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#yes that fluff is a mineral not feathers

pixy-stix-art · 1 year

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I posted 2,019 times in 2022

218 posts created (11%)

1,801 posts reblogged (89%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@baka-monarch

@aslitheryprinx

@cyncerity

@squishys-soft-stories

@oh-i-need-a-name

I tagged 445 of my posts in 2022

#tw vore - 124 posts

#pixie talks - 115 posts

#random - 91 posts

#ask - 86 posts

#mcyt g/t - 47 posts

#mcyt g/t community - 28 posts

#anon - 24 posts

#ask game - 20 posts

#anon ask - 20 posts

#mcyt gt - 15 posts

Longest Tag: 126 characters

#ą̷̛̰͎̬̺̳̜͚̲̹̘̰͚͈̗͓̰̹̥͙̠̹̖̖̖̮̝̯̍̓̄̑͌͊̆̅͛̿̐͆̽͑̊͘͜͜ͅͅĺ̵̛̌̅̓̌̃̐̓̋̈́̓͆̌́̀̎͂̂̃̌̎̽͌̈́̅́͛̀̊̂̅̉̒̂̊͌͋̾́̌̈́̇̉́̃̄̎̒̉͋́̈́̑̅͑̅͑͗̐̄̐̓̽̿́̚͘̚̕̕͠͠

My Top Posts in 2022:

How about some mountain giants fluff? 👀 Maybe with Techno and Ranboo?

Techno is teaching Ranboo how to read

54 notes - Posted February 2, 2022

If you're still taking requests, how about cryptid karlnapity au fluff?

Karl and Quackity talk while Sapnap naps

59 notes - Posted February 8, 2022

Rescued part 2

Part two of scales n’ feathers first meeting, this time Quackity meets Sapnap.

Had it been months since I posted? Yes. If this seems different from the other parts that’s why also it’s kinda short but idc

(Warnings: accidentally fearplay, miner injures, vore mention)

Quackity blinked as Karl got to the large cave. He really didn’t want to be here. But he was to weak to do anything about it. He closed his eyes clinging to Karl as he slithered into the cave. He flinched as Karl called out to his boyfriend. He was so loud…

Karl called out for Sapnap as he slithered deeper into the cave. He needed his help for this.

Sapnap picked his head up hearing Karl. He got up from their nest and slithered out to find Karl. He smiled seeing him. “There you are! I was getting worried what was taking you so long.”

“I got a bit distracted.” Karl chuckled softly. He moved his hands so Sapnap could see Quackity curled up against him.

“Oh….” Sapnap’s eyes widened seeing the tiny duck hybrid. He looked closer and it was obvious the poor thing was hurt. “What happened?” He asked softly.?

Quackity whimpered feeling another set of eyes on him. He didn’t want to see the other naga. He didn’t want to be here, he was going to die here…. Even if Karl actually wanted to help, there was no reason the other naga wouldn’t eat him. He kept his eyes closed shaking a little in Karl’s hold. He listened as Karl explained to Sapnap what had happened.

“That’s horrible…” Sapnap frowned as Karl finished the story.

“I know. That’s why I brought him back here so we could fix him up and he can rest for a little while and heal.” Karl said slithering to the nest. He rubbed Quackity’s back feeling him start to shake. He hated how scared he was.

Quackity hated how he leaned into Karl’s touch.

“I’ll go get some bandages.” Sapnap said going off to find stuff to help. The little hybrids wings looked in rough shape.

Karl held Quackity in front of his face. He gently pressed a finger to his wings trying to see how bad it was.

Quackity flinched as Karl touched his wings. “D-don’t…it hurts.” He mumbled.

Karl quickly pulled his finger away. “Sorry…but we need to clean your wings up so they don’t get worse.”

Quackity sighed knowing that was true. He just wished a couple of nagas weren’t the ones helping him.

“I got the bandages. And some food.” Sapnap held out a piece of bead to Quackity.

Quackity slowly took the bread. He hadn’t been able to get food in awhile. He happily bit into the food.

“I’m going to start cleaning your wings now. Ok?” Sapnap said.

“Ok…please don’t break them.” Quackity said shivering at the idea of giant fingers touching him.

“I won’t I promise.” Sapnap said.

The nagas curled up so Sapnap could easily get to Quackity’s wings. Sapnap started with gently cleaning the wings with a wet cloth. After cleaning the wings they where both surprised to see the wings weren’t brown, but a beautiful gold.

“Oh wow…your wings are so pretty.” Karl said looking down at Quackity.

Quackity had set frozen still as Sapnap started to touch and clean his wings. He expected pain, but the naga was surprisingly gentle. He flushed pink at Karl’s comment. “Thanks…” he mumbled.

Sapnap then got some medicine to put on the cuts Quackity had on his wings. It would help numb the pain. Then finally he gently wrapped the wings up to let them heal.

“Ok, all done.” Sapnap said putting away the first aid kit.

Quackity was more relaxed now then before. Sapnap had been so careful. More careful then someone who was planning on killing him would be. He didn’t trust the nagas. But he didn’t think they wanted to hurt him. “Ok, thank you.” He sighed great full to not be in pain anymore.

Karl hummed softly seeing Quackity baby relax more. “Now you should rest. You need to heal.” He gently petted Quackity’s hair.

See the full post

61 notes - Posted March 15, 2022

My gift for @frickfrackiwastakingabath for the MCYT G/T summer event by @mcyt-gt-events

I decided to do art this time because I can get that done easier then writing right now. I really hope you like it! I wanted to do something dramatic. And you said naga or mer creature so picked mer for mermay.

I included a snippet of what is happening in the art below for some context.

Tommy, Willbur and Phil go on vacation to a little costal town. But end up getting kidnapped by a cult and are sacrificed to what the cult thinks is a god. (Aka Techno) he’s not a god but is a very powerful giant mer. His gotten tired of the humans trying to feed him other humans. (He says humans taste bad) so now there’s a horrible storm and Phil and his sons are stuck on a cliff after being left there. And Techno shows up knowing the humans will be washed away by the waves as the storm gets worse. He’s mostly just grumpy he has to save more humans but the human are terrified of the angry “god” in front of them. If you look closer you can see Tommy in Techno’s hand flipping him off.

86 notes - Posted May 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Hey if your in mcyt g/t fandom reblog this or something so I can try and follow everyone lol

106 notes - Posted January 7, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #false #Well my top tag is just calling me out that’s mean

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tree-wizard · 3 years

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I tried writing a fan fic for the first time! I didn’t really know what I was doing but here it is. It’s inspired by @an-aspiring-jester ‘s post about Scroldie tending to wounds in the Klondike(I tried to make the wound description not too graphic). Also have no idea if Scrooge and Goldie are in character, I might have made them too mushy cause I MUST HAVE FLUFF.

Thanks to @promiseddifferent for encouraging me.

And oh the title is a line from the song “Ghost Love Score” by Nightwish.

Redeem Me Into Childhood

Goldie briskly walked into the cabin and carelessly tossed her pickaxe and shovel aside.

“Be careful! If ye break my supplies, you’ll have tae pay me!”

She turned her head over her shoulder to look at the miserly grungy miner, walking into the cabin behind her and rolled her eyes. He growled and went to carefully lay down his tools, and check on the ones Goldie had thrown.

Goldie slumped down on the bed and started picking the semi dried scab on her hand. An hour ago when they had been mining, Scrooge had yelled at her for being too slow and lazy and in her frustration and determination to show him that she was just as capable as him she accidentally gashed her left hand. That certainly didn’t make her seem any more capable, so she had assured Scrooge that she was fine and when he turned away from her and focused on his own mining, she wrapped her hand in the under skirt from her dress and tried to continue working.

It was pretty bad but she didn’t want to further show him how out of her element she was. She could have used the injury and feigned being super hurt so that she could get out of doing the terrible work and maybe even had time to look for the lockbox. But she knew Scrooge would never let her in the cabin alone. In fact, once he noticed that she was using her pickaxe with one hand and that really wasn’t doing anything he grudgingly, and with a lot of muttered curses, sent her to the cabin and decided to end early for the day himself so that he could go and make sure she didn’t steal anything. Showing weakness wouldn’t do her any good while she was stuck out here with him.

She felt her cheeks slightly burn from the embarrassment and frustration with herself that was starting to swirl in her empty stomach. Ughhh, she had been so foolish. She couldn’t let his angry words affect her this much. She always had to be under control, not a klutzy damsel in distress. But why did she care what he thought of her anyways? She was the Ice Queen of the North. That’s why. She had a reputation to keep. She couldn’t let him see her as less of a formidable threat. But strangely that explanation seemed hollow and almost like an excuse and the implications of that made her feel nauseous.

Suddenly she felt a sharp spark of pain that pulled her out of her thoughts and made her hiss under her breath. Absorbed in her reflections on the events of the day, she had lost attention of her hands and now noticed that she had scraped open a part of the gash that had already been starting to heal. Her hiss spread through the cramped air of the small cabin and startled Scrooge. He was crouched by the stove, putting in wood to build up a fire, and now he looked up and across the room at Goldie.

“There’s some gauze on the table. Ye should go wrap up yer hand.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you cared about me?” Goldie scoffed.

Scrooge lowered his head and Goldie couldn’t see the pink rising on the surface of his cheeks. It's just the fire, he told himself.

“I don’t care about you. Just your ability to dig up gold.”

“Ha! I almost forgot that you’re an inconsiderate and selfish jerk.”

“As if you aren’t,” Scrooge retorted and she gasped, pretending to be offended. She continued to sit pouting on the bed. She was so frustrating. If she didn’t want to deal with her hand, so be it.

She wanted to snap back at him in some way to restore her pride and not let him win but her hand was aching and the part she had just scraped open was starting to bleed. As much as she hated following his advice, she got up and walked over to the table. She took the roll of gauze and tried to rip a portion, but she felt a sharp prickling sensation shoot through her hand and she tried to stifle a shriek.

Scrooge had stood up and walked over to the table by this time and she felt his eyes fixed on her. “Hmm, ye seem to be managing this well” he taunted her and she furrowed her eyebrows in exasperation. She lifted up the gauze to her beak and sunk her teeth into it, hoping to tear a part off. It was way pretty tough though and she struggled to even make a slight rip.

She didn’t seem so vile when she was focusing her neverending fury on something other than him. It reminded him of his younger sister Hortense and that filled him with a sense of warm comfort and tenderness that diffused his annoyance and bitterness. Scrooge chuckled and extended a hand.

“Let me help,” he said, much softer than Goldie expected. He seemed genuine and benign which caught her off guard and made her wonder if she should be cautious. She grunted and reluctantly dropped the roll of gauze into his open palm. He closed his fingers over it and then gestured at one of the chairs by the table. Goldie sat down and watched Scrooge grab a bucket of water, a cloth and a second chair from the other side of the table and bring them over to her.

“Give me your hand,” he said as he sat down beside her. She obeyed and felt his rough fingers grip her hand. He dipped the cloth into the bucket, squeezed out the excess water and started to wipe the blood and dirt off the small matted feathers of her palm. She flinched and jerked her hand when she felt the damp wetness trickle over the ravenous edge of her exposed gash. Scrooge tightened his grip on her hand and continued going over her wound. As much as she annoyed and infuriated him, he didn’t particularly want to inflict her any pain. But this was for her own good.

He finished cleaning her wound and started to wrap the gauze around her hand. He was slow and thorough and the repetition made her feel a bit more relaxed. It was almost hypnotic. Normally it irked her to have her personal autonomy restrained but his strong grip on her hand was actually oddly comforting. She settled into the calmness of the moment and let herself lower her defenses as she raised up her eyes to watch him.

She prided herself for her self sufficiency, her ability to take care of herself after her family kicked her out many many years ago, to survive in this lawless wilderness and build a business and a name for herself. But here was this rough mean miner, holding her hand in his and actually caring for her wellbeing like no one had done ever since she was a very young child and her mother sang to her a special lullaby when she was sick. She had so many painful memories from her childhood that she tried to hide behind tall icy walls and never think about, so even the few happy ones were veiled by a forgetful haze. She was surprised she was even remembering this now. She had no idea when she had last thought about her mother’s song. She couldn’t remember the words anymore but a faint melody floated to the forefront of her mind from her subconscious. Her cold exterior was melting and an innocent peacefulness slowly spread through her.

The cold Yukon winds pushing against the walls of the cabin, all his past failures that always hung over him, his dwindling hope in finding his fortune all faded away as he focused on bandaging Goldie’s hand and her soft humming that curiously almost sounded like a lullaby.

He’d spent all these years mainly on his own and while that generally didn’t bother him, there were increasingly many nights this past year in the Klondike when he’d lay in bed in his small cabin and feel almost crushed by the emptiness, the vastness of the valley around him, the distance and time away from his family. But now he didn’t feel as lonely. She was here with him.

He stopped to take a quick glance at her. Her eyelids had closed over her emerald eyes and she was resting her head sideways on the back of the chair. The light from fire had reached out and hugged around her golden locks of hair, surrounding them in a warm glow that made them even more beautiful than they already were.

Goldie felt Scrooge’s fingers slip from her hand, taking their warmth with them. She opened her eyes and saw that he had finished wrapping her hand up and had neatly tied the ends of the bandages. She reached out with her hands to his, yearning for their comfort again. Scrooge looked up at her as she wrapped her hands around his. He knew she’d never thank him but the soft gratitude in her eyes was enough for him. Scrooge slightly smiled at her and she couldn’t help smiling back. They sat a while longer, holding each other’s hands, in a small warm cabin, safe from the boundless shimmering white snow and deep northern darkness of the desolate Klondike. Two silent souls not alone for once.

#ducktales #scrooge mcduck #Goldie o gilt #scroldie #fanfic #I spent way too long searching up wound treatment history #Klondike Scroldie #my writing

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wackapedia · 3 years

Text

Hello, My Alien! || Part 6: Never Said Goodbye

Taehyung X Reader

Y/n is traveling to Terran-03 to find her soulmate, Taehyung who is also from her home planet. Two aliens in one roof, what could go wrong?Fluff, a dash of angst, crack, and alien things

Hello My Alien Masterlist

You wake up lying on a metal plate in a dark room. You arms are strapped against the bed while a wired contraption is attached to your head. In the distance, a figure observes the screen beside you. He notices you're awake and proceeds to step into the light, revealing himself to be the man who used a stun wire on you. Manager Jun-ho. "What is this, what are you doing?" Panic rises to your throat. "I must say..." He begins, speaking in your native tongue, "I came here to Terran-03 looking for Dar'arians, and hell, did I hit the kriffing jackpot." "Did you try looking for Dar'arians in, I don't know, maybe the Dar'ar quadrant?" You bite back. Jun-ho laughs. "Princess has a smart mouth, huh?" Jun-ho shucks his long sleeved coat to reveal the fine red feathers on his arms. "You're a Leretian?" Your voice laced with disbelief. Jun-ho's eyelids shut before opening again to reveal his red irises. "I am General Niyoz of the Leretian Federation." He reveals. His crimson eyes stare into yours. "The disgraced general himself. I'm flattered. What do you want from me?" You attempt to mask your surprise. "About a week ago, my sensors detected a special Dar'arian here in Terran-03. Kim Taehyung. We Leretians have devised a method to strengthen our forces, make super-soldiers of our people, thus restoring the balance of the galaxy. But then I stumble upon another Dar'arian. Of royal bloodline, no less. The stars have truly aligned for me..." Jun-ho, or Niyoz, manipulates the machine connected to the embedded needle on your arm. The clear tube fills with your transparent blood which turns into a light purple upon exposure to oxygen. You try to calm yourself at the feeling of your life fluid being drained from you. White specks appear at the corner of your vision, causing you to feel dizzy. -------- "Oh? Why is Tannie out in the hallway?" Jungkook notices as soon as the elevator doors open to Taehyung's floor. "Maybe Tannie escaped.." Hoseok poses. "Noona, its us!" Jungkook knocks on the hardwood door of Taehyung's apartment. "Noona, We brought you lunch!" Hoseok adds. No answer. Just Yeontan's barking and frantic scratching at the door. "Hyung, she's not your Noona..." Jungkook tells his hyung. "Yeah, but she doesn’t know that.." "No, only I get to call her that! Think of something else." Jungkook pouts. "Your royal highness!!" Hoseok continues knocking. "Let me call Taehyung." Jungkook fishes for his phone, dialing Taehyung's number. "Taehyungie~, we're here and she wont open!" Hoseok's cheerful voice carries through. "Is that Yeontan? Why is he so loud?" Taehyung presses his phone closer to his ear. "He was out in the hallway when we arrived. Hyung, I think something's wrong..." Jungkook's worried voice causes Taehyung to panic. "I'll be right there." "Its been an hour, only Yeontan is responding!" Was the first thing Jungkook says as soon as Taehyung arrives. He immediately unlocks the door and as Yeontan bolts into the room. "What happened, Tannie? Where is she?" Hoseok tries to calm the distressed dog who wouldn’t stop barking. Taehyung enters the room to find nothing amiss. His things are in place, your tools are on the table, the shower door is left open. Your wet clothes are littered on the bathroom floor. He notices your kironide charm among the wet material of your used shirt. The charm still glows, and the paint didn’t wash out. "Tannie, can you follow her scent?" Taehyung asks his loyal dog. Yeontan barks again, dashing out into the elevator as the three idols follow him out. ------- "You got what you want, now let me go.." Your weak protests fall on deaf ears as Niyoz infuses your now purple blood into his system, sitting in front of a large console. "Do you want my gratitude, princess?" He sarcastically answers, flexing his arm as his body absorbs your life fluid. "Ah, damn it." Niyoz observes one console screen and presses a combination of buttons on the console. Just then, you feel your surroundings tilt to one side. This certainly isnt just you being dizzy, as the equipment beside you sways and the tools tip over the durasteel floor. This is when you realize that the console in front of him is a piloting computer. And you are on a ship. Exerting yourself is probably a bad decision when you’re almost drained out of your life fluids but the panic within you causes your body tissues to contract against your restraints. "Where are we going?" Your head stirs at Niyoz turbulently maneuvering the ship. "Why, back to Leretia, of course! The imperial council will be pleased with you." The Leretian's eyes grow pale as the blood infusion continues, even when he's manning the ship. You remain helpless against the steel platform, zoning out of consciousness once more. ------ Jungkook, Hoseok, Taehyung, and Yeontan quickly piles themselves in the elevator. Hoseok jams the ground floor button but Yeontan protests by using the only method he can use. Biting. "YAH TANNIE WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Hoseok's voice is too loud for the small compartment of the elevator. "Tannie, should we go up?" Taehyung questions his dog face to face. He's not sure if he imagined it but Yeontan nods. "Up? Which floor?" Jungkook's finger hovers over the six buttons on top of their current floor. Yeontan is picked up to sniff on the buttons of the elevator. His little paw presses the rooftop button. "This is absolutely insane." Hoseok mumbles, pulling out his ringing phone from his pocket. "Jimin-ah! Yes, I'm with Taehyung. We don't know, she's missing. We're on our way to the rooftop of Tae's apartment building because Yeontan said so. Mmhmm. We'll wait for you guys on the rooftop, I guess." Hoseok finishes the call. "See how insane that sounded?" The elevator dings, signaling their arrival. Before them, a large bean-shaped orbiter floats a few feet above the apartment building. "No. Way." Jungkook walks straight toward it. "This is so cool!" He reaches out to try to touch the rough edge of the orbiter. "Jungkook, no!" Taehyung passes his dog to his hyung to pull the younger one away from the orbiter. "JEON JUNGKOOK!!" Seokjin and the rest of the boys emerge from the second elevator. They all rush to pull back the maknae. But it was too late. The orbiter's thrusters tilt downwards, blowing hot air down the surface. It then speeds up beyond the atmosphere, travelling almost as fast as light, leaving them all on the rooftop. The wind impact blows off everyone, making them flinch. "Ah, Did her beacon finally beep back?" Yoongi disturbs the shock and silence of everyone on the rooftop. "Looks like it. She couldn’t drop by to say goodbye." Namjoon comments. "No, hyung. There was never a beacon." Taehyung answers. On his palm was your Kironide charm. A real Kironide mineral, acquired only by the noble-born people of his species.

#kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #kim taehyung x reader #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst

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aria-i-adagio · 5 years

Text

Built with Stolen Parts

Masterpost

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: T

At the palace, Portia laces me back into the same white dress from last night and redoes my hair. Armor, I remind myself, as she paints the foreign feeling make up on my face. She leads me back through the hallways to another room within the palace, one that I haven’t yet seen. This room is intended, I suppose, to be less intimidating than dining room. Cool blue wallpaper dominates the color scheme, accented with touches of gold and marble. Nadia is ensconced in one corner, plucking delicately at a harp. She looks up and gives us the barest of nods. A tall, thin figure in a double pointed headdress on the other side of the room catches my attention. Their back is to the rest of the occupants, and they stare out the window, preternaturally still. Portia clears her throat, drawing the attention of the other figures in the room, and announces me.

“The Countess’s magician, Dema -” She pauses, realizing that she’s never asked for my surname.

“Strayhorn. Dema Strayhorn.”

Formality of the announcement passed, three of the room’s occupants spring into action converging on me. A funny little woman with one blind, drooping eye pats the space next to her on a sofa. A tiered dish of pastries and tiny cakes - or rather, what remains of them - are on the low table in front of her. “Oh, you must come sit next to me. Countess Nadia has provided us with the best snacks.” She seems friendly enough, a bit child-like with her giddy talk of snacks and giggles happily when I settle beside her. “I’m Procurator Volta.”

“Volta, you can’t hog the magician.” A portly figure, dressed all in red plops down on the couch placed perpendicular to ours and holds out a gauntleted hand. I briefly touch my fingers to it, worrying about cuts from the sharp edges. “Not when we’ve heard so much about her. Pontifex Vulgora.”

“Yes, we’ve just been dying to meet you.” An old man in flowing black robes hovers across the table from Volta and me, fingers wiggling in excitement. His skin is a corpse like shade of gray and long pointed ears droop from beneath a ceremonial hat. “I’m Praetor Vlastomil. You must tell us all about yourself. Your business, your hobbies!”

“Yes!” The red figure to my right pounds their fist against the arm of the sofa. I expect to feathers begin to fly from the upholstery. “Perhaps you enjoy the martial arts?”

“Well, no, I -”

“Or baking? I do love having friends who bake!” Volta claps her hands together in glee, excited by the very notion of baked goods - what a strange little woman! I’m almost reluctant to disappoint her, but I’d quickly starve if left to my own devices in a kitchen.

“Um, I don’t cook, but I garden, um, some.”

The Praetor’s long ears perk up. “Gardening you say? How wonderful! Do you have a healthy population of worms in your garden? They’re so important for soil structure and aeration! Most people just don’t appreciate all that worms do.”

A conspicuously silent man, sitting in an armchair opposite of Volta with a glass of red wine in hand, sniffs and looks entirely unimpressed. He’s so pale that I wonder if he’s ever before allowed his skin to be in direct sunlight, and the thick, dark hair that is held back in a loose braid emphasizes his unhealthy, albeit human pallor.

"Valeri! Don't you want to introduce yourself?" The small one, Volta, speaks to him familiarity vibrating in her voice. He raises a heavy brow and looks over to me, judging if I might care about that knowledge, or be worthy of it, I'm not sure.

He takes a slow drink of his wine and looks me over, gaze inscrutable. "I would not go that far as to say that I’m dying to meet her."

"Oh, don't be like that, dear Valeri. I'm sure she's a sweetheart! And competent, if the Countess makes her her own!"

A little twitch of his pale lips, and another sip from his glass of wine, perhaps just intended to make things bearable. I wouldn't mind some wine myself, but I suspect he's not the person to ask. And something about the way his lips twitched when Volta said the word competent pissed me off. Especially if he was the Consul Valerius who been allowing the city to run into the ground. "No need to die on my behalf, Valeri." I adopt Volta's familiar name and wait for his reaction.

He ignores me. No surprise there. "And who am I, dearest Volta, to doubt the competency of any of the illustrious people gather here?" I'm amazed I'm the only one who recognizes this as sarcasm. Volta beams with pride, and Vulgora seems to fluff up even more. His eyes are on me now, pale and resigned under heavy brows. "Portia, I think our guest cares for a drink."

"Of course." Portia reaches over the back of the sofa, pressing an overly full glass of wine into my hand with a wink.

I take a sip, it’s mostly minerally with a hint of leather, and stare at the Consul over the rim. "Indeed, I've certainly never seen anything in the city that would lead me to think that someone in this esteemed gathering could be incompetent."

"It is as if everyone here focused all of their efforts on ensuring the city's prosperity, isn't it?” He raises his eyebrows at me, perhaps an iota more interested than he was before. “Truly a marvelous display of reason and renunciation."

Is he testing me? Or just not expecting for anyone to listen to him anyway?

"Well," I raise my wine glass slightly. "Certainly one wouldn't want to renounce all of one’s interests. But it is so easy to confuse one's own interests with the good of all. A common vanity, if you will."

"Sometimes that vanity blooms from understanding that any endeavor one might undertake will only amount to nothing, no matter whose interests are served. There's a certain serenity in accepting that, don't you think so? Volta?"

"Mh?" She looks up, crumbs around her small mouth. "Yes, Valeri, of course." She clearly hasn’t heard his statement, or hasn’t comprehended it, but she beams with a snaggletooth, pleased to be the recipient of attention. When she licks the crumbs from her lips, I see a tiny sigh escaping Valerius’s pouty lips. He drinks, not in response to my gesture, but more as though the wine is necessary to wash away the things he witnesses here.

I can't blame him. The occupants of the room lack any definite order or purpose. Nadia idly strokes her harp, seemingly too lost in her own musings to play the role of hostess. Both Volta and Vulgora seem to be more interested in the offerings of the kitchen, while the pale praetor continues to rhapsodize about the effect of having a sufficient population of worms in the soil, undeterred by the plain fact that no one is listening to him. The still figure by the window has turned to face the room. They're watching us, red eyes slowly scanning back and forth across the room, but there's no sign that they intend to speak. Just as well, the sight of them is making my skin crawl. "So, Consul - it is Consul, right? - perhaps you can explain how things work at court."

"The esteemed magician asks an open question that would take more time to answer than I'd dare to keep the pleasant company here from their important duties. Do you wish to cut it down to what you crave to know most, or do you wish an audience in private?"

Vulgora cackles at the comment, living up entirely to their name. I'm not sure if their laughter makes it dirtier than the Consul intended or not, but one corner of his mouth pulls upwards. He seems amused enough by the outcome. It takes effort, and Portia's hand briefly touching my shoulder as she fills my wine glass, but I manage to avoid rolling my eyes or making my own snippy remarks.

"Well then, perhaps just you, Consul.” I keep my voice even. At least, as even as I can. "What do you do for the city?”

And he tells me, giving me a textbook definition of his responsibilities, tone distant and emotionless, sips from his glass becoming more frequent as he goes on. Again, nobody seems to listen. Vulgora has started an argument over something with Vlastomil. Bones seem to play an important role in it, while Volta watches Nadia play the harp in what seems like honest adoration.

Valerius seems slightly nauseated as he continues on about the role of a consul, and how vital the position can be to the order of the city. His lecture is interrupted by frequent sips from his wineglass. How aware of his failures is he? I almost feel bad for prodding him. Almost. He finishes with a resigned sigh and a long drink of wine before gesturing to Portia to top off both our glasses.

"Thank you." I glance down at the crystal goblet my hands. The fine silver chasing around the rim had been allowed to tarnish. Unexpected, given the precision with which the palace's staff appeared to operate. No matter. I raise my eyes back to Valerius. "The Countess tells me she wants my help in solving Lucio's murder the restore order to the city. But it's hard to envision what that might look like."

He throws me a look and forces a smile. "Her Excellency surely is only too willing to share her vision of the future with you?"

"If the Countess has invited me as an investigator, surely it's part of my job to seek out multiple accounts."

"And it would spoil my account to give it in front of the others, don't you think?" Something around his eyes looks like he's trying to ask nicely without being remotely good at it. "If you have the time, that is, to spend a few minutes with my boring stories."

I very much doubt I'll find his account boring. If nothing else his sarcasm will keep me entertained. "I'm sure that I can find some spare time, Consul."

"But you?" A cool gloved hand folds around my shoulder. I stiffen at the unexpected touch and twist around. The figure behind me is the same that was standing so very still in front of the window only moments before. "What role do you play? Should you even be here, little witch?”

"Quaestor." The harp music suddenly stops, and Nadia rouses herself from her corner. "Please do not frighten my guest."

"I'm not frightened." It's a lie, and I suspect the grey green possibly not a human person standing behind me knows it. But if I say it with enough confidence perhaps I'll convince myself.

"Nonetheless, what is your purpose?”

Nadia answers for me as she strides across the room. "A benevolent universe brought Dema to me in my hour of need. To help me lay the matter of my husband's murder to rest. A task that the five of you have failed to manage."

I'm not sure what the Countess means by her first statement. From what little I know of it, the universe is rarely benevolent. As for the rest, Valerius hides his face in his wine glass yet again, and Volta pauses in her nibbling to look down at her tiny hands. Vlastomil twists his hands in dismay. "Countess, I assure you I have left no worm - no stone unturned."

Vulgora slams their first on the arm of the sofa in anger. "If you would just let me smash a faces and crush a finger or two -"

"Silence. There will be no crushing fingers and smashing faces."

"Not that those things would help us achieve our goal." The Quaestor's speaks with an uncanny cadence, each syllable and pause measured to the millisecond.

"I hope that our goals align, Quaestor."

"Do they? I know mine, Countess. Do you even know what yours are?" Without moving a muscle or changing their tone of voice, they shift between conversations. “Vlastomil, I do believe that the majority of bone decomposition comes from microbial activity, not the action of worms. And Vulgora, the crushing of bones only exposes a greater surface area to such action. The mechanical break up itself does little else. Both of you are quite incorrect.”

The Countess’s eyes flash and her lips tighten into a thin, annoyed line. “That’s quite enough your morbid talk. You’ve tried my patience sufficiently for a single evening, all of you. Portia, please, see that all my guests are served dinner in their chambers.”

With a huff, Vulgora gets up from the sofa and stalks out of the room. Volta looks over at Nadia and mouths an apology before scurrying behind them. Simpers is the best verb to describe how the Praetor leaves the room. The Quaestor remains standing perfectly still behind me. I straighten my spine, sitting still, as if I’m trying to avoid attracting the attention of a predator. Nadia glare is focused on the space just over my head, and I can feel the Quaestor’s eyes drilling into the back of my head.

The Consul clears his throat. “Magician, would you care for another glass of wine? We could continue our conversation without further distractions.”

“Um, yes.” I edge to the side and then quickly get away from the sofa and the Quaestor. “That’s an excellent idea.”

The Consul raises one eyebrow in amusement. He stands up slowly from his chair and rearranges his robes. “Countess.” He inclines his head ever so slightly to Nadia who doesn’t remove her eyes from the Quaestor.

“Good evening, Consul.”

***

The most baffling fact about the whole evening was that the Consul has an honest to the heavens office, the kind with a desk and paperwork that he likely works on himself, even if it is a really nice desk of dark wood set with marquetry, gleaming from frequent applications of polish. The scent of old paper and ink and wine fills the air, and he offers me a chair that is clearly the one for the more important visitors.

That consideration is unexpected. He pours another glass of wine for me, then one for himself, giving me a stern look, when my fingers touch a paper on his desk. I mumbled an apology and take the wine from him.

"Judging from what you have seen," he opens, "how do you think the court works?"

"From what I've seen, I'm not entirely sure that the court does work."

"Imagine the court to be less occupied with themselves and actually directing their attention outward. Is that what you wish?"

I take a drink of my wine. "I'm not sure that I specifically want their attention on the city. But functional leadership would be welcome."

His face freezes for a moment, but then a laugh bubbles up, one that has lost any trace of good humor, and descended into the depths of compensatory irony. “That it would, but I daresay it would still fail as much as it did when -" He prefers to drink instead of finishing the sentence, but in my head it ends with "- when I tried."

Who else had tried? "What leads you to be such a cynic about the city?”

"I do not know if you remember the glorious days before Lucio filled the throne with his overabundant self. You may be too young - even for me the vision comes more from stories than from things I've witnessed. Do not misunderstand me, Magician, but I wish your undertaking to fail. Not gloriously, but just to fizzle out like cheap fireworks. Even if it was Devorak who killed him, the city is off better without being reminded of the whole affair. I told the Countess as much, but she very much does not wish me to doubt her decisions - something she seems to have learned from her late husband."

Much more than simple disapproval of Nadia’s plans or a concern for the collective psyche of the city underlies that statement. Some grim tug at the strings of his closed off heart. I wonder if he tends to wake up with stomach pain. His face looks the part of a man with an ulcer. “Dredges up unpleasant memories?”

He hesitates, then nods. "I knew him too long. Too well. Maybe better than the countess does, and so did Devorak." A hasty, uncharacteristically unrefined gulp from his wine glass. It’s hard for him to admit that.

I suspect that's as much as I'm going to get out of him on that topic for the moment, but it's one to return to, if I can get him around to the point that he'll trust me with the information. "And you're not convinced that Juli - Devorak is the culprit?"

He raises his brow as I stumble from the personal to the formal name. He's more aware of his surroundings than I expected. "Julian, mh? I'd congratulate him if he was, but I doubt he'd be able to willingly hurt a person."

"Congratulate him?" I hadn't expected that response.

"You are aware how very . . . fragile things are in the city. Of course, you are. Your questions among the illustrious company earlier were just to see if I was as well. See, Magician, if the Count remained in place, I very much doubt there'd be a city to be worried about now. His constant need of amusement emptied the treasury. He liked to think he was generous, giving the people all sorts of entertainment, but he took from them first in taxes and tariffs.” Another sip of wine soothes some of the irritation in his voice. “While the Countess' lifestyle is expensive enough, it is not bleeding everything dry."

"I see. So, why does the Countess tell me that the 'illustrious company' insists that Devorak is the guilty one? How does that serve them?"

His pale eyes are on me as he refills the glasses without looking. "I do think you already know the answer."

"So, what does it gain them? To have a patsy?" The three that I had conversed with didn't seem like they had enough concentration or intellect between them to think that far ahead, but I suppose that the witlessness could have been an act. "And the Quaestor? What’s with them?"

Valerius blinks, and his face becomes even paler as he shudders. "Ah. Them. Valdemar, the head of research. I try to block them out of my world as far as possible, and . . . I would suggest avoiding them if you can. If they were food, even Volta wouldn't be able to stomach them."

"That - " I think back to Volta's continuous munching during the gathering. "Says quite a bit. How do they relate to the other three courtiers?"

"They don't. At least not that I know of, but that says precious little these days. They may use the others as a diversion for all I know, as they may intend to do with Devorak."

"So, let's say Devorak didn't do it and shouldn't be hanged. How do I go about proving that?"

"It depends. Do you think he's still alive?"

"Why would the Countess be hunting for him if she doesn't have some reason to believe that he is?"

"Would you not prefer to have a goal instead of complex realities if you could choose to have one? And I have to admit, Devorak has proved harder to kill than the most, so she might have heard something she didn't share with me. That is how it goes, isn't it? A lack of trust and questionable secrets lead to more trouble than they're worth."

I can understand the preference for a specific goal over the complicated nature of reality. As for trust, Nadia had said that she wasn't certain of her courtiers, and my initial appraisal of them led me to agree. Except, perhaps the Consul. He had been fairly open with me, and it seemed like his intentions were honorable enough. He could be an ally - a much needed one. Someone with intact memories would be useful. "Devorak is alive."

"Good on him." He empties the glass with one gulp. "You will excuse if I forget this the moment you leave the room?"

"Forget what?” I smile surely and take another drink of the wine. I thought what the Countess served at dinner was good, but this is another level entirely. For the first time, I see him smile. It's small and barely there, but it makes him look like . . . less of a pretentious bitch, really.

"Has he learned in the past years to keep his head down?"

"Well, that would be rather difficult for him."

"You would have to teach him to spend more time on his knees, which shouldn't pose a problem for all I know." His face the usual blank and slightly tired mask.

"I, um -" I grasp for words, stuttering about as badly as Julian. I may have played my cards badly here, but they're on the table now. "I think I can manage that." I realize how bad that sounds about the time I finish the sentence. The wine. I'll blame the wine.

"You, of course, would be glad to let him get away, because you have taken a liking to him. What do your cards say about him? Have you asked them?" He is polite enough to change the subject. Not something that I would have expected from him.

"After a fashion." Technically Julian had asked the cards, but that seemed like splitting hairs. "I didn't envy what they had to say."

"You, of course, will ask your cards about me. As you will ask Portia, who will surely describe me as an amazingly boring drunkard. No, she'd probably use, let me think . . . wino?"

"It would be a bit hypocritical for me to judge you for being a wino. Classier than what I usually drink, at least." I touched the pocket of the dress where my cards were tucked away. "Would you care to know what the cards have to say about you?"

"As it would be for Portia." He shrugs and his well-tailored robes fall in dramatic folds for a moment. "It is far easier to see the little foibles of other people than your own. As for your cards, indeed, I would like to hear, even if I can't promise I will listen."

I reach into the pocket of the dress and pull out the deck. But when I unfold the fabric, the cards aren't Asra's. It's my own traditional deck, worn corners and all. Sitting back in the chair, I fan the cards in my fingers and cut the deck several times, just to convince myself that the deck truly is mine. I had transferred Asra’s deck to my pocket after getting dressed. This deck should be at the shop, tucked away in a laquered box on the back room shelf. Where I had left it. How did they come to be in my hands now?

“What is it, Magician?”

“Nothing.” I don’t understand how I’ve ended up with deck. But it’s a relief. These cards feel warm and familiar. “I was thinking. About what spread to use.” The Consul’s eyebrows raise. He sees through the statement; I said the words too quickly, but he doesn’t comment on it. Hands moving quickly, I set aside the decanter of wine, clearing space on the table between us. “Do you have a question, Consul?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Not particularly.”

I shuffle the cards, happy to have them in my hands again. “Then past, present, and future. Cut them.”

He arches an eyebrow at me and reaches across the table, lifting up a portion of the cards, seeming a random, setting them to the side and then restacking the deck. “Go ahead, Magician.”

I deal the cards out - three rows by three columns - and flip over the uppermost left. The Knight of Pentacles upright. There are multiple ways to read any of the Knights, but I feel this one speaking to me. The whispers from the cards aren't some property of Asra’s deck then - not if they continue now. I'm not sure what I think of that . . . It was reassuring in a way to attribute the voices to the general cloud of magic that trails Asra. Now, well, maybe I'm only hearing voices. I close my eyes and repeat what I heard. “You’ve spent your life preparing to serve with nobility. You’re stern. Not just with others, but with yourself. Your pride comes from meeting the standards that were laid out for you. Competence is the only thing you actually respect.”

“Anyone could have told you that.”

“But that’s not the position you find yourself in now, Consul.” Messaging from that card - not disapproving, exactly, but disappointed - past, I slip back into myself and explain the spread. “This row is the past. The other two cards represent events or people who still influence you." I flip them over revealing the upright Two of Swords and the reversed Knight of Swords. My fingers hover over the Knight. "There was someone in your past. A different kind of egotist. Reckless. Self serving. Inattentive to detail." It whispers a name into my head . . . Lucio.

I want to ask if the card represents Lucio to the Consul - see if it’s voice holds to some exterior reality, but I hold my tongue and draw my hand back to the reversed Two of Swords. The swords held by the blindfolded figure draw attention to discord and connection between the two knights. "There were things you didn't see -" The card murmurs, nuancing the statement. “No. You saw, but you didn't want to see them. And so you ignored them."

Again, he fills our glasses, watching more me than he does the cards, pale eyes expressionless. I know he's wondering how much I'm drawing from rumors I heard or just guessing from the way he holds himself. Then he draws the Knight a little closer so he can see the illustration better. Briefly, our fingers touch, his hand icy cold.

"I suppose most of us had a man like this in our lives," he finally comments. "There are just too many of that kind out there." This is more of an admission than expected.

He’s probably right. I can think of at least one person in my present to whom the phrases egotist and inattentive to detail could apply. Reckless and self-serving might still may still be a matter of opinion. And Asra had drawn the Knight of Swords himself three days ago; albeit in a different spread and position. I return my concerns about Asra to the little caged off corner of my consciousness where they live. Right now, it’s Valerius I have questions about.

I flip over the center card, watching the Consul’s face. His eyes narrow and his fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass. I look down. Beneath my fingertips the reversed Hierophant looks up at me.

“What does that card mean?” His question is barely a breath.

I close my eyes and wait. After a few moments I can hear him speaking. “The Hierophant hands down the traditions of the past to the uninitiated. He preserves order and guards the keys of the city, intending to bless the inhabitants. That is what he would choose to do, but he’s only a single link within a chain. He is only as good as those from whom he receives his power. Despite his good intentions he can become lost.”

"Are those cards..." His nails click nervously on the wooden table, ". . . based on concepts or on more? Actual . . . beings?" He chooses the word carefully.

I pause and think for a moment before responding. The answer is both and neither, but I don't think that will be particularly satisfactory. "What prevents a concept from being personified?"

"It is your profession to tell me that, Magician," he answers after a moment. At least, he hesitated long enough to think about the question, which can probably be considered a success with a man who was clearly determined not to engage in the kind of self reflection it takes to answer an open ended question. And, to be fair, that question is like the matter of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Can a concept become a person? Or a person become a concept? Much of the answer depends on how one defines the very concept of a person. Yet, I have been hearing the cards speak to me, which strikes me as a personal, not a conceptual one.

"I would say that nothing prevents it. The cards are based on the personifications of concepts. So yes, they have a personal nature."

He looks at me. Have I ever seen eyes so tired? Yes, I think, but I forgot where. He rubs his fingertips over his face again. "But they don't . . . talk to you. Pay personal visitations now and then. These are no calling cards."

I hesitate. Despite voices speaking to me of late. I've never been visited by one of the arcana, but the idea did appear in one of Asra's books. A sort of higher level intervention into human affairs. "It's not usual, but they certainly can."

"Hm."

Thoughts are rolling behind his smooth forehead, crashing uselessly against the stones of his doubts. Something worries him, and it is a complicated matter. I don’t care to dance through a tangle of deflections. Better to be direct. "Have you been visited, Consul?"

"I . . . no. It's just a silly recurring thing in my dreams. Don't even know why the card reminded me of it."

I expect him to blush, because it seems fashionable these days, but he doesn't. He drinks instead, and licks his lips.

"You rarely dream of something more than once, unless it is of significance to you." Enough images appear and reappear in my dreams. I haven’t yet discerned their meanings, but I want to believe that they signify something.

The consul muses. He taps a perfectly manicured finger against his chin then shakes his head. He’s not ready yet, but perhaps, close. "The future. Tell me about the future."

“The future can only be understood as a possible outcome of the present. Let me finish with it.” I flip over the card to the left of the Hierophant. The Eight of Swords upright. I’m silent for a moment, allowing Valerius to examine the illustration. It’s self-explanatory enough, a figure waking in distress with sword threatening to fall on their head. “Are you sure you don’t wish to tell me about these dreams of yours?”

Hesitation, again. For someone who just barely understands that there may be more between heaven and earth and certainly is not comfortable with that idea, he's being very brave. Well tempered, one might say. Even if he’s not quite ready to engage with the choices in front of him.

"The countess pays you for taking care of her business and be discreet about it, I might pay you for listening to mine one day, when you're less caught up in investigation."

Fair if frustrating. I'm painfully curious, but it isn't overly likely that Valerius's dreams are directly related to question of who killed Lucio. Unless Valerius killed Lucio, but despite his comments of congratulating whoever did the deed, something just feels wrong about that notion. Lucio is much too important to him. I return to the cards, flipping over the one to the right of the Hierophant. A second major arcana and an unfriendly one at that: the Devil.

"The way your face just fell doesn't bide well. Let me guess. The horned man stands for good fortune and unexpected love?" He must share my bad feeling when even he is trying to joke.

"Yes, and the chains represent freedom. Clearly." I pause and take a drink of wine. There’s a distinct aspect of pleasure in engaging with someone just as sarcastic as I am. And the Devil is blessedly silent, that’s not a card I care to here speaking directly to me be it hallucination or reality. "You have a good sense of the card I think. It represents being trapped, generally by our own character flaws. We think we're getting something out of continuing as we have, but in reality we're only digging ourselves deeper into a mess."

A tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth. "It seems your cards share your opinion about me.”

I shrug, but I wouldn't mind if the cards contradicted my own thoughts. I might worry less that the voices were mere figments of my imagination then. "Do you see something different in the card? The illustrations are intricate for a reason. There are general meanings for each, but they're not fixed."

"It seems to depend a lot in whose position you're in with this card. He -" He taps on the horned one. "Holds the reins, after all. Is liberated from those earthly needs men and women have. Perhaps that would not be so bad."

"Which figure do you identify with?”

Valerius muses briefly, touches on the woman then with her tail turning into leaves. "Passive, but at least not causing destruction everywhere I go. Could probably easily free my-herself if she only dared to."

He blinks, as if baffled by his own words and gives me a look that reminds me that this conversation will have never taken place as soon as I leave this room, and God help me if I speak of it again. It comes as a surprise his pretty face can look so menacing so easily.

"Should I ask why she doesn't?"

"I don't know . . ." he says, and I'm not quite sure whose question he answered.

I have another sip of wine. For a moment, I wonder if I want my memories back, if memory can be as crushing a weight as the one that lays upon him. I set the glass down and let my fingers hover over the final three cards. "The next row isn't the future per se, Valerius. It indicates a possible outcome, a likely one, if actions in the present aren't changed."

He waves a hand dismissively. "Turn them without me looking, magician. Tell me then if I want to know."

"Very well." I flip the cards over, moving from left to right. The Five of Pentacles, Justice, and the King of Pentacles, all reversed. Their voices are an incoherent cacophony, competing for attention, begging for actions to be taken that with flip them over to their upright position. The King and the Hierophant on the diagonal with the Knight Pentacles suggests the natural progression of his path should have been on to disciplined leadership, but something had led to a deviation from it, trapping him within the current disorder. "Valerius?" When in this conversation did I begin using his name rather than his title? I pause for a moment, but he doesn't reply either to encourage or discourage me. "You may not want to look, but you should."

"It will all end badly. Is it that? I know that, Dema, I know it for a time, but with the things as they are, there's no way for me to get out except for a noose."

That attitude is becoming a distressingly common theme in conversations. Fatalism must be in fashion this season.

"I don't like the idea of being a fortune teller. It suggests that the future is somehow fixed and can be told. Rather than the future being sets of more or less probable outcomes that can be inferred." I take a drink if my wine, giving him an opportunity to respond that he doesn't take. I'm not sure he's listening. "There's still free will. You're not fated to any particular outcome. Even when it feels like it. And believe me, Valerius, I understand that feeling."

"Part of my position is to plan, and to plan for the most possible way events will unfold. Your cards just taunt me with things I already know. Do you wish me to explain what they're saying? Because I understand them very well." A shaking hand reaches for his glass.

I shrug and refill my own wine glass. "It's up to you whether you wish to discuss them. I'm simply reminding you that the most likely possibility is not the only possibility. It needn't end like you think."

He laughs, and it feels like the first time that he’s done so in ages. And, it’s no laughter of mirth, just bitterness and despair. "I've been digging this grave since so many years, and here you are just telling me I don't have to lie in it? You don't tend to daydrink, do you?"

"You're wrong - on both counts. And I never said pulling yourself out it would be simple. I only said that you could."

"Maybe I'll come one day and tell you my dreams, but you're not here about that. You're here about a man you don't wish to find."

"Officially, at least. But you're wrong again. I've only told the Countess that I'll help her uncover what actually happened three years ago."

"And you see relevance in my . . ." His hand flutters gracefully through the air, ". . . bad habits?"

"I see relevance -" I pause and take another drink of wine. "In what you know. You were -” I know I’m about to step out on a bit of a limb here, but I suspect strongly that the reversed knight represents Lucio. And if nothing else, Valerius's official duties would have placed him in close contact with the Count. "Closely involved with the players. How that involvement affects you now or in the future? You're right that it may not be my actual business at the moment. But what you know of the past - I need more than hints from the cards."

"I can tell you that a lot of parties wished for Lucio's death, and that included our dear countess herself, a fact she has so gracefully forgotten. I can also tell you that I did not do it, even if that belonged to my dreams - well, those during the day. He was a forceful, lustful man, and prone to treading on anyone that wasn't clearly his superior."

It was strange to see him like this. Agitated. Emotional. And deeply, deeply conflicted about the entirety of it. Whatever had been between them, it had left deep scars. I believe him when he says he wasn't the responsible party. The denial is too uncontrolled to be anything other than sincere. "Who gained from his death?"

"Who didn't? The only ones who did not are the other three. They will be under scrutiny just as me, and-" He shakes his head. "You've seen the state of the city. Volta at least understands that things are amiss. The others . . . not so much."

"Really? Volta has the greatest insight?” I'm not shocked that Vlastomil and Vulgora are too caught up in themselves to notice anything. Volta seemed kinder, but not particularly aware of anything beyond the next morsel to go in her mouth. And Valerius has said three, not four. "What about the fourth? Valdemar?"

"Valdemar. Ha. They're above and beyond politics and human vanities. I don't dare to judge what they do, and I am sure anyone who tries will end up a victim of their science. And dear Volta . . . I’ve known her for quite a while, and she has always been well-meaning. That’s still in her somewhere, below the fear and voracious appetite." When he speaks of Volta, there’s some resemblance of affection in his voice, a little glimpse of someone who could be good man or at least, a decent one.

I set aside my once again empty glass with a sigh. "And there's nothing else you know - nothing you remember - that might help me?”

"I think, Magician, you may have to ask the right questions for the answers you are seeking." He nods briefly as he repacks his emotions and corks the bottle tightly. He's had enough of me, at least for now.

I begin to pick up my cards and consider which questions would be the right ones, even if now wasn't the time. "Thank you for the conversation, Consul. It was hardly boring."

"Do hesitate to consult me again." His features return to the cool, slightly disgusted mask, a bad case of resting bitch face to keep anyone from getting too close, but there still is the hint of a smile in the eyes, if only there. "Even though I might make time for you in my schedule. Be it just not to drink alone. But for now, a good evening to you."

***

When I return to my room, Faust is waiting for me. She’s curled around an elegant box on the table and lifts her head when the door opens and flicks her tongue at me. “And where have you been?”

“Tree!”

Not much of an answer. I scratch underneath her chin and pick up the box. It’s made of carved wood, intricately fitted together and finely finished. A note rests just inside the lid.

Dema, please accept my apologies for the behavior of my court and this small token of my regard. I think it will complement your eyes. - N.

Underneath the note, a sapphire pendant on a silver chain rests on a folded piece of silk. It’s gorgeous. Far, far more than a small token, at least in any world other than the Countess’s rarefied one. The jewel almost vibrates as my fingers touch it. Asra. This . . . more than anything I found in the shop, feels of Asra. Why?

I don’t have time for that. It’s late. The halls are empty and the garden should be abandoned by now. A good time to try again to see if I can contact Asra through the fountain. I take the sapphire from the box and tuck it into my pocket, nestled beside my tarot deck. Setting the casket back down on the table I extend my arm to Faust. She coils around it and works her way up to my shoulders.

“Asra?”

“Let’s try at least.”

I sit on the edge of the fountain and listen to splashing water. Will this work? Is the energy I felt on the sapphire actually Asra's, or just some trick of my very lonely imagination? Faust slithers up the side of the fountain and around my arm. I run a finger over her cool head then take the sapphire from my pocket, holding it out over the water. “Here goes nothing.” With a couple of deep breaths to clear my mind of any thoughts other than Asra, I let go of the chain allowing the jewel to drop into the fountain with a hollow plop. The water ripples, then as it stills, Asra's face appears and slowly comes into focus. He pushes his hair back from his face, looks surprised for a moment, and then smiles broadly.

“Dema, you did it! You figured this spell out!”

“I, I needed to talk to you. Asra, so much has happened.” I gnaw on my bottom lip and glance away from the fountain before looking back. “I think I might be in over my head.”

Asra's brows furrow with worry. “Hold out your hand. I want to try something.”

I extend my hand over the fountain. The water around Asra quivers, then coalesces rising from the surface and forming into a hand. The fingers wrap around mine and tug gently. I grip them and pull back. Slowly more of the water rises from the fountain, shaping itself into a shimmering likeness of Asra. He looks around and then flicks his wrist sharply. The water falls away, leaving him standing in the fountain, water up to his knees, but very much present.

“I didn't know if that would work. This fountain must connect to some powerful sort of magic, if it can act as this sort of portal.” He steps out of the fountain and looks down at me, a warm smile playing on his lips. “Dema, you look . . . ethereal. You’re practically glowing in that dress.”

“Asra.” I don’t feel glowing or ethereal. I feel like I’m sinking, being pulled down into a place that I don’t want to be in again. I pull his hand to my face, and he runs his thumb along my jaw before and sitting down beside me. His hands close gently around my shoulders, and he pulls me closer to him, letting me press my face to his chest and rubbing his hands over my back. He’s warm, and solid, and real, and the best of the many unsatisfactory connections I have to reality. There’s a burning behind my eyes, the frustrated, anxious tears that I’ve been refusing to give in to for the past days. My breath catches in my throat and when I can finally draw another, it’s ragged and stammering in my chest. Asra’s arms tighten around me, and I feel his lips pressing against the top of my head.

“Dema, it can't be all that bad.”

“I - I'm confused.” I snuggle closer to him. “So much has happened, and I think I might be going mad - again. Asra, the cards are literally talking to me. Not intuitions, not senses, actually speaking. And not just your deck - mine too.”

“You’re not mad.” He pushes me back away, just enough enough to look in my eyes. “I promise.” His hands move to mine, turning them over, thumbs running over the insides of my wrists and my palms.

“Can they speak?” I rephrase the same questions Valerius answered earlier. The one that I couldn’t quite answer either to my own, or to the Consul’s satisfaction. “Are they just representations of powers, archons, whatever? Or actual . . . persons?”

“It’s . . . complex. Some are more personal than others. But -” He pulls me back against him, hands soothing over my back. “You’re not just hearing voices, though. You’re more connected, attuned to the arcana than most are. That’s all.”

“I’m not sure I want to be.”

Asra’s only response is to tuck my head under his chin and hold me tighter to him. He’s quiet for the space of one, two, three breaths, then lifts his head. I take a deep breath and speak again. “That’s not everything.” Without extracting myself from his embrace, I run through the events of the past few days. Nadia's game with the cards, her plans to execute Julian, how I didn't think he had murdered the Count, and Portia was his sister. And why, why did it honestly feel like I knew him? I straighten up as I talk, pulling away from Asra. “Did I know him, Asra? You did. I found, in the library, um . . .”

Asra looks away from me, gaze moving to the willow tree. He sighs and speaks carefully, holding my hand tightly in his. “You knew him. And, yes, I knew him.”

“Who was he to you?”

Asra closes his eyes; his thumb runs over my knuckles. “A friend once, then something more. Ultimately, more than I could risk - not at that time. Dema, please, be careful around him. He's not necessarily sometime you should trust.”

“I'm not sure who exactly I should trust.”

Asra's expression saddens, and his cheeks redden slightly. He looks down to where are hands are still entwined. “I'm sorry that I haven't been that person for you. I'd never hurt you on purpose, I promise.”

“Asra.” I pull my fingers free and then cup his face in my hands, lifting his chin just enough for his eyes to meet mine. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll finally answer my questions. “Who am I to you?”

His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, and he closes his eyes. He turns his head and presses his lips to my palm, lips lingering against my skin. “Dema, sometimes I fear I'll be crushed under the weight of everything you are to me. You aren't my student . . . not really. I've taught you nothing that didn't already know.” He pauses, then reaches out reversing our poses and placing a hand on either side of my face. “Sometimes I'm scared that you'll see everything you are to me and it will be too much for either of us. So I have to escape, to hide. But -” He leans forward, touching his forehead to mine. “I want you to know. I don't want to have to continue keeping secrets from you. I want you to remember.”

“Remember what? Asra?”

His fingertips hover over my collarbone, then just a little lower, not quite touching the left side of my chest. “You're my very heart, Dema.”

I close my eyes, his face as I first saw it - shocked, terrified, relieved - folds the space behind it. Then I feel myself falling through smoke, glimpses of memories, Asra in each. Younger, wilder - lacking his studied detachment. And each memory is mine. I'm running through Vesuvia with him, dancing to the music of what must be the masquerade, kissing on street corners while ignoring the pouring rain. We were . . . I crash back into my body, ears ringing and temples pounding. Clutching my head, I fall forward with a pitiful moan, back against Asra's chest.

I feel cool fingers running through my hair. “I'm so sorry, my love. This, all this, is never what I wanted. Never what I intended.” Asra's voice is sad. “But here we are. And I'm so sorry to have made you remember, and so sorry to make you forget.” His lips press against my forehead and the world around me disappears.

Faust is curled around me when I wake by the fountain. I must have fallen asleep while trying to contact Asra. The last thing I remember is dropping the sapphire pendant into the water and watching the ripples spread access the fountain. I suppose it didn't work. A scarf I recognize as one of Asra’s is folded under my head. Odd? Must have brought that back from the shop. Yawning, I stand and lean over the water to fish out the pendant. I can try again tomorrow night. Or maybe, Asra will be home by then.

Chapter Nine

A/N: @ilyarium co-wrote this chapter - particularly the material with Consul Valerius.

Chapter title from Audioslave.

#the arcana #arcana fanfiction #consul valerius #pontifex vulgora #procurator volta #vlastomil #quaestor valdemar #asra alnazar #asra x apprentice #asra x mc #whatever i've done #my writing #dema

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dustingrayves · 7 years

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phreatic recreation

Pairing: aincest [EEATh] WC: 742 Rating: K Category: fluff Notes: arme and erblu go to the hot springs

"I've heard of these," Erblu notes, eyes straying to the tiny geysers and pools of warmed water around them.

"I have as well, but that's not why we are here," Arme replies, not even slowing in his brisk pace. He is right, though, they aren't here for the hot springs, but Lanox's blacksmith's father. Still, Erblu can remember when Niva explained to them what hot springs did.

"We could stop by later, after our mission is done," he proposes, catching up to the blue haired angel. The warmth is pleasant and he can only imagine how much nicer it would be in the water.

"We will disappear after our mission is done," Arme reminds him, brows set a little tighter, eyes a little sharper.

Erblu blinks a few times, and then his own choice of words hits him. He laughed nervously, holding up his hand. "Not that mission, I… meant the one we are on right now."

Arme stays quiet until they reach another door and then, calling forth a luminescent spear, he says, "I heard springs benefit the mortal bodies. We could stop by, sometime."

Erblu's smile spans his whole face as he nods excitedly and makes a bright 'uh-um!' noise.

Arme feels a certain warmth inside of himself, and he's sure it isn't caused by the steaming spring water. It fills his chest whenever he catches Erblu's unbridled smile.

So much joy emanates from him, caused by such a simple thing as coming here.

They settle down onto a pair of stools, feet dipped in the shallow, pleasantly warm water. A soft sigh makes it past both of their lips, bodies relaxing.

The air is full of steam, warm and just the slightest bit hard to breathe in. It smells of something unfamiliar, some mineral from the geyser, perhaps. It's so silent around them, just the background splashing of water and the occasional rumble of tiny eruptions.

It's peaceful.

"We are alone," Arme remarks, toes curling when the stones underneath get a little too warm for comfort. "We can relax in our celestial forms."

Even as he finishes his words, blue light engulfs him, falling over the water in beautiful shades. His wings frame him and his silhouette appears to be rimmed with pale white light; even his hair is softer, not as vivid.

White eyes swimming in a sea of blue set on Erblu as he remains in his human form. "It will be easier to relax and recover strength in our celestial forms," he says, "Isn't that why we're here?"

Erblu looks around, brows creasing as he looks over the rocks. "Yeah, yeah, you're right."

Pale green light joins Arme's blue, mixing on the moving water surface, disturbed by the shifting of El energy.

Where Arme is all holy blue, like the clearest of skies or the deepest of ponds, Erblu is the green of fresh grass or young saplings. His wings look more like they're made out of stained glass than feathers and his halo is the same, see-through and reflecting light beautifully.

Erblu's eyes are also softer than Arme's, crinkled at the corners as he smiles, tucking a strand of his white hair away.

"What if someone sees us?" he mutters, eyes instinctively looking around again.

"Have they not seen us like this many times during the fights already?"

"Well, yes, they did... But this is…"

"How is this different? Plus there is no one around," Arme cuts him off. "Let us relax like you wanted."

In the end, they settle into one of the deeper pools, sitting at the chipped edge with their torsos submerged. All is just as calm for the few hours they spend there.

Their wings press against each other's and the closeness is surprisingly welcome, so different from their hands touching or shoulders bumping. They both find they enjoy it.

"Arme," Erblu pipes up, stretching one wing so it brushes Arme's a little more. "Thank you for coming along with me."

Arme closes his eyes, leaning backwards against the rocks. He hums, "You were right, it is nice here and I feel very refreshed. If you ever wanted to visit the springs again, I would not be opposed."

Erblu's mouth opens into a confused 'o', but then stretches into a smile. He leans to the side and rests his head on Arme's shoulder. The blue haired angel doesn't seem to mind much.

"I'd love to," Erblu says honestly.

So they do.

#elsword #ain #arme thaumaturgy #erbluhen emotion #aincest #eso's fics #mine

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purrcraze · 5 years

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When Will My Ragdoll Cat Get Fluffy?

If you have owned your ragdoll since they were a kitten, chances are you have wondered “When will MY ragdoll kitten get fluffy?”. Unfortunately, patience is key here!

When Will My Ragdoll get Fluffy? A Ragdoll cat is a large breed and features a lightly colored body, dark tails, ears and legs, and may be mitted, bicolor, or color point (no white at all). Their coat and size do not reach their peak until they are aged between three and four years.

Now you know just how long it can take for a Ragdoll to really reach his peak. To fully understand the “fluff” that is the trademark of this breed, and how you can help with coat growth, keep on reading.

How Can I Help with Coat Growth?

Perhaps you are concerned about your ragdoll’s hair growth even though they are beyond the age of maturity and still do not have a fluffy coat. Hair loss could be at play here.

Thankfully, you can help your cat overcome hair loss and stimulate coat growth. Although we have some suggestions, we always advise speaking with a vet for the best advice.

Firstly, hair loss should not be confused with shedding, which is normal. However, if you notice large clumps of fur, poor diet may be the culprit.

Nutritional deficiencies can cause hair to fall out.

Your vet can help your cat begin using vitamins to restore hair and recommend a good food for your pet. After all, nutrients like vitamins, minerals, protein and omega-3 fatty acids are critical for your cat’s good health and handsome appearance.

In some other cases, parasites or pests may be the reason for a cat to lose hair. Itching and scratching can become so harsh that clumps of hair go missing. They may be allergic to something in their environment, too.

Lastly, a medical problem such as hyperthyroidism may be the reason your feline friend is experiencing trouble keeping hair.

They Get Fluffier During THIS Time

I bet you know what we want to tell you. As all cats, Ragdoll cats have a summer fur and a winter coat.

Regardless of their age, a Ragdoll will always be fluffier during the colder months. Changing coats is an automatic process all cats go through.

So if you are waiting for the ultimate fluffiness in your Ragdoll cat, just wait until it gets a little colder. What is interesting here is, that it has not only to do with the temperature.

Cats and other living beings also respond to daylight length. So when the days get shorter, even an indoor Ragdoll cat will grow a winter coat, just because it is in their DNA to do so.

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What Should A Standard Coat Look Like?

Ragdoll aficionados know that these cats are large in size and have a somewhat long coat that grows in a pointed pattern. Their eyes are blue as an ocean and striking in nature-and it really complements their coats.

They have bodies that are lightly colored and limbs and tails that are darker in color. Their paws have tufts of fur and their tail is reminiscent of a fluffy feather pen; a plume that really stands out.