#delphi is a menace

[slythereen]

> twirls like a ballerina in practice

> puts it on the front role with his favorite rival

> refuses to elaborate

done for the day!!

[claudiadiary]

[gravehags]

my signs being majority gemini, capricorn, and cancer should come as no surprise lmao my mom really said i’m about to birth the most inconsistent, high-strung, emotional, anxiety ridden court jester the world has ever seen

[deckofmanyaces]

Our latest episode has some pretty tight security 🔐 Good thing Delphi has her workarounds!

Listen wherever you get your podcasts 🎧

[kqutie]

EPIC: THE FAIR MAIDEN

sum. : You wake up in the EPIC: The Musical universe on Odysseus’ boat just as they’ve set sail back to Ithaca. And you just so happen to be equipped with the skills and game mechanics of your favourite comfort game: Animal Crossing: New Horizons. Might as well go with the flow and help your favourite characters get home safe.

relationships : platonic various epic characters/female reader -- platonic odysseus/reader ; polites/reader ; platonic eurylochus/reader ; platonic elpenor/reader ; platonic perimedes/reader ; hermes/reader ; poseidon/reader

tags. : EPIC x ACNH ; reader is a comfort gamer ; female reader ; modern day reader ; pure comfort ; reader helps ody get home ; happy ending for everyone! ; isekai and transmigration ; fix it fic ; animal crossing new horizons game mechanics ; characters know their future ; hermes is a flirty menace ; poseidon tried to shoot his shot and failed

the 'got-carried-away' version w/ romance chapters :

[❀ : short imagine]

one : the second miracle two : the favourable circumstance three : the new island ❀ you didn't have to kiss her hermes four : the washed-up stranger ❀ let her go, hermes five : the journey home ⌊new⌉ six : the timely return [finale]

...

the 'back-to-my-origins' version w/out romance chapters :

one : the hunger ends two : the island paradise three : ...

inspiration : i was inspired by my love and current obsession of epic the musical as well as my love for fix it fics, the animal crossing: new horizons game and the isekai and transmigration genre -- put together, it's all very niche so im writing this purely for fun and i'm happy to have anyone read this at all

fanart fair maiden oc :

Theo created by the talented, wonderful @sweatinghoneybee -- go send her all the love right now! (fanart of Theo) Delphi (colour ver.) created by the lovely and sweet @yuksssss -- please send her all the love too!

disclaimer : i barely know anything about greek mythology and I haven't read the odyssey at all so my interpretations and characterisations are purely based on EPIC: the musical's retelling -- i apologise in advance, i'm so sorry my loves (⸝⸝⸝╸﹏╺⸝⸝⸝)

taglist (not so platonic ver.) : @bluepanda08 @doodle-with-rhy @sunshinedaisy21 @jolixtreesunn @ellaprime7 @marcelemry @nishayuro @hijinkxy @kerosene-demon @windrosesrasta @keikeiluvyou @darling-eos @iamapotatoe @yuzxi18 @woncloudie @permanently-nothere @ash1 @barrythestrawberry041 @trashcannotbealive @yuksssss @reisinnie @evg6287 @athanasia-day @fuji-sen @yourlocaleffy @magdalenacarmila @carrotcakeandcoffee @mousedit @tomarisela @onlybe-satanonce @atanukileaf @starmee-lodurrson @depressinglyobsessed ... [open]

taglist (purely platonic ver.) : @barrythestrawberry041 @yuksssss @bloobewy ... [open]

property of kqutie ; all written content is mine and no one else's unless stated otherwise ; do not steal, plagiarise, modify or translate to other sites

art/visual media does not belong to me

[fleurspun]

Questbound

Summary: A kiss locks the victory of your quest, it's only unfortunate that your quest companion is Luke Castellan—the bane of your existence and ex-lover. Note: I'm back hello hi this time with PJO! I do have Grishaverse drafts to release (someday) but that's for another time!! This is also cross-posted on Ao3 Word Count: 6.9k

In your many years at camp, the best advice you could probably give somebody is not to date another camper.

Not if they’re a fellow counselor.

Especially not if it’s Luke Castellan.

You learned that lesson the hard way years ago, when you were both a lot younger, with spunkier attitudes and clouded minds. It was a relationship wrenched raw with gritted teeth and hushed arguments, emotions clawing at throats and frustration gnawing at the mind. It was nothing short of tiring, and the only remark worth saying was that it wasn't worth it.

(Sort of. You’re a little too proud to admit that you had your fun during the relationship, and that you really did love Luke, or at least loved him to the extent that adolescent teens could. It was carefree and stupid and full of shared, sappy love-sick grins—and that wasn't so bad.

But you were both childish and angry, nonetheless. And that tipped the balance more often than you would have liked.)

Your breakup was a nasty, bitter fallout that screamed and thrashed all the way back down into the depths of forgotten pasts. After that, you and Luke fell into an explosive and rough dynamic of being at each other’s neck at every passing second, which seemed to have attracted attention from the gods above—and because the gods have such a unique sense of humour, one in particular has decided to grant you and Luke a quest.

And quests meant a trip to the attic of the Big House, and a meeting with the hippie-tie-dye Oracle of Delphi.

“Piss off the aunt lately?” Luke sucks at his teeth, ducking under the beams of the ceiling. You can feel his shadow melt into yours when the attic forcibly squeezes the two of you into the walkway cluttered wall-to-wall with quest paraphernalia.

“I didn't. You might have.” you scoff, suddenly a lot more conscious that your back was pressing into his chest, “You did break that poor girl’s heart from Aphrodite’s cabin a week ago. It’s sad, she was sobbing over her barbecue at dinner.”

“Keeping tabs on me, now?” he snickers, “That’s a new low, even for you.”

“I’m going to smack the shit out of you if you don't shut up, Castellan.”

You see Luke at the corner of your eye step ahead of you, giving a theatrical display of zipping his lips shut before snapping into a sleazy grin when you roll your eyes at him.

The Oracle of Delphi finally comes into sight at the edge of the attic, and Luke has to settle a hand across the base of your spine to keep you moving along when you freeze upon seeing the figure. Visiting the Oracle always left an uneasy feeling that settled like sediment at the bottom of your stomach, and Luke knows exactly, despite the low lights of the attic, that you would be picking at the skin beneath your nail.

He taps his finger on your spine to grab your attention, teasing spelled on his face, “Scared, smart girl?”

You swallow thickly before breaking away from his hand, “In your dreams, crook.”

Luke offers you a small chuckle as he anchors his palms on the beams near your head to keep you from bumping into them when you stalk along the attic, wary of the menacing figure right in front of you.

The skeleton is perched near the stained glass window, and silence simmers in the air so thick it almost shrouds your heartbeat in a muffled vacuum. After a few heavy seconds, the Oracle of Delphi slowly creaks into animation. There’s this odd pull of energy surrounding the flimsy skeleton, perfuming a spine-chilling and nerve-wracking pulse into the air, and into whatever summer clothing she had draped over her bones.

“Oracle of Delphi, we’ve come to seek your guidance.” Luke utters, and you cross your arms behind him, observing the decrepit and stop-motion-like movement of the figure. The skeleton encapsulates the feel of the Oracle in a snap of a finger, her arms creaking into animation and her skull snapping to your direction.

There are no eyes in the vessel as of the Oracle, but you can't mistake the sharp stare she gives you as she utters out the prophecy guided by the goddess of love, Aphrodite. And when she does, you feel a burdening weight forming on your shoulders and a thousand prickling needles at your spine. 

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. 

Because to find a “second wind” and bring life and victory to your affairs, the quest from Aphrodite meant that you would have to share a kiss with the Hermes head counselor, your spiteful ex-lover, and the absolute bane of your existence, Luke Castellan.

What a funny joke this was.

—

“Well?” you’re cross-legged atop the ping-pong table, staring accusingly at Luke.

Luke rolls his eyes at you, sharpening his dagger against the wall of the dimly-lit Rec Room, “Well, what?”

The two of you ended up in the counselors’ meeting room just below the attic of the Big House after the prophecy sinked in enough for you and Luke to move down somewhere to confer.

“We’re contesting this with Chiron, aren't we?”

You observe Luke from the table, watching intently as he sighs in frustration, returning the dagger to its leather holster, giving you his full attention now.

“We aren't and we won’t.” he asserts, “And get off the ping-pong table, you’ll break it.”

There’s considerable pressure to his words, but you were never one to back down from his intimidation, so you stand your ground, “I’m going to contest this, Castellan. Whether you like it or not.”

“Under what possible circumstance?” He reasons with slight exasperation, “You know they won't let you contest a prophecy—from Aphrodite—off all gods.”

“It’s a clear case of conflict of interest.” the table creaks, and you heed Luke’s advice to hop off.

“That conflict of interest is a deliberate choice from the goddess. Besides, it’s a kiss. One kiss.” he sighs—you’ve been conferring about the prophecy for a while now, and every second is one wasted on argument instead of preparation, “Do I affect you so much that having me kissing you is such a huge deal? What, afraid you’ll come crawling back for more?”

You squint your eyes at the insinuation.

“The kiss isn’t a big deal for me. I don't care about that, you, and whatever relationship we had in the past.” your voice loses its venomous edge when you see Luke watching you intently through lidded eyes. His gaze is a pressuring expression, as if prompting you to speak more, and your mouth slips beyond grasp when you scoff, “You could kiss me right now and I wouldn't bat an eye.”

Oh shit.

The realization of your statement sinks in the second it leaves your lips. A gasp is stuck in your mouth, and you keenly watch Luke for a reaction.

Luke doesn't shoot his usual retort, taking his sweet time before getting off the wall with a grunt. He walks toward you with a heavy gait, one that echoes in the room as if in mockery of your position.

He finds himself almost between your legs, standing a breath’s width away. Luke chases your gaze when you snap your head the other way.

“Huh,” he smiles, and you feel the sinister intent behind it in your stomach, “Do you wanna repeat that for me?”

There’s a stern look on your face, refusing to budge out of self-preservation and dignity, and he tuts in response, “Look at you. You never change, do you? Pouring out emotion but never committing to it. You’re still all bark and no bite—” he whispers with a rough edge, “Like you’ve always been.”

Luke’s words are an obvious, honest-to-gods ploy. It’s nothing more than plain bait, and he’s waving it in your face to see if he can get you off your high horse and into the ground where he wanted you, and he knows if he pushes this narrative a little further, he can get you to bite down.

You blink, and feel the irritation bubbling, choked into the back of your throat. He didn't have the right to tell you about emotions when he was the one that left after the slightest bit of actual reciprocation.

A second passes and you try to give him a chance to take it back, but he only gives you a cocked eyebrow and a look as if impatiently waiting for your verdict.

He persists, and you huff before staring at him straight in the eye with a burning defiance. 

Luke thinks, oh, 

He’s fucking got you.

A sharp finger jabs itself into his chest, and Luke finds it exhilarating to have you on your toes, “I said,” the tone of your voice is as tense as a rope pulled taut, “You could kiss me right now, and I wouldn't do so much as bat an eye.”

Your pride is deadly as it is precarious—this is affirmed when Luke plants his palm on either side of your figure on the table, stepping an inch closer to where he has to crane his neck down to keep you in his sight in response to your dispute.

Luke leans his head forward, the mocking grin etched right in his mouth, “You’re sure?”

You aren't, but you’ve gone so far now that retracting your sentiments is equivalent to admitting complete defeat.

And defeat to Luke Castellan was a defeat you could never stomach. 

So you persist.

“Try me.” you lift your chin as if to push him further to do what he’s been threatening to. You decide there was a large chance of Luke bluffing, so you prompt, “You don't have the balls to do it, Castellan.”

The heartbeat in your ribs thrums and pounds at your bones, a clear display of your body knowing that you should run before anything untoward happens, but your burning pride keeps your feet planted on the ground.

Luke is the closest he’s ever been since you broke up, head slanted into place with his mouth just above yours. The position is familiar, and you hate that you feel it in the pit of your stomach; Luke was so terribly close. He studies your most miniscule of movements, eyes wandering and lingering on your jaw, your neck, and your lips.

The action is an arrogant, self-assured display of power, fueled by the slight, unwanted flush on your face ignited by the suffocating proximity and the sandalwood perfume on his neck—and when he tips closer, it hits you that maybe Luke wasn't bluffing at all.

So, you do the next best thing after realizing you backed yourself into a corner: you close your eyes and wait for Luke’s mouth on yours.

…

Except, it never comes.

You peek your eyes open with a slow wind, Luke has a smug satisfaction written all over his face. He slips his mouth just above your ear, breath hot and searing when he whispers, “Liar.”

You swallow your dignity into your stomach at the realization that he just humiliated you to your face, and you whisper back at him with a hardened gaze, “I’m gonna make you wish you were dead, you damn crook.”

“Do your best, sweets.” the endearment is an offensive spit in your face. Luke takes a step back before stretching his limbs with a faux yawn as he walks to the door, “Good luck with the contention. Let me know how it goes.”

—

Luke knows you like the back of his hand.

He knows you inside out, from your oddly niche allergies, to the callouses you have on your fingers because you used to compete in unauthorized, handwritten poetry competitions with the campers from Apollo, Demeter, and Aphrodite before Chiron shut it down.

(The poetry competitions somehow turned into betting games, which were also unsanctioned.)

He knows you’re just about the most brilliant strategist at camp, as proven by the quest paraphernalia displayed in the attic that you’ve managed to snag along the way, but you let the younger campers like Annabeth hone their skills and take center stage during camp games.

He knows you have marks on your neck that map out the shape of the Lyra constellation, traced from your neck down to the bottom of your collarbone, and he knows, by heart, how long it takes to kiss the stars, one by one, before you give out on your knees.

Most of all, Luke knows that when you despise somebody, you despise them with a burning hatred that singes and ignites everything around you with charring smoke and flame. 

And that’s what he exactly gets for being the ex from a relationship felled by a spiteful fallout: your loud hatred, concentrated resentment, and your sweet, sweet unbridled attention in the quest.

Frankly, Luke supposes having your attention is worth it, despite being rooted in bad faith and distrust in his actions.

“My feet are killing me.” you suck at your teeth, eyes glued to the thickets, “This route’s going to wear us down faster than Aphrodite could ever do.”

You’ve done nothing but go and complain about Luke’s decisions for the past couple of days, and it’s a deliberate call on your end—being annoying and insubordinate just enough to piss him off, but never too much as to jeopardize the quest and its goal.

To be fair, you were the daughter of a war goddess. Your words held weight, and not to mention considerable influence and accuracy on your calls on strategy and quest location planning.

It was just that you were using your mother’s gifts to piss the hell off Hermes’ kid.

It’s a lure dangled just above his face, just out of reach to push Luke to his very limit. You’re convinced it’s an art form in itself, the act of patience and persistence in getting somebody to break.

But you haven't had much luck, because as the world would have it, Luke knew what you were doing, and decided he wasn't going to give you the slightest bit of satisfaction by displaying irritation.

He’ll do just about anything to keep your eye on him.

“Are they, now?” Luke answers, a few steps away from you. He keeps walking, and when he doesn't hear your feet shuffling behind him, he turns around, “Sore?”

“Deadly.” you groan, rolling your ankles off the ground. In your defense, the trail ahead was rigorous, bumpy, and slippery from the recent rainfall. Not to mention the elevation gain throughout. You had more than enough of a right to complain, “We should’ve just cut through the highway instead of playing hiker.”

There was some truth to your assertion—it really would wear you down, but not so exaggeratedly.

Luke crosses his arms, a usual telltale hint of irritation, but none of it is present in his voice, “And be picked off the asphalt by a rogue Fury?”

“At least a Fury would take the pressure off my feet.” you grumble, and continue walking forward when you realize Luke just wasn't biting down. You look to the sky in an attempt to clear your head.

In your reflections, you fail to notice that Luke’s gone quiet with mischief, and you see your clear fault of letting your guard down when you get picked off the ground and hauled over his shoulder like cattle.

“Castellan—” you gasp, your vision in a whiplash, “What the hell! Put me down!”

Luke secures an arm over the back of your knees, the other one supporting your hip on his shoulder. He speaks to you with no hint of a struggle, “You wanted to put the pressure off your feet, right?”

“And the first solution that came to mind was to carry me on your shoulder?” you say in disbelief, propping yourself up with your arms on his back, “That's not how things work, you freak!”

“You’d rather I carry you in my arms?”

“I’d rather you put me down on the ground!”

“And let you hurt your small princess feet?” Luke coos in a voice so sickeningly sweet, it makes you feel as if nauseous from a sugar rush, “You know I’d never let you do that.”

“Gods, I hate you.” you grumble with a voice hinting resignation. You go limp on top of his shoulder when you realize there’s no point in arguing with him, “You’re the worst.”

“Get used to it.” Luke says, starting to walk the trail into the forest, “The worst hasn't even happened yet.”

“And that’s supposed to be what?”

He taps you thrice on the back of your knee, “I’ll let you figure that out on your own.”

—

It’s hard to forget that you and Luke are exes by the way you two fall quickly into a routine when left alone. Despite the rough start to your quest that resulted in petty arguments, derailments, and relentless teasing, your disgruntlement with Luke has sort of fizzled out into something a little more tameable, something malleable under shared snickers and a few will-they-won’t-they situations.

It starts off in treks where he takes your pack without a second thought when your breathing lags a little more than usual because you weren't as physically inclined as you'd like, in moments where you catch him forking away at the raisins in your bread so you wouldn't recoil at the sight, and during slow days when the journey is oddly peaceful, and the two of you wordlessly take detours to see pretty trails that Luke gets a little too excited over.

It ends with Luke falling from a spiraling tree root sprawled on the soil, and with flowering wounds on his hands and face.

“You’re a mess.” 

You frown over the soft orange spires of the campfire, watching Luke with a pitiful red bruise birthed from his own actions. He’s fussing over his own wounds, and he tries, really, to the best of his abilities, but Luke hasn't attended a first aid class from Apollo’s cabin in years—and it’s showing in the way he tries to treat the bloody marks on his face.

“You’re pitiful.” You comment, looking down at his hunched figure over the sprawled kit. It doesn't help that it’s nighttime and he struggles more and more with adequate light without burning himself on the bonfire, “A disgrace. Pathetic.” 

“I’m hurt.” He says, going back to applying an ointment that comes out way too watery because he doesn't know you have to shake it, “I’m hurt and you’re being mean to me.”

You can hear the obvious dramatisation in his voice, evident in the way he draws out his vowels. He’s pitiful and pathetic—just like you said—but for some reason, you find yourself slumped on a log next to him, stealing the balm from his hands.

“Give it to me.” You grit through your teeth, like you’ve been forced to help him by some unknown force, “Best swordsman in 300 years, and he cannot apply healing ointment on himself.”

It’s a comment made under your breath, and when you shake the tube and apply the cream on his arm, you miss the small smile Luke gives you.

The air is so cold with the night air and ripe with tenderness, and the two of you don't miss its hint when you touch Luke’s chin to move his head to the side, applying ointment on the gash lining his cheekbone.

“I’m shocked you’re not even recoiling at this.” You mutter, lathering out a pea-sized amount on his face, “You must hate it so much.”

It’s rare that you strike up a conversation first, but it seems like the intimacy of the moment has gotten to you, so Luke entertains you, “At what?”

“This.” You sign to the two of you, “I’ve done this to you a lot before, but it embarrasses you every time, doesn't it?”

It always started with you having to fuss over him, and with Luke being pissed off—and ended with an fiery argument without fail. 

It was a stupid thing to argue about; but when you’ve just passed the honeymoon threshold of a young relationship, everything felt far too intense far too early.

Luke cannot find it in himself to answer immediately, a little embarrassed by the idea of his past actions, so you pacify the situation by talking, “I get it, you know.” You hum, “I was overbearing, and young, and overexcited.”

“And I was stupid, and angry, and cowardly.” Luke answers, an airy chuckle coming out of his lips, “I think we’re just fair. Actually, I might've been worse.” 

You shrug, keeping your concentration on the gash. Luke’s eyes are peeking at the side, taking a look at you through feathered eyelashes.

“Hey, smart girl?”

A hum of acknowledgment lets him know you’re listening despite the utter focus on his cheek.

“I really was stupid back then for a lot of things, wasn't I?”

You stop momentarily. It’s wordless knowledge, knowing what he’s referring to, but you aren't sure you want to mull it over right now. The moment is too dangerously intimate to dabble in something so sensitive, so you decide to respond by whispering out an “Mhm.” before continuing on.

Luke watches you and your concentrated look, your lips jutted out and your nose in a slight scrunch. He feels like he’ll physically melt at the feeling of your hands cradling his face.

You’re finished with fussing over his wounds, and in a state of effortless muscle memory from all the times you had to do this to him before, your grip on his chin unconsciously angles him to face you, and you move to give him a peck on the side of his lip. 

You’re so precariously near when you catch yourself and jolt into freezing. There’s only a breath’s width between you and him. It leaves you with Luke’s eyes gazing right into yours, eyes as wide as deer in headlights.

You can hear nothing but the crickets of the forest, the crackling of the firepit, and the ring of your slowly accelerating heartbeat. The time stills into a simmering tick.

Luke’s eyes flicker somewhere down in a split-second, and he squints at you, “Were you going to give me a kiss?”

You’re taken out of the trance, and in a flash of panic, quickly push Luke’s face away from yours, “You look horrible up close, Castellan.”

It’s an offhand comment, but Luke doesn't seem to mind when he scoffs out a comment of his own, “Oh please, we’ve made out a lot closer before.”

A red flush comes out of your face, shocked that he would bring up something so old, “And I hated every second of it every single time.”

You didn't—but his ego doesn't deserve to know that.

“If you hated it so much, you’re about to seethe at the next act of our quest,” Luke shrugs, stretching his arms into the ground behind him.

“And that's what, now?”

“Prophecy says you owe me a kiss, remember?”

—

Oh, shit. You forgot about the kiss.

Completely blinded by your deliberate attempts to usurp Luke’s decisions as primary of the quest, you seem to have forgotten the damning condition of your victory—to share a kiss with your past lover.

Simply put, Aphrodite was bored and decided it was time to pair together people who hated each other to death and make them kiss like dolls.

Was it to rekindle buried feelings? Maybe. Was it to drive the offsprings of gods into insanity? Oh, absolutely.

But whatever Aphrodite wanted to achieve by having you and Luke venture out into the world, it still doesn't do so much as change the thoughts plaguing your head for the last few days.

When was this kiss going to happen?

Since leaving the camp, and after that shred of intimacy that night, every passing moment became ripe with untouched tension, thick enough to cut through with a knife and a saw. You felt your heartbeat pound into your ear at the times when Luke would pull you close when he knew a creature was watching a little too intently, or when he would sit between your legs and let you fuss over his shoulder to have his minor wounds treated.

Normal occurrences at a quest, but with the prophecy looming over your head like an unrelenting shadow of misfortune, you were always distracted at the thought of: is this it?

Your agitation with the prophecy and your fear at the thought that Luke would smoothen you into kindness put you on edge, and soon enough your composure unraveled like loose threads and your formerly safe antics almost cost you and Luke your lives.

But it wasn't always you making the trip a hassle.

Your heavy, dragging breaths fill the tight brick alleyway just on the outskirts of the city you cut through to make a “harmless” shortcut Luke hounded you into taking, where you caught the attention of a rogue minotaur hungry for demigod dessert. Now, you have burnt soles and a creature hot on your tail.

It was a shortcut no different from the one you had insisted on taking, but Luke reason that the alternative trail was the same amount of time, with less elevation, and with more places to get food and water—but before you could leave, you realized why the town felt a lot more deserted than usual.

Luke pulled you inside the slim space by the arm, clutching you close into his body and angling you away from the mouth of the alleyway. He has one hand clamped over your mouth and the other on the base of your spine, pulling you so intensely near that you can smell his perfume and feel the ridges on his chest.

You hear the minotaur’s guttural growls and heavy gait echoing with a sharp thud, slowly and slowly until it disappears out of earshot. It’s only then that you feel the heartbeat pounding into your bones once the adrenaline runs out of your bloodstream.

You seem to realize the minotaur’s disappearance a lot faster than Luke does, with his hand remaining over your mouth and his body still pressed close to yours.

Oh, he was so incredibly close.

The flush on your face deepens at every single passing moment, your fingers picking at the skin beneath your nails, with your body becoming hypersensitive to every point that touches his, fueled by the force of the two brick walls squeezing the two of you together. His body feels warm from the constant running that led you to this moment, excreting bodily heat that seeps into yours the longer he holds you close. 

When Luke gazes down after ensuring that the minotaur was out of the immediate area, he finds you studying him with a wide set of eyes. He doesn't say anything, mostly because his ego is enjoying the show, watching you stare at his chest, and his arms, his neck, before ending up on his eyes.

You retain eye contact, and Luke cranes his head to your side to check on you. Luke liked getting in close for things he only wanted you to hear, so when he tipped his head down to ask if you were alright, you stalled—like deer in headlights—and panicked at the feeling of his face so close to yours. You break out of Luke’s hold when the panic seeps into your bones, and you stumble onto the open streets.

You crane your gaze to the left—and meet eyes with the minotaur.

—

The hotel off the highway is dingy and obviously seen better (and more graceful) days, with peeling wall paint, dusty carpets, and a receptionist with a mean streak who barely cares for the customers arriving. The ringer on the desk barely makes a sound over her nail file.

She files her nail with a vigorous back-and-forth, the scratching of the material screeching into your ear like nails on a chalkboard. The bright purple of her hair is mirrored by the bubblegum in her mouth, deflating in a scandalous pop when she decides to entertain you.

Well, not you exactly, but the view of the tall, handsome man standing just behind you. Who was, believe it or not, clutching his injured shoulder. 

(Minotaur’s fault; not yours, directly)

You can see the instant attraction in her eyes when it lands on Luke’s figure, and you feel a dull sensation in your ribs.

“Well,” she smacks her lip, looking as if she wanted to undress Luke with her eyes, “Two separate rooms, I hope.”

“Excuse me?” you say, stopping halfway from digging into your bag for the money. 

“Two rooms, right?” the receptionist rolls her eyes at you, dragging her words along the floor. She fetches two keys on the counter but keeps them beneath her palm, batting her eyelashes at Luke, “Hey, you—pretty boy. I’m a pretty good masseuse, you know.”

You press your lips together, holding back the incredulous expression your face is dying to spit out. 

Two customers annoyed and frustrated at each other, looking for a room; one with a bad shoulder, and the other a sleeve catching on a doorknob away from crashing out into misery.

And the damn receptionist decides it's time to snag a quick hookup?

She continues her little show of seduction, leaning over the counter in her slightly-undone button down. There’s venom and honey dripping on her voice, and a bony finger catches itself on her lip, “I can heal that shoulder of yours real good if you let me come up to your floor.”

It’s unbelievable at this point, you decide. You could tolerate this a lot better if you were having a better day, but today was not that, at all.

Your anger, burning hot and bright, slowly becomes slightly clouded by a churning feeling at the bottom of your stomach when you realize you haven't heard Luke answer—nor did you know how he was reacting to the woman at all.

Was he enjoying the attention? Was he considering blowing off steam with her? Did he like it?

Why do you care?

You don't. That’s what you put your resolve on—and there are more serious things to think about, like how you’re on the verge of failure in your quest. He could fool around with anyone, and that wouldn't be your business. It shouldn't be your business.

Whatever turns him productive enough to lead you to completion of Aphrodite’s favor.

Your thoughts are on the verge of collapse, but as if by some wicked timing, the receptionist shakes you out of your trance and pushes you into irritability tenfold when she slips over to you one key.

“Here’s ‘ya room. Leave your boy to me, hm?”

You feel like a kettle, slowly boiling until it’s time to explode and spill over scalding hot insults and lectures about the lack of decency being given. You’re about to start when you feel a chin nuzzled into your shoulder and a hand at your waist.

Luke whispers in your ear, “She’s not worth it.”, staring at the receptionist dead in the eye before exchanging the one key for money.

“Just one room. We’ll be fine, alone.”

The elevator ride is dragging, and you’re standing on opposite sides as if Luke wasn't just clinging on you from the last minute as a response to the flirty receptionist. He looks at the floor with a restrained expression, and you have a flat frown on your mouth. It takes what feels like decades before the carriage reaches your floor.

The doors open into a narrow hall, dimly lit with matching dull carpets from the lobby. Your room isn't in any better shape than the rest of the building. It might be worse when the door shuts and another misunderstanding erupts.

“What happened back there?” Luke asks, his voice pulled taut by tension, but held back by the need to not escalate the situation, “Why did you freak out on me?”

Luke knows you’re keeping something secret, you’ve had a shift in behaviour that he doesn't exactly recognize, but feels familiar all the same.

You keep his gaze leveled to yours, “I’m not the one at fault here, Castellan. We wouldn't have been there if we took the original route.”

“Fine,” he groans, “It was my fault we ended up in that stupid alley in the city outskirts. I didn't factor in why the map wouldn't mark it as a route in the first place. But that’s not what I’m asking, isn't it?”

“What are you asking then?”

“Why’d you freak out on me in that alley?”

“And that’s such a big deal?”

“It’s a big deal because that meltdown of yours cost us an injury, supplies, and now transport money that we have to use on this hotel.” he stalks closer, tone suspiciously clear of malice, “You’re smart. You know we don't have enough time or resources for the quest, no?”

“I know that.” you snarl. You don't even know when you stood up, “Shit happens, Castellan. I can't control when and where I panic.”

“But you can.” he shrugs. You have no idea when he got so close, “I may not know what happened, but I do know you—you’re calm, collected; you hate being driven by emotion and you are Athena’s favourite child for a reason.”

You look away to the side, refusing to make eye contact, “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying,” Luke drawls, as if the answer is staring at you, “Either your skills have downgraded for absolutely no reason at all, and you’ve become a shame of a daughter of a war goddess—or, something else has shook you to your core entirely. Something, or someone. That’s my guess.”

It was true—you were shaken by the prophecy and let the panic from it settle far too deep into your bones, but you were a lot more pissed by the way Luke was speaking to you. As if he knew you from the inside out, and to hell with him thinking that way.

He didn't have the right.

“You wanna know the reason, crook?” Your finger jabs into his shoulder, and you have to look up to his towering height to meet his gaze and get your point across. You were at such a close proximity now, it's as if you could taste the smugness in his voice.

He rolls his eyes, and shrugs mockingly, “Well, don't keep me waiting.”

You let out a good exhale before you postulate.

“The prophecy got under my skin.” Luke senses the tinge of nervousness in your voice, the end of your sentence faltering into a low mutter, “As much as I want to be the perfect quest companion you need so bad, the prophecy that we would have to eventually kiss crawled into my head and won't leave my consciousness since.” your voice tries to remain steadfast, “Every time you’re near, I think about the kiss, and I panic because I wouldn't know what to do with myself and I wouldn't know what to do with you. Happy now?”

You pull out a sharp exhale, “You make me nervous, Castellan. You still make me nervous.”

Luke stares at you like gears are turning in his head, his eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips. The realization of what you just said hits you in the ribs, and you feel as if the oxygen in the room is too little to keep you alive and breathing. You swallow your pride and your embarrassment, wide-eyed and on your toes.

You almost move to ask Luke to say something, anything really, but he cuts you off wordlessly when his hand weaves its way into your hair and his mouth finds its slot against yours.

Time grinds into a halt, and you realize that in all the times you imagined the prophesized kiss in shameful fever dreams and trances, you never expected for it to be this: Luke kisses you like he’s been starving for months. He’s deprived and angry and desperate and moves as if there wasn't anything else he’d rather be doing than to dishevel you in the middle of the room and leave your knees weak and trembling like he used to.

Oh, gods. The kiss is like water,  like a delirious thirst in your bones finally quenched and an itch you’ve been dying to scratch. You’re stunned at first, but find yourself kissing him back just as quick and just as desperate.

“I waited far too long for this.” he rasps into your mouth, tongue swiping on your bottom lip to open your mouth, “Couldn't get my mind off you even when we broke up.”

“Shut up, Castellan, for once.” you breathe out, and Luke can’t help to restrain himself when he smiles against your lips. 

“I tried everything to get close again.” He says in between kisses, “Who knew we only needed a damn quest?”

The two of you are sprawled on the creaking twin-bed mattress, and Luke, despite his bad shoulder, hauls you into his lap with a burning intention to keep you there. His lips trace from pecking at your lips, to nibbling at the skin behind your ear, to tracing down searing hot, open-mouthed kisses on the bottom of your jaw.

“Castellan, I—” you gasp, melting between his mouth and the hand that’s running lines over your hips.

“That’s not my name.” he mutters between kisses, turning you over with your back to the mattress, “Say my name, smart girl.”

If you were in any sort of proper thought, you’d be flushed red and annoyed at Luke for speaking to you this way—but all rationality is thrown through the window when his lips are on your neck.

You swallow your pride, your dignity, and everything in between, “Luke.” it’s a whimper when it comes out, and he pulls you in impossibly closer.

He hums in satisfaction, dropping his head over one of the moles on your neck. Luke gives it a small lick before smoothing it over with a kiss, “Vega.”

To your collarbone, “Sheliak.”

Down to the mole just above your chest, “Sulafat.”

He’s naming the stars in the Lyra constellation, and your mouth lets out a choked moan, “Luke, shit—”

Luke pulls away after one more quick peck, and he doesn't waste time admiring your figure from head to toe. You’re resting against the white pillows, breathing heavily with a disheveled look when he asks, “You good?”

The moment finally sinks into your mind in a panicked, cascading waterfall of information—that you’ve just shamelessly made out with your ex after a frustrating run, and that you were basically pinned against him on a bed.

It’s a wash of fresh, hot shame. Before you can help it, words spill out your mouth in an attempt to save face.

“That,” you blink, still a little hazy from having Luke’s mouth on yours.

“Go on,” He says, patiently, “Take your time.”

“Well, that’s—uhm” you inhale, “—don’t take that personally, Castellan.” you rasp out, trying to hide the weakness in your voice, “That was just for the quest.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nod cautiously, “We’ve got the prophecy out the way now, haven't we?”

You doubt you were convincing him any more than you were convincing yourself when Luke gives you a sickeningly sweet grin. He’s still pinned over you, like he refuses to be anywhere else.

“Mhm,” he coos, “Sure it was.”

“That didn't mean anything to me.” you repeat, to yourself more than anyone, “And that didn't mean anything to you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Luke shrugs, now falling into the pillows next to you. He closes his eyes, sinking into the bed, “That meant the world to me.

There’s a mixture of confidence and lack of hesitation in his voice, and when you prop yourself on your elbows to look at him, he was disheveled with smeared lip gloss all over his mouth, and he looked the happiest he’s been in days.

“Hear that?” he goads with a lilt that sounds suspiciously like bait, like he’s prompting you to retaliate, “I said the kiss meant the world to me.”

You find it unimaginable to believe him, but when Luke gathers your hands in his and places them against his lips with a soft exhale, you feel your stern resolve melting at every passing second.

“You don't mean that.” Your voice sounds even weaker now, like you’re hanging on by a thread.

“I do. I mean every single word.” Luke kisses your knuckles, softly whispering, “I can prove it to you, if you’ll let me.”

It’s scary.

It’s a scary realization to know what Luke’s asking for, and an even scarier realization was the fact that you were willing to give him another shot.

A second wind. Like what the prophecy asked for.

“You’re lucky I tolerate you, you crook.”

In your many years at camp, still, the best advice you could probably give somebody is not to date another camper.

But when you’re tasked to go on a journey with them promising a kiss at the end, maybe it wouldn't hurt to give it a chance.

Especially if it’s somebody like Luke Castellan.

“The luckiest alive, smart girl.”

—

“That’s my victory, then, forehead-spawn.”

A sultry voice echoes in Olympus. Aphrodite leisurely fans her face with a smug look, satisfied by the outcome of the prophecy.

Athena gives her nothing but a disgruntled expression.

[ckret2]

What do you think about the new Oracle lore? How she was a Henchmaniac, left the group and (apparently?) helps save the others from erasure after Bill is gone. Do you plan to incorporate that into the fic?

I'm not hyped about it. When everyone knows everyone in a story, it makes the world feel smaller; tying the Oracle into the Henchmaniacs shrunk what should be a very expansive world.

Plus, we know so little about her that "she's the kind of person who'd want to join the Henchmaniacs" and "she's a portal-designing super genius" just feels jarringly at odds with the clairvoyant Oracle-of-Delphi mountaintop-hermit vibe she's had up til now, and we didn't get enough material to synthesize these opposing vibes into a cohesive whole. Though I suppose it helps explain her tendency toward wild drunken parties.

(And this isn't a critique, but if she's the one who initially designed Bill's interdimensional portal blueprints, then it's very funny that after she learned about Ford's epic quest she didn't go "bee tee dubs, sorry about designing the portal currently menacing your universe lmao." Just kept herself OUT of that mess. Let him keep blaming Bill, she's totally got no personal involvement in this, nope.)

That said, the fact that I'm not a fan doesn't mean I'm not gonna make it work in the fic.

A big chunk of my Henchmaniac plans is dependent upon them still being in the Nightmare Realm but also a big chunk of my Henchmaniac plans is dependent upon them WANTING to escape the Nightmare Realm. I can rewrite portions of my existing scenes so that instead of going "it sucks that this place is falling apart, wanna find another universe to move to?" they go "it sucks that this place is falling apart, wanna check out that universe Jessie recommended?" I hadn't had plans to include the Oracle in the fic, but bringing her in as a figure to be distrusted by the Henchmaniacs who aren't eager to leave might add some tension.

[urmom-richietozier1]

me when zoe nightshade, bianca di angelo, pan, daedalus, luke castellan, michael yew, silena beauregard, charles beckendorf, ethan nakamura, lee fletcher, castor, jason grace, octavian, castor, leo valdez (just for a minute but i still cried), orion, caligula, commodus, tarquin, reyna’s dad, lavinia’s dryad besties, crest the cyclops (he just wanted to make a songbird 😔), peaches (a menace, but my menace), lityerses (technically back but the damage was done), trophonius, agamethus (he literally taped his mouth shut to help), herophile the sibyl, medea (problematic but powerful), lester papadopoulos (you were never just a body), lu, marcus, those poor background demigods who didn’t even get names, the hunters who died off-page (i know they were amazing), all the dryads, all the trees, every single little spirit who tried, the ones who fought and didn’t even get lines, the snake at delphi, nero (twice. i hated you but it still hurt), festus (even though he got rebuilt. again. and again.), frank (almost. i was holding my breath), daksha, that one talking shrub probably, jason’s mom’s ghost, diedre the oracle, gorgyra, rhea silvia, and harpocrates (a literal god of silence dying? poetry)

died:

[decepti-thots]

it is SO noticeable when you read through MTMTE paying a lot of attention to the colour work in it (which i have done, because i really like burcham's work in particular) just how rarely it relies on "scary or menacing scene = Dark And Spooky" visual shorthand. a lot of early MTMTE stuff is pretty explicitly drawing on horror as a secondary genre- everything from the sparkeater mini-arc kicking things off to delphi to the overlord stuff. but you will pretty much never see those scenes fall back on "this will be Dark so it is Spooky", and often it's completely the opposite. the delphi stuff takes place in brightly lit snowy environments outside or uniformly lit medical interiors. that doesn't really change until e.g the later arc slaughterhouse, for example. the early stuff in particular is overwhelmingly bright no matter what.

what often gets used instead is unnatural contrast and startling colour combinations. for example, here are two scenes i think a lot of people might default to making dark for the sake of dramatic effect and tone setting if asked how to make them menacing:

both of these instead use a kind of "overexposed" look and contrasting colour choices which feel kind of strange and jarring. (the bottom right Whirl panel has those odd purple shadows contrasting with the bleached out yellowish walls, the red and green contrast on the sparkeater). it almost has this effect not of the moment in a horror movie where it's dark and you can't quite see whatever it is that is all Spooky TM, but when suddenly the flashlight falls on it and illuminates it all at once and makes you jump.

(i would imagine some of this relates to keeping milne's very densely detailed work readable, especially on pages that have so many small panels in them; bright and contrasting choices on the colour side will keep those busy details distinguishable even when those panels do not have a lot of 'breathing room'. if nothing else, the colour work in MTMTE does a lot of work to keep those smaller panels and dense crowd scenes readable, lol.)

[motherfuckingmaneater]

I need more baby Delph content >.> so what about toddler Delphi causing chaos at a family gathering?

She’s screeching again. Luckily this time it’s in excitement, but it still makes both Bellatrix and Voldemort sigh. What a ruckus their little daughter creates wherever she goes; more so now she can walk. Cygnus plucks his little granddaughter up and tosses her into the air, catching her as she falls into a fit of giggles. Bella’s family swoon over their little heiress.

Cygnus puts the toddler between himself and her mother who tells her simply: Behave. Delphini smiles sweetly at her mother and within moments she’s making a mess of her food. No one seems to much mind, not even Voldemort. Delphini is a child, he supposes should let her be one and the Blacks seem keen to fall over themselves for her anyway.

She is safe here with her family, a luxury he never had. He will teach her to be cynical and guarded later. For now let her play freely and scream her laughter and demand attention of them all. She is so very good at it after all. She’s let loose and within moments the noise of something shattering is heard from the other room. Bellatrix sighs and disappears to collect her menace of a daughter but Voldemort spells back whatever has broken with a lazy flick of long fingers as Druella frets. She brings back a writhing, giggling bundle, black curls amassed at the top of her head and sprouting out from their hair-tie bouncing about.

Behave, her mother warns once more — to no avail. Voldemort knows what’s going to happen before it does. He watches as Delphini spells magic nonverbally and vanish her grandfather’s fine china. Voldemort pulls it back from the ether before it goes too far, his daughter is a clever little creature. A trickster in the making.

Dinner goes down a treat despite that she’s thrown peas everywhere, hitting Druella in the eye twice much to Bellatrix’s amusement. The Blacks are a loud family when they’re all around the table together and in private, happy and laughing, bedecked in the finest luxuries, eating their fancy dinners and drinking their ludicrously expensive wines.

She’s exhausted herself before long and Bellatrix has her in her arms as she drinks her wine, Delphini’s legs lazily slung either side of her mother’s lap as her cheek rests on Bella’s chest. She's taken the hand her father had attempted to put on her mother's lap too, holding with a viper like grasp around her father’s smallest finger and leaving him his other hand free to drink his wine, lulled to sleep by her mother’s heartbeat and her father’s calm voice amongst the warmth and happiness of the Blacks.

[slythereen]

max verstappen not being able to name anyone who raced for two teams in one season while being one himself and causing like half of the other most recents… iconic of him tbh

[daughterofyourdarklord]

trick or treat 👻

Delphini lingers at the edge of the kitchen in 12 Grimmauld Place.

She's listening. 

The ringing had been bothering her for weeks now, every time she's back to their home in London she hears it. Almost like something is calling to her, beckoning. 

The ringing grew louder and louder until it was impossible for her to ignore, screaming like a banshee.

It isn't exactly strange. There have been several objects throughout the Black households that Delphini had felt a pull towards. Grandfather often explained that it was likely due to the connection between mother and daughter; that their estates were full of Bella's magic, the sheer force of it imprinted on various objects.

The young witch circles the kitchen, fingers nails tapping along the marble counters as she follows the ringing towards the pantry.

“Kreacher!” The elf appears beside her in a snap, a small broom in hand. 

“Yes, Mistress Delphini?” Kreacher starts with a smile, beady eyes look up at her adoringly. Delphi can hardly drag her gaze away from the small door across the pantry, her magic far too enchanted with whatever rests inside. 

“What have you got in there?” Her voice is high-pitched, curious.

Kreacher hesitates, either unsure what Delphini is asking or just reluctant to answer. 

“Mistress Delphi?”

“Open it.” She demands, arms crossing. “Now.” 

With a snap of the elf’s fingers the door creaks open. Delphini takes one large step forward, peeking into the dark cupboard curiously. There's a large array of rags neatly folded along the floor and a smaller piles of artifacts placed carefully beside it. Delphini falls to her knees, hands quickly reaching to search through the items. 

“Can Kreacher help Miss Delphini find something?” The elf seems nervous, as though she were about to reprimand him for his petty theft. Delphini doesn't answer, ripping through different objects in search of the ringing, of the pull. She tosses aside a pair of her great-Uncle’s cufflinks, a cup of silver branded with the Black family crest, a worn Slytherin tie, then comes the photographs. 

Her Uncle Orion and Grandfather look so alike in their younger days. If there were just a few less years between them they could almost pass for twins. There is a third Black in this picture that Delphini does not recognize, he covers both of their faces jokingly with each flash of the camera.  

Walburga and Lucretia stare up at her, each with an equally menacing glare before slowly glancing at each other and winking. 

She almost doesn’t recognize the Black sister’s at first, having thought the swaying image of her mother looking up at her was actually herself. Delphini pauses, leaning back on her heels to take in the photo with more interest.

Auntie Cissa looks so small, she’s sitting in the lap of the one girl that is unfamiliar to Delphini. She knows who she is, of course, has heard the story in all of the limited words Grandfather can manage. Andromeda is seated in a wooden chair, Narcissa propped and leaning to the side. Bellatrix stands behind them both, her arms draped around each of their shoulders protectively. Every few moments the two smaller sisters jerk and laugh as Bellatrix pinches their shoulders lightly before the three of them erupt into peals of laughter.  

“Look!” Kreacher offers, startling Delphini out of her stupor. “Mistress Bella and her baby!” He sounds genuinely eager as he thrusts another photograph in her hand. 

This photo appears to be in significantly better condition than those prior. It was certainly newer than the rest. Bellatrix leans back in a cushioned chair, clearly in the drawing room at Grimmauld. There is a small bundle in her arms. Delphini’s eyes burn for a moment. Mum is exactly as she remembers her before those awful wizard took her away. In the photo the new mother gives a tired smile to the camera before someone walks into the frame, ruining the photo. 

Delphini hums, rubbing at her eyes before putting all the photos back carefully. 

“Did Auntie know you saved all these spoilt photos, Kreacher?”

“I'm not sure, Miss.” Kreacher answers honestly. 

Delphini sighs, shaking her head lightly. She’d rifled through all the objects Kreacher had tucked into the corner... 

...She can still hear the ringing.  

Delphi turns away from the pile, leaning into Kreacher’s den deeper before glancing around the large boiler taking up the center. 

“Little Miss-” Kreacher starts but she already saw it. A gleam of silver, a small chain tucked away deep behind the base. Delphini doesn't even bother asking what it is. It shoots out from around the ruddy pipes with a snap of her finger, she's still too young to be allowed a wand but magic listens to her all the same. 

Everything goes quiet the minute the face of the jewelry falls into her slender hands. She can't hear the creaking of the pipes nor Kreacher’s nervous tutting, the ringing in her ears so powerful it's almost overwhelming. 

The corners of the pendant are inlaid with small snake heads, their silver bodies making up the framework for the locket, twirling together to create a sturdy clasp. Along the cover rests a beveled ‘S’ her fingers trace the emerald gemstones embedded along it so carefully. The ringing turns to whispering.

Oh, this isn't mother’s magic. Not at all.  

“Kreacher,” Delphini speaks sweetly. “Where did you get this?” 

[dndfantasygirl]

Fighting for Freedom (Chapter 23: Delphie's Final Act)

Rating: Mature Word count: 2.9k Pairing: Spawn Astarion x Female Tav (named)/OC Warnings: violence, strong language, innuendo

Summary: Astarion and Delphie return to the fray, where odds are not in their favor.

*Link to AO3 Post

*Link to Previous Chapter

It's weird. Hearing Delphie yelp in pain distracted him for the briefest second. That's all it took for the Emperor to gain the upper hand in their fight. He doesn't remember much besides that. He does remember being scared because honestly, he doesn't want to die. He very much wants to live with Delphie by his side. He couldn't let her see that as he was dying because if nothing else, he wants her to live a happy life. Preferably with him, but as long as she's happy... She had to stay focused. He couldn't let her worry about him. But that was then, and this is now.

As Echo soars through the sky once more, Delphie's frustration bubbles up as she realizes they had left Astarion's leather cuirass behind in the heat of the moment. It lies abandoned amidst the chaotic battlefield, an oversight that makes her groan in irritation. She turns to the vampire spawn.

"Just stay close when we get down there. I lost my head. Your armor's quite literally in the middle of the battlefield."

Astarion's response is laden with a heavy sigh, his disappointment evident. "You really did, didn't you?"

With a sudden sense of urgency, the wood elf recognizes that Astarion is without his weapons. Without hesitation, she retrieves the twin slate knives from their sheaths and thrusts them towards him. "Here."

He gazes at her blankly, prompting Delphie to shake the knives in exasperation, shooting him a look that clearly says 'come on'. "I'm not gonna let you go out there unarmed."

"I'm grateful for that, my love, but what about you?" A note of concern colors the vampire spawn's voice.

Delphie's smirk is triumphant. "Don't forget, I'm half sorcerer, remember?" She winks mischievously at him before peering over the edge at the chaos unfolding below.

The situation is dire, far graver than they initially anticipated. A menacing nautiloid hovers ominously beside the Netherbrain, its presence punctuating the chaos with intermittent releases of grotesque aberrations into the already tumultuous fray. Despite the reunion of the group with Shadowheart and Jaheira at the brain's vicinity, the tension hangs heavy in the air, each member teetering on the brink of exhaustion and desperation.

Shadowheart, in particular, wears the weight of their predicament like a heavy shroud. Her usually composed demeanor is fraying at the edges, her resolve tested beyond its limits. She knows they need an escape, a lifeline to pull them from the clutches of this nightmarish ordeal. What she craves is the ability to invoke Selune's divine intervention, to call upon her goddess for the aid they so desperately need.

As they draw nearer to their destination, Delphie prepares herself for the inevitable leap from the dragon's back, her hand tightly clasping Astarion's.

"Ready to end this?" her voice rings out.

"I thought you'd never ask," the vampire spawn retorts, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

With an unspoken agreement passing between them, they synchronize their movements and leap from the dragon's back. In that suspended moment, as gravity claims them and the world around seems to slow, Astarion steals a glance at Delphie. Her form is illuminated by the faint glow of her arcane energies, hands outstretched as she begins her incantation. The scales on her forehead shimmer with a radiant light, casting an ethereal aura around her. In that fleeting instant, she is more than mortal; she is a vision of power and beauty, a goddess in her own right. Just as always.

"Gralik itpro!" Delphie's command slices through the stillness, shattering the suspended moment as time resumes its natural flow. In response, a brilliant bolt of azure lightning streaks forth from her outstretched hands, crackling with raw arcane power. It finds its mark, striking each of the three mind flayers that had encroached upon Shadowheart's flank. In an instant, their forms are consumed by the searing energy, reduced to smoldering ash.

Even as the remnants of their enemies drift away on the stagnant air, the elves land deftly upon the grotesque surface of the fleshy brain, their movements synchronized in perfect harmony. "Shadowheart! Call for Selune!" Delphie's urgent command rings out.

Without hesitation, the cleric nods in acknowledgment, her faith unwavering as she invokes the divine aid of her goddess. As her prayer reverberates through the pulsating mass of the Netherbrain, a soothing light blue aura envelops the weary party, suffusing them with a renewed vitality and vigor. In that fleeting moment of respite, their fatigue melts away, replaced by a surge of renewed strength and determination.

With newfound energy coursing through their veins, the party exchanges knowing smirks, a silent acknowledgment of their shared triumph over adversity. As one, they rally against the encroaching horde of aberrations, weapons flashing and spells flying as they tear through their foes.

The brain is weakened - this is our chance.

Orpheus. Delphie's gaze rises to where the mind flayer perches above them, a silent exchange of determination passing between them. With a resolute nod, she turns to her companions. "Astarion and I will head to the portal! Cover us!"

The urgency of her command spurs the others into action. Karlach, her grin a ferocious slash across her face, hefts her axe with a predatory gleam in her eye. "Gladly," she growls, anticipation coursing through her veins like wildfire. With a swift and brutal stroke, she cleaves an intellect devourer in half, its grotesque form falling apart at her feet in a flurry of viscera.

As the elven duo navigates through the chaotic battlefield towards the ominous portal, Astarion moves with the fluid grace of a seasoned predator. He wields his lover's daggers, each strike a masterful display of finesse and lethality. With a swift flick of his wrist, he dispatches Absolutists and aberrations alike, his movements a mesmerizing dance of death amidst the swirling chaos.

Beside him, Delphie unleashes the full force of her arcane prowess, her voice ringing out with authority as she shouts incantations with practiced ease. With each word, raw magical energy surges forth, blasting their adversaries back with explosive force. Her spells weave a protective barrier around them, a shield against the onslaught of their enemies' relentless assault.

And then, finally, they stand before the yawning maw of the portal, its darkness swirling with malevolent intent. With a shared glance of determination, they step forward together, disappearing into the void as they leave the chaos of the battlefield behind them.

-------------------------------

Its will is weakening - the brain is almost defeated!

Orpheus enters not long after them.

Their surroundings are a nightmarish tableau, a grotesque fusion of flesh and stone that defies description. They stand upon platforms fashioned from what can only be described as slabs of petrified purple flesh, surrounded by pink fleshy tendrils that writhe and pulse with a sickening vitality. Each step they take sends shivers down their spines, a stark reminder of the twisted reality they now inhabit.

With a silent nod of acknowledgment, Orpheus wastes no time in springing into action. With a surge of telekinetic energy, he levitates down to the nearest platform. Without hesitation, he unleashes a barrage of attacks upon the Netherbrain, his assault relentless and unforgiving.

"Let's go!" Delphie's shouts, her determination unwavering despite the Netherbrain's relentless assault on their minds. With a grimace, she summons the power of her wings, lifting herself into the air with a graceful sweep. With a determined grit, she reaches out and hoists Astarion by his pits, her muscles straining against the weight as she struggles to carry him.

As they soar towards the platform beside Orpheus, the very fabric of their surroundings begins to unravel. With a deafening roar, multiple platforms erupt into explosions of fleshy debris, sending shockwaves rippling through the air. The sudden violence of the Netherbrain's retaliation catches them off guard.

"It can do that?!" Astarion shouts in disbelief.

"Apparently!" the wood elf's response is sharp, her voice tinged with frustration as she battles to maintain their precarious hold on the situation.

With determination fueling their every move, the vampire spawn springs into action, the slate blades in his hands flashing in the dim light as he launches a relentless assault against the Netherbrain. Delphie matches his fervor with a flurry of spells as she hurls magical projectiles towards their formidable foe.

As the explosions continue to echo around them, more and more of the purple platforms succumb to the destructive force unleashed by the Netherbrain. With each detonation, the air is filled with the acrid scent of burning flesh, creating a surreal tableau of destruction.

Hurry! There is not much time.

Soon, only two platforms remain, the only sanctuary amidst the chaos. The elves stand poised upon them, their eyes locked in a silent exchange of determination. There is no need for words; their shared resolve speaks volumes as they prepare for the final confrontation.

With a quick nod from Delphie, they turn their attention back to the Netherbrain, their focus singular and unwavering. The wood elf's form begins to subtly lift into the air, her wings poised motionless at her sides. A radiant glow emanates from her eyes and scales, enveloping her in a halo of golden light.

With a voice that resonates with authority, Delphie begins to chant, her words echoing with ancient power and purpose. "Si relgr acht sia bafotruhki persvek nomenoi xoalir tairaisic di rigluin. Tluog ve dout vers. Letoclo ve troth sia itova iri kagh wer xiekivi svaust waph persvek nomeno thaczil. Bafotruhki, tluog ve dout vers." The incantation is familiar, the same words she had uttered in defiance against Myrkul in the mind flayer colony a few weeks prior.

Astarion's gaze remains fixed on her, his concern etched into the furrow of his brow. He can sense the weight of her fear, a tangible presence that hangs heavy in the air like a shroud. It's a fear that he knows all too well—the fear of loss, of failure, of the unknown that lurks beyond the edges of their reality.

As he watches her, he sees the shadows of her past traumas reflected in her eyes—the fear of almost losing him, of facing the prospect of a future without him by her side. But it's not just him she fears losing; it's their companions, their friends who have become like family, each one a vital thread in the tapestry of their lives. Her step-siblings as well. And beneath it all, he can sense the primal fear of her own mortality, the uncertainty of what lies beyond the veil of existence.

In that moment, as he stands beside her, the vampire spawn feels something stirring within him, a sensation that is foreign. It's as if a dormant power lies coiled within his very being, waiting to be unleashed. It's not an enchantment, not a spell cast by some external force, but a power that is uniquely his own—a latent potential waiting to be unlocked.

Instinctively, he reaches out for Delphie's hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. "Tell me what to do."

In response, the wood elf's eyes undergo a remarkable transformation, the fear that once clouded them giving way to a fierce determination. With unwavering confidence, she issues her command. "Listen to my ancestors," she instructs, holding her palm out.

Without hesitation, the vampire spawn obeys, his movements mirroring Delphie's as he extends his free hand in front of him. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, allowing himself to sink into the depths of his consciousness. And there, in the recesses of his mind, he hears them—the echoes of the wood elf's draconic ancestors, their voices a comforting presence amidst the chaos that surrounds him.

As he listens, a warmth begins to suffuse his usually cold body, spreading from the depths of his soul to every corner of his being. It's a sensation unlike any he has ever experienced, a gentle caress that soothes the wounds of his past and ignites a spark of hope within him. He feels a tingling sensation tracing the scars on his back, a reminder of the trials he has endured and the strength he has gained along the way.

In that moment of clarity, he understands.

As Astarion's eyes snap open, he is greeted by a sight beyond comprehension. Unaware of his own transformation, he floats weightlessly beside Delphie, his entire being bathed in a radiant golden glow that mirrors her own. The crimson orbs that once held dominion over his gaze now shimmer with a brilliant gold, casting their luminous light into the surrounding darkness. Even the scars that mar his back seem to pulse with an ethereal energy, tracing lines of ancient power across his pale skin.

Around them, a gentle breeze stirs, though there is no discernible source. Delphie's cloak billows behind her, while their hair dances in the unseen wind, shimmering with a faint aura of iridescence.

Astarion doesn't have to look behind them to know the spectral forms of her ancestors are behind them. Helping them. Guiding them. Protecting them.

"DOCAR KADEN!" Their voices resonate with power and purpose, a unified cry that pierces the air like a thunderclap. From their outstretched hands, twin torrents of swirling smoke, shot through with white-hot embers, erupt forth with a force that shakes the very ground beneath them. The clouds dance and weave in a mesmerizing display of elemental fury, their forms intertwining and merging as if guided by some unseen force.

As the swirling maelstroms converge upon the Netherbrain, a deafening roar echoes through the chamber, the sound of agony and despair mingling with the crackling of flames. The abomination thrashes and convulses within the confines of the swirling tempest, its form obscured by the dense clouds of smoke and fire that engulf it.

For a moment, all is chaos—a cacophony of sound and fury that threatens to consume everything in its path. And then, as suddenly as it began, the tempest begins to subside.

I-IMPOSSIBLE. FEAR. PAIN. TERROR.

"YOU WILL OBEY!" Delphie adds on through her gritted teeth.

Reconsider. Assess. Implore. SURRENDER!

The elves sink to their knees, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. Despite the weight of their weariness, their hands remain clasped together.

There. At last. It is subdued.

Hovering nearby, Orpheus glides gracefully towards them. As the last of the embers fade from the Netherbrain, he offers a solemn nod.

And thus, I honor my mother's legacy. The Grand Design, once again, ended by my line.

"As you should." Delphie offers him a weak smile, her arm wrapping around Astarion's shoulders. "Go ahead. Command the brain to destroy all the tadpoles, then itself."

Orpheus nods in acknowledgment before turning his attention back to the Netherbrain. With a sense of purpose, he extends his hands towards the pulsating mass, a solemn determination in his gaze. In his grasp, the Netherstones hover, pulsing with an otherworldly energy as they approach the quivering form of the Netherbrain.

My master. I must. OBEY. I must. END!

With the Netherbrain's ominous words reverberating through their minds, Delphie and Astarion are overcome by searing agony, their hands instinctively flying to their temples as waves of excruciating pain wash over them. It feels as though their very brains are on fire, the relentless burning sensation tearing through their consciousness like a raging inferno. In the depths of their minds, they can feel the insidious presence of the tadpoles writhing and squirming.

As suddenly as it began, the pain subsides, leaving the elves gasping for breath as they struggle to make sense of their surroundings. Blinking through bleary eyes, they find themselves surrounded by the rest of their friends, their bodies streaked with the mingled blood of aberrations and Absolutists.

And then, in a moment of surreal clarity, the Crown of Karsus shatters into countless pieces, its fractured remnants tumbling into the depths of the ocean below. As the last vestiges of the artifact disappear from view, a profound silence descends upon the battlefield, enveloping them in a cocoon of stillness that is as unnerving as it is unexpected.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, they are alone with their thoughts, their minds free from the intrusive whispers and commands of the Netherbrain. In the absence of its influence, they are left to grapple with the aftermath of their ordeal, their thoughts their own once more.

As the Netherbrain begins its rapid descent towards the ocean below, the ground beneath them lurches suddenly, catching them off guard. Each member of the party loses their balance, stumbling and grasping desperately for purchase as gravity exerts its inexorable pull. The world spins dizzyingly around them, the air alive with the sound of their startled cries.

But before disaster can strike, the dragons spring into action with uncanny swiftness, diving down from the sky with a thunderous roar. They swoop beneath their friends, catching them in the nick of time. As they ascend into the sky once more, the rush of wind and the pounding of their hearts are the only sounds that fill the air.

As the dragons carry them away from the plummeting Netherbrain, Delphie and Astarion share a glance, their laughter ringing out in a chorus of relief and jubilation. They had done it. Against all odds, they had emerged victorious.

As Astarion turns away to watch the final descent of the Netherbrain, Delphie notices something remarkable—a subtle transformation that had taken place during the heat of battle. The scars that once marred his back are now adorned with scales like hers.

[deckofmanyaces]

My best shot at Delphi's truly horrendous tattoo!

oh god that is so cursed... I will show it to Eiriol immediately

[parkerbombshell]

Rules Free Radio June 11

Tuesdays 2pm - 5pm  EST Rules Free Radio With Steve  Caplan bombshellradio.com On the next Rules Free Radio with Steve Caplan, the new releases include King Hannah, The Anderson Council, Neutrals, Frank Turner, La Luz, Willie Nelson, Andrew Bird, Arooj Aftab, Habibi, Lucius, Bat for Lashes, Richard Thompson, Los Days, Draco Rosa, Empirical, Hello Meteor, Another Michael, Chinese IX, and a few others. There are all kinds of classics and in-betweens including The Jam, The Undertones, Astor Piazzola, The Bangles, Billie Holiday, Father John Misty, Archers of Loaf, Days of Sorrow, Brian Wilson, Beach Fossils, Joan Armatrading, Gato Barbieri, Crowded House, and more. So get ready for another episode of one of the most diverse shows on the airwaves starting at 2. Tuesday afternoon, on Bombshellradio.com King Hannah - New York, Let’s Do Nothing The Anderson Council - Citadel Neutrals Leisureland The Undertones - Wednesday Week The Jam - David Watts Swansea Sound - I Don't Like Men In Uniform Kanak - Too Late Frank Turner - Pandemic PTSD Scream - Lifeline Archers of Loaf - Street Fighting Man Days Of Sorrow - Wild World Chinese IX - Bodies La Luz - Dandelions The Bangles - The Real World Mark and The Clouds - Heart at the Speed of Sound The Galileo 7 - Slow Down Lucius - Until We Get There Bat for Lashes - Delphi Dancing Keane - She Opens Her Eyes Beach Fossils - This Year Brian Wilson - Surf's Up Ambrose Akinmusire (feat. Bill Frisell & Herlin Riley) - Owl Song 1 Andrew Bird, Alan Hampton, Ted Poor - I Cover the Waterfront Father John Misty - We Could Be Strangers Billie Holiday - Comes Love Willie Nelson - The Border Dave Alvin & Jimmie Dale Gilmore - The Gardens BEAK> - Hungry Are We Draco Rosa - Sin Documentos Habibi - My Moon Arooj Aftab - Last Night Reprise Ninet Tayeb - Reborn (Screams Before Silence) Joan Armatrading - Save Me Richard Thompson - The Day That I Give In Los Days - Midnight Menace Astor Piazzola - Meditango Gato Barbieri - Jeanne Empirical - True Cost Hello Meteor - Contour Interval Crowded House -  Private Universe Another Michael - Hub of Dreams Read the full article

[tsukinobherzhoka12]

Hermione adopts Delphine AU

Mcgonnagal: Ms. Granger and Mr Matthew Riddle, I called you here because Ms.Riddle jinx a student using a borderline dark magic. Although she used it for self defence.

Hermione: *Looks at Matthew then to Delphine*

Matthew: *Looks at Hermione*

Hermione: *sigh* Here you go* pulls out ten galleons and handed it to Mathew*

Matthew:*smugly puts his galleons into his pocket* I told you she will use that spell on her first year here.

Delphine: Hold on, Are the two of you betting on me?!

Minerva: Did you expect this to happen?

Hermione: Babylon is quite boring these days.

Matthew: and to answer that question Ms. Mcgonalgall? knowing how she almost destroyed the snake island because she protected her pet viper from the other snakes? yup I expected it