with a red ribbon in its mouth.

The name of the shop was painted neatly underneath: The Raven's Requiem.

The townsfolk were afraid to approach the warm-looking cottage, citing old superstitions. The location of the shop was in sight of a road, and although the placement of it was only frequented by foot traffic like local fishermen and hunters -- surely someone would have seen the place being built over the summer?

The bravest of the townsfolk craned their necks as they found reasons to walk by the shop, curious eyes hungry for a single glance of their new neighbor -- but never daring to cross the threshold between the shop and the road. Some swore they had seen a dark figure move amid the orange glow in the windows -- yet others claimed they'd been haunted by an image of a cloaked figure hunched over the plants that lined the sides of the building. Whatever the case, none could say or prove that they had actually seen the shopkeeper for sure.

And so a wealthier resident of Darkwood hired an outsider to look inside the shop. She was to report back to him with whatever she found, and tell him all she could find out about the shop’s owner. The wealthy man was just a simple trader, and he found the sell-sword in a small tavern by chance when on his usual travels. He hired her on the spot for a small amount of gold. She promised that she would complete the job before the week was out.

As she stood in front of the simple cottage with the painted sign out front, Amelia felt like laughing. If she had not personally seen the fear on the trader's face when he told her of the so-called 'strange' shop, she would have thought the job was a complete joke.

He claimed that the townsfolk sensed an evil presence of some sort when near to the place, but she felt no such thing. He had told her that they were afraid to fish or hunt near the building, afraid that there was some sort of poisonous miasma -- superstition, no doubt.

It was just a simple cottage; The roof built with wide eaves, and in the style that was common in the northern areas of The Middle Kingdom. To look upon this place and assume that there was evil here was downright silly -- madness even. There was no haunting here -- no ghosts, strange creatures, or ancient magics.

Amelia had made up her mind already, even without having stepped a single foot inside. The townsfolk were simply mistaken, and there was no way that the shop had sprang up out of the weeds and grass overnight. The cobbled stone and wooden framework looked worn, as if the building had been there for decades. The glass in the windows and the small greenhouse in the back seemed cloudy with age.

It had to have been some kind of mistake. Amelia tried to piece together what could have happened for the townsfolk to get so hysterical.

The explanation could be that the owner simply had restored the building recently, cutting away overgrown grass and ivy and settled in to open up their shop. Maybe it was the new sign which alerted folks, and thus had created this widespread notion of a whole house appearing overnight.

The mercenary examined the area around the cottage, noting that it seemed to be a lesser-traversed road. There were no deep wagon-ruts carved into the roads, and the grass and stones seemed to be relatively undisturbed.

Amelia was no detective, but this she was sure of: A whole shop -- a whole house and garden, even -- could not just appear overnight. And even if one could, why would such a power be wasted on a little town such as Darkwood?

To Amelia, this sort of fanciful thing was simply not possible. In her short life and in all her travels around The Known World, she had never heard or seen anything like it. Therefore, it simply could not be true. Fixing her leather armor for the last time and double-checking her scabbard, Amelia confidently strode past the sign along the road and trekked up the worn path.

The cottage loomed, nestled between the sky-reaching conifers. It reminded Amelia of a painting -- the kind a noble might commission, for it was almost too fanciful and wistful of nature to be real. It was a quaint little place for sure -- and well kept, too. The fallen leaves and nettles were raked into neat piles on the far side of the house, and the garden seemed fragrant with late-blooming flowers and cold-weather plants.

It was clear that someone lived inside, simply because the grounds were kept nicely. The grass and bushes were clear-cut, and the path seemed to improve the farther up she went -- as if someone had recently fixed it up for easier travel. The windows were aglow with light, too.

A bell above the door jingled cheerfully as she entered the shop -- the door itself heavy and carved with intricate symbols Amelia did not recognize. She thought that they were likely decorative, if nothing else. The interior of the shop was mostly wooden -- the floors, the counter-tops, the shelves. Baskets of dried herbs and bottles of elixirs, tonics, and potions lined every inch of space in the large central room.

Doors leading beyond -- possibly to the shopkeeper's personal home -- were situated to the north and east. The eastern door looked like it lead outside, having a short hallway between it and the shop proper. To the west lie what appeared to be a sitting room with shelves of books that did not appear to be for sale -- and what laid beyond, she could not see.

Amelia called out a polite greeting, glancing every which way to see if she could spot the shopkeeper. After a few beats of silence, she stepped further into the shop. The pleasant smell of freshly dug dirt and perfumed herbs filled her senses as she began to walk around, noting the way the wood groaned and creaked with age beneath her feet.

A bottle caught her eye, far into the shop on a shelf. It was a sort of reddish color, and looked viscous. The bottle seemed to be made of a clear sort of glass, though she could not read the label from where she was. Amelia walked over to it, stepping carefully so as to not disturb any of the various baskets and bottles on the many shelves and tables that filled the space.

As she approached, she realized she could see into the sitting room more properly. The bottle forgotten, curiosity got the best of her. She moved closer. At this angle, it looked more like a small library, with pots of flowers and herbs and other assorted plants decorating the room. The chairs looked comfortable and well-worn, made of fabric and dark lacquered wood.

The prolonged silence of the shop began to make her feel like she was intruding, and an acute sense of dread began to overcome Amelia. What if the shopkeeper was out? What if she had accidentally broken into the shop because they had forgotten to lock the door? She may be a mercenary, but she was no thief.

A sudden break in the solemn silence startled her, and with a gasp Amelia spun around to see what she assumed to be the shopkeeper standing directly behind her.

It was a decidedly peculiar and rare sight to see someone in a full plague doctor ensemble, as the guise was often seen as frightening to common folk. Of course, it often heralded many deaths to illnesses, but there hadn't been such a widespread case of sickness in years. As it was, it did indeed catch the mercenary off guard, and so she was giddy with nervousness at the sight of them. Especially so, because she wasn’t certain how such a heavily costumed person was able to sneak up on her.

"...You are the shopkeep, I presume?" She offered politely, setting an embarrassed smile onto her face. "I saw the sign along the road. I...Have to admit, I was a bit curious. You don't see many alchemy shops outside of the cities." The mercenary realized her hand was on the hilt of her sword, and she quickly removed it for fear of coming across as aggressive.

The figure seemed to draw slightly nearer then, making a motion not unlike nodding with its black beaked mask. "Yes," A muffled but pleasant voice drifted from behind the stitched leather, "I suppose they are a fair bit more rare in the countryside. I thought it clever to open one here for that very reason -- though I must say it hasn't been quite as fruitful of an endeavor as I originally assumed. I must confess, you are my first visitor."

Amelia nodded, slightly more relaxed now that she knew there was a rather well-spoken person hidden beneath the heavy layers of garb. She noted that the quality of the doctor’s voice was surprisingly youthful, if perhaps a bit smokey in quality. "I hope business picks up for you, then. It's quite a lovely place you have here, it would be a shame if it never saw much prosperity."

"Thank you, that's quite kind." The plague doctor replied, "Besides curiosity, is there anything in particular you were looking to cure? I have many things here for sale."

Amelia's face warmed slightly. She hated to lie, though she really was curious despite it being her job to come here. "Oh, no. Well --" She floundered for a moment, "A-actually, do you have anything I can use to keep Rot away from wounds suffered in battle?"

She wasn't normally one to use poultices or tonics, far favoring field dressings and bandages -- but she would be lying if she said she didn't feel compelled to buy something. After all, Amelia felt a bit sad that she had been the first customer the shop had seen. The easy money from the trader who hired her would be more than enough to offset the cost, anyhow.

"Wounds suffered in battle?" The doctor questioned in a conversational way as they turned to presumably seek for what she asked for. "May I ask what line of work it is that you do?" The unabashed curiosity in their voice compelled Amelia to answer truthfully.

"I'm a mercenary." She muttered, watching as the doctor stopped in front of a set of shelves. "Quite an unsavory job, all things said and done. But I've always liked to travel, and I like helping people."

"Is that so?" The doctor hummed thoughtfully, drawing a gloved hand over a few vials and jars. Amelia watched the slightly eerie way the doctor moved, almost too smooth and precise. She supposed that they were just extremely comfortable with the layout of their own shop, which made sense. Or perhaps it was an elf under all those layers. She couldn’t be sure which.

"Yes." She answered, and still more spilled forth in an attempt to get the doctor talking. " I - I guess...I've always been this way. I wanted to see the world ever since I was a little girl. When I was young I trained to be a guard, but I realized I didn't want to be stuck in the same city or town on duty. So I became a sell-sword instead."

The doctor was quietly listening, taking various jars and bottles from the shelves and looking at their labels briefly before putting them gently back. The silence between them practically compelled her to continue talking, though she was not usually uncomfortable with such quietness.

"...I personally only take honorable jobs, mind you. Escorting caravans and whatnot. It's good money, too..." Still more silence, save for the sound of her feet shuffling nervously, and the waxy fabric of the doctor's ensemble every time they moved. It almost seemed like they were waiting for her to finish her thoughts. She worried she was being rude by leaving the quiet between them. "...I might start my own mercenary company one day. I've been wanting to for a while. To make sure I only have good folks in it -- not that the company I work for has bad folks!"

The doctor's head turned, the sun's glow from the window catching on the red glass that covered the eyes of the mask. "That seems to be quite the lofty goal for such a young woman. I think the world could always use more kind-hearted people with initiative, like yourself."

Amelia couldn't help but smile at that, though she wasn't sure if it was due to the flattery or because the doctor had finally broke the silence. "Thank you, ser. I agree."

The doctor pulled a small jar carved from wood from off of the shelf. "I suppose you'd want something easy to apply, with no prior preparation to be had. On the field, things can be chaotic and messy, correct?" Amelia nodded in response as she stepped closer to them. "...Staving off Rot and stopping the spillage of blood is of the utmost concern. This should do nicely, I think." A gloved hand placed the jar into hers.

"...What is it?" The mercenary asked.

"Oh! My apologies. It's a paste, which only requires water to be activated. Apply it thickly to a wound like one would butter a piece of toast, and it will keep the Rot away while also soothing the pain. You can then wrap the wound with bandages, and it will harden into a plaster to stop the bleeding over time. When it begins to crust and peel, you may scrape it off."

"Thank you. It sounds like exactly what I needed." Amelia took the jar in one hand and shuffled around her belt for her coin pouch with the other, "Now, how much do I owe you?"

The doctor held up their gloved hands in a surrendering motion. "Oh, please. It's free, madame. In honor of you being my first customer. Hopefully a kind gesture such as this will bless the shop with prosperity in the future."

Amelia laughed, pulling a gold piece from her pouch. "I insist. That's no way to run a business, ser. If word catches 'round that you give out your wares for free, what will you do then?" She grabbed one of the doctor's gloved hands and pressed the coin into the leather palm. "Even so, if you insist on it being a gesture of goodwill so that the Gods will favor you, think of this as a gift -- for the pleasant conversation."

The doctor seemed to regard her for a moment before closing their fingers around the coin. "You are too kind." They hum thoughtfully.

Amelia made her way toward the door, bade the doctor farewell, and shortly thereafter stepped out into the evening air of autumn. When she closed the door behind her, she sighed heavily. She'd have to give a full report to the trader tomorrow when they met again at the tavern. She could only hope that maybe the shop would start to see more customers after she gave the all-clear. The doctor seemed to be a nice person -- or whatever they were. With such a kind demeanor, Amelia could only wish the best for them.

She smiled once more, shaking her head. Small towns like Darkwood were home to many superstitious people, but she supposed that was good for business. She’d been called to many jobs such as this one -- an odd noise from the woods, skittering from a nearby cave. Her swordcraft thrived off of folks like the trader, of small towns like Darkwood.

The odd visage of the doctor and the look of the cottage had been enough to scare them into hiring her to have a look-see. But it had been a simple task for good coin, and she'd have been a fool to turn it down.

She glanced back up at the shop.

...If the paste worked, Amelia would likely be back again to purchase more from the doctor.

masterlist | ko-fi

#doctor #amelia #ts

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catte-bard · 5 years

Text

Pater

Grey clouds were beginning to drift their way across the Gyr Abanian sky. Already the air hung heavy with the smell of rain. That didn’t bode well for the adventurer if she wanted to get some hunting done. The rain would be sure to make that difficult.

Bellona crossed her arms as she looked out across the sprawling plains of the Peaks. She had been looking forward to coming out her for some decent hunting too. It seemed that would have to wait until another day. Very well.

The game was going nowhere. She could wait.

An impatient squawk came from her chocobo. Ah yes, then there was that. Poor Zephyr had been spending so much time in the stables. Usually only let out for a short journey back and forth between Gridania and Rhalgr’s Reach.

The bird was probably itching for some excitement.

Bellona gave him an apologetic look and a pat on the neck. “Hopefully tomorrow it’ll be nice enough to get some stuff done.” She told him and the chocobo responded with an unhappy clack of his beak.

You’ll get over it. The woman rolled her eyes as she pulled herself up into his saddle. She was about to set off when something on the land below caught her eye.

A group of pantera. Several were rushing over together as if hunting something. Or…someone…

She wasn’t very high up, so she could make out the figure of person being surrounded by the creatures. They were doing their best to fend them off—throwing rocks and swatting at them with sticks—but it wouldn’t be enough. Especially with more of them rushing over.

Bellona cursed under her breath and nudged Zephyr into a run. Those pantera would make quick work of their quarry if she didn’t intervene. “Looks like you’ll being getting spend some of that restless energy today after all, Zeph.”

They needed to hurry and there was no time to take the safe and long way around. She urged her steed down the dangerous uneven path, trusting that the bird wouldn’t misstep. Bellona reached around to snatch her bow from her back as they drew closer to the pack.

Once on the ground below, an arrow was nocked and released. The shaft buried itself into the hind-leg of one of the slathering beasts. It let out a yowl of pain and swung its head in her direction. Seeing the adventurer, the pantera let out a vicious snarl and charged.

Her chocobo let out an angry cry and Bellona swung down from the saddle to confront the beast rushing towards them. As Bellona was pulling another bow from her quiver, the pantera were upon her. With a mighty snarl, it tried to swat at her with sharp claws. However, the adventurer rolled out of the way. Nocking her arrow, she turned and released into the beast’s neck.

A yowl of pain before it dropped dead.

That definitely pull the rest of the pack’s attention away from their first target. Another one of them broke off from the throng, only to be met with a kick in the face from a rather angry chocobo. Bellona muttered praise for the bird before loosing another arrow. It hit its mark before the pantera could recover from Zephyr’s assault.

The others snarled at her in rage, however something seemed have convinced them to back down. Two of their own kind felled so quickly by her seemed to be enough to persuade them that the Miqo’te wasn’t worth the effort. Slowly, one by one they stepped away, retreating off somewhere deeper into the Peaks.

Bellona watched them go, her hand still clutched tightly around her bow. It was an easy victory, but she didn’t want to revel in it until she was sure the beasts would not return.

“Oh, thank you so much.” The voice of woman expressing gratitude. “Such terrible creatures. I feared I was done for.”

Bellona turned around to look at the woman. She was a Hyur. Tall and with fair hair cut short. Her eyes were as black as obsidian and gave off an almost eerie feeling when trapped under that gaze. However, Bellona shook the sensation off and did her best to ignore it.

Zephyr seemed to sense it as well, for the bird fluffed up as the strange woman drew near. Bellona shushed him and gave his neck a few soothing pats. For the most part, it seemed to calm him down.

“It was no problem.” She said with a smile as she returned her bow to her back.

The adventurer looked around to see various items scattered across the ground. Simple items for travel from what it looked like. Clothing, food, potions, etc.

“I was just passing through when those awful beasts attacked.” The woman explained. “One of them grabbed ahold of my pack and ripped it away from me.”

Bellona nodded and began to pick up a few of the scattered belongings. “Well it’s a good thing you weren’t stranded out in the middle of nowhere. Ala Ghiri isn’t that far from here. Perhaps a little over a half-bell’s walk that way.” She says, nodding in the direction of the settlement.

The woman clasped her hands together with joy. “Thank you very much. My name is Iris by the way.” She beamed. “And how lucky I am to be saved by a vaunted Warrior of Light.”

Bellona frowned. She knew that she should be, but it always surprised her when complete strangers knew of her. It just went to show how well known her deeds were all across Eorzea she supposed.

“I just happened to be in the area when I spotted you in trouble.” The Miqo’te said as she walked over to hand the items back to her. None of them seemed to be damaged. Though a few potions bottle did lay shattered on the ground. She hoped Iris didn’t lose too much in this attack. “Are you a traveling merchant or something? Where were you headed?”

“Mm nay, not a merchant. More of traveling messenger.” She told her. “And actually I was hoping to run into you, Bellona bas Marcellus. For I have a message to deliver to you all the way from the homeland.”

The Miqo’te stiffened at that and took a wary step away from the woman.

However, Iris smiled innocently.

Imperial.

Someone sent by her parents? Or perhaps one of Varis’ own servants come to deliver his threats on his behalf?

“I’m not going to hurt you. All I’ve come to do is deliver a message from my lord.” Iris assured and held up her hands to indicate no harm. “Do I even look like a fighter to you? Surely you saw how poorly I handled those beasts ganging up on me?”

That remains to be seen. Bellona narrowed her eyes at her. “State your message and then leave me be.”

“So quick to turn so cold even after saving my life.” Iris blinked. Perhaps Bellona was imagining it, but she thought she heard a snideness in that tone. Already, she was liking this Iris less and less.

“I said state your message and leave me be.” Bellona repeated through bared teeth. “Or do I need to alert the Alliance of your presence here?”

“Now, now, I am only a messenger. Not a spy or mercenary sent by the emperor. There’s no need for threats, my lady.” Iris scolded while waggling a finger at her. “That being said, you probably should be careful about reporting said spies to the Eorzea Alliance. Some of your own secrets might come up if they were to investigate the matter.”

The adventurer bristled. So that’s the way it was going to be then? Threaten to out her as well if she tried to go to any of her allies for help?

Fine.

The Miqo’te crossed her arms, looking at the messenger expectantly. This had better be worth her time.

Once sure that the warrior would play nice, Iris beamed and then swung a peculiar bundle down from her back. Whatever it was had been carefully wrapped within cloth and was actually rather large. Bellona looked at it in puzzlement as Iris handed it over to her.

The Miqo’te frowned at the bundled; it had some weight to it. Iris eagerly gestured for her to unfurl the cloth and she did so warily. Wrapped within the material was a sword. A rather impressive one at that—Garlean in make. A long golden blade with what appeared to be a crested etched into the metal. Perhaps a bit on the gaudy side but it was obviously no weapon simply meant for show.

Neither was it a mere lowly soldier’s blade. Such craftmanship could only be afforded by someone from a noble house. It wasn’t a new blade either. Though clearly polished and cared after greatly, it was easy to see that it had been put to use a few times. With something so nice one would think the owner would be very unwilling to part with it. So why was it being presented to her?

“What’s this?” The adventurer was perplexed.

“A gift from my lord.” Iris told her. “From your father.”

Bellona’s ear gave a flick. She looked down at the sword. “My…father?”

“Oh! No, not Praetor Marcellus.” She giggled. Bellona wasn’t sure what she found so amusing. “Though my lord is very thankful that the man took in his daughter and raised her into such a marvelous adult. Though—and this is just me speaking freely—perhaps he could have done a better job of discipline and reining in.”

Bellona bristled at that. She had just saved this woman from her death and her response is to insult her? Perhaps she should have been a little slower in her rescue? She almost snorted and walked off at the comment, but something Iris said made her pause.

Her father? But she wasn’t referring to Kaeso…

No…she couldn’t really mean?

Bellona suddenly found herself staring down at the blade with a sense of distaste.

“I don’t want it.” She flatly said as she tried to shove it back into the messenger’s hands.

Iris shook her head and stepped away. “Tis a gift from my lord to you.”

A gift that she neither wanted nor cared for. And honestly, the gesture actually filled her with anger more than anything. The woman never thought very highly of her birth parents. They were people she never knew as they had left from her life scarcely before it even began.

A dead mother.

A forsaking father.

She didn’t even want to give them the privilege of being called her parents. That was an honor reserved for Kaeso and Icilia. The people who actually raised and cared for her. Her actual parents as far as anything else was concerned.

What right did this man think he had? He abandoned her before she had even been born. Two full decades had passed with him never once reaching out to her before. And only now he had taken an interest in her? The man better have an extremely good excuse for his twenty year absence. Otherwise, Bellona might not be able to control whatever her rage drove her to do should their paths cross.

She leered at the other woman. “And how do you even know I’m your lord’s daughter?”

Iris shrugged. “My lord has his ways of obtaining information. And your actions within Eorzea has somewhat helped with that.”

She snorted at that. So he kept up with her life but never bothered to reach out to her? “And now he suddenly wants to acknowledge my existence?”

She shoved the blade back into Iris’s arms. “No thanks. I don’t want this. I have better things to worry about right now. And I don’t have time to play catch up with a man who didn’t even want to be in my life in the first place.”

Bellona coldly turned away and marched over to her waiting chocobo. As she was just about to swing herself up into the saddle, she heard Iris speak up again.

“My lord has his reasons for his absence. But I assure you he is very eager to meet you now.” The messenger woman piped.

Reasons? That made her tail lash. “I don’t care to hear about his reasons for abandoning his family. I don’t care about him.” She hissed out. “Just…go back to Garlemald and tell him to leave me alone. I really don’t need to be dealing with this right now.”

“I know you’re quite used to being able to, but you cannot run away from everything you’re scared of.” Iris snipped back.

Bellona stiffened and her chocobo sensing her agitation, clacked his beak. “I’m not scared.”

“Then why so intent to avoid the father who wishes to make amends?”

Bellona turned to face her again. A stubborn frown set upon her brow. “ I’m not running away from anything. And I wouldn’t even call him a father as he never stuck around to actually be one. You expect me to forgive a man like that? .”

“He does not ask that you forgive him. He merely wants to speak to you.” Iris plainly stated.

Even then, Bellona wasn’t sure if she were willing to do that. Couldn’t she just live the rest of her life not caring about the man’s existence? She also found the whole thing to be rather odd. Twenty summers and suddenly now the man had taken an interest in his child? She didn’t like it. Something had to be wrong…

A long sigh. The Miqo’te shook her head. “Why only now? Why not five years ago or even ten?”

And Iris frowned, growing quiet for a moment. “It is…complicated.”

In what way?

“The choice is yours to make in the end, Lady Bellona.” She then continued. “I come only to deliver a message, not to force you to return to Garlemald. But your re—birth father would very much like to see you. To make amends.”

She walked over to the Bellona. “If you chose to stay ignorant of who your father was, very well. But haven’t you remained ignorant for long enough? A daughter who knows nothing of her bloodline is a pitiful thing.” She ignores the leer the Miqo’te shoots at her. “And you’ve run from so much already. Perhaps it is time to stop and finally face some things?”

“I told you, I’m not running from anything.” Bellona growled.

“Perhaps from your perspective.” Iris tells her. “But from mine I see a very scared and insecure little girl that would rather run from all her problems instead of face them.”

And the woman actually had the nerve to smile at her as she spoke. Smiling sweetly as if she had said nothing insulting at all.

“I think it may be time for you to leave.” Bellona warned through clenched teeth.

“Some things cannot be avoided forever.” Iris tells her more tersely.

She looked as if she wanted to say more. But she met Bellona’s cold gaze and seemed to bite back her words.

Instead, the messenger merely bowed her head. “Of course.” She looked back up at Bellona and handed the blade back to her. There was almost a forcefulness behind the action and Bellona had no choice but to accept from her again. “Do think about it though. My lord isn’t quite a bad as you’re imagining him to be. And you may learn some things about yourself.”

That said, she bowed once more and turned away to depart. Leaving Bellona to stare down sourly at her sire’s blade.

“Even if I wanted to go to him. How would I even find him when I don’t even know…” Bellona looked up at Iris only to see that the woman was already gone. “…his name…”

Looking around her, she saw no sign of her. Surely, she couldn’t have moved so quickly? The woman had just been there speaking to her. Yet, the flat plains of the Peaks appeared empty as if Bellona were the only one there.

Strange.

What a very strange woman.

A fat raindrop suddenly plopped on her head. And slowly one by one, more began to fall. Her chocobo gave a squawk of distaste as he shook himself.

“Alright, alright I’m coming.” Bellona told him. She sighed and wrapped the sword back up in the bundle of cloth. Later…she’d figure out what to do with it later.

She didn’t like it. Her birth father suddenly wanting to reconnect with her out of nowhere? It sounded suspicious. It sounded like a trap. Especially given recent events...

Trap or not, Bellona had to begrudgingly admit that it had sparked some curiosity within.

Curious thought I’m probably better off without.

She didn’t even want to entertain the idea of what kind of man her birth father was. After all, she’d done a good job of avoiding such thoughts for years. And with good reason.

But she had a feeling this was going to one of those things that would be hard to simply ignore. If the man was truly so serious about reconnecting, she doubted she would be left alone for long...

There was simply too much going on at once. And Bellona didn’t need this piled atop of everything else.

Another cry from her chocobo. “Alright, I hear you. Let’s get you out the rain.”

“You’ve been to speak with her then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And?”

“It may take a little more convincing. She remains very opposed to the idea of coming to you willing.”

“Hmph...stubborn child.”

“...My lord? If she insists on being stubborn might I suggest—”

“Bellona must come to me of her own free will. And if that must take a little more...creative convincing. Then so be it. It may not be today or tomorrow, but the girl will come to me eventually.”

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #ff14 #ffxiv rp #writing

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pixelgrotto · 5 years

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The deductive point ‘n click escapades of a forgotten southern belle Adventure games of the point ‘n click variety are a genre that tend to feature female protagonists more often than others. Why this is the case, I’m not entirely sure - it might have something to do with the stereotype that women are more patient, more willing to read and perhaps better at solving puzzles than men. Or, perhaps legendary adventure game designer Roberta Williams’ influence still holds strong, at least on a subconscious level in the minds of designers, over the genre that she helped nourish in the 80s and 90s, and the heroines of today’s games are merely following in the footsteps of fine women that preceded them, like Rosella of Daventry in King’s Quest IV. Whatever the reason, despite there being quite a few point ‘n clickers popping up these days with engaging female protagonists (Kathy Rain is one that I played early this year and enjoyed), there’s a 1920s southern belle who probably deserved a long-lasting series but only got two games which are somewhat overlooked these days. Her name is Laura Bow, and she served as the protagonist of two Sierra titles that were released in 1989 and 1992 - The Colonel’s Bequest and The Dagger of Amon Ra.

Laura seems to have been specifically patterned after famous silent film actress Clara Bow, but at her heart she’s more like a slightly older version of Nancy Drew, and her two games embody Nancy’s fine tradition of mystery solving. The Colonel’s Bequest takes place on a private island in the bayous of New Orleans as Laura accompanies a friend and fellow Tulane University student for a weekend getaway at the manor of her uncle, Colonel Dijon. The old man is bequeathing his fortune to relatives and has invited a motley assortment of characters right out of an Agatha Christie paperback - the drunk aunt, the conceited Hollywood starlet, the perverted doctor who seems to have a thing for betting on the ponies - and a la Clue, bodies start piling up as the relatives presumably begin offing themselves in order to get Dijon’s fortune first.

I mentioned Roberta Williams previously, and The Colonel’s Bequest was actually designed by her as one of those rare side projects that didn’t feature the words “King’s” and “Quest” in the title. (Hm, I suppose it’s called The Colonel’s Bequest, so scratch that.) It’s always hard to tell how much Roberta was involved in non-King’s Quest projects - The Dagger of Amon Ra, for instance, was directed by Bruce Balfour despite featuring her name on the box - but I’d wager that she intended The Colonel’s Bequest to be a spiritual remake of her very first adventure game (and indeed, the first graphical adventure game ever), Mystery House. Mystery House featured a similar murder plot, and The Colonel’s Bequest takes this concept and evolves it, offering a unique structure where there aren’t really any puzzles to solve but instead “scenes” to witness. The entire game is structured like a play - there’s even a cast curtain call in the beginning - and Laura is encouraged to spend as much time as possible talking with the potential murder suspects and finding unique ways to eavesdrop on them.

The game’s manual makes a huge deal about this emphasis on observing the story and slowly figuring out the links between characters in an effort to deduce the killer, and we can look at Johnny L. Wilson’s 1990 review of the game in Computer Gaming World as an example of how this approach was seen as admirable, fresh and also a bit risky at the time. Don’t let the fact that there aren’t many puzzles fool you into thinking that The Colonel’s Bequest is easy, though - it’s just as tough as Sierra’s other adventures with just as many nonsensical ways to die, and the unique structure where certain events and conversations are “timed” (indicated on screen by a clock) means that sometimes you’ll be wandering around aimlessly searching for the next thing to do, or possibly miss out on vital bits of info because you weren’t at the right place at the right time. It’s a little like The Last Express, only less refined.

Luckily, the game’s great atmosphere makes up for any shortcomings that its boldly unorthodox but occasionally clunky design creates. This is one of the best 16 color titles that Sierra produced with their SC10 engine, and the soundtrack is packed with jazzy songs influenced by the Roaring Twenties with just enough sense to know when to be quiet as well. As you navigate Laura across the silent grounds of the mansion in the dead of night, wondering where the killer might be, it’s very possible to get shaken by the sound of lightning bursting in the background, and I can certainly imagine young players in 1989 jumping out of their skin when they encountered such moments.

Laura’s next outing, The Dagger of Amon Ra, trades the dark island setting for the Egyptology craze of the 20s, and loses a little bit in the process but makes up for it with 256 colors, rotoscoped animations (which are darn smooth but cause character sprites to be a bit muddy, unfortunately) and an even catchier selection of jazz tunes, including an amusing vocal track called “The Archaeologist Song.” Oh, and the CD version is a “talkie” game, with performances that range from kinda terrible (Sierra was still having their employees voice these games at the time instead of hiring actors) to excellent (Laura’s got a cute southern accent and the narrator’s voice is heavenly).

The plot revolves around the titular Dagger of Amon Ra, an Egyptian artifact that’s been stolen from a New York City museum. Laura, now a fresh grad from Tulane and in the middle of her first journalism assignment at an NYC paper, has to navigate the mean streets of Manhattan, infiltrate a speakeasy and chat with a mildly racist caricature of a Chinese laundromat owner before getting into the museum, where she once again encounters a wide cast of characters, from the stuck up British twat who removed the dagger from Egypt to the nutty countess, who is possibly engaged in some mild robbery efforts around the museum when nobody’s looking. People start dying pretty soon (and their death scenes are grand - check out this poor SOB who got decapitated and stuck with a Perodactyl beak) and while the beginning section of the game outside of the museum is more like a traditional point ‘n click affair, once you’re locked inside the building after the first murder, everything becomes reminiscent of The Colonel’s Bequest. You’ve got to meander about, hope you bumble upon the right conversations and try your best to piece together clues before the murderer suddenly starts chasing you during the game’s second-to-last chapter.

The Dagger of Amon Ra kind of stumbles in its execution of this form of gameplay more than its predecessor, because all the chapters of museum exploration feel terribly disjointed even more than walking around Colonel Dijon’s mansion did. Also, the character motivations are unclear, which is a problem in a mystery game - especially one where the entire final chapter actually involves Laura being quizzed by the coroner in an annoying game of 20 Questions as to the identity and motives of the killer! If you slip up once during this finale, you’ll get the bad ending, which involves the killer finding Laura’s apartment and GUNNING HER IN HER SLEEP, jinkies. And even if you succeed and get the good ending, which sees Laura writing her first award-winning expose on the theft and hooking up with putzy love interest Steve Dorian, it’s still quite impossible to discern the killer’s motives and why he went about his nefarious deeds, because The Dagger of Amon Ra just...doesn’t explain things. I’m not the only one who had trouble figuring it out - The Adventure Gamer blog wrote up a fantastic series of posts about this game and came to the same confused reaction as I did.

Both Laura Bow adventures come from an older time where it was common to take notes as you went through a game, so perhaps my puzzlement at The Dagger of Amon Ra’s ending is due to my lack of pencil and paper by my side as I played. I did use walkthroughs for both games, though, and if you do end up checking them out (they’re available on GOG), I’d recommend doing the same. You probably still won’t be able to figure out why whatshisname stole that dagger, but despite their flaws, the Laura Bow games really are worth experiencing. Laura’s a likeable lead (just look at this adorable expression on her face as she stumbles upon the museum’s French skank engaged in hanky panky with the janitor) and she does a fine job of showing off the spirit of the 20s, an underrepresented period in the pantheon of electronic gaming.

Laura never got a third game, and as far as mystery franchises go, Sierra soon passed the torch to the Gabriel Knight series, which apparently takes place in the same universe, since Gabriel visits Tulane in Sins of the Fathers and hears word of a lecture being given by “Laura Bow Dorian” - a hint that Laura married Steve Dorian and lived happily ever after! I’m glad that Ms. Bow got a nice ending even if we couldn’t see it in game form, and I’m sure that if she were a real person, she would be pleased to see spiritual successors of sorts like the aforementioned Kathy Rain following in her footsteps today.

This is perhaps a good place to mention The Crimson Diamond, an upcoming indie game in the works by Canadian illustrator Julia Minamata. I recently played through the demo and am eagerly awaiting the full release - it’s almost like a direct sequel of The Colonel’s Bequest with an alternate universe version of Laura. Rest assured, Ms. Bow - even if your adventures aren’t as remembered these days as they should be, the example you set of the enterprising female gumshoe is alive, well and in good hands!

All box art and screenshots from Mobygames.

#pixel grotto #video games #favorites #laura bow #colonels bequest #dagger of amon ra #sierra online #roberta williams

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minsyal · 7 years

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[Revali x Reader, Champion-esque]

Summary: It’s a little chilly and self-deprecation is in style

The bright morning sun rose from the eastern sky casting shadows of gold and dandelion across Hyrule. The Champions were resting in a small camp crafted from tarps and old blankets. A small fire that was once ablaze is now ash and glowing embers with a light coat of dew hushing its heat. The searing midday sun beat down upon your heads almost to the point of catching fire.

The Hebra Mountains were strikingly cold, and yet you were blazing. The Rito clothing you had obtained while in the village only made you into a steamer. Hopefully, night would come soon. The sun slowly set over the mountainside, painting hues of blue and purple into the freshly fallen snow. Your once visible footsteps had long been covered and your tracks were untraceable. The Champions were set up near a fire, all wrapped in layers of blankets. You had provided them with spicy elixirs, specifically Urbosa and Mipha, who had trouble withstanding the cold. Though, by ensuring their conformability, you had failed to supply yourself with anything. Not wanting to complain, you kept your mouth shut. Luckily, you were staying in a somewhat caved in area that provided protection from the violent winds.

You weren't a Champion, nor did you ask to be. The Princess had requested you to tag along to search for shrines. Actually, King Rhoam had ordered it, but you wouldn't tell her that. It's not that you didn't like getting out of Castle Town to explore the vast land of Hyrule, you just knew when you returned a pile of work would have accumulated and you would have to deal with a very displeased King. He was the one who told you to go! Zelda seemed oblivious to this, but she had bigger things on her mind. Every time she went anywhere outside of the castle walls, she nagged you consistently until you caved. From a very young age, you were looking after the girl as she grew. King Rhoam assigned you as her assistant and insisted you never break the boundaries of being only that. He once threatened to demote you due to your encouragement of Zelda's studies. She, as a result, became furious with her father. Zelda eventually thought of you as her best friend, somebody she could tell everything, and you thought of her as the same.

When the Champions were chosen, you and Link were to accompany Zelda to visit and get aquatinted with the new members. Everyone was more than you could have asked for. They were all dedicated individuals who would put their lives on the line for the greater good. Urbosa had a soft spot for Zelda, Mipha acted as the mediator, Daruk had a heart of gold, and Revali, he was something special. Initially, the two of you clashed, mostly because he didn't see a reason for your presence. He wore his feelings on his sleeve. You chose to ignore his comments, which only lit the fire beneath him. It wasn't until he recognized your role as a guiding spirit, but also a calm voice when the pressure of it all became too much. He was astonished at how easily you could bring a once sobbing princess back to her optimistic self. He would never admit it though. It was obvious how important you were to the team and, somehow, you always had a radiant smile or pleasant look sewn into your features.

"Hey," Urbosa appeared behind you. You had been sitting with the other Champions around a fire. "I can't get through to her."

You didn't reply, only rose from your spot and headed over to where she sat. It didn't take long before she was following you back to the group, completely fine as if nothing had happened.

"Well," Zelda brushed herself off and sat down on the ground. "I apologize for that. Anyway, we should all get some rest." "Tomorrow we will-" Zelda trailed off, trying to jog her memory. Her eyebrows drew together and her lips pushed hard against one another.

"Continue toward the Hebra North Crest." You finished for her. She sighed of relief and nodded in agreement.

"Yes! Absolutely, we will. Well, see you all tomorrow." Zelda promptly wrapped herself in a blanket and moved away from the group to give herself some privacy.

The rest of the Champions retired to different spots around the cave. Knowing you had absolutely no chance of sleep while your fingers and toes were freezing off, you volunteered to keep watch until somebody else woke and replaced you.

The night was lonely. Off in the distance you could hear the faint cry of wolves, in another direction the sound of bokoblins dancing and howling echoed. You sat at the mouth of the cave, your knees pulled up to your chest with your arms securing them in place. Each breath left a mess of swirling fog hanging in the air until it dispersed and disappeared forever. An hour went by with no movement from outside or inside the cave. Not until you felt two wings wrap firmly around your entire body and a yellow beak rested on your shoulder.

"Revali," you scolded, turning quickly to check on the others. They were soundly sleeping. "- not here. You know that." Attempting to remove him was futile.

"Why did you give away all your elixirs?" He questioned, ignoring your concerns.

"Come on, they could wake up any minute! You know they can't see us."

"Maybe you wanted to make sure Mipha and Urbosa were comfortable? Or have you become careless when it comes to your own safety?" He continued to have a one-sided conversation aloud.

You wiggled your shoulders, twisted your body, even kicked your feet, but nothing worked. He had a lock around you and you weren't getting out. The soft sound of the other Champions rustling in their sleep could be heard behind you. Though, if they were you wake, you suppose they couldn't really see you. Revali was completely encasing you with his wings. It did warm you and felt quite nice after taking a beating from the cold during the day. "They needed it more than I do." You sighed, opting to give up. Your body sank into his.

"So you were being careless." He stated, pulling you closer to him. "You must be more of a ditz than I originally thought."

"You and I both know they are far more important than I am, their safety comes first.”

“At least you’re pretty.”

“Shut up.” You groaned. “I just want to get back to the Castle.”

“Why is that? As far as I’m aware, you are going to be welcomed with work.” He closed his eyes and listened to the eerie silence that fell over the mountains. The snowflakes seemed to chime like bells in a church choir. The faint sound of monsters had subsided and was replaced with a sense of peace. Everything was, for once, calm. With the Calamity on the rise, and new creatures popping up every day, a moment of tranquility was sparse. You should relish the time you have like this, especially with the one you hold close to your heart.

“Okay, I want to get back to Rito Village. It’s freezing up here.”

“Which brings us back to our original conversation.” He let out a breathy sigh, “I would appreciate it if you watched out for yourself from time to time.”

“I do.”

“-not. The Princess seems to take priority over your health. While I do agree, her role is a very important one, yours is too and you need to recognize that.”

“I’m only here to keep her safe and calm so she can continue with her rituals. It’s not like I know anything about these shrines or the Divine Beasts.”

“You’re far too self-deprecating, dear. I’ve noticed you get that way at night, perhaps you need to get more sleep. What was it…” he lifted his head from your shoulder. “Eight hours a night? From what I’ve observed, you barely get three.”

“You’ve been watching me? Stalker much?”

“Any caring lover, which I am, only wishes the best for their loved ones. You’re nearly the worst fighter on the team and yet you always volunteer to keep watch at night? That’s absurd.”

“I just-“your voice caught in your throat as your face grew hot. “I just want to help.” Every time you traveled with the Champions, an aching feeling filled your heart. You so badly wanted to help and fight like them. Link was an amazing swordsman, Daruk was godly strong, Revali was the best of the best, Mipha could heal people, and Urbosa could control lighting for god’s sake! Even Zelda, she had a power locked inside of her that would help seal the darkness away. She had the most important role. You were merely a burden traveling with them. At times you couldn’t quite keep up and fell behind, they would have to wait on you. Revali would apologize for not offering to carry you, seeing as the two of you had wanted to stay a secret. Sometimes you could tell your presence wasn’t welcome among the Champions, and other times you felt right at home.

“You are helping.”

“I’m not though! I’m useless.” Turning in his arms you pressed your face against his chest and held tightly onto his body. “I’m just sick of not being important.”

His body tensed considerably. You two had been together for a while now and he had never seen you like this. Comforting others wasn’t exactly his forte. All he knew to do was hold you and that is exactly what he did. He let you cry until there were no tears left, even if it did leave water stains down the front of his undershirt. Every now and again he would whisper words of encouragement or would tell you all the ways and reasons he loved you. Eventually, the both of you fell asleep to the sounds of whipping winds and the crackling fire.

#revali x reader #revali x you #botw #botw fanfiction

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academia-imagines · 7 years

Note

Could you write a scenario where Izuku has an older sister who is a pro hero and she is asked to teach a lesson to class 1-A about starting off in the hero business.

wow I really love this ask, but holy hell the costume design took a long time to write. Have some cute brother Izuku moments at the end and I hope you enjoy it!

You were a pro hero, dammit, not a teacher to some snot nosed teenagers. You knew Izuku was going to be in there, and that made you feel a bit better, but the rest you didn’t know. You knew Aizawa, or better known as Eraserhead, but barely. When he asked you about the opportunity, he, and you quote, asked, “Tell them about being a pro hero, they need to hear it from someone who doesn’t hound them every day.” At that you laughed at his face, but then your smile morphed into a horror-filed stare.

What makes him think you could tell these brats about being a pro hero? You had only been in the business for about a year, but you guessed it was because you were gaining attention fairly fast and they would appreciate being taught by someone who sat in their seats recently. You spent the whole night planning a lesson for them; telling them about your quirk, explaining how to get recognized and gaining the public’s attention (because let’s face it, if you wanna make money being a hero, you gotta’ be flashy for the public), and then a fun activity which involved hero trivia. You picked hero trivia because you knew Izuku would be the best at that, and you wanted him to show off his skills to his class.

The morning came and you dressed yourself in your hero costume you designed at their age, and you thought it looked nifty if you said so yourself. You designed it to match your quirk and give you a little fashion as well. The fire resistant fabric adorned your body from the nape of your neck to your ankles, and the arms ended at your wrists. The material on your neck was black and feather like, and it came down into a V shape, nearing the top of your breasts. The rest of the garment’s color was a blaze red that had an ombre effect into a fire orange, with the top being the red and the bottom orange. Gold knee high boots adorned your feet, adding an inch to your height. You were glad you quickly put black fingerless gloves to your costume sheet, because these gloves were bad ass. On you arms, feather like strands of cloth billowed with each step you took, the fabric colored to look like fire. Adding your beak like mask to your face, you were ready to teach these kids about shit you barely understood yourself. You made sure your hair was looking at its best before stepping out the door, locking it with the

Walking down the street in your hero costume was your favorite thing, because people would stop you and either ask for pictures or autographs. Being a pro hero has its perks, and being in the spotlight was one of them. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. The trip to Yuuei was quick, and you held your special permission pass in your hand. Entering the school yard brought you memories of not studying and sleeping in class much to all your teachers dismay.

You waited by the entrance, waiting for Eraser Head to show up and lead you to his classroom. You may have graduated a couple of years ago, but the school was terribly large and you were sure you’d get lost like you did when you went here. When your eyes caught sight of the tired teacher, you walked to meet up with him.

“Hey teach’.” you nodded.

“Call me that again and you’ll be wishing your wings could actually make you fly.” he monotoned, making you smile.

You followed Aizawa up the flight of stairs, your memories from years ago flooding back. This was the staircase you had your first kiss, the break up that broke your heart, and where you and your friends pigged out. Ah, memories of eating food and crying made your heart simmer with nostalgia. The hallway was still the same, but you thought you saw scorch marks on the wall.

The class 1A door was still large and in charge, and the apathetic teacher was still looking at you impatiently. You directed your arm to the door, and with a teasing manner, you said, “You first, Mr. Aizawa.”

He rolled his eyes and opened the door, stepping into the air conditioned room before you. With one foot in front of the other, you put your hero face on and proudly walked into the room.

“Instead of first period today, you’ll be hearing from an actual hero about the job. Ask questions, be engaged, don’t wake me up.” And with that, Aizawa stepped into a sleeping bag and flopped onto the floor.

This was awkward. What were you supposed to do? Introduce yourself, that’s a start! You shook off any nerves you had and beamed.

“Hello, class,” you started. “I’m Phoenix Fire, the pyrokinesis hero! And just like you, I started my path to being a hero here!”

Nobody seemed to be interested in what you were saying; some looking off into space and others looking down at their notes. Well, if they wanted it to be interesting, they could have just asked. You raised a gloved hand and fire shot out. You conjured the fire into a tight ball and threw the ball into the air, making it float. That sure caught their attention.

“That, kids, is what practicing with your quirk can do. When I was sitting in those chairs, all I could do was shoot it out of my mouth like a dragon. Being a hero isn’t just about having the looks or the attitude, or even having a flashy quirk,” You looked the students over, gazing at Izuku for a moment before continuing the inspirational speech you hoped it would be. “It’s about the dedication you put into it. It’s about having the want and need to help others; putting away your fears and anxieties for the benefit of others. You may have a quirk that hoots and shoots out cupcakes, but if you just show it off without actually helping, then you’re as useless as a singular sock in the dyer.”

Your monologue ended, and the students finally began to ask you questions about being a hero, their curiosity peaked. Soon after, the bell chimed and the period had ended. You motioned for Izuku to come over to you as students left the room, eager to get their break from class. Once the classroom was completely empty, save the sleeping Aizawa, you stood beside the short teenager.

“How did I do?” you asked, wanting to hear what he had to say.

“Great, Y/n! It was amazing, and that speech! Did you plan that?”

You chuckled, “Nope, not at all.”

“I’ve missed you,” he said. “So does Mom. It’s weird not having you at home anymore.”

You sighed, “I know, me too. I’ve been meaning to come see you two, I swear I have. I don’t have any fancy excuse for not coming by, either, I just haven’t really thought about it. Don’t think I forgot about you though, because I haven’t, not in a million years.”

Arms wrapped around your shoulders, and you hugged your little brother back. This little dork was the best thing that ever happened to you.

“I could come by today and stay the night. We can stay up and watch movies like we used to.” you mentioned.

“I’d like that.” Izuku agreed.

You both let go of each other. You grinned at him with adornment, “It’s a date then.”

#imagine #mha #bnha #class 1a #boku no hero academia #bnha imagine #bnha scenario #mha imagine #mha scenario #scenario #izuku #izuku midoyira #aizawa shouta #boku no hero academia imagine #my hero academia #my hero academia imagine

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messymagician · 4 years

Text

The Devil’s due

Sarah (Arcana OC) X Julian (Arcana) Follows the main plot story, with changes. 2.5k words. ________________________________________________________________

Chapter 3 : Theatrics.

It's barely any time at all before their meandering stroll leads the troublesome duo to their destination. A small spark lights in Julian's eyes; a beaten up and scruffy looking shop sitting quietly beside the street. It feels old and weather-worn, the windowless walls already carry a small air is mysterious security. Sarah mused quietly to herself, intrigued by why a 'teahouse' would be so closed up. Though she had suspicions that this wasn't really the type of place Julian's prior description would actually be.

What once might have been a gorgeous display of fresco style art was now worn and dilapidated. The paint strokes having cracks following thin lines and heavy discoloration of their 'romantic' scenery. "So it is still standing." He barks almost triumphantly, making Sarah giggle silently in her head. "I used to come here all the time, back in the day. It was an irresistible spot." His looming figure leaning just a little closer over her hadn't gone unnoticed. "High ceilings, great ambience… little booths, tucked away~" The innovation to his words made her shrink; desperately resisting the urge to turn beetroot red by staring ahead at the building in fascination. "And underground. You could lounge around for hours, just talking. And we, ahh, I've been meaning to say, we do… we do need to talk"

Do they really? Haven't they been trying to talk all morning? Not that Sarah has had much of a say the entire day so far, including this morning when they had left the house. And 'Just talking.' Why did she doubt that? An enclosed space likely containing some form of purchasable liquor was bound to rile some folks up and attract the secretive sort. Though, just thinking about it, that does sound awfully Julian… a renewed sense of danger tingled across her shoulders but it wasn't a frightening flight or fight response. Eagerness, perhaps? A willingness to adventure let's say.

He pushes lightly on the wall and it creaks angrily open. Not sounding rusted or underused despite the aged appearance it held, no dust flying from its hinges. Julian ducked under a low wooden beam while Sarah merely needed to briefly raise a hand to make sure she didn't catch her hair on any rough edges. She squints in the dark staircase, eyeing Julian's gloves as he tries to pry open a stubborn-looking iron door. Eventually managing to get it to budge aside before putting a palm on Sarah's shoulder and leading her in. "After you, my dear."

The atmosphere is immediate and undeniable. While it's very dim it isn't badly lit. Lanterns hang from old ropes here and there while all around them drape loose moth bitten cloths. Alongside them, the ceiling sports long dropping fabrics of bold complicated patterning and design. There's a heavy air fighting between smelling comforting and smelling boozy. The actual walk space is narrow, Sarah's hands instinctively appearing up at her chest in anxious support. All around them sit strange and unique looking artifacts and random piles of what might seem like junk to someone who didn't know better.

Julian, pushing her ahead slowly, regularly stops her in her tracks to check around an upcoming corner. Each time he leans over her head She catches herself looking up at his chin, trying to figure out what in particular he's looking for…

It eventually hits, lighting a little bulb in her head. There are voices in here… as much as she tries to see the confined spaces and thin walkway make it impossible to tell where anyone is; though she's absolutely certain the place has other people in it. Julian's eye wanders from searching, down to Sarah's sweet if a little aimless look of confusion. "Well… this is all very unlike the way I remember it-" he assures quietly, not that she quite believes him. This place has his name all over it, from the awkward spacing to the dark but cozy atmosphere. "The place must have gone under… that's a shame." He sighs, heavily, a nostalgic look in his single lantern-lit eye. "They used to serve this smoky tea that I haven't been able to find since."

He sounds disappointed… yet keeps leading them further into the fray. More interesting items passing by as she finally takes note of a few to try and identify their use or origins. A big metal moon, clearly hammered together roughly, with a wise and timeless smile. Large swaths of fabrics laid haphazardly over a very high-backed chair. Many weapons, mostly a cluster of shiny tipped spears and a few open chests of assorted trinkets like messy feathers and old worn brass bells. "It seems to be some kind of… oddities… antiques… artefacts? Emporium." He drones out before she could say the same. "How embarrassing… it's still cozy though."

A hand had drifted idly down to her hip, which she hadn't noticed until he pulled just a little, tugging her closer. The raised brow and wide smarmy grin he wore made her snort; quickly covering her mouth from the awful noise and pushing him back away with faked anger. He goes to do it again when something catches his eye, causing it to widen. "Now what have we here…" Sarah, tracking his line of sight, looks over to a large mirror. The glass old and dusty, it's surface speckled with mold. And perched atop it… is a doctor's mask. Much like the one she'd watched him relinquish the night before.

He snatches it from its place, almost as if to hide it, while her perceptiveness catches sight of boots coming from behind the mirror. They too vaguely resemble the high leathery boots Julian has on, causing her brow to furrow. "What's this? It's not really a medical mask, is it?" He fumbles curiously to himself while examining the long bird-like apparel. Tapping its beak, peering intrigued into its glassy eyes, before flipping it over to look inside. "We used to stuff the beak with-"

"Herbs!" She finishes quickly, a sudden jolt wrestling with her shoulders. "R...roses and camphor…." Her voice is barely over a whisper but the initial outburst must have been of quite a surprise as Julian stares at her with a wide eye. "It's… not a real mask. The lining is too thin, and it wouldn't cover the face properly... Those eye holes are too ornamentally shaped-" her hands reach over to point out the flaws, leaving him speechless in their wake. Just staring at her for a moment before all the colour goes to her cheeks and snaps him out of it.

"Er- yes- you're quite right I… didn't expect you to know quite that much about…" He frowns down at the fake mask. Looking into its sightless gaze in silent contemplation before Sarah swiftly changes the subject, feeling her ears burn red.

"Can you hear that?" There's a brief pause, both straining to catch what she meant. "Voices…" Another silence...And then it finally catches up. She wasn't lying, there are for sure sounds coming from nearby. The previous conversation seemed to have derailed Julian's cautiousness; which was now back in full force. His whole body beneath the angular clothes that widen his frame goes unmistakably stiff. She was sure should his gloves have been off she'd see his knuckles grow white from the pressure they were gripping the mask with.

"Yes." He hissed back, a notch quieter than her inquiry, nodding just past a long drawn curtain. "Coming from…. Over there?"

The soft background buzz of idly chatter quickly cascades into a mournful wail. It gives both of them quite the start, but… something about it puts its sincerity to question. It was warbling and almost tuneful. Comically fake sounding and very over the top. "Sounds like somebody's faking it." He huffed, halfway between relieved and unnerved. Fixing the false mask securely over his face much to Sarah's surprise. As if out of habit, almost, completely auto-piloted.

Curling a free hand around hers he slowly holds the other up to the beak of the mask as if gently shushing her. Pulling her along towards the sound of the cries taking care to not knock over empty bottles that littered the floor. Towards a distant heavy-looking pair of curtains. They were drawn tightly, only a small gap, widening from top to bottom. Dust particles danced excitedly at the sharp beam of light coming through from the other side. Peering through, the source of the hysterical wails, from beside a heavily torn cradle on the other side, was… an actor.

Sarah's shoulders dropped at once, a heavy but silenced exhale of relief parting her lips. Taking a second to collect herself before peeking back through. The man too wore a mask, though very different from Julian's. Porcelain and only half-covering with exaggerated streaks of mascara that were smudged from 'anguish.'

"Wait up in my room? On my birthday?!" He mourned, loudly, "What do you expect me to do all night in here? Clomp around in my hooves? Beg the busboy for table scraps?! If I can't disgust anyone doing it, what's the point?"

"Oh my god." Breathes Julian, trying to hide his sneering expression with an even bigger grin. "That's fantastic, it sounds just like him." Him? She looked again out at the 'distressed' man, pouring his heart into the role of an angry, vengeful, and pompous bastard. Was that supposed to be...

"Count Lucio?" She whispered, still unsure of that answer, as Julian leant a little further toward the curtain. This must be a theatre! She didn't even know Vesuvia had a theatre. Even without word of it around town, the seats appeared to be absolutely packed with an audience. Laughing along to the cheeky dramatization of their former count. It seems to be quite a popular thing in this part of town.

"Well I'm glad to see the arts are flourishing. A renaissance may have begun while I was away." He cheered before looking suddenly quite stricken. "But… if this is about Lucio on his birthday then…. You don't suppose this is a show about the murde-"

Much like the rest of today Julian's thoughts never come to completion as everything goes wrong at once. The audience's roaring laughter is just barely outshined by a heavy sandbag that lands with a THUD between them, the curtains starting to close. During that same second the speeding rope quickly catches around Julian's ankle, hoisting him effortlessly high into the air like a deer caught in a trap. Sarah's eyes squeeze shut at all the sudden movement but when she dares open them again quite the sight is ahead of her.

Julian. Suspended upside down on stage in front of a silent crowd absolutely frozen for at least a heartbeat. She can see the split second it takes for him to plan his next move before he thrashes wildly. Wriggling like a snake caught by a bird; something small and shiny flying from his boot. Something he just barely has time to catch, a knife. With a hard grunt of effort he swings up to fold in half, only just managing to grab the rope at his ankle and swipe wildly, severing it- Falling clean out of the sky with a hard 'whump'. Not onto the stage. But rather Count Lucio's lap, the both of them looking mighty caught out.

"....Doctor Devorak! Here to cure my boredom!" The actor for Lucio cheers after a tense pause, rolling with the occasion despite its unusual nature. The crowd adores it, exploding into shrieks of laughter and applause, while Julian appears visibly nervous. Sarah can see his throat bob uncomfortably with a hard swallow.

Unable to watch, knowing he'll be more than embarrassed, Sarah backtracks immediately. Only getting a turn away before pacing densely back and forth without thinking. Oh my god what the hell just happened. Oh no he's going to die of anxiety-she should have done something about it! What would she even do?! Feeling jittery and suddenly confined she flees for the exit. Retracing their steps mindlessly in a speedy trot. Managing to get free of the building and immediately press herself against the stone cold mural of the wall.

Why would there be a play about the murder!?

That's awful. A real murder not even a made up one… and worst of all nobody has a clear memory or story of the event! She begins to pace immediately once again. Debating whether to run further away with a growing bubbling guilt. Luckily only a few steps into the pacing…

"Sarah, there you are. What a trip, I'm still one foot in the meta realm." Comes Julian's usual comedic attitude as he fumbles noisily out of the door. Clearly just a little disturbed by what happened. "Well… the good news is nobody seemed to think it was really me." He huffed, sliding some messy locks of hair out of his working eye. "Was the neighbourhood always this sceptical? Probably…"

Realising that even here, where he is comfortable enough to walk the streets, Julian is a wanted criminal Sarah's face goes pale and shaken. The sight makes his smile drop a little. "So that wasn't what I had in mind…. Let me try again." An exasperated sigh escapes her tired mouth before both of Julian's gloves take her hands and hold them steady. Looking forlornly down into her eye, obviously asking for yet another chance to go somewhere.

Her feet hurt and heart was still hammering unhappily, but she took a deep breath and squeezed his hands softly. "I'd like to head to the raven for a bite… If you'd be so forgiving as to join me?" Owwhhhh, her weakness. Being polite. She puts on a clear pout to let him know she's unhappy, one he responds to by looking fairly embarrassed. But…. She doesn't say no, instead rolling her eyes. "My treat, of course. And… after that-" His thumb brushed over the top of her knuckles, almost forcing her to melt on the spot. "A… nice walk down to the docks. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like you're buttering me up." She grumbles, though not aggressively, avoiding eye contact for a good minute. Perhaps it would be a good idea. a free dinner and…

The idea of heading home felt like something to avoid. The thought twisted her stomach. She'd only been around him a day and a half but already his chaotic aura had pulled her into so much… mischief. Besides the past few days nothing much had been quite as fun as today, even with the interruptions seeming annoying at the time on reflection they were enjoyable. "Alright… but I'm paying next time."

#Arcana #Arcana oc #Arcana Julian #The Devil's due #arcana fanfic

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thecreativeangel · 7 years

Text

Falling (Peter Parker x Reader) Hogwarts AU

Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Prequel to the Improper series

*Please don’t plagiarize my work, thank you :3*

Summary: You nearly died of anticipation when your letter came, and while picking out robes at Hogsmeade, you seem to run into the same boy, over and over again. And by some twisted fate, he just happened to run into your compartment on the Hogwarts Express.

Warnings: Cussing. Mostly fluff before that, I think.

Words: 3,160

Next Chapter

When you moved to London during the summer it was terrifying to leave your friends and past life behind for a whole new world, but you managed... And then the owl knocked on your window. At first you dismissed it as a small bird or common bat, but it kept tapping on the window until you looked over. Cautiously opening the window, you ran back to your bed, scared that the wild creature would attack and scratch. The barn owl ruffled its feathers and opened its wings once again, gliding over to perch on your bedpost. You were wary of the owl but noticed something held in its beak. The owl opened its mouth and dropped an old looking envelope on the bed before making another brief flight to land on your shoulder, sharp claws scratching your skin. You panicked, staying perfectly still. There’s an owl on my shoulder. You thought in disbelief. An owl. On my shoulder. What the fresh hell am I supposed to do? The owl nudged your neck with its head and looked pointedly at the envelope on your bed.

“You want me to-you want me to open it?” You stuttered, not daring to move your shoulder, scared the barn owl would claw you. “Is there a letter inside? Are you magic?”

The creature nudged you again and pointed its beak at the paper on the blanket. All you remember is picking up the envelope with shaky hands and carefully opening the seal to read the letter inside, then letting out a soft ‘oh’ of surprise and fainting. The impatient owl rose in the air as you fell unconscious on your bed, letting out an annoyed hoot. It landed on the pillow beside your face and nipped your ear. You jolt out of bed, trying to stand up but almost falling over your own feet. The barn owl watched you carefully, its big brown eyes following your sluggish movements. You shook your head and leaned against the wall, pondering what kind of dream you just had. That’s insane. You assured yourself, resting your forehead on the wall. It was just a dream. A very odd dream, but a dream nonetheless. If owls could roll their eyes the one in your room definitely would. While you didn’t look back at the bed, the creature gave an ear-splitting screech, causing you to whip around with wide eyes to face it, sliding down against the wall.

“Holy shit…” You muttered, running a hand through your hair. “You-you’re kidding, right? Hogwarts?” The owl bowed its head in a nod.

“I’m-I’m going to motherfucking Hogwarts?” You asked breathlessly, a wide grin spreading on your face. Wobbling to the edge of the bed, the owl hooted again, as if asking how many times it would have to confirm that yes, you were going to Hogwarts. It picked up the letter in its beak and flew next to you, handing you the letter to read again.

“Dear Miss (Your Last Name),” You read out loud to yourself or maybe the owl, but who cares? You’re going to Hogwarts! “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! And-and there’s a signature and everything!” You suddenly shrieked with laughter, causing the owl beside you to jump back.

“Oh, sorry! I’m sorry-I’m just so excited!” You apologized to the creature, scrambling to stand up. “Jesus… I’m talking to an owl. But who cares, am I right? I’m going to Hogwarts, motherfuckers!” You hopped up and down, clapping our hands and twirling in a weird happy dance, not even caring about proper manners and how much you just cussed. Somehow the owl looked disgruntled but amused at your antics at the same time. Throwing open the door you were almost down the hall when you decided to sprint back to pop your head into your bedroom, clutching the door frame until your fingers hurt.

“And by the way,” You said chirped, a little out of breath. “I know I’m still talking to an owl-but thank you. So much!” Letting slip another excited squeak, you run through the hall, thump down the stairs and to the kitchen where your parents sat, eager to tell them the news.

“I’m either about to pee myself of faint.” You say to yourself when Hagrid opens the gateway to Diagon Alley. He chuckles at the comment and leads you down the path. You marveled at everything, from the way the bricks moved by themselves when he touched them with his umbrella to the swift rush of voices and colors that engulfed you when you first stepped into Diagon Alley. It was so bright and beautiful; Shops of every kind lined the old cobblestone street, sales witches yelling advertisement for the latest magical product… Hundreds of children and their families crowded the street, adding to the overall buzz of enthusiasm in your heart. Hagrid took huge steps that were hard to keep up with as you went from store to store, buying everything on the list that was on the letter.

“Hagrid,” You started nervously, thinking deeper into the logic of how the wizarding world works. “How did I get the money to buy all these things? I’m not stealing-am I?”

Hagrid shook his bearded head. “Nah, yer parents had some money taken out o’ yer vault. Honestly, did ya think they’d leave ya penniless?”

The last store you visited was Madam Malkin’s robe shop, where the chubby old lady rushed around the shop, finding fabrics and measuring tape to make the perfect set of robes, tailored to your size. The bell rings, meaning a new customer had entered. Madam Malkin stepped away from you to attend to the client. You stood there next to the mirror, turning around to see how the robe fit. It looked amazing, to say the least. You would have to thank Madam Malkin later for the wonderful tailorship. With how enamored you were with the robe, you didn’t noticed the other figure in the mirror or that your new German Shepherd puppy had disappeared from your side and captured the interest of a boy who was waiting for his robe. You knew full well that technically, dogs weren’t on the list of animals allowed in Hogwarts, but maybe you could sneak the puppy in without anyone knowing. The boy sat in a plush chair with his Siamese kitten in his lap when your puppy ran up and started to run around his ankles, jumping up on its hind legs and licking his hand.

The kitten meowed and jumped down, making you turn around to see your puppy at the boys legs. Instead of fighting like cats and dogs should, both your pets began to play like old friends, running and rolling around. You cooed at how adorable it was, looking up and catching the boy’s eye. He looked away the moment you saw him staring and so did you. You didn’t notice the light pink tinge to his cheeks but still smiled while observing your pets playing, partly because of the animals and partly because of the boy. He was…cute, to say the least, with fluffy, light brown hair and wide dark brown eyes and thin lips that were currently stretched in a shy smile he was trying to hide. Hagrid lumbered into the room shortly after and it was time for you to go. You scooped your puppy into your arms and gave the boy one last grin, too shy to say goodbye. I hope he’s a first year. You think suddenly. Letting out a shaky laugh, you take back the thought. Nope, nope, no way. I am not distracting myself from my studies or mom and dad would kill me. So for the time being, you left the warm feeling alone.

One huge mistake you made was never preparing yourself for the actual trip to Hogwarts. Upon actually making it to Kings Cross you realized how great it would be if mom or dad were here. The reason your parents weren't there was the reason they were never at school events or field trips when you attended Muggle school; work. It was saddening at times, especially when you almost cried at Thanksgiving lunch at your school because they had not come yet again, but over time you got over it. Instead of whining about it you took the time to admire Kings Cross and how it had been renovated recently. Between the bits of old brick wall and the new metal beam and glass roof, it looked like the cross of an old medieval tale and something out of Star Trek. People bustled around to catch a train or just lounged on benches, waiting for their ride. A giant clock on one of the many arches showed ten forty-two.

“I don’t see Platform 9 ¾.” You said hurriedly, glancing at the clock every minute as the time for the train to depart grew closer. The Muggle escort your parents hired to help you on the train narrowed his eyes and just stared at you, determining if this was a trick or not. His attitude had been very nasty so far, refusing to talk to you or treat you like anything but a babbling child, which you were definitely not.

You huffed loudly at his lack of helpfulness and pushed the baggage trolley forward with determination. “Actually, you can just go now,” You say sweetly to the escort while gritting your teeth in the effort of pushing the heavy trolley. “It’s okay, really. I can find the train on my own.”

He gives you one last look of disapproval and shrugs his shoulders, turning around to trudge through the crowd of people back to the car. Wow, okay. You think, staring at where the escort had been moments ago. Not even a goodbye, then. Fine, fine. I didn’t like you anyways. Blowing a loud raspberry in the direction he disappeared, you sigh in defeat and decide not to go around asking Muggles questions that they wouldn’t know the answer to. Instead, you wander to the brick barriers between Platforms 9 and 10. You place a hand on one of the bricks, delicately running your fingers over the rough surface. You half expect it to push back as a secret button and make a passageway appear somewhere, but the barrier doesn’t move at all. Checking the clock again, it now reads ten fifty-one. Your breathing is uneven and you put a hand on your chest to steady it, not wanting to have an episode in front of fifty different people.

About to give up and cry, you grip the handle of your trolley and blink rapidly, pushing back tears. Out of nowhere a body rams into you, causing you to yelp, lose your footing and fall backwards, landing on your bum. The stranger falls forward in slow motion and you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the impact. When it never comes, you open your eyes to see a young boy about your age on his hands and knees, leaning over you so much that you could feel his ragged breath on your cheek. You take a moment to calm down, lips still parted in shock and sigh, happy that no one got seriously hurt. The boy slowly turned beet red, darting up and muttering thousands of apologies. Before you could look at him better he had pulled you and and sprinted away, looking over his shoulder at you so often he almost ran into a wall. You sniggered at his flustered state, dusting yourself off, suddenly feeling a lot better than before. Just as you turned around to your trolley a pretty middle aged lady, no older than thirty almost bumped into you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” She exclaimed, checking to see if you were hurt. “But have you seen my nephew? He was so excited to go to Hogwarts he must have run o-” She slapped a hand over her mouth and laughed nervously.

“Whoops, wasn’t supposed to say that,” She blurted. “Just ignore what I just said, it isn’t important. Anyway-my nephew has brown hair, brown eyes, kind of scrawny if you ask me.” The woman leaned in and whispered the last part, the amused look in her eyes signalling she was just teasing.

“He was-well I-” You stuttered, pointing behind you. The woman got your drift and nodded.

“Thank you, thank you! That Peter will just speed off, y’know?” She was about to rush past you when you tapped her on the shoulder.

“I was wondering if, uh,” You said quietly, wringing your hands. God, I hope she’s a witch. You think. Otherwise she’ll think I’m crazy too. “I was wondering if you could show me Platform 9 ¾?”

The woman clapped her hands rapidly, seemingly happy at your question. “Are you going to Hogwarts? First year? Oh that’s awesome, you’ll love it!” She beamed, placing a hand on your shoulder. “The way is right here, actually.” She pointed to the barrier you were standing near.

“All you have to do is walk right through the wall and you’re there! Best get going, though. It’s almost eleven!” You thanked her profusely, stuttering out almost inaudible words. She rushed off in the direction of the boy, calling his name. You turn to face the barrier and once again place your hand on the rough brick, this time on the side facing you instead of the side facing the train. When your hand disappeared into the wall you pulled it away as if burned. So it’s true. You silently thank the lady one more time. Oh thank god! Wheeling the trolley around you approach the barrier cautiously, taking slow steps until the wall is right in front of your face. Sucking in any fear, you push into the wall with closed eyes, opening them when you hear the whistle of a train. Platform 9 ¾ was there in front of you, the Hogwarts Express gleaming with a new paint job, letting out puffs of smoke now and then. The people here were very different than the ones outside. Little kids flew low to the ground on toy broomsticks while being chased their parents. People young and old wore robes of every color, some with giant hats and owls their outstretched arms. You could stare at the scene for hours but a portly man from one of the compartments called out that the train would be leaving in less than two minutes. Crap, crap, crap. Your mind chanted. You hurried to one of the helpers, giving them the luggage and taking one last look at the station and it’s waving parents before stepping into the train.

Most of the kids had already found compartments and the walkway was almost empty, save a few pet cats darting from room to room. You walked towards the back, peeking in each compartment to see if there were any empty. Or at least not packed full of children. You were not the kind of person to be very talkative and preferred to be left alone most of the time. Towards the last few rooms the amount of passengers dwindled until to your relief, there was an empty compartment. Plopping down right next to the window and observing everything that was going on outside was what you expected to do the entire trip. You carefully took your puppy, which you recently named Bear, out of the pocket of your black windbreaker and placed the wiggling ball of fluff on your lap, stroking the fur on her back. Your peace was interrupted when a kitten ran into the compartment and leaped onto the seat opposite of you. You picked Bear up from your lap and walked to the kitten.

“Hey buddy,” You said, ushering the kitten to you. “Where’s your owner, huh? I hope they know you’re gone…” The kitten walked off the seat into your arms, nuzzling its nose in your t-shirt. You noticed it looked like the same kitten the boy from Madam Malkin’s shop had.

“No way…” You trailed off, sitting back down next to Bear. “Are you the same little fur ball from earlier?”

As a response, thundering footsteps came from the walkway outside and a boy skidded to a halt at the doorway of your compartment. He spotted the kitten in your arms and his eyes lit up, looking relieved. It was as you predicted, the same brunette boy you had seen at the robe shop, his wavy hair now wild and unruly, huffing from running up and down the train to find his pet.

“Tessa!” He rushed into the compartment and the kitten leaped into his grasp, purring against his chest. “There you are! Thank god I found you.”

“Hi.” You said lamely, feeling very awkward. His looked up to see you wiggling your fingers in a small wave.

“Um-uhh...hello.” He stammers, his face growing pink again. “Can I-can I sit here? All the other compartments have a lot of people and I don’t r-really like loads of people ‘cuz it makes me-”

“Nervous?” You guess, patting the spot next to you. “Yeah, me too.”

He smiles like a hyperactive kid on sugar and sits next to you, allowing Tessa to wander out of his arms.

“Did you by chance lose your aunt at the train station?” You ask, wondering if today could get any weirder.

“May? Aunt May?” He says, looking very uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Why? Did she say something embarrassing? Whatever it is, it’s not-”

“Whoa, calm down there.” You laugh, holding your finger to his lips to silence him. He goes cross eyed trying to look down at your finger but you pull it away, realizing how strange the action was. Okay, you just made yourself look stupid in front of him. You scolded yourself. Good job. “She just described you so I could tell her which way you went.”

He relaxed in his seat, sighing in relief. “She also called you scrawny.” You added smugly, keeping in your laughter. The boy groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Of course she did. It’s not true-I’m-I’m bloody strong as an ox.” He defended and you let out a laugh.

“I’m sorry for running into you.” He said gently. “It you I ran into, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was. That’s okay though.” You assured him. “Today has been pretty crazy. I almost missed the train.”

“Ha! I can do you one better,” The boy joked, running a hand through his wild hair. “I got on the train as it was leaving!”

“Okay, you win.” You assured, snickering slightly and nudging his shoulder with yours. “I know we already sort of met each other a couple times but... I’m (Name).”

The permanent smile on his face widened and the pink on his face grew a bit more noticeable. “I’m Peter. Peter Parker.”

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