#what is that accent? I like to think a cryptic combination of all of them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

klea221 · 4 years ago

Text

Blood and Gold Part 1

*This is a fic of my own. I have not finished campaign 2 yet but I am being self indulgent and writing because I cannot get enough of Mollymauk. (I refuse to let him be dead!)*

The wind off the river was warm and calming, just like any other day in Marquet.

Merchants bartered and unloaded cargo. Children stopped to gawk at the foreign goods only to be quickly shooed away.

Life here was simple to the untrained eye but for those who knew better, “freedom” came at a cost.

Beginning to climb off the rocks and through the reeds, I realize that my hiding spot is in jeopardy. Stilling, I hope to remain unseen by the guards.

Casting “disguise self”, I make my way to the passenger ship. The price is a steep 300 gold but once I get to the menagerie coast, I can start my new life. Surely, its worth the cost. Hopefully, my sister Yara will keep up the illusion until I’m far enough away…

I limit my time outside the cabin to twice a day to keep up the disguise. The rest of the time I use to plan my next steps. Of course I had never really “worked” before but, I had extensive tutoring and training at the palace which could come in useful. Armed with my bow, a dagger, and my sword, I could become some sort of adventurer! It could be like the stories father used to tell us growing up about the great heroes of the past!

Shrugging it off, I remind myself not to get too carried away. Surely, it would be more reasonable to work in a tavern of some sort…

Suddenly, I am pushed out of my thoughts by my sister’s message,

“(Y/N)! Its me, Yara! I was unable to keep up the act! Father has sent a search party! Be safe”

Even with closed eyes, I can still smell the blood. As quick as the rebellion came and left, the damage was already done. The streets of Ank’Harel were stained red. Noble houses were torn a part and everyone was on edge.

After a week of negotiation, things began to change. Hopefully things would go back to “normal”.

“We will form an alliance! There will be no more bloodshed in this city. We have a duty to the people, Ozai!” commanded the king.

“Yes, of course. There is however, a price for my… compliance” says General Ozai.

“Name it” answered the king, trying to remain prideful.

“Your daughter will marry Omar, He will become the Prince”.

“It will be done”.

I couldn’t breathe.

Omar was just as cruel as his father-if not worse. He was even rumoured to keep many slaves. Surely this man could not ever love let alone be a good husband. I felt sick. As I looked around the room, it spun and no body seemed to care.

“I will not hear anymore of this (y/n). My word is final! You will marry Omar! The wedding will be next month and that is that!” yelled the king.

My father almost never yelled, especially not to me. After the rebellion he seemed to be unhinged and there would be no use in arguing. My fate is settled; marry Omar or go far away-and never return…

“I understand” was all I could muster before storming off to my chambers. I grabbed all that I could and made my way to the docks.

My eyes shot open as I rose from the hard cot. The ship’s horn bellowed, vibrating the floor and walls of the cabin. Looking over to my window, I could see a huge lighthouse in the shape of the Wild Mother. This is it! This must be Nicodranas! Excited for what this new place has in store, I toss all of my things into my bag and leave the ship for the last time.

I cannot help but feel captivated by the delicate blue hues around me. The air is a beautiful combination of warmth, sea salt, and the smell of cinnamon. Looking over to a bakery, I see freshly made pastries and decide I should indulge myself! Why not?

Before I am able to take my first bite, the heavy presence of guards makes me uneasy. Trying to be stealthy, I make my way into an alley and case “disguise self” for the first time today.

“Hey! I can do that too!” says a cheerful accented voice.

Looking over my shoulder, I see a blue tiefling magically transform into a blond human girl in peasant’s clothing.

“My name is Jester! I’ll keep your secret if you give me your donut!” she says happily eyeing my purchase.

Though she is quite forward, I feel comforted by the tiefling and decide that maybe I shouldn’t be alone anymore.

“Why don’t I just buy us some more then! Oh- and my name is y/n!” I tell her as we walk back to the bakery.

Jester can talk nonstop! Normally this would be a little much for me but, having travelled alone for so long, I welcome it. Jester quickly tells me all about the city, her mother, and all the tricks the so called “Traveler” has taught her. Sticking with my plan, I tell her that I am looking for work while in Nicodranas. She happily takes me to her Inn where her mother helps me secure a job. I work hard cleaning up after guests and fetching them any food or drink that they require in exchange for room and board. It is very hard work but, Jester keeps me company most days.

One night as I’m folding tablecloths, I hear a commotion on the stairs. Its Lord Sharpe and he’s livid!

“IF I EVER SEE YOUR DAUGHTER AGAIN I WILL HAVE HER KILLED!”

Oh no! Jester what has she done now!

Trying to stay out of the argument, I look up to see Marion on the staircase with tears streaming down her normally poised face. This was really bad indeed…

Making my way up to Jester’s room, I can already hear Marion and Jester.

“But Mama! It was just a joke! Surely he can’t be serious!” whines Jester. She’s completely unaware of the gravity of her actions.

“Lord Sharpe is an extremely powerful man Jester, I don’t think we should take the risk! I think it would be best if you left the city for awhile. Maybe with time things will blow over” says Marion, pushing the hair out of Jester’s face.

Opening the door, I try to aid Marion in convincing Jester to play it safe.

“Jester, your mother is right-I-I’ve seen what men with power can do…” I say cryptically.

Not sensing that Jester is understanding, I take my chances and tell them both my REAL story. I tell them all bout my engagement and how awful the ramifications would have been had I stayed. Who knows, maybe I would’ve been killed one day to give Omar the throne…

“Jester, we can go together, we can keep each other safe from bad guys. I’m sure the Traveler will help us!” I say, trying to persuade her.

“Thank you for telling us this (y/n). You are a true friend. I know you will keep my little sapphire safe!” she says pulling me into a hug.

“It is settled then, we will leave at once!” Jester says.

“Here, this should help you two along” says Marion, placing a rather large coin purse into Jester’s hands. “Be very careful Jester, and try not to play too many tricks!” warns Marion.

Jester had decided that we would search for her long-lost father (whom she had never even met). Not wanting to crush her hopes, I tag along on the mission.

In Port Damali, our “investigation” runs dead. Despite this, we manage to gain a member into our little group. Having noticed our cleric abilities, a half-orc sailor named Fjord offered to travel with us. He tells us that he wishes to enroll at the magic academy in the Dwendalian Empire.

As we lead the coast and travel towards this new Empire, the air become noticeably cooler. The ocean views become obscured by rocky mountain terrain, and I begin to feel anxious for the road ahead.

As we arrived at Trostenwald, there was a commotion by the lake. Curiously walking closer, we see a giant water snake and a tiny screaming girl curled in its grasp.

In a matter of seconds, a female monk leaps onto the scene in a flash of blue robes. She begins to pummel the beast with her staff. Seeing as she may need help with killing the snake, the three of us run to help.

Aiming by bow toward the beast, I surprisingly manage to hit it right behind the head. However, before I can get too excited, I realize the beast is far too large for one arrow alone to take it down. The snake angrily strikes at the monk who narrowly dodges the attack.

Fjord runs up to the beast and draws his sword while I prepare another arrow. This time, I aim for the eyes.

Now blinded and confused, the creature is unaware of Fjord’s presence. He quickly begins to cut through the beast’s tough skin, killing it.

As the snake falls to the ground, the crowd erupts with cheers.

Jester runs over to the little girl and quickly casts “cure wounds”. My heart finally slows down knowing that the girl is safe.

“YOU GUYS THAT WAS AWESOME!” yells Jester, waving her hands around.

“Ugh, yeah! That was pretty rad” says the monk. “My name’s Beau by the way”

“Oh! I’m Jester! And this is y/n and Fjord!” says Jester, happily.

“Nice to meet you” I say shyly.

“Are you guys travelling too?” asks Beau.

“Yes, we are making our way north to the Soltryce Academy” says Fjord.

“Ah- the Soltryce Academy you say… No offense but you guys are gonna need some serious coin for that” says the monk, knowingly.

“You don’t say… You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who is hiring, would you?” says the half-orc.

“Well I mean, I was going to do some work for the Baumbach Brewery before this snake thing happened… You’re welcome to tag along if you’d like” offers the monk.

“Hey! That sounds like it could be fun!” says Jester.

After living in a palace most of my life, I try not to complain too much about manual labour but this job was BRUTAL. The four of us have done nothing but haul boxes and crates for hours on end. My body was sore and sweaty despite the cool air of Trostenwald.

By the time we got to the Nestled Nook Inn, my body was on autopilot. Not bothering to eat, I head upstairs and crash onto the bed.

With an aching body, I finally pull myself out of bed and open the door. I am greeted with the comforting smell of fresh bread and breakfast meats. Sitting down with the rest of the group, I forget my table manners and devour the food placed in front of me.

Not long into breakfast, the little girl’s father from yesterday enters the Inn. Nervously, he makes his way to our table and thanks us graciously. Before leaving, he dumps a hatful of coin onto our table. The coin pile draws much attention so, I rush to divide the pile evenly.

As Jester begins to converse with the table next to us, quick introductions are made. Before I can dwell on the halfling’s odd appearance, two more strange figures make their way noisily through the Inn.

Quickly turning my head in annoyance to the commotion, my heart stops for a moment. Having lived in Marquet all my life, I was used to Tieflings as they were common to see around the city. This lavender one however, was a sight to behold. And Gods was I in trouble…

#critical role x reader #mollymauk tealeaf #reader #fan fic #mollymauk x reader

4 notes · View notes

f4liveblogarchives · 5 years ago

Text

Fantastic Four Vol 1 #222

Tues Apr 27 2020 [08:12 PM] Wack'd: HERE WE GO. AFTER LIKE EIGHT MONTHS. THE AUSPICIOUS RETURN. [08:12 PM] Wack'd: FANTASTIC FOUR VOL 1 NO 222 [08:12 PM] maxwellelvis: Sound the music [08:13 PM] Umbramatic: huzzah! [08:15 PM] Wack'd: So! We are almost at the John Bryne era, but before we get there, Doug Moench and Bill Sienkiewicz have like ten issues in 'em. [08:16 PM] Wack'd: We open with, uh. Sue Storm giving her increasingly preteen looking son a horsey ride while wearing a full pantsuit and pearls.

[08:16 PM] Wack'd: It's a choice! [08:18 PM] Wack'd: It's weird seeing Reed being playful...

[08:18 PM] maxwellelvis: Franklin shrank like two feet between cuts here. [08:18 PM] Wack'd: This, though. Weirder. Definitely weirder.

[08:19 PM] maxwellelvis: If I were a gambling man I'd say Franklin got kidnapped by Skrulls or something in the night and hasn't yet realized it yet. [08:21 PM] Wack'd: Reed heads out to the library and Ben joins him since he's on his way to the movies. Reed is very insistent they take a train rather than a cab, because he's worried about finances, but also [08:21 PM] Wack'd: *cough* [08:21 PM] Wack'd: IT'S NINETEEN EIGHTY [08:24 PM] Bocaj: There are trains? [08:24 PM] Wack'd: So we cut directly from this talk of personal finances and energy shortages to

[08:25 PM] Bocaj: I remember it going differently but go off I guess [08:25 PM] Wack'd: Nah she did that [08:26 PM] Bocaj: Dang [08:26 PM] Bocaj: Tough love [08:26 PM] Wack'd: In that annual where he nearly traumatized Franklin to death [08:27 PM] Wack'd: Meanwhile, Johnny's out in Jersey doing some racing! [08:28 PM] Wack'd: Johnny you've had like three love interests since then, also she cheated on you

[08:28 PM] maxwellelvis: Damn you, Pavlov [08:29 PM] Bocaj: With Quicksilver [08:29 PM] Bocaj: Like fuck [08:30 PM] maxwellelvis: I've no idea what she saw in him. [08:30 PM] Bocaj: That’s just. That’s sad. And then she cheated on Quicksilver with a random real estate agent. It’s like a race to the bottom [08:30 PM] maxwellelvis: The only rungs left down from there are like, Blackheart and Irving Forbush. [08:31 PM] Wack'd: Okay Sue two things: 1. his powers aren't the only things he's suppressing, he watched you die like 20 issues ago, take this kid to a therapist

[08:31 PM] Wack'd: 2. "So long as nothing traumatic happens" is just asking for it [08:32 PM] Umbramatic: yeeeeeeeeeeeep [08:33 PM] Wack'd: SPEAK OF A GUY WHOSE NAME IS LITERALLY NICK SCRATCH, YOU KNOW, LIKE THE DEVIL

[08:34 PM] Wack'd: Gdi Sue and Reed, you just left to the door to the *Negative Zone open in a house with a child? Next you're going to tell me you leave guns lying around or put cleaning chemicals in easy-to-reach places or don't put plastic plugs over unused electrical outlets [08:35 PM] Bocaj: They’re bad parents [08:35 PM] Umbramatic: they leave guns in the cleaning chemicals with no plastic plugs over them [08:35 PM] Bocaj: You gotta keep your doors to the antimatter universe locked. That’s just common sense for raising a child [08:36 PM] Wack'd: ...HEY DOES THAT DRAWER HAVE A LOCK ON IT?! I WAS JOKING ABOUT THE GUN THING!!!

[08:37 PM] maxwellelvis: It's 1980, Wack'd; childproofing doesn't exist yet. [08:37 PM] Bocaj: Its juuuuuust a flare gun [08:38 PM] Wack'd: Oh so Franklin can just shoot a ball of fire, cool [08:38 PM] Bocaj: When has a child ever killed anyone or burned down a library with a flare gun [08:38 PM] maxwellelvis: Yep. No seatbelts or booster seats in the Fantasticar either. [08:40 PM] maxwellelvis: Unsafe at Any Speed was published in 1965 and I think by 1980 people still had yet to take it seriously. By the Clinton administration, that changed somewhat... [08:40 PM] Wack'd: Lorrie, you're not missing anything, he was gonna spend the entire time imagining you as his ex

[08:40 PM] maxwellelvis: Must be nice to not have to have a secret identity. [08:40 PM] Bocaj: Saves time [08:41 PM] Bocaj: Don’t have to think of excuses or find a phone booth [08:42 PM] maxwellelvis: What's not so nice is having a secret identity, but your enemies know who you are anyways. S'why Rita Repulsa would have been way more dangerous if it wasn't a kids show. [08:43 PM] Wack'd:

[08:43 PM] Bocaj: “Oh no, he’s become a teenager!” [08:44 PM] Wack'd: "Easy, Susie, you don't know what you're saying! It's entirely possible that is Franklin, he says weirder shit than this all the time" [08:44 PM] Bocaj: True [08:45 PM] Wack'd: Wow. Uh. Probably not a good sign when the murderous spirit of a dead witch is cheering on your behavior!

[08:45 PM] Bocaj: I see the attempted ironic echo [08:45 PM] Wack'd: (Also, speaking of Franklin saying weirder shit than this, the "I like watching you and momm smooch--yeah [08:45 PM] Bocaj: But both situations were creepy so [08:45 PM] Wack'd: Yeah [08:46 PM] Wack'd: So Reed sends Johnny to fetch Dr. Strange as Franklin starts, uh

[08:47 PM] Umbramatic: FLOATING GUNS [08:47 PM] Wack'd: I swear to good I didn't read this ahead of time. I literally had no idea when I said the gun thing that I was being ironic [08:48 PM] maxwellelvis: To be fair, all the locks in the world would probably have done no good with Franklin's power and Scratch's magic combined. [08:48 PM] Umbramatic: Okay, i believe you. [08:48 PM] Bocaj: Hey Dr Strange! Both he and Reed always think they’re right [08:48 PM] Bocaj: It’s gonna be a hoot [08:48 PM] Umbramatic: (i actually do belive you i just had to link that) [08:50 PM] Wack'd: "I could do it. I could leave him to die. I could let Franklin murder him. I would be blameless...and I would be...free..."

[08:51 PM] Bocaj: HAH! [08:51 PM] Mousa The 14: Sue get possessed too? [08:51 PM] Wack'd: I think she's just in shock. [08:51 PM] maxwellelvis: No, I think Scratch just broke the Franklin Button [08:52 PM] maxwellelvis: He shouldn't'a did that. [08:52 PM] Mousa The 14: Tends to be poor form to possess a child right before his mother’s eyes. [08:53 PM] Wack'd: So Strange is out of town, naturally. But as Johnny leaves a redhaired lady named Desadia spies on him, and places a cryptic phone call to a Nick-Fury-looking guy called Gabriel. That will probably be important later. [08:53 PM] Umbramatic: probably. [08:53 PM] maxwellelvis: There's nothing ominous about those names at all. [08:54 PM] Mousa The 14: Desadia is definitely an uncommon one [08:55 PM] maxwellelvis: If her last name is Marcus, RUN [08:55 PM] Wack'd: Back at the Baxter, Reed snaps Sue out of her shock, which, like. I was honestly hoping she was mad at Reed for hitting her? Or something? [08:55 PM] Mousa The 14: Someone should be [08:55 PM] Bocaj: I’ll be [08:55 PM] Wack'd: I get that it's her kid but it's also Reed's and he's fine! Going into shock is not just a thing women do! [08:56 PM] Mousa The 14: How does Hank “has had some head issues” Pym never live it down but Reed “Man of Action” Richards just gets to do this whenever [08:56 PM] Wack'd: Marvel's First Family [08:56 PM] maxwellelvis: Grandfathering [08:57 PM] maxwellelvis: Nobody wants to be the one who broke them up for good. [08:57 PM] Wack'd: Johnny returns and he has a solution which is also the only solution he has to most problems [08:57 PM] Mousa The 14: Burning it? [08:57 PM] maxwellelvis: FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! [08:57 PM] Wack'd: He just...melts the entire fucking room to slag, yeah [08:57 PM] Wack'd: Because hey, no more weapons, right? [08:57 PM] Mousa The 14: God dammit, Johnny [08:57 PM] Mousa The 14: I mean yes that’s technically true but [08:58 PM] Mousa The 14: Other people are around [08:58 PM] Wack'd: Then they do what they only didn't do from the beginning because gotta make Sue look weak [08:58 PM] Wack'd: Shove Franklin in a force field and shoot him fulla sedatives

[08:59 PM] Wack'd: Some exceptional faces on Franklin this issue, gotta say [08:59 PM] Wack'd: Though he kind of has a Little Lord Fauntleroy thing going on in that first panel [08:59 PM] Bocaj: Maybe reed should try lobotomizing him again [09:00 PM] Bocaj: Worked out fine the first time [09:00 PM] Umbramatic: reed's face there reminds me of seasons greasons [09:00 PM] Wack'd: We don't talk about Conway anymore. 😛 [09:01 PM] maxwellelvis: Has Scratch given any indication that he's the one possessing Franklin? [09:01 PM] Wack'd: Not really [09:01 PM] maxwellelvis: Like announced his presence? [09:01 PM] Wack'd: But they figure they should bring him to Agatha's anyway. [09:01 PM] maxwellelvis: So for all they know he just did this on his own. [09:01 PM] maxwellelvis: FINALLY [09:04 PM] Mousa The 14: It’s a possession even if it’s not old scratch they know they need a magical solution [09:04 PM] Wack'd: I love that Reed starts this page having a séance around a pentagram and ends it declaring that actually this is all highly scientific

[09:04 PM] maxwellelvis: I just mean why's she second? [09:04 PM] maxwellelvis: "HAIL SCIENCE!" [09:04 PM] Wack'd: Also we're just going to trust this guy who none of you have ever met who just wandered in here out of nowhere, that's cool [09:05 PM] Mousa The 14: Yeah that’s weird. [09:05 PM] Mousa The 14: Like what are his credentials? A single eye and a white streak? [09:05 PM] Wack'd: In fairness that's more than Dr Strange has [09:06 PM] Mousa The 14: If he’s not blonde, in a trench coat, with a working class accent then this is not the man you’re looking for [09:06 PM] Mousa The 14: Good point, Wack’d [09:06 PM] maxwellelvis: Yeah, but Dr. Strange looks like Vincent Price [09:06 PM] Mousa The 14: However Dr. Strange has a doctorate [09:06 PM] Wack'd: A Doctorate Against the Dark Arts [09:06 PM] Mousa The 14: Hah! [09:06 PM] maxwellelvis: Daimon Hellstrom has a pentagram on his chest and goes around at all times without a shirt on, AND his hair goes up in devil points. [09:06 PM] maxwellelvis: 🥁 [09:08 PM] Bocaj: Look if you want to fight demons you gotta ditch the dead weight like shirts [09:08 PM] Wack'd: Why was this guy necessary? What was he doing that Agatha couldn't have? Just from a sheer plot construction point of view I don't understand what this man's utility is besides "someone besides a woman fixes this problem"

[09:09 PM] maxwellelvis: I guess we'll find out next issue? [09:09 PM] Mousa The 14: Maybe this is his backdoor pilot for a comic that never took off [09:09 PM] Wack'd: You know what, that seems likely [09:09 PM] Wack'd: He's got kind of a Gary Seven energy to him [09:09 PM] Mousa The 14: They did that quite a bit with the FF if I recall [09:10 PM] maxwellelvis: Namor, the Black Panther, those are just the examples that worked. [09:10 PM] Mousa The 14: Using the some of the 2 in ones or whatever to help enhance whoever’s book was failing [09:10 PM] maxwellelvis: The Inhumans too. [09:10 PM] maxwellelvis: @Mousa The 14 Or to conclude a series that was cut short prematurely. [09:10 PM] Wack'd: Anyway, next issue: field trip to New Salem! [09:10 PM] Mousa The 14: Indeed [09:10 PM] Wack'd: Speaking of series cut prematurely short, it's letters page time! [09:11 PM] Wack'd: Our first letter is from Chris Wells of Brooklyn, who was apparently very concerned that we's never find out what happened to Dr. Sun from Nova! [09:11 PM] Wack'd: Because as we all know, Fantastic Four would never forget about a plot point involving an evil golden robot. [09:11 PM] Bocaj: Return of the revenge of new Salem [09:12 PM] Wack'd: He also was happy to see HERBIE go even though he didn't hate him as much as he thought he would. And wants Johnny and Dazzler to hang out more. [09:13 PM] Wack'd: The next letter is all praise for Bill Mantlo. Folks...really liked HERBIE's heroic death? Even though it was a relic of a plotline that really never went anywhere and only existed because of a crossover with a book no one seemed to like [09:14 PM] maxwellelvis: And involving a character I thought nobody liked, too. [09:14 PM] maxwellelvis: Guess it's all in the telling. [09:14 PM] Wack'd: Every letter on this page is just "I hated HERBIE, but his death made me cry!" [09:14 PM] Wack'd: No accounting for taste I guess [09:15 PM] Bocaj: That’s what happened with Cipher too [09:15 PM] Wack'd: Adric Syndrome [09:15 PM] Bocaj: Not bill, Doug [09:15 PM] maxwellelvis: Forced to kill him off, she made sure EVERYONE felt bad about wishing him dead. [09:16 PM] maxwellelvis: How DID Cipher die, anyway? [09:16 PM] Wack'd: Tragic sign language accident [09:19 PM] Bocaj: He got shot with a bullet from a gun [09:19 PM] Bocaj: Saving Wolfsbane I beleive

#1980 #Doug Moench #Bill Sienkiewicz #The Main Book

4 notes · View notes

icecubelotr44 · 6 years ago

Text

Trouble with a Capital ‘T’ (3/who knows)

It liiiiiiives! Whumpetition Entry 3: Bedridden

Still basically just another excuse to whump the Jones brothers, after all.

Chapter One | Chapter Two

ao3 | ffn

"I suppose the real question is, 'who the bloody hell are you?" The girl made a startlingly accurate mockery of his accent and Liam blanched for a moment. She had this look on her face that reminded him so much of... His thoughts trailed away from his little brother when the girl's face fell. "You two are really hurt, aren't ya?"

Something clicked in his head, and he didn't really understand why. "Tilly?"

She nodded automatically, not really looking at him, but at his little brother. The look on her face as it crumpled, the devastation there, it all started to make a strange kind of sense as to how they'd gotten into this mess in the first place.

"How did you find us, lass?" He didn't understand how she'd gotten here, how she'd found them.

If she would help them.

"I just looked for what wasn't there," she replied cryptically, not taking her eyes off his brother. She looked so familiar.

"What?"

She smiled, but it was a sad thing. "I knew he'd come looking for me. He'd never leave me out in the cold, not on a night like this. I've spent colder nights, you know, out in the forest. But not here."

Liam still didn't understand.

"When he didn't show up, I came looking. But he's not waking up..." she trailed off, turning her tortured glance towards him. "I don't even know if he's really awake."

Liam blinked, not understanding.

"Are you awake? You're not supposed to be if you are," she riddled again.

He didn't know what made him understand. If it was her mannerisms or just a remnant of the curse. If he'd ever known who she was or if he'd never met her before. He didn't understand how he knew - just that he knew.

"Aye, luv, I'm awake. And so are you."

She nodded. "He named me Alice. After your-"

"After our mother,” Liam finished. “Of course he did. Alice, we-"

"You need help. I'll be back in a tiff!"

And she was off, her footsteps muffled in the snow and gone so suddenly that Liam wasn't entirely sure that she wasn't a figment of his imagination.

Did he have a niece to worry about now, as well?

Liam twisted around, trying to peer out the back window of the SUV to watch Alice scamper off, seemingly unperturbed by the blizzard swirling around her. All too quickly, she was lost to the whiteout conditions and Liam couldn’t do anything more for her.

Besides, he had his little brother to worry about, still.

Killian was shivering more violently now, tiny little whimpers escaping from him though his face was still slack with unconsciousness.

Liam shifted again, moving closer to his brother and trying to share what body heat he could. Killian was terrifyingly pale, his eyelashes sooty against his cheeks. There wasn't much else he could do, what with the way the world was tilting around him and the way his own shivering was lighting a fire in his arm. Neither one of them was in any state of health, both of them needed help - at least an hour ago, if not sooner. There was nothing he could do other than try and keep them both alive until Alice could get back with help.

Gods, his niece had better hurry.

His niece. He had a niece. Killian had sired a child. One who, by all accounts (from what he could see in her eyes anyway) had been raised well and loved thoroughly. Liam smiled a little - Killian hadn't had the best role model in their father in how to parent, but Liam wasn't so blind as to think that Brennan had any influence over them anyway. No, Liam knew that any ability to parent that Killian had grown into, it was solely due to his little brother's strength of character.

Liam had never been more proud of Killian.

Never.

Of course, he couldn't tell him that. Rogers wouldn't understand, may be drawn to Ali- Tilly like Jewell had been to Kil- Rogers, but didn't have a daughter.

He'd have to wake him up, and soon.

Alice needed her father, and Liam needed his little brother.

Killian needed him, too, even if he didn't know it yet.

Liam sighed, resisting the urge to pull Killian forward and check on the wound in his back. He knew the pressure was better for it, but not being able to see if the bleeding had stopped was terrifying. He wanted to control it, wanted to control everything about this situation. Especially now that he'd inexplicably gotten his little brother back and both sets of memories in his head were shouting from the rooftops in a combination of relief and fear.

Gods, what if he lost him again?

Liam was sure this wasn't another curse, that there wouldn't be a magical do-over if his brother died here in this car. He didn't understand how Killian was here, how he wasn't long ago returned to the sea to rest, how he was here.

He didn't bloody care.

Killian was here and Liam was going to make damned sure that he was going to stay that way.

"Liam?" Killian's whisper rang through the SUV and nearly made Liam shout in startled concern.

Put a lid on the cursed memories, Jones, he thought hastily. "Rogers?"

Killian sighed sadly and Liam began to hope. It all came flooding back to him, the last few hours in the car, the stilted conversations, calling him Liam, calling him brother.

He turned hopeful, tortured eyes up to where Killian was looking at him blearily. He had to try. He could always blame it on stress if he were wrong.

"Ki..." he cleared his throat, his heart nearly choking him. "Killian?"

Startled, frightened eyes met his own gaze, Killian looking at him with such hope that Liam knew it already.

"Little brother?"

Killian very clearly wasn't breathing, shaking with tears checked in the corners of his eyes. "Liam?" he whispered, sounding nearly terrified.

Liam nodded, reaching out to clasp a hand over Killian's knee, tears stinging his own eyes.

"I..." Killian started, "I need..."

"What do you need, Killian? Help is coming." There would be time for explanations later.

But the guarded look didn't leave. "I need you to tell me your last name."

Oh. Right. Killian was just as worried as he was.

Liam smiled gently, hand coming up to cup the back of Killian's neck. "Glory for the Jones brothers, aye Killian?"

Liam Jones had spent centuries in Neverland, dreaming of the day he'd find out what had happened to his little brother. He had spent the first few years imagining that he could escape and reunite with Killian. Had pictured the reunion so many times, locked in that godsdamned cage in that bloody tree.

Had expected tears, hugs, disbelief, anger. Anything and everything. Or so he thought.

Liam Jones had never expected this.

Killian pulled sharply away from him, plastering himself against the door and stifling a cry as he jostled some injury that Liam wanted to catalogue and fix. He started shaking his head 'no', scrabbling for the door handle.

He was shaking.

Violently.

"Killian?" Liam didn't know what to do. What was wrong. How to fix this.

Was it because Killian had thought him long dead? Liam had thought the same about him and was just relieved to find he got another chance with his little brother. Was it because he'd abandoned Killian when he was still so young, so vulnerable? Was it superstition? Was it... he just didn't know.

"No. No no no. Nonononono. You can't be awake. You're not supposed to be awake. Jewell was safe. You're not Jewell anymore. You're Liam and she's going to come for you. I can't protect you from her. Not now, not here. Not like this." Killian's arm rose, his prosthetic running jerkily through his hair as he muttered maniacally.

"Killian, it's all right," he soothed. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. It's the two of us again. The two of us together, Kil- it's all right, just calm down."

Killian kept muttering, eyes wild, tears in his eyes. "I can't lose you again."

"You're not going to, little brother. Come on now, it's all right. Just slow down. I don't understand." Liam reached out hesitantly, telegraphing his intentions before he laid his hand, palm up, next to Killian's right hand. He wouldn't have to move it much, wouldn't risk pulling on his shoulder, he just had to-

Killian clutched his hand desperately, holding on for dear life.

Killian's fingers were freezing around his own, making Liam stare at their hands in something approaching wonder. They were both in the same car, had been in the elements for the same amount of time. And yet. Killian was bloody freezing. God, how long had Liam been out cold in the back, secure under the blankets they should have been sharing. How much blood had his little brother lost from that gash in his back? What other injuries was he hiding, did Liam need to be worried about shock, should he be-

"Li-" Killian tried to speak, shaking violently and staring at Liam imploringly. Gods, he looked so bloody young, like those first days on Silver's ship, begging Liam to make it right, to keep him safe, to lead him.

"It's all right, little brother," Liam assuaged, gentling his voice as if speaking to a frightened stray. "I've got you now. Just relax, Killian, it's going to be all right."

Killian's tremors eased fractionally, leaning almost imperceptibly towards Liam, his hand still contracted almost painfully around Liam's own fingers. He looked even younger than he had a moment ago, seemingly caught between his terror and his natural tendency to follow where Liam led.

"Let's get you situated more comfortably, aye?" Liam reached out to ease Killian back around, wrapping his arm around his little brother's shoulders and tugging him close. A quick check that the abdominal pad was still firmly in place and a sharp tug of the blankets to keep his brother warm, and Liam was more comfortable than he'd been in centuries - with Killian secure under his arm where he could keep him safe.

"Li'm," Killian slurred, the adrenaline waning and leaving him near boneless against Liam's side. "You've gotta stay safe. I need you."

Liam shut his eyes against the pain, against the loss in his brother's voice and murmured softly into his hair. "I've got you, little brother. You're safe now."

Killian shook his head, but it was sloppy, not something Liam had ever associated with the young Lieutenant who had turned his life around so completely once Liam had bartered with a god for their freedom. Liam's unease ratcheted up past worry and concern and into a nearly crippling fear. Alice needed to hurry up. The ambulance needed to get here. He needed to save his brother.

"'m safe. Sh' doe'n't wan' me. Already used me. But sh' needs y'r heart, Li'm. Please, brother. Stay safe. Can' lose you 'gain." Killian tucked his head more firmly under Liam's chin, tightening his fingers as much as he was able as if this woman he was so afraid of would materialize in the SUV and steal Liam from under his nose.

His little brother was scared. It wasn't an emotion Liam was used to seeing in his brother. Even when they were small, Killian was brash and fearless. Not even the cane nor the whip, not even the bloody cat could break his brother's hold on his temper. Sure, he may have been afraid, and who wouldn't have been under the circumstances? But he'd never looked it.

"I'll keep a weather eye out, Killian,” Liam vowed. “I promise I won't leave you again. Not again, little brother, I swear it. I'm here."

Killian nodded, but his movements were slowed, his eyes when he looked up at his brother were glassy and unfocused. "m cold, Li..." his words trailed off as he dropped his head back to Liam's chest, seizing up a moment as he shivered before going completely limp.

"Killian?" Liam questioned. "Killian?!"

There was no answer. He shook his brother hard, hoping beyond hope for some kind of response.

Killian flopped limply against his chest, his hand lax in Liam's.

"Killian!"

Liam tore the blanket from around his shoulders, shivering when the cold in the SUV assaulted him, but ignoring it as he wrapped the wool tightly around Killian. The combine pad was still in place, pinned between Killian's shoulder and the backseat. He could still smell the blood, though, far too cloying and pervasive in the air to be under control. Was he bleeding from somewhere else? Was there something Liam couldn't fix? Was he going to lose Killian before he had a chance to find out how he was here? Pressing down harder on the wound, Liam did something he hadn't done since his mother had been dying in their seaside cottage.

He prayed.

In English, in Gaelic, to any god he could think of, any god he'd ever heard of. Anyone and anything that would keep his brother with him. Gods, he needed to go after Alice, make sure she-

"They're coming."

She came out of nowhere, he was half-convinced she was a ghost or a hallucination. The thought came unbidden and nearly made Liam weep in fear - what if she was a hallucination? What if no one had gone for help? What if no one knew-

"Uncle Liam?"

Alice had managed to climb into the SUV through the driver's side door when he wasn't looking, her thin hand reaching around the tree branches resting on the console to reach for him and squeeze his knee in reassurance.

She was real. Bloody hell, she was real and that meant help was coming.

"I'm all right, sweet. You called the ambulance?"

She nodded. "I found some service a little ways up the road. Told them who you were. They're all coming."

Liam did start crying then, tears slipping - unbidden - down his cheeks.

"Uncle Liam?"

"'m all right, little lass. We're going to get your fath... gods, your father is awake, luv... we're going to save him."

She grinned, and he could see all of the attributes that Killian had passed down to her - and a little of their mother's looks, too - in her beaming face.

"Papa?" she whispered, tearing her gaze away from Liam to stare hopefully at her father.

Killian didn't so much as breathe too heavily, his chest rising and falling only slightly. She called for him again and again, each time making Liam's heart clench just a little bit harder, making the tears fall faster down his cheeks.

"He'll... he'll be all... your father's strong, sweet. He's stronger than I am. He'll be all right." Liam wished it sounded more than an empty promise, cursed under his breath for even thinking that, and hugged Killian tighter.

Alice nodded sadly, her lower lip trembling as she turned glassy, wide eyes on him. "I need him to come back."

"I do too, little one. We'll be strong for him together, aye?"

Liam may not have known much about the relationship between his brother and his niece, but he knew this - Killian would rather die than leave his little girl alone and abandoned. The least Liam could do for him was be strong for her.

Alice started to say something else, but stopped abruptly, her eyes wide.

It took a second longer, so focused as he was on the sound of Killian's breathing, but then he heard it, too.

Ambulance sirens.

He grinned at Alice, or rather at the back of her head as she scampered off again, out of the car and presumably up to the road to flag down the EMTs.

There was a flurry of activity then, men asking questions and taking vital signs and focusing on both of them until Liam waved them off. He was fine, his arm could wait - Killian had done a fine job to stop the bleeding - and his brother needed them far more than he did.

Alice stood behind them, hopping from foot to foot and trying to stay out of the way.

There was a collar and gauze pads and... gods what were they looking at on his leg? What had he missed? Then something orange and blue wrapped around whatever injury that was - Liam belatedly recognized the SAM splint that must be stabilizing a fracture.

And then they were moving Killian, out of the car and onto the longboard that they'd use to transport him up the hill and to a gurney. To help.

One of the men came around the vehicle, pulling open the other door and fiddling with Liam's arm despite his protests. He couldn't see Killian, couldn't hear Alice, needed to keep them safe. He growled at the man until the EMT raised his hands in acquiescence and helped him out of the back seat.

The world went dark before Liam could take five steps away from his car.

***

He couldn’t have been out for long, just barely long enough for the EMTs to clearly panic and strap him to a backboard of his own - trussed up tighter than a mutineer to the mast awaiting sentence. Liam struggled despite knowing it was useless, needing to get to his brother, needing to get-

“Please stop, Uncle Liam,” Alice begged from his side, kneeling in the snow and soaking her jeans. He was caught by the unreasonable need to sit up and get her out of the snow. Before he could demand that she stand up and get someplace warm, Alice reached out and tangled her fingers in his. “Let them help you.”

There was something in her eyes - something his stomach rebelled against seeing seated there. Fear. She looked so frightened, so much like her father had as a little boy left alone in the dark. Gods, she looked just like Killian when she-

Killian.

“Where’s your father?” Liam all but shouted, immediately groaning and trying to curl in on himself when the sound of his own voice set off every nerve ending in his head. Tears leaked out of his eyes, unbidden, as the pain crescendoed and nearly took him under with it. He had to stay with it, he had to find out about Killian, he had to…

When the backboard underneath him was lifted, the sickening feeling of weightlessness washed over him and sucked him back into unconsciousness.

Sniffling. Quiet tears. Steady beeping. Constant whirring. Muted footsteps. Garbled Announcements.

Hospital.

But who was crying?

And how had he gotten from those icy woods to the hospital?

And where was his brother?

Killian shot up in the bed, regretting it immediately, but forcing himself to maintain his balance as he hunched over his lap and breathed through his nose. Memories came crashing back - Liam Jones, his brother was awake and that meant he was in danger. Gothel was out there and Killian had no idea what she wanted nor why she needed Liam for it, only that he would take her to the Underworld with him before he let that witch use his brother.

Even if it meant leaving his brother behind.

A nasty voice in the back of his head that had often let loose his temper whispered that turnabout was only fair pay.

Killian felt sick to his stomach just thinking about where that thought had come from. He’d always known he wasn’t a good man, not like Liam. And he knew that Liam hadn’t meant to leave him. He knew that. But the fact remained that he’d been a lost boy for centuries, left to face the world alone because his brother was as stubborn and loyal as the day was long.

And Killian had suffered immeasurably and lost so much in that time.

No. No, that wasn’t Liam’s fault. His brother had died nobly, in pursuit of honor and everything that made him good. Killian just didn’t measure up to that.

And probably never would.

But the fact remained that, no matter how much he couldn’t compare to his brother and would never be enough for that, he was a an utterly selfish bastard who would do anything and everything a chance to allow his brother to truly live. Like he hadn’t had a chance to the first time around.

More sniffles, and shifting in the chair next to him. “Are you really awake?”

Alice.

No. Tilly.

Killian wasn’t sure if Gothel wanted Alice awake or not, but he was absolutely sure that he would protect her more vehemently than even his own brother. And it was safer if she were still cursed.

Gods, at least the bloody curse that kept them apart didn’t seem to work here. It was all he could do to stay sitting in that bed, barely conscious, and not vault himself into her arms and hold her close. His daughter.

“Tilly?” he asked, tilting his head and ignoring the way the room spun in favor of making sure his baby girl was all right.

She was curled up in a chair, looking far too uncomfortable and far too bloody young - and old, they’d lost so much time together - huddled under a blanket and watching him. She tried to smile, but her lower lip wobbled and only the barest reminder that she wasn’t his daughter in this realm kept him from sweeping her up like he’d done when she was young to soothe her.

“What’s the matter, Tilly? Where’d you come from?”

Tilly shifted in the chair, turning the saddest eyes he’d seen on her in awhile - and that was saying something. “I hate it when you call me that,” she whispered brokenly.

No.

Yes. Could it be?

Killian was terrified to get his hopes up, but he wanted. Oh gods, how much he wanted for her to know who he was.

“Would you…” he began, ignoring how tremulous his own voice sounded. “Would you prefer it if I called you Starfish?”

It was worth it. Whatever pain he’d gone through up until this point was worth it to see that look on his daughter’s face before she launched herself out of the chair and into his arms.

“Papa!”

It hurt. Everything hurt and he was partly sure that he was dying, the bruises on his chest and the jagged tear in his back and his bloody leg were all screaming for her to get off. He didn’t care. Even as the world started to spin around them and stars danced in his vision, even as monitors behind him screamed and his hands began to shake, Killian just held on tighter, hoping that Alice - Alice, by gods, it was Alice - didn’t notice how damp her hair was getting.

“You were asleep for a long time, Papa,” she mumbled into his chest, her own tears soaking his hospital gown.

“I know, my heart. I’m so sorry.” Killian tugged her impossibly closer, ignoring the way she sat on his leg in favor of muffling her quiet whimpers.

“Detective Rogers are you all- Hey! I chased you out of here twice already. I’m calling Security, Detective, don’t-”

“Don’t you dare!” Killian hissed, putting his hand up to shield Alice as if he could protect her in the state he was in. The monitors continued to scream and the nurse continued to glare as everything grew hazy.

“Papa!” Alice cried again, hands grasping at his back and igniting more pain as she clutched his shoulders to keep him with her. “Don’t leave me again!”

As his back hit the mattress and his shoulder erupted into an all-encompassing agony, Killian realized that he hadn’t even asked about Liam yet.

He didn’t have a chance before the pull of darkness claimed him.

***

It was quiet the next time he woke, the beeping of the monitors settling in the back of his mind even before he was aware that he was waking up. There were quiet footsteps moving around his room, not stealthy but sure.

Alice, he thought. She must be getting so bored; his girl was always on the move, always looking for her next adventure. Ever since she’d been stuck in that tower, ever since they’d come to Washington, she was always moving.

“Starfish?” he mumbled, turning his head towards her as she stepped up to his bedside. He’d open his eyes in just a moment, he was sure.

“Excuse me?” a voice said, startling Killian enough to open his eyes.

Not Alice.

The woman in scrubs stared at him like she wanted to hit a panic button somewhere, and she was certainly not his daughter. Wasn’t Alice here? Hadn’t she been just there a moment ago? Didn’t he remember her knowing him?

“Was there a young woman here?” he asked, trying to push himself up and realizing, belatedly, that his right arm was strapped to his chest. That hadn’t been like that before, he was sure of it.

Killian nearly toppled over trying for any other position than flat on his back. There was a pillow keeping the injury to his back away from the mattress, but it wasn’t helping much. The nurse huffed at him before steadying him and raising the head of the bed.

“Please, the young woman. Where is she?” Killian tried again once he was - more or less - sitting up. He felt strangely naked beneath the blankets, the thin hospital gown doing little to protect him. There was something about the leather he’d worn for centuries, as much practical protection as it was symbolic armor.

Some days he missed it.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Detective,” she told him, writing down the numbers on the monitor. “I’ll let your doctor know you’re awake. He should be in shortly.”

Killian watched, dumbstruck, as she strutted out the door.

Where was Alice?

Had she even been there in the first place?

Was any of it real?

Liam.

Killian kept being surprised at just how long it was taking him to remember his brother. It was, he supposed, only fair - since Liam was supposed to have been dead for centuries and Alice was… gods, was she Alice or was she still Tilly? It just all seemed so convenient to be given back his brother and his daughter in the span of a few… hours? Days? Weeks? How long had it been since the accident?

And where was his family?

Killian swung his legs around, letting them hang off the bed and getting his equilibrium before attempting to stand.

“Just how far do you think you’re going to get, Detective?” Weaver’s voice had Killian spinning around and nearly toppling to the floor as the world spun around him.

Probably not weeks then.

Nausea assaulted him, making Killian clamp his eyes shut and clench his fist tightly in the sling that held it. Gods, with neither of his hands available to… he was nearly helpless right now.

Killian slitted his eyes open when a rhythmic squeaking moved into the room.

Weaver had a wheelchair.

“I thought you might want to check on y- our captain,” was all he said as he gestured for Killian to sit.

Killian stared defiantly for a moment, loathe to show weakness in front of the crocodile. They may not be the sworn enemies they once were, Alice going a long way towards reconciling both of them, but old habits died hard.

Practicality won out quickly however - that and fear of what Weaver was going to wheel him towards - and Killian slumped into the ancient wheelchair. Weaver made quick work of silencing the monitors, detangling the wires, and hanging the IV on the chair back. Clearly, he’d done this before. Then they slipped out of the room with surprising stealth.

Killian wasn’t going to question how no one had come to stop them; he needed to see Liam.

“It’s not… pretty, Dearie,” Weaver warned when they snuck out of the elevator two floors above where Killian had been staying. His partner flashed an id badge over the keylock to the ICU and wheeled Killian in as if they belonged there.

Killian nodded by reaction more than understanding. He didn’t care what Liam looked like, Killian just needed to see that his brother was still with them. He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost Liam again. He’d even take Jewell if that was all he got.

Killian Jones hadn’t gotten too many second chances in his long, long life. He didn’t want to squander this one.

He should have taken better heed of what Weaver was trying to tell him.

Liam was in the room, all right. He was hooked up to so many monitors with so many wires snaking underneath the blankets that Killian wondered if there was anything left of Liam at all. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

As Killian nodded to Weaver to bring him closer to Liam’s side, his eyes were transfixed by the rise and fall of the ventilator - the even cadence of whooshing and sucking that breathed for his brother was hypnotic and terrifying. He followed the path of the tube from the machine to his brother’s mouth and was caught up in the insane notion that he needed to pull it away from Liam in order for his brother to breathe. It was secured completely, looking like someone had gagged Liam to keep him from crying out at the pain he must be in.

And then Killian looked further, cataloguing the paleness to Liam’s skin, the absolute lack of expression in his brother’s face, the… the tape that kept Liam’s eyes shut to the world. It seemed like his big brother wasn’t even there, just a badly crafted caricature.

Killian reached out hesitantly, the fingers of his prosthetic slipping tentatively under his brother’s limp hand. He managed enough control to tighten his grip imperceptibly, and for once was glad that there was no feeling in those fingers. He could imagine that Liam’s hand was gripping his back, that his skin wasn’t cold to the touch, that he wasn’t going to lose his brother.

“Come back to me brother, please?”

tagging: @killian-whump @gilliangrissom @gusenitsaa @pirate-owl @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable @ladyciaramiggles @cocohook38 @nonnyj @queen-mabs-revenge @eala-captian @crystalyte @kmomof4 @killianmesmalls @whumptober2018

#whumpetition #whumptober 2018 #whumptober #brothers jones #ouat fic #my fic #trouble

15 notes · View notes

aliceslantern · 6 years ago

Text

Beyond this Existence, chapter 16

Summary: After Xehanort's death, Demyx finds himself unexpectedly human in Radiant Garden. With nothing but fragments of his past and a cryptic statement from Xemnas, he's left to figure out who he is. When Ienzo asks for his help with a project, the two find common ground, but the trauma and secrets in both of their pasts could tear it apart. Zemyx (Demyx/Ienzo), post-KH3 canon compliant

Read it on FF.net/ on AO3

----

Excerpt of an audio recording from device 5.875.32.852 (admin is registered as EVEN [surname REDACTED]. Transcription programs recognize the speaking voice of the admin as well as one other distinct voice. Transcription errors due to colloquialisms, slang, accent, muffled speech, etc. are acknowledged and will be used in further evolutions of this program.

Recording commences at 16:03.

--I hope you do not mind that I am recording this. I assure you any we can redact any exceedingly personal information. This is for my edification only. I would never dream of letting it fall into unsavory hands.

--Uh. Sure.

--Can you state your name and age in its entirety?

--Yeah. I’m [birth name and surname REDACTED]. I still go by Demyx. I’m twenty-two.

--That’s your name? That’s not what I thought.

--Yeah, well. It seems like I’m full of surprises. I don’t care who knows it, but it doesn’t seem to fit right anymore. You know?

--I suppose. So. Can you tell me what you remember, as far back as you can, as comfortably as you can?

--I’ll try.

----

These memories don’t feel like mine.

It’s weird. I guess it’s more like I’m reading a book, or watching a movie.

“It” started, if by it you mean all this Keyblade crap, when I was five. I was my parents’ only kid. We were broke. Like, squatting and going to soup kitchens broke. There were the early days, when the Foretellers--the five chosen ones or whatever--were just building their unions and preaching about their ideas in the plaza. I’m honestly not sure if they were the first wielders, but they were definitely the ones that made it a thing, That promised this as the way to seek the light.

Heartless started coming--from the future, or so they said in the square. We needed a way to defend ourselves. So they started testing people for worthiness. Kids were always easier. Less corrupt. More full of light.

More manipulable.

They said they would take the kids from more troubled circumstances, and give them what they needed to survive. In my parents’ eyes, food and a place to live. The luckier ones could stay at home. So that caused a big influx of poor people sending their kids in to be tested and trained. While some of the better off ones saw it as a sign of honor, everyone else wanted to keep their kids safe. Even the ones with Keyblades were dying.

My parents figured Heartless were better than me starving to death. So they sent me, by myself, for the test.

The older ones could pick their unions, but the real little ones like me they chose a more “organic” approach. They take you inside, and there the Foretellers are with a little table of five toys. Apparently picking one shows some intrinsic quality they’re looking for, or whatever. I got chosen to be in Ursus. And just like that, my mom and dad hugged me goodbye and left me there.

It was hard. Physically, mentally. I missed my parents. The training was grueling, and it hurt. But whenever I would cry or get upset either Master Aced or one of the older kids would tell me to be quiet. Because I was lucky. And I had a chance to be something.

But you see, Even, it doesn’t matter how lucky I was. I was still getting razzed by Heartless, getting thrown in and out of time to these worlds, getting reprimanded for bunging off quests or not getting enough lux. I got kicked out of a few parties for that. Making friends wasn’t so easy when I got a reputation for being a crybaby and a coward, even though I was six or seven.

I still tried to see my parents when I got a chance. They moved around a lot. Dad tried to get steady work a few times, but I think he had some kind of mental illness or something, and he could never be on time, or do what he was told, or get out of bed, so they lost their apartments a lot. Mom was a street musician, and she took in students sometimes, but it wasn’t enough money.

She taught me, too.

Compared to Keyblade stuff, music was so easy. I was so good at it. Knowing I wasn’t terrible at everything gave me strength to go on. I had a way to take all the bad feelings, all the nightmares, and make something beautiful out of it.

I tried to quit the union.

You wouldn’t believe the telling off Master Aced gave me. “Why was I ashamed of my heritage”. “Why wasn’t I doing my part.” “What did I think I would become otherwise, I came from the gutter.” It was devastating. Without the Keyblade, they said, I was worthless. I didn’t want to believe that was true.

As the years passed, and this all kept happening, I tried to study music on the side. That’s when I started keeping the diary. I wrote these weird avant-garde compositions, but that wasn’t enough to salve the pain. So I wrote how I felt, and if anybody found it, I’d just say it was nonsense. But nobody did, though. During that time the tensions between the unions started to grow, mostly over who was getting the most light. Kids were fighting in the streets. Killing each other’s Chirithys--that’s how I lost mine. Even the most legendary parties fell apart. People were still dying.

One of these days, when I was almost seventeen, I was going back to the dorms after another quest. Master Ava--Vulpes’s leader--stopped me. She said she’d heard about me, and I braced myself for another lecture like the ones Aced liked to give. But it was my focus on the bigger picture of my life she liked, she said. She wanted me to join a special union she was building.

The Dandelions.

The reason she built this union was because she feared there would soon be war between the others, and that war would escalate to apocalyptic proportions. Remember, we’d all been training for years at that point, we all had way overpowered magic--even me. But because we had no foresight as to anything other than collecting lux, nobody could see the consequences of fighting.

She was going to take this special union, and she was going to teach us how to escape this world altogether, just to make sure somebody survived.

I know you’re probably dying to know how we did it, but I honestly can’t remember. It was some kind of spell, for sure. I know that each of us cast it, and we were all supposed to go together. But it’s one of those things too slippery and powerful to hold onto for long. Not to mention, this travel was supposed to wipe our memories of the trauma and give us a fresh start. So she said.

The war started earlier than expected. The only reason I went to the battle was to find the other Dandelions so we could leave. But I’m not sure if I missed a memo or something. They were gone. Then again, there were so many bodies that had been just so completely fucking destroyed that they could have been some of these people.

…

[Audio muffled or indiscernible; external knowledge of social cues suggests emotional distress.]

People were just fucking killing each other. They… they tried to kill me, too. I remember Keyblades hitting my armor and I panicked. And I guess instinctively I cast the spell and got out. Got somewhere, or I guess some when is the better word. I ended up in the same place, just later, surrounded by all these rusting Keyblades, my memories completely cleaved and running through my fingers like sand. I remember that, feeling it all drain away like a dream.

That’s when Xemnas found me. When things started to hurt. The shock and the armor made it hard to tell, but someone had stabbed me clean through the chest.

He was nice to me, too. He said he’d been waiting for me and that I was going to be okay. He could give me purpose. My wounds would heal.

I died, and Demyx was born. Memory-free.

You know the rest.

End recording, duration--25:17.

----

“Goodness gracious. ” Like a child listening to their favorite story, he’d been leaning forward attentively. He’d even started recording it on his gummiphone, which Demyx initially felt was a violation of his privacy. But considering how close-lipped Vexen had always been about his experiments, he knew, if anything, his words would be safe in Even’s hands. “This is a window into our history.”

“Yours, maybe.”

“You simply must tell me more about these Foretellers. How is this organization structured? What was their training regimen like? Who was their leader--did they have a leader?”

“It's a lot to talk about." His throat was dry from talking for so long.

Even exhaled. He paused the recording. “I suppose you’re right. Of course you must be very tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would say so.”

A beat of silence.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Even said. “I realize… it is not easy. Especially given our past relationship.”

“Like you said. Forgiveness.”

He nodded once, curtly. “Would you like something to help you sleep?”

“I think I’ll be okay. But thanks.”

“Well. Don’t get too used to it.”

Demyx looked at him. He didn’t know how else to be kind, Demyx realized. It must take immense effort. “Wake me up if anything changes with Ienzo,” he said. “Please.”

“You can be sure of it.”

----

The next several days, he felt utterly hollow. Demyx slept a lot. This was a sort of mental exhaustion. He was afraid to stray too far away from Ienzo’s side, but his condition remained unchanged. Guilt clung to him. He wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. He cleaned his room, which took all of ten minutes considering his lack of possessions. Did laundry. Found a couple books to read which weren’t half bad. It was a toxic combination of boredom and stagnation. At the end of the first week of this, Dilan asked him to come play cards.

“I figure you could use a bit of a diversion,” he said. He offered a smile.

“I guess I’m being pretty pathetic, huh,” Demyx said. He forced a laugh.

“Given the circumstances? No. But wallowing must be horrifically boring.”

Dilan’s quarters were even smaller than Even’s. He and Aeleus shared a sitting room and kitchenette. A faint smell of garlic lingered in the room, along with something like eucalyptus. He had a small herb garden, each one meticulously cared for. Near this was a pile of puzzle boxes.

Dilan took out a pack of cards. Demyx sat gingerly on the couch. It was less stern than the other furniture, a bit more comfortable, a soft velor that felt good to touch. He was becoming increasingly reliant on the tactile to stay grounded. He didn’t know if this was one of his myriad issues, or an effect of being overwhelmed.

Dilan crossed to a small glass cabinet. “Would you like a drink?”

“God. Yes.”

He poured them each a few fingers of whiskey into small crystal glasses. It burned when Demyx sipped it, but he liked it. “What shall we play? It’s a shame we’ve no third. I’d rather have liked to play Blackjack.”

“It’s not like I have anything to bet.”

“Too, too true.”

They settled on Hearts. Demyx didn’t know what to say to Dilan. After winning the first game, Dilan got them another drink.

“I’m not sure how I feel about your newfound reticence,” Dilan said. “It’s so odd, to see how humanity has changed you youth.”

“How so?”

“You were hardly ever so reserved. Ienzo was never so friendly. You should have heard him, chattering away to Sora. ...I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t bother me. To hear his name. Either of them, I mean.” He felt only a shadow of the ping of anxiety he got when thinking about Sora. Of course, knowing what he knew now, it made sense that Sora’d had to strike him down. Psychically, there were bigger fish to fry.

“You’ve got a focus to you. An intensity. It’s like you’re more present.”

“I don’t feel very present.”

“Well. We’ve all received some shocks recently.”

The alcohol was making him warm and a little dizzy. Demyx wasn’t sure whether or not he liked the sensation. He slipped off his shoes and pulled his feet up under him. “Why did you become an apprentice?”

Dilan thought for a moment, shuffled his cards, and then drank down the remainder of his whiskey in one swallow. “Why indeed,” he muttered. “I was only a boy at the time, a bit younger than yourself. I needed something to do with my life. I’d always liked creating things. Building things. Ansem had passed some initiatives to make Radiant Garden a haven for the sciences. I applied to study engineering under him, and was accepted.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He chuckled. “Why did you choose to become a Keyblade wielder?”

“I didn’t,” Demyx said. “It chose me. I was poor. Being a wielder was pretty much the only way to survive.”

“I abhor such economies,” Dilan said sourly. “I cannot understand how some leaders will let their charges suffer for basic human rights.”

“I can’t really have a realized perspective of it. I was still a kid when I left.”

“What will you do now?”

“What will I… do?” Demyx repeated numbly. “Frankly, I didn’t think I’d get this far.”

“You and I both.”

He continued to pet the velor. He was feeling dizzier still, and heavy. “I want to be with Ienzo,” he said. “And I want to make friends. Real ones. But I don’t know where I’d fit.”

“What’s that old adage? “Be yourself?””

“Hasn’t exactly worked in the past.”

“It is a theory of mine that becoming a Nobody worsens one’s flaws and insecurities.” Dilan poured them another drink. “Our personalities devolved and repelled. Fed by darkness. Take your time. Be honest. That’s all.”

Demyx picked up the crystal cup and swirled the amber liquid around a little. “I guess.”

“What about that guitar of yours?”

“Sitar?”

“Yes. That.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll find out.”

---

The next day, it sleeted. The echo of the splotches of snow piling up outside was audible within the confines of the castle. Demyx went to the library, armed with a cup of coffee. He lit a fire in the hearth. Once it was large enough to tend to itself, he sat down cross legged in front of it.

For some reason he was nervous. This was akin to stage fright. He’d much rather be worthy of Arpeggio than the stupid Keyblade.

Demyx held out his hands and pulled from within. The Keyblade appeared. He sighed. “I don’t want you,” he muttered. Let it disappear. He remembered the way the sitar had felt, the perfect weight of it, the smooth varnished wood.

Keyblade again. Demyx had to resist the urge to just toss the damn thing. He stared down at it. Traced the smooth shaft, twisted the links of the chain.

“Please,” he said to it. “I don’t want to fight. I just want--”

Not to be an idiot talking to an inanimate object?

Vanishing. Reappearing. It didn’t matter how long he thought about his Nobody memories, of all the music he’d ever made with Arpeggio. Of the fights or occasionally lack thereof.

“Are you mad at me?” Demyx asked out loud. “I didn’t ask for this to all happen.”

Hadn’t he?

Oh, we do too have hearts. Don’t be mad.

“Shut up,” he hissed at himself.

The fire popped as a log settled, startling him.

“Is it because I’m not him anymore?” he continued. “I’m still the sa-- no. I’m not.”

Demyx lay back on the plush carpet.

Remembering death was not easy. Doubly hard now that he knew it wasn’t the first time he’d been slain with Keyblades. Some of them were sharp, most blunt. You’d crush your ribs before you drew blood. Which was what happened. He rested his palm on the spot were the scars were.

Sora, Donald, Goofy. So much rage. Realization that this was a murder-suicide. He was able to pin Sora twice before the pain was too much. Before fading. Before waking up. Before Braig, with a soft smile, and a boy with silver hair, and a hot stab to the chest. What would have happened, really, if he hadn’t been turned into a vessel? What would he have done? Run away? Spent his life friendless, unloved and alone?

Without Ienzo?

He needed connections. Without them he could never hope to be whole--at least, figuratively. He had to do better. To be better. But how? Fancy displays of heroism were functionally worthless if there was no real intent behind them.

Demyx stood. Despite it all, he sort of had an idea.

----

The winter coat he had was warm enough, but it was not quite waterproof, and by the time he’d waded through the slop he was damp and chilly. When he reached the door of the committee’s headquarters, though, a knot of anxiety overrode his physical discomfort. Demyx stood for several moments at the door as wet snow piled on his hat, unsure of what to say. Several times he reached up to knock and withdrew his hand. He had barely placed his palm on the doorknob before it opened of its own accord.

“‘Could’ve finished War and Peace in the time it took you to make up your mind,” a middle-aged blond man said gruffly. “Come on in, kid.” He was smoking a cigarette, and its smell mixed with the ambient woodsmoke. “Don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Cid.” He offered his hand. “Saw you unconscious, but I don’t think you remember that.”

“Not--exactly--” Demyx shook his hand.

“Let me take your jacket before you get snow everywhere.” He took the wet garments and hung them on a coat rack.

“It’s warm in here,” Demyx said, half in wonder. He was so used to the drafty castle that he’d forgotten what adequate heating felt like.

Cid raised an eyebrow. “‘Course it is.”

“It’s, um, the castle. Heating’s not very good.”

“I imagine it wouldn’t be.”

A beat passed. Demyx felt his anxiety rising and floundered for things to say.

“I’m guessing you’re here for Aerith?” Cid asked. He stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray.

“Well. Sort of. I want to help.”

“With what,” he said blankly.

“Anything. I mean I--” Demyx could feel himself turning red.

“In the middle of winter?”

He bit his lip and looked down.

Cid chuckled. “I’m messing with you, kid. We’re always happy to have an extra pair of hands. Any of ya’ll got a sense of humor over there?”

“Let’s just say it’s been a tough week,” Demyx said.

“I’ll say. Weather’s been driving us mad. I finally kicked out Yuffie and Leon to get some peace and quiet.”

“...Er. Sorry about that.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure one or both of them will be back soon. They know a bit more about the operations stuff than I do. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Demyx perched in one of the folding chairs. Cid sat back down at a computer and began absently writing code. He wondered if he should say something. Anything. Ask questions. He kept his hands knotted in his lap.

A door he hadn’t noticed previously opened, and out came Aerith, drying her hands on a towel. “Demyx? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Fine--well, enough. I’m here to help.”

She crossed over a plant on the table and cut off a few of its leaves. “Can’t do a whole lot in the winter other than plan, unfortunately.”

“What are you doing with those?”

“Making medicine.” She nodded her head towards the other room. “Want to see?”

He followed her. It was a small, narrow room, with a cot up against one wall. The other wall was lined with cabinets and some counter space. A few different types of dried leaves and blooms were stuffed in the myriad little drawers. She took the leaves, scattered them into mortar. To Demyx, the mix looked like a salad more than a medicine. She crushed it down, whispered a spell, and then with an odd little device began packing it into capsules. “Pectin,” she explained. “Goes down easier than the raw leaves. And doesn’t get stuck in your throat.” She held up the tiny pill so he could see.

“What does it do?” Demyx asked.

“Cold cure,” she said simply. “We need lots of it this time of year. And colds always change. I’m forever tweaking it.”

A memory he hadn’t fully process washed in. He’d never been the best fighter in any of his parties, often left to provide background support. The spells then he’d used had been barbaric in comparison, but at least it kept people alive.

“When did you learn how to do all this stuff?” he asked. He was feeling odd.

“Oh, ever since I was a kid,” she said. “My mom and grandma before me were healers. They sorta taught me what I know now. And I’m also teaching myself.”

“Do you think it’s possible for someone else to learn?”

She crushed more herbs. “I’m sure it is. It’s magic like anything else.”

“What about--say--me?”

Aerith turned slightly. She appraised him.

“I’ve been wanting to help people and I don’t know how. You saved me. You saved Ienzo. I can’t do science, and I’m not a good fighter. But I have a good memory.” He considered the irony of that statement. But he’d always been good at memorizing.

“It’s a long road. This isn’t something you can do halfway. People’s lives could be at stake. But you know that.” She smiled a little. Tapped her forehead. “You’ve been through a lot in your life. Seen a lot of suffering.”

“Haven’t we all,” he said dryly.

“That’s… right.” She dusted off her hands. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, or believe you can do it. But you’ve gotta have a certain kind of tenacity. An ingenuity. Tell you what. Why don’t you read some base healing theory? There’s no way Ansem doesn’t have books about it. If that doesn’t send you running for the hills, we can talk.” She winked.

Demyx nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

“Good luck.”

He stood.

“Was that the answer you needed?” she asked.

“I think it was.”

----

A week or so passed. He tried to do what Aerith said, and study. But Demyx had never been the most studious, and almost everything he learned sans the very basics he’d learned in the field. He spent these minutes and hours alternating between the text and the dictionary. Why were academics such bad writers?

Sometimes he studied near Ienzo, sometimes he didn’t. Ienzo slept and slept and slept. Demyx could feel the utter lack of presence like a missing tooth. Honestly, being around him and not being able to talk to him was nearly painful.

During one of these marathon reading sessions, Even came in to check Ienzo’s vitals, as he did several times each day. “EKG activity is still fairly limited. But improving. He must be dreaming.”

“About what?” Demyx asked.

“I’ve no idea. ...What is that?” He reached town and felt at Demyx’s temperature. “Are you quite alright?”

Demyx sighed, marked his place in the book, and shut it. “I’m studying. Sue me.”

“But why?”

He drummed his fingers on the desk. “You’re just going to make fun of me.”

“I will… not,” Even said with great restraint.

Demyx raised an eyebrow.

“I must admit I am still getting used to the new you. Tell me. I will withhold judgement.”

“I’m thinking of learning to heal. Like. The magic.” He braced himself.

Even didn’t laugh. “Really? Why is that?”

“I want to help people. And this seems like something I can actually do.” He sighed. “I hate feeling helpless. If I can help someone not feel that way, it’d be nice. You know.”

“I admit I never put much stock in such magic initially. But seeing how that woman has cared for the two of you, I’m starting to change my mind.”

“Do you think I can do it?”

Even considered this. “You had a fairly potent magical ability in the Organization. I don’t see why not.”

“You don’t think I’m too stupid?”

He scowled. “I find it stupid that you hold my opinion in such high esteem.” Then, softening. “As you said. You’re not a scientist. But that really has little to do with practical intelligence.” He picked up the tome. “I’d be glad to help you, should you so want it. These aren’t exactly light reading. It’d be convenient to have another pair of hands.” He picked up another bag of saline. “Well. If you’re so interested, I might as well teach you how to do this much.” He showed Demyx how to change the IV and how to take base vitals. “I’m hoping we won’t need to do this for too much longer. But that’s all up to him.” Even patted Ienzo’s head.

“I miss him.” He felt tears in his eyes.

“As do I,” Even said softly. “Come. Are you hungry?”

---

The more Demyx studied, the more his memories became clearer. In those first shocked days, it had been hard to focus on any memory for very long. Now, not so much.

He’d been a healer then, but not a very good one. He’d still been a coward. More than once someone had gotten egregiously hurt because he hadn’t been willing to step up. He’d been kicked out of multiple parties that way.

He didn’t want to be a coward. It was time to be mature; a grown up. Deal with grown up things in a grown up way. Don’t run. Face it. The hurt will be over that much faster.

For the first time, he tried to summon the Keyblade because he wanted to. But that wasn’t what happened. Instead of cool metal, there was warm, varnished wood. Familiar. Well-worn. He held the sitar tenderly. Cried a bit out of relief.

He was still, despite it all, himself.

#beyond this existence #demyx #even #dilan #aerith #i don't think it's fair to tag ienzo bc he's barely in this chapter

6 notes · View notes

imagineclaireandjamie · 8 years ago

Text

Fast Forward.

Previous part: HERE.

wecouldhangout said: Love this variation of Jamie and Claire. Don’t let it fall by the wayside.

:: <3 ::

The bright lights of Inverness city faded in the rear view mirror as Raymond drove Claire home. Neither of them spoke, the taint of the evening coating the inside of Claire’s mouth as houses blurred into trees as they passed over the river Ness and out towards Drumnadrochit.

“How did you know where I’d be?” Claire whispered, plucking at the sewn pattern along the hem of the skirt she’d borrowed from Jenny. Tears welled in her eyes as she caught the torn portion of the fabric, vivid memories of her illicit night out coming unbidden as she did so.

“Some things, my dear,” he began --cryptically, “are more obvious than you give them credit for.”

Sniffling, Claire leaned her head against the cold glass, watching as her breath steamed the window - fogging the blue scenery as Loch Ness came into view. Shaking his head, Raymond slowed down, pulling the car into a parking spot overlooking the glorious loch. The moonlight glimmered off the water as he turning the ignition off and shifted in his seat, the fine leather squeaking beneath him as he moved. His hand hovered over Claire’s briefly as he coughed, waiting for her to acknowledge him before he spoke.

“I’m so--”

“No, Claire. You don’t need to apologise to me,” he interrupted, his voice soft as her glassy eyes looked over at his in the dark car. “But you do need to understand something of importance.”

Swallowing back the excess moisture that had gathered in her mouth, Claire nodded, fatigue pulsing through her achy bones.

Having firmly settled herself to 20th century highland life, Claire’s lust for adventure had intensified. When a few of the local lassies had spoken of a bawdy dance being held in Inverness, Claire had been excited. She’d enjoyed staying with Jenny, Ian and Jamie at Lallybroch and their rural lifestyle had been something to which she’d grown accustomed to. But the stories she heard at work kept floating around her head.

The girls often indulged her, talking of the loud hum of the music, the busy pubs that entertained them over the weekends and the men who took them drinking and dancing. The war and the return of the soldiers had signalled a revival of an active social life and Claire was desperate to see how people her age socialised in the 1940’s. Licking her dry lips, Claire tasted the blood from where they’d cracked, the skin breaking apart easily with the stress of her illicit night out. Goaded on by her *friends*, she’d begged Jamie to let her go, promising she’d be back at a reasonable hour. Worried about her safety, and her naivety, Jamie had rejected her ideas, his solid stance on the matter irking Claire no end.

Fed up of being babied, she’d snuck out. Carrying her plimsolls in one hand, she’d crept out of the big house and along the lane, catching the last bus from Beauly to Inverness. Balling her hands into fists, Claire pulled her feet up onto the passenger seat and wrapped her arms around her scuffed knees.

She --had-- been naive. And foolhardy. Stupid to think she could blend in when she still knew so little of the people who inhabited this particular time period.

“Is he mad?” She whispered, her curls falling forward to cover her tear-stained cheeks.

Exhaling loudly, Raymond patted Claire gently on the shoulder. His knee jingled the keys where they sat, idle in the ignition and the sound broke some of the tension that had built in the small space.

“I think it’s time for me to be honest with you, Claire,” Raymond said, ignoring her original question, his pupils dilated in the low light.

Wiping her eyes, Claire nodded shakily. Making herself comfortable, she pulled the thin cardigan across her chest feeling more exposed than ever after her run in earlier.

Twirling the bronze ring around his pinkie finger, Raymond looked out behind Claire, into the abyss that surrounded them, steeling himself for his confession.

“I brought you here, Claire,” He began, waiting as Claire processed his words.

“H-here…?” She questioned, the skin puckering between her brows as she tried to make sense of what he was telling her.

“Yes, Claire.” Nodding, he lifted his finger, moving away a stray piece of Claire’s hair as she tilted her head to the side. “It was always your destiny. Why do you think I employed you, kept you close by and tried my very best to keep you out of danger?”

His French accent softened the ‘r’, coming through more strongly in his heightened emotional state. He’d made an investment in Claire. Seeing her suffering in her own time, he’d watched as her fate changed from day to day until he’d decided the only thing to do was to intervene himself.

“Is that why you told me to stay?” Gulping, her heart pounded out an erratic rhythm in response, “all those times you hinted that this was my rightful place, that Jamie and Jenny were supposed to look out for me. That was because y-you...knew?”

“Yes,” he replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I wasn’t sure how much I should tell you. When we first met,” he chuckled, recalling her arrival into his wee apothecary, “you were so...captivated by everything. So timid and yet courageous.”

“Can you --travel?” She interjected, feeling altogether exposed in the face of the vocal admittance of her journey through time.

Eying her carefully, Raymond raised a brow sardonically.

Understanding his apprehension, Claire nodded.

Seeing it as her permission to continue, Raymond turned back to look straight out of the front window. Lights flashed and disappeared as other late night travellers roamed in and out of Inverness. The hum of them passing soothed him like nothing else, the soft swish cars made as they passed each other at speed creating this odd illusion of peacefulness.

“You and I, Claire, are inextricably linked. Something far more powerful than us holds pieces of our souls together. I don’t know how I truly discovered it, but when your parents died -- that horrid disease taking them both and leaving you all alone in the world -- I suddenly became hyper aware of you.”

“D-did you live close?” Claire asked, unable to keep silent through Raymond’s story.

“No, I did not. I was in Paris at the time. I had a shop there too, in your own time.” Taking hold of the steering wheel, Raymond glanced back to Claire, watching as she kept her focus solely on the dashboard now. “I foresaw something, --someone-- *you*”

Inhaling, Claire began to wind the window, breathing in another fresh gulp of air as if feeling suffocated.

“You saw Captain Randall?”

“Yes.” He confessed, feeling wretched that he hadn’t made a single attempt to rescue her from that particular cruelty. “I saw him...and you. I felt the blackness within him and the impenetrable light in you.”

“He offered to save me from it, you know.” She spoke, her voice empty of all emotion.

Raymond watched as the glow faded from Claire’s eyes, numbness seeping over her face as if she were back there, her hands bound uncomfortably as Randall laid out his dark plans for her.

“Then you were wise enough not to accept.”

Scoffing, Claire shifted her back against the seat, old wounds itching with the memory the punish lash as it bit into her fragile flesh. “It wouldn’t have mattered what I’d done. He would have still dragged me out into that square, just for the sick pleasure of it.” She spat, vitriol coating her tongue as she spoke.

The sinister image of the vile men who’d grabbed at her earlier rose behind her irises as she remembered her time incarcerated in Fort William. Bile erupted from her stomach, causing her to inhale sharply as the feel of their wretched hands against her legs caused her thighs to tighten. What had started out as innocent flirting, a dance here and there and some idle banter had turned nasty quickly. A tall brunette male, whose name Claire couldn’t quite recall now in the post-evening haze had pushed her into a dark corner, his dirty great paws tearing at her borrowed dress as she’d tried to push him away. If it hadn’t been for Raymond’s swift intervention…

Claire stilled, pushing away the combined image of the man in the bar and Randall as she tried to calm her pounding heart and refocus her energy on the present.

Keeping his mouth shut on the matter of Captain Jack Randall *and* tonight's new assailant, Raymond continued with his own diatribe. “I orchestrated a plot to save you the most dire fate, Claire. I hadn’t counted on Captain Randall being as devious as he was, but once I knew what was to befall you I had to step in. Had you not been tempted to steal that bread, you would’ve ended up here on your own merit of course, I just aided the process once fate had been changed.”

“So, you saw…”

“Yes, but too late to save you from the flogging.” He said with some regret. “I could, however, ensure your easy escape from Fort William.”

“Easy,” Claire whispered, nervously tapping her foot on the mud-mat at her feet.

“You know how I mean it, my dear. I only knew that you had the strength to bear it. Some things I can see, others I can only feel. It’s hard to explain, but I will try if you wish to hear it?”

Shaking her head, Claire wiggled her bottom in the seat, the numb sensation fading from her extremities as the inky blackness over the loch began to slowly fade. Dawn was approaching.

“No, it’s alright. I --believe you.”

Slumping his shoulders, Raymond watched the soft dappled light sway over the water and started the engine up once more.

“What I truly wanted to impress upon you, Claire,” he finished making his point entirely clear as he pulled back onto the road, eager to get her back to Jamie and Jenny now the main part of his tale was done, “is that although it may seem safer here, there are still dangers lurking. I made damn sure you got where you needed to be, and it doesn’t matter what it cost me to ascertain it, I would pay that price time and time again. But,” he paused, glancing at Claire out of the corner of his eye to make sure she was listening, “since you seem keen on attracting all sorts of strife, I think you need to be reminded of the perils you experienced and how they might manifest in this era.”

Her heart plummeted in her chest at the realisation. Actions had consequences, she had been incredibly aware of that before. Since finding herself here, those worries had all but dissipated on the cool Scottish winds. Wanderlust had replaced her well trained sense of jeopardy, slowly extinguishing it completely.

She’d been wooed by visions of modern living whilst not truly accepting the underlying threats that still loomed over them all.

“Would I…” she sighed, part of her not wanting to know the answer, “would I have died in those cells, in Fort William?”

“Yes,” Raymond replied, the whir of the engine rolling through him, masking the shudder that slipped like ice down his spine at the vision of her cold on the slabs of that awful place.

Silence surrounded them as they rode the rest of the way in the dim light of early morning.

Claire bounced nervously as the porch light of Lallybroch came into view, her palms sweating at the idea of having to face Jamie. Emotionally spent, she had little energy left to deal with his anger but she knew that it was what she deserved.

They’d been up all night too, no doubt. Only weeks before Jenny and Ian’s wedding, Claire was certain this was a stress none of them needed.

The acrid taste of beer lingered at the back of her throat as the car came to a standstill, its stale odour coating the roof of her mouth as she practiced her apology, mumbling incoherent words as she tried not to break down before she’d even come face to face with the Frasers.

“T-thank you, Raymond,” she whispered, reaching out to tap his hand twice before clicking open the door and putting one shaky foot onto the cement path, “for absolutely everything you’ve ever done for me.”

Not waiting for his reply, Claire pulled herself from the vehicle and made her way around the bonnet towards the front door.

Hearing the click rather than being brave enough to look up and see who’d come out to welcome her, Claire slunk forwards until his feet came into view. Standing stock still now, she kept her eyes stubbornly downcast.

Pursing his lips in suppressed anger, Jamie’s flushed cheeks stung in the breeze as he let out a huge breath and wrapped his arms around Claire, bringing her flush against his chest. Rubbing his large palms in circles over her back -being careful not to knock her still sore scabs - he buried his nose into her tamed curls and closed his eyes.

“I’m so --sorry-- Jamie.” She hiccupped, her ribs throbbing as she tried to hold back her sobs.

“I thought I’d lost ye tonight, Claire,” he whispered, hopelessness dripping from each word as he tried to still his trembling hands. “When I went to see you and you werena there…” inhaling jaggedly, Jamie tried to remain calm. Shouting at her wouldn’t do any of them any good. The attempts to subdue his temper caused his Scots burr to thicken, his chest rumbled with the pressure of it sending shockwaves through Claire as she huddled closer.

“I won’t...next time, I’ll listen, I promise,” she cried openly now, her shoulders hunched as she shifted her feet and clenched Jamie’s shirt tight.

“Ye ken, Claire,” Jamie replied, turning them both towards the house and warmth, “that I’m only trying to keep you safe. I want you to have fun, aye? But I also only want what is best for you.” Pausing as he closed the door behind them, he slid his fingers under her damp chin, bringing her head up so that she was forced to meet his eyes.

Biting her bottom lip, Claire blinked away fresh tears and hiccuped. Her nose was red from the crying, her eyes wide and sore as she finally looked at Jamie. Thick lines creased his brow, accenting the bright red that stained his eyelids. Bags sat heavily under his eyes. He looked shattered.

The tickling sensation of fresh sobs bit at her nose as she saw what her evening's misadventures had done to the one person in this world who cared for her and her well being above all else.

“You’re verra precious to me, Claire,” he sighed, leaning his forehead against hers before gathering her up once more. “When I found you, broken and bleeding on that wee hill, I didna ken why, but I felt it then. I feel it now more than ever.”

Gasping between her weeping, Claire nodded as she burrowed her nose against Jamie’s neck, the bright glow of the table lamp encasing them in a yellow hue. “S-same,” she forced out, fatigue pulling her under as Jamie carried her up to bed, “...and I’m s-so sorry, Jamie. So very sorry.”

Placing her gently on the bed, Jamie tried to disentangle himself, his arms nearly slipping free as he reached to turn off the light in the attic.

“Stay,” Claire whispered. Her voice, a wisp in the darkness, held only innocence as she begged quietly for Jamie to lie beside her. “Please, Jamie. Just for tonight...stay?”

#;Mod MBD #Fast-Forward #18th C Claire #jamie x claire

240 notes · View notes

anythingstephenking · 6 years ago

Text

We’re All Just Bags of Bones (& More Uplifting Realizations)

GHOSTS! FUCK YEAH! We got ourselves a ghost story, y’all and even tho I’m not a relligo and don’t really believe in “spirits” (other than good tequila), I friggin’ love ghost stories. I blame my early childhood obsession with Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark and Saturday nights staying up late to watch Are You Afraid Of The Dark. Is someone still making scary content for kids? I mean, not Creepypasta, I saw that Slenderman doc on HBO, please don’t make that content. I feel like I read that RL Stine is still publishing books? You go, RL Stine.

Before we get started on vengeful ghosts, I’m gunna talk about myself for a bit. Since I’m the only one who ever looks at this blog, whatever, I do what I want.

I’ve been a little down on my King-Marathon lately, mostly because I started in 2016 with grand plans and 3 years later I’m only just past the halfway point. Even if I manage a book a month, it’ll be another 3+ years before I finish (nevermind that King keeps publishing 2 books a year. Slow your role bro!) I’m also headed into King’s not-so-great years (I hate saying that, but I think it’s true. Sorry Steve, I still love you). It’s really not even the quality but the quantity - have you seen how long Dreamcatcher and Duma Key and Lisey’s Story and Under The Dome are? I’ll tell ya - 2,100 pages. UTD is 1,000+ itself. It’ll be like reading The Stand except it’s about aliens and I’ll hate it like I hated The Tommyknockers.

Hey Negative Nancy, why don’t you just quit then? Quitting is for losers, duh. But really, it’s because every once in a while, I get to read a book like Bag of Bones and I remember why I lurve King so much. And that folks, is how you circle back from bitching to the true topic.

I really enjoyed Bag of Bones. We already covered why. Ghosts motherfuckah. More than ghosts though, it felt like a return to true King storytelling with all the core players - the woods of Maine, a writer protagonist (obvs), horrors of both the supernatural and human varieties. Cause the ghosts are vengeful but the humans are the real monsters. Lets get on the astral plane and uncover some secrets.

I’m so basic but I literally can’t with this jacket photo.

Bag of Bones was King’s first book in a new contract with Scribner. King upped the ante on what he wanted from his publisher (take a guess - ayup more dinero) and when Viking wouldn’t bite he waved bye bye and plopped on down the road to Scribner. I guess it worked out cause he still publishes with them today. You get that 50% profit share bud, I know you and Tabs give a lot to charity so it’s ok.

This new contract covered what would be 3 books - Bag of Bones, On Writing and a novella collection originally meant to be called “One Headlight” that morphed into my next read, Hearts in Atlantis. In the author’s afterward, King laments about On Writing, saying “I doubt they’ll ever teach this book in writing school.” Sometimes I can’t tell if King is being honest, humble, modest, ironic, pretentious or some combination of all these things, but On Writing is indeed taught in writing schools. Like a lot of them. I’m not reading his non-fiction but if I’m not dead before I finish this thing, maybe I’ll read it on a beach somewhere. Lord knows I need help in the writing department.

So I’m going to get a little contemplative on this book because this is the last King I’ll read chronologically before his car accident. Technically his last book published before the accident was The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, but my vacation brain caused me to read these out of order. In hindsight, it makes more sense this way.

I’ve been researching the car wreck and will do a separate Commercial Break post about the accident itself, but the jist is some distracted driver plowed into King walking along the side of the road in June 1999 and he could have died. He also could have never written again.

Navigating the subject matter of Bag of Bones, knowing the real accident was just around the corner made the book even creepier. Our main character, Mike Noonan, is a writer whose healthy wife drops dead and all of a sudden he can’t write anymore. Meanwhile, in King’s world, he himself almost dies and, trying to overcome his injuries, thinks he’ll never write again. Am I stretching? Uh yah. King’s had his fair share of writers block before, so this is a story of hindsight not foresight. But I seriously lost sleep over this story (which I haven’t since Cujo) with restless dreams about Mike Noonan and Stephen King being haunted by ghosts keeping them from practicing their craft.

I speculate that his new contract with Scribner is what got King back at the keyboard. Having only fulfilled on 1 of 3 novels must have been a solid motivation to recover and restart the engines. Only a coincidence but (Carrie Bradshaw voice) I couldn’t help but wonder if King would have quit writing for longer if he was still with Viking. King’s been writing for almost 50 years and only been with three publishing houses in all those years. The timing of the signing with Scribner just makes me wonder about fate. Oh universe, you crazy.

Back to book-world. Mike Noonan, mourning his wife four years after he passing, decides to spend the summer at their lakehouse in Maine. These writers and their multiple homes, amirite? He meets a young mother named Mattie and they fall in love. See, Mattie lost her husband tragically too. But Mattie’s in a custody battle, and her dead husband’s evil family wants her daughter.

Ok, another bitch break - my only gripe with this book. Mike is 40 and Mattie is 21. They do fall in love in a really genuine way, but still, yuck. Mike is powerful and rich, Mattie is helpless and poor. Mike swoops in and saves the day and Mattie’s all “Aw shucks, you’re my hero! You can totally bang me now!”. Mike’s our narrator so we spend all our time in his head - and we hear alllllll about his wife Jo, Mike’s sadness and his longing. Mattie hardly ever talks about her dead husband Lance and spends her time pining away over Mike. This power dynamic really rubbed me the wrong way. That said, I was rooting for them, because ya know, I’m not dead inside and they really cared for each other.

This book twists and turns and pivots and has a new bonkers revelation around every corner. We’ve got a small town of well-developed characters with unknown motives. The supernatural is writing cryptic messages with fridge magnets. Is it Jo? Is it something more sinister? Is it Pennywise? Who knows! (Just kidding, it’s not Pennywise). I pride myself of guessing the plot of these rollercoaster stories, but I was surprised by the twists many times. Although I did just watch Scream 4 for the first time and guessed the killer wrong so maybe I’m losing my touch.

Of course there are evil people too, and there’s a gunfight sandwiched between all the ghostly revelations that felt more than a little out of place, but at the end of it all, I was satisfied and smiling.

At its core it’s story of love, loss, death and morality. Even with all of its insane plotting, it comes back around to a study of grief and pain and protecting the ones you love. All my favorite King themes, combined with an actual page turning story about solving a ghost mystery? Winner winner.

Bag of Bones seems like one of those King books that fades from his most well remembered cannon, but it deserves much more. It’s got love. It’s got ghosts. It’s got evil old men. It’s got Maine! What’s not to love?

8/10

First Line: On a very hot day in August 1994, my wife told me she was going down to the Derry Rite Aid to pick up a refill on her sinus prescription - this is stuff you can get over the counter these days, I believe.

Last Line: These days I prefer not to.

Adaptations:

OH GOODY ANOTHER MINISERIES. This one was so bad even ABC passed on it, which like, they made The Langoliers, so yeah, it’s bad.

I’m not even going to go there. Pierce Brosnan plays 40-year-old Mike Noonan, except he’s 60 and also HAS A BRITISH ACCENT. Y’all, the entire plot revolves around Mike’s family being from Maine for generations. IT IS WHAT THE CLIMAX OF THE STORY IS BASED ON! Where did he get a fucking British accent from? JESUS CHRIST I HOPE THAT CASTING DIRECTOR NEVER WORKED AGAIN.

Sorry for yelling so much, seriously, it made me so angry. This movie was nonsense. They reveal the “big twist” in the opening credits. Never ever watch this.

#book review #movie review #bag of bones #stephen king

0 notes

captainkappa · 8 years ago

Text

Fanfic- Tough Business to Get Into

(i s2g this is the last holiday exchange i do)

I have finally finished my secret tax goat for @hexmaniacinien !!! I had so much fin writing this, I hope all of you enjoy it as well! Thank you to @kyrfiore for betaing!

Gen. 1920s/Mob AU. Guns and alcohol a plenty (with a touch of angst, my apologies ^^;)

AO3 Link Here

The aftermath of a show was always loud. Giggling girls critiquing their performance based on both what they thought and what the director saw. The flurry of feet making their way to dressing rooms and removing make-up, getting out of those extravagant (and skimpy) costumes to more practical clothing (that was still called skimpy by some older people) in order to head out for the night. Cigarette smoke filled the air, the clear alternative ever since Prohibition hit for a legal means of winding down after a big show.

Within the chaos, Markus was always able to slip in. Not like he wasn’t allowed, he was the lights and effects director, but it made it easier when everyone was moving to go into his friend’s room without questions being asked, mainly, “Are you and Inien going out?”

Which was ridiculous, Inien had been his closest friend ever since he got into show business.

She was snarky and strong willed and would be the very definition of a flapper if it wasn’t for the fact she refused to cut her hair.

It was easier, however, to just leave people guessing about their relationship status so they wouldn’t question other parts about Markus’ life… and Inien’s, for that matter. Performers were far too nosy.

So, he would slip into her dressing room while everyone was too busy to notice.

Tonight, Inien was quiet, which in Markus’ experience was never a good thing.

Especially with that look on her face, that vacant stare that meant she was thinking of something.

She sat up straight in her chair. “I’m bored… let’s start selling liquor.”

He barely registered himself standing up as he tried to process what his friend just said, “Inien…”

“What?” she said, innocently fixing her hair in the huge mirror in front of her.

“You don’t just sell alcohol. And why would you even want to do that?”

“I told you, I’m bored,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“You’re on Broadway!” He gestured wildly at her dressing room around her. “How is that boring?”

She shrugged and turned her chair to look at him. “It has for me, and besides, I’ve already thought part of it out.”

“I… how?”

“My cousin, Colvin. Even though he’s still in far east, he’s just as annoyed about Prohibition as we are, probably moreso because the U.S. was a huge import for him.” She explained casually, reaching for a cigarette. “So we started talking about getting his product over here. At first, I would’ve been selling to other speakeasies and splitting the profit with Colvin.” A small flick and she lit her cigarette. “But I’ve been thinking, why not run it myself? Cut out the middle man, make more money overall, and maybe even get out of Broadway once I have enough dough.”

Markus pinched his nose and let out a breath. “Yes, that’s very business savvy and all. But,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “You are still talking about illegal business! Who’s to say this doesn’t go completely wrong?!”

She shrugged, letting a stream of smoke pass through her lips. “I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

He sighed, lowering his head in his hands as she put on her coat. “You. Are. Incorrigible.”

She turned to him after straightening her collar. “And you are incapable of thinking outside the box.”

Looking up, he was just able to catch the door shutting behind her. “Oh no, no, no,” he muttered, grabbing his coat and following her.

She was easy enough to catch up with. She had barely made it outside the building when he caught up with her.

“So, what are you going to do now?” he asked, falling into step with her.

“I need to talk with someone.”

“Okay, if we’re going to do this, you need to be less cryptic. And tell me shit like this earlier.”

She looked up at him, smirking, “ ‘We?’ ”

“Of course, we both know I’m the better talker out of the two of us. And you need all the help you can get if you’re going to do this.”

“Alright, we’re meeting someone with experience in this business. He’s had brief interactions with my cousin, so that’s how I know him. He agreed to help set this up.”

“Wow, sounds like a good guy.”

Inien snorted loud enough for people passing by to look over at them. Markus stared down at her confused.

“What? What’d I say?”

“Oh nothing. You’ll see.”

“Again with being cryptic.”

-=-=-=-=-

The man lived in a tenement house, which was a fancy word for the shittiest apartments you could ever think of. Overcrowded, dark, and dirty, it ended up being the homes to most immigrants upon coming to the New World. Markus and Inien both glanced to each other, both knowing the other was thinking of their childhood spent in one. Markus had been the lucky one, only spending about eight years in one as his family moved upstate to work as live-in servants to a politician. Inien hadn’t been so lucky and spent her entire childhood in one till she was eighteen.

“Come on, he said he had the afternoon free today.” Inien bounded up the steps, the excitement of starting her own speakeasy overriding the memories that threatened to spill over. Markus followed close behind.

This tenement house was made out of an old, four story house that had been a rich man’s house before he moved out to the cleaner countryside. Now it was packed with mainly Russian immigrants. As Markus and Inien climbed the stairs, they couldn’t help being be jealous of how cleaner this house was in comparison to the ones they lived in. The government had made tenement housing more bearable to live in. Not comfortable by any means, but there were windows and it didn’t feel like the flu would wipe out an entire building in a night.

The man’s room was on the third floor, last door on the left side. After passing a large family loudly speaking in a language neither Inien or Markus could understand, they knocked on door marked 47 by two mismatched numbers.

There was a long pause as no one answered. Markus was about to knock again when the door flew open, revealing a man with slicked back, black hair and wearing a wrinkled white button up and vest.

“What do you want?” he asked, looking between the two of them unamused.

Inien stepped forward. “Hi, my name is Inien. My cousin told me to come here in order to start up my… business.”

“Ah, you are Inien, yes, yes, now I remember. But who is this man?”

Without skipping a beat, Markus took of his hat and bowed low. “Markus Tannhauser Velafi. At your service. I’m her… business partner.”

The man looked unimpressed by the grand gesture. “Yes, but how do I know you won’t sell us out.” At the confused looks he got from the other two, he stepped forward. I’ve talked with Inien, I don’t know you.” His Russian accent grew thicker with every word, every step he took. Before Markus realized, he was against the opposite wall with the Russian man’s stare keeping him in place.

“Look,” Markus started, “I’ve known Inien for a while. Even if I’m still unsure on someone who’s never had experience in this, throwing herself in the business, I’m not going to go behind your backs.”

It took a moment, but the man stepped away and walked into the apartment. “My roommates won’t be back until night, we’ll be okay.”

Markus gave Inien a worried look before she shrugged and followed. He took off his hat before following into the small apartment.

“Wait!” Markus said suddenly, pausing midstep. “What’s your name?”

A beat of silence. “Just call me Thog.”

Markus nodded as Thog started talking about setting up.

Even though he knew Thog didn’t trust him wholly, and Markus was still on the fence on the legitimacy of this mob business, he was still glad Thog was there, or else Inien would have no idea what to do. His knowledge was easily seen in his planning, how he seemed prepared for any situation; cops come in to the bar, being seen carrying crates after dark, all of it Thog had a way out which made this idea… feasible.

“Alright then, all we need is a base of operations, right?” Inien asked.

“Mhm, and I know the right place. It’s a coffee shop downtown called ‘Number Seven’.”

Markus and Inien exchanged a confused look.

“A coffeeshop?” Markus asked.

Thog grinned, for the first time since meeting them. “No one would suspect a thing. The owner is… a character.”

“But, is there going to be enough room in the basement?” Inien piped up.

“For now, we can out-source later, but this will be a good enough base of operations.” Thog leaned forward, seemingly growing more excited as the plan came together. “Now, if we send for the shipment this week, this means it’ll arrive in about three weeks.”

It was Inien’s turn to grin widely. “There’s a big opening night around then. Don’t you think the cast would enjoy some ginger water, Markus?”

Markus stared at her before slowly shaking his head, a small smile growing.

“Ginger water sounds like something I’d be more inclined to say.”

-=-=-=-=-

The cast did enjoy the alcohol, no questions asked. Markus didn’t want to say it out loud, but the successful first selling made him more confident in this speakeasy business. It still scared him that he now owned a gun and had learned how to (sort of) shoot it as per Thog’s request.

“Jobs can get… rough” was all Thog gave as explanation, rubbing his left shoulder. He and Inien had simultaneously decided not to ask.

True to his word, the job did get rough. Second time the trio went to fetch the shipment, cops were patrolling. Markus had broken into a cold sweat the moment a flashlight’s beam passed by his feet. Quick thinking and stuffing his’ handkerchief in his mouth to keep him quiet rewarded them with the alcohol they paid for.

The bakery had also proved to be a decent base. Ol’ Inny was the character Thog promised, his ramblings petering off from English into Swiss and then into a weird combination of the two languages. Those who entered often wanted to buy what they need and leave, ignoring any signs of illicit activity.

They were all happy their business was off to a good start.

Something had to go wrong eventually.

It was their first European shipment, the good stuff from Colvin. Thog had predicted their profits to jump after these wares were bought. They needed this shipment to really bring the cash rolling.

The night seemed perfect, enough moonlight so they could see in front of them, but not enough to be spotted by the passing cop on the street opposite from the wharf.

Inien managed a handshake between the people unloading the goods before Markus turned, a noise setting him on edge.

“Did you-”

“As wary as we should be, it was probably a worker dropping something,” Thog supplied, pausing before putting an uncertain hand on Markus’ shoulder. “You need a nap once we get this shipment in the basement.”

He could only nod in agreement before turning to help the workers load the wares in the trunk parked nearby.

Markus managed to lift one of the smaller boxes when they all heard a “Hey!”

All heads turned, to a cop, who couldn’t have been more than 25, holding a gun. HE looked more scared than they were.

“D-Drop it!” the cop yelled again, addressing Inien, about to pay the boat workers.

No one moved.

“I-I swear it!! I-I’ll shoot!” The gun was shaking. “3! 2!”

Markus couldn’t hear the rest, blood pounding in his head as he ran, going for his gun. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to do, just knowing there was no way this man was going to hurt Inien.

There was a bang! and Markus stopped.

He heard someone scream, but it wasn’t him. People were moving by him and when had he fallen onto the salt-encrusted wood of the dock? He only knew it hurt, oh Gods it hurt, how could something hurt this much?

He barely noticed the gunfire above him, only able to flinch every time he heard another shot.

Inien and Thog’s voices were muffled, like he’d been throw underwater.

From yards away, he could hear Thog yell, “I know where to take him!” before the pain brought him under.

-=-=-=-=-

It wasn’t clean, but it was clean enough. It wasn’t easy to get to, but considering how much blood was pouring from Markus’ hand, there was no other option. It wasn’t cheap, but it was better than explaining to nurses how he’d gotten a bullet in his hand.

The “underground hospital” actually just the basement of an abandoned building, the only traces of what it was were the chipped paint of “Alaran” on the front. They were allowed one day in this shit hole. One day before Markus had to give up the cot to another low life who couldn’t explain their injuries to professionals.

Inien stayed by his side the whole day, silently contemplating the bandages covering the 5 stitches in his hand. Thog, for once, was not so quiet.

“We weren’t ready. We should’ve prepared for. We need more people; people who know how to fight, at least one doctor…” He sat down on the other side of Markus, head in his hands. “Why am I even this concerned about you people? This isn’t my business.”

She glared at him. “Well, you’re basically family now after the shit we’ve been through. You’ve been a part of this since day one.”

He went quiet. They both did. They knew they had a lot to do; they had already lost money, only getting half the stock in the resulting shootout, recruitment of more people, selling what they could, establishing what exactly was this work relationship they had, but it could all wait.

-=-=-=-=-

Markus was now left handed now, still able to move his right hand, but the limits made it virtually impossible to use it for more than pointing and gesturing. For now, that was good enough as he and Inien descended the stairs to the club. Two weeks of scouting for new people led them to believe a man by the name of Gregor Hartway was the best for them.

He already had experience, being one of the front men for the Outriders, a notorious gang that had once ruled upper Manhattan, but one night had changed all that. Gregor was one of the few remaining people.

Markus and Inien gave the password and the entry fee as they entered. The place was huge, room for a bar, several tables and chairs, a dance floor and enough walk space to not feel crammed. Soft lighting gave the place a warm atmosphere despite the crimes everyone was committing but just standing there. The place was bustling, which was not a surprise for a Friday night.

The two walked toward the bar, eyes scanning the place for their man.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Markus stopped Inien with his good hand and quietly gestured with the other. “Is that him?”

He guided her line of sight to a shorter man with a ponytail sitting off in the corner, smiling to himself.

He wore simple clothes, a white collared shirt with pinstripes and brown slacks held up with red suspenders. From where they were, they could see the top of some blunt weapon leaned against an extra chair.

Inien nodded and the two started toward him. He only looked up when they were in front of him.

He smiled. “Hello.”

Markus smiled back, sticking his bad hand in his pocket. “Hello, my name is Markus Velafi, this is my associate Inien, and we were wondering if you’d like a job.”

Gregor paused. “That was a quick introduction.”

“We have limited time.” Inien said plainly as Markus picked up the conversation. “We need someone who can handle himself in a fight and we heard you were the one to talk to.”

The other man smiled. “What’s the job?”

“Helping to protect a bar like this, but better.” Markus winked.

“We want you in,” Inien deadpanned. “The pay’s good. What do you say?”

Gregor scratched his chin, considering it. “Can he come?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Who’s he?”

“He means me.”

The sudden voice behind her sent her nearly twenty feet in the air. She stumbled into Markus, who was equally unprepared for the new voice. The man calmly walked to Gregor’s side, a wide grin on his face.

“W-Who are you?” Inien asked, setting herself right.

“I’m Zalvetta, a pleasure.”

Gregor piped up, giving no reaction to the surprise entrance. “We’re kind of a team. I’m good brute force-”

“And you can imagine what I’m good at.” Another wide grin.

Markus looked to Inien. “We do need people…”

Inien looked directly at the two of them. “You’ll have to split a paycheck till our… business gets rolling.”

Zalvetta looked displeased, but Gregor looked hopeful, which seemed to sway his friend.

“Deal.”

-=-=-=-=-

“I’m surprised that went so well,” Markus commented as they exited the club. “Two for one? I’m calling that a good day.”

Inien didn’t look so impressed. “We still need a doctor.”

He rested his good hand on her shoulder. “Inien…”

“Don’t!”

Markus paused. “I’m fine, you realize that, right?”

Silence. They kept walking through the streets like that, letting the sounds of the city wash over what had been unsaid between them since that night.

“I don’t want it to happen again,” Inien finally said.

“I know, but if we can’t find one soon, it won’t be the end of the world, okay?”

“…Okay.” Markus gave her shoulder a quick squeeze before shoving that hand into his pocket.

Luckily, they had found the person who they were looking for. She was spoken highly of, those in the Alaran hospital had attested to that. Her ability to heal was unmatched by any other person who bothered to lend a hand there. It was a shock that she wasn’t an actual doctor, but no one asked questions. It was part of the policy.

What they had been able to find out was she worked at a printing press near the outskirts of the city. Her specific job was unknown, but a building was all Markus and Inien needed.

Even more luck fell upon them when they found her loitering around the outside, on a lunch break. Her white hair was in disarray, with ink splotches all over her trousers. Despite that she still held herself with some air for authority. Out of all the workers walking around, she stood out.

As they approached, she looked up at them, narrowing her eyes.

“What do you two want?”

Inien shrugged, “We need a doctor.”

“ ‘ow good?”

“Excuse me?”

“ ‘ow good of a doctor? I never got my degree.”

“Kicked out?”

The woman grit her teeth. “Money problems. Father refused to pay the rest, I didn’t have enough, I dropped out just before I would ‘ave graduated.”

“Well, we don’t care about that.” Markus cut in, glaring at Inien briefly before putting on another charming smile. “I’m Markus Velafi and we’ve heard you’re very good at what you do.”

The woman stared at the two of them. “Who’s the patient?”

Markus gave Inien a quick glance. “It’s more so we want to hire you for when the situation is needed. We want you to be on hand in case we get hurt.”

Inien butted in, slipping Ashe the number for what could be her paycheck. The number made her eyes go wide, but she schooled her expression quickly.

“What’s the business?”

“It’s a speakea-”

“I’m in.”

Markus and Inien shared a look.

“Really?” Inien asked.

The other woman nodded. “I haven’t had a drink in forever. You bet your ass I’ll take the job.”

Inien grinned and held out her hand. “Alright then, what’s your name.”

“Aesling, but call me Ashe.”

They shook hands.

-=-=-=-=-

From there, their business only grew. The basement area under Ol’ Inny’s place was turned into storage as they found a larger place, under a bakery run by a woman named “Dont,” where they had plenty of room to turn it into a proper speakeasy.

Thog, while still essentially the co-head of the place along with Inien, ran the bar, ignoring Markus when he tried to get him to flip bottles and put on a show. He’d roll his eyes, but when the bar emptied, he’d try flipping an empty bottle, just to see if he could do it (He couldn’t). Ashe helped him on the busier nights, when she wasn’t stitching someone up in the back or threatening someone with surgical equipment (Inien hadn’t expected her to be so good at it. It both scared and intrigued her).

Gregor and Zalvetta turned out to be key as more shipments came in and they needed a path clear of police. Their skills also became useful as people started not keeping up their promises.

Markus turned to be the sole employer, finding more people to build upon their so-called “empire” as Inien liked to brag. He found Firi, a flapper and a girl good wit organization, at a dance class. Batty, their bouncer, he found in alley as she beat up the man who tried to rob from her. Moren… Markus never told them how he found Moren, avoiding the question with wild gestures and a blush across his face. He slipped dollars to the orphan kids so they would make quick deliveries and return with all the cash owed.

All the while Inien sat back on her throne (it was the least rickety chair in the place) and grinned, ecstatic her once crazy idea had pulled through.

It was good to be the Queen.

#thrilling intent #tifanart #ti mob au #ti mafia au #TI SECRET TAX GOAT 2K16 #kappa writes #my fanfic

24 notes · View notes

funkaliciousfrog · 4 years ago

Text

I’m bored, so I’m temporarily turning into a seasonal anime blog for a single extremely long post.

I’m checking out more new anime than usual this season, and I’ve been in the mood to write lately. So, I thought it’d be fun to record my expectations for each show and my impressions of their first episodes. Even if no one but me ever reads it.

Joran the Princess of Snow and Blood

That one show I’m watching partially just cause Aoi Shouta is there. I’m interested to see if he can pull off a female character who dresses as a man, which as he put it himself is the “gyakku-pattern” compared to his usual roles. Tbh watching shows just cause Shouta is in them hasn’t worked out super great for me in the past (I didn’t really like 2.43 or Kimi to Boku, and Hamefura was just alright), so we’ll see what happens here. It’s an anime original so who knows how the story will end up. But going off the trailer, at the very least we’ll get some cool aesthetics and sick fight animation.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the plot of this show is gonna involve some politics, since it takes place in an alternate 1930s where the reign of the Tokugawa shogunate hasn’t ended yet. Yeah, you might need to skim a Wikipedia article or two on Japanese history for this one. The main characters are assassins, working undercover for the shogunate and fighting some group of superpowered shapeshifting animal people. The protagonist works in a bookshop by day and lives with her very young sister who does all the housework. She also has some kind of crow-related powers that haven’t been explained yet. In fact, there’s a lot of things about the setting that were only touched upon and I guess will be elaborated on later.

The character designs and background art are very nice, but something feels off with the actual animation. Things move in weird stiff ways, some of the special effects are kinda ugly, and the fight scenes in particular are disjointed at points. Although I think that disjointedness came more from the storyboarding than the animation itself? I can’t say for sure since I’m not one of those sakuga expert people. But, I can still tell the production value here isn’t quite as high as it appeared from the PV. The premise has potential, but as the story unfolds we’ll see if it’s good enough to carry the less than stellar animation.

And as for Shouta, all he really got to do this episode was be dapper and talk in cryptic insect-themed metaphors. Oh, and randomly pull out a lightsaber, since I guess they have those in this show? I’m mostly curious to see how the people who don’t pay any attention to voice actors will react when his character’s actual gender is revealed.

Mashiro no Oto

Hibike Euphonium was one of my first anime and remains one of my faves. So, I’m always interested in shows about classical music and/or playing instruments. The manga has won multiple awards so it should be a good story, and hopefully this adaptation is just as good. As another show about a traditional Japanese instrument, the Kono Oto Tomare comparisons will be inevitable. But honestly, I’d be happy just learn some stuff about the shamisen cause I think it's cool.

This was quite the whirlwind first episode. Our main character Setsu has been playing shamisen with his grandpa since he was a little kid. But, turns out his grandpa is displeased with his grandson’s sound, so he makes it his dying wish that Setsu stop playing shamisen. Once his grandpa does die, Setsu feels distraught, impulsively gets on a bus to Tokyo, ends up living with a random gravure idol for a week, picks fights with her no-good wanna-be rockstar boyfriend, at the very end a SWAT team shows up... it’s a lot.

And I don’t really know how it will proceed from here either. After speeding through this escapade in Tokyo, I think (or hope) that the pace will settle down starting next week. And going off the poster we’ll eventually end up in a high school shamisen club, somehow.

I really enjoyed the bits and pieces of shamisen music in this episode, it just sounds so cool! I hope to eventually get more specific information about the instrument and its repertoire. All I really want from these shows about extremely specific topics is to be educated! They also played either the OP or ED at the end, and it sounded pretty neat. Unlike Kono Oto Tomare they actually put the instrument of question into the song, which I appreciate (though I still like all the Kono Oto OPs and EDs).

The art in the PV didn’t seem like anything that special, but the episode itself actually looked very nice in the important moments. I especially liked the snowy background art from the beginning. They also took an interesting direction with the character designs: everyone is drawn with very thin lines and most of the time without cel shading. Sometimes it looks like an aesthetic choice, and other times it just looks kinda cheap. The animation itself is nothing crazy, but at least from my uneducated perspective the shamisen playing looks pretty believable.

After 2.43's Fukui-ben from last season, I guess this show will be my new source of Japanese regional dialects. Apparently Setsu’s accent is so strong that the girl he’s staying with asks him if he’s a foreigner, which I thought was funny. They don’t mention where he’s from, but he and his family use the same “-be” ending as the main character from the Great Pretender. Which isn’t helpful cause I can’t remember where he was from either. But anyway, for some reason it just amuses me every time someone says “dabe”.

(A footnote about Setsu’s accent: I’ve done a bit of research, or rather literally just typed “be” into jisho.com, which I can’t believe actually worked, and it seems to be some type of Touhoku dialect. His voice actor, Nobunaga Shimazaki, is from that area so I guess that checks out? Although according to the Wikipedia page it’s used as a generic rural accent in media, so maybe they don’t care about the specific region as long as he sounds like a country boy.)

Farewell, My Dear Cramer

Finally, an all-girls sports anime! There are a few out there already, but I haven’t seen any of them yet (except maybe Chihayafuru, which has a mixed gender cast but an awesome female lead). As far as I’ve read, most have mixed reviews and tend to lean into other genres and/or have a lot of fanservice. So, I’d really like this show to be the female version of a straightforward realistic sports show like Haikyuu that is missing from all our lives. But it looks like it might be a drama about sports instead, which potentially could be just as good. It did come from the Your Lie in April mangaka after all, if you couldn’t tell from the weird lips. Besides that, the art in the trailer looks really nice.

So apparently soccer, especially women’s soccer, is an unpopular sport in Japan? The protagonist Nozomi thinks she’s too good for girl’s soccer after playing with the boys for all of middle school, but is convinced to join the girl’s team in high school anyway. Then we meet a couple of her new teammates who were similar prodigies in middle school, and jump right into a scrimmage between the first and second years?

It’s kind of a weird first episode. While it does technically establish the setting and characters, after the first few minutes it kind of feels like we’ve just been thrown into the mix of things. There’s also a noticeable lack of music in a lot of scenes which makes it feel even weirder.

The character designs are less of a problem than I thought they’d be, although the lips and sometimes the eyes still do look a bit strange. The simple, almost graphic quality is actually kind of interesting. It’s also very refreshing to see a variety of female characters that just look and act like normal high schoolers. They’re really just here to play soccer, not to be sexy or cute or really attractive to the viewer in any way.

Although we do get some nice soccer playing in the ED, the animation in the episode itself definitely isn’t at Haikyuu levels or anything. They avoid actually animating a lot of the action with speed-line backgrounds and barely-moving shots where only the hair and clothes flap in the wind.

Nozomi has the same voice actress as Kaede from Gal and Dino, and her performance there was one of my favorite parts of that show so I’m looking forward to more from her. Aoi Yuki and Tomoyo Kurosawa, definitely a couple of notable names, also show up in this episode.

Fruits Basket Final

More Fruits Basket, lets gooo! Second season was awesome so I have high expectations. I’ve already been slightly spoiled on a few things about the ending, but I’m still looking forward to seeing the specifics of the mystery of the Soma family curse wraps up.

We pick up right where we left off last season with Kureno dropping the ~big reveal~ about Akito’s gender on Tohru. Turns out she’s a girl, but raised as a boy by her mother from birth for yet unknown reasons. Then he talks more about her parents: her dad Akira seems to be dead (yet another mysterious white-haired Akira Ishida character for the books), and her relationship with her mother Ren is messy to say the least.

Finally, best girl Saki shows up and saves the day! She brings Tohru back to her house, and along with Arisa gives her the reality check we’ve all been waiting for: she is going to burn herself out if she keeps on putting others’ needs before her own.

Interestingly, even though she seems to be a pretty bad mom, Ren is in the right here about the unhealthy relationship between Akito and the zodiacs. Is she really being kept inside because of physical and mental illness, or is that just Akito’s excuse for locking her mother away? I suspect it’s the latter. Akito loves a good power trip, and if Ren were allowed to talk to the zodiacs she could possibly undermine the hold Akito maintains over them. It could also be a combination of both reasons, so I’ll just have to wait and see.

The OP is awesome! The photo backgrounds incorporate the 2D characters well and it just looks very nice. The song’s R&B-ish sound also stood out instantly from the pop ballads Fruits Basket usually gives us. Once it comes out on Spotify, I will be adding it to my playlist along with Chime and Eden. Btw, if you haven’t heard the full version of Eden I recommend you check it out cause it really goes some places you don’t even get to hear in the TV-sized version.

On a side note, this show has some real fashionistas. Rin, Haruhatsu, Saki, and this episode Arisa have great outfits. That cropped shearling jacket with the skinny scarf? 👌 It’s also adorable how Saki and her little goth brother coordinate their looks. I will never forget that time they casually rolled up to an okonomiyaki restaurant rocking black opera gloves.

Zombieland Saga Revenge

More Zombieland Saga! The best part of the first season imo was the comedy, but I’m guessing we’ll get more into the mystery/drama part of the show here: more information about Kotaro and his motives/methods, Tae’s identity, etc. We’ll see how it goes. I’m also hoping for more bops like Adabana Necromancy and Saga Jihen.

Oh how I missed this show’s manic energy...

Since the end of the last season, it seems Kotaro got overzealous and booked an arena for a concert that only sold 300 tickets, putting the group into a whole bunch of debt. So now the girls are all working part-time to pay it off, and they’re not nice jobs either: factory worker, farmhand, construction worker... milk-deliverer? Do they even have those in Japan? Now there’s some #commentary on showbiz.

As for Kotaro, the whole thing has left him in such a haggard state that he’s managed to grow his hair down to his collar bones in a month flat. Now he spends his days bar hopping and rambling even less coherently than usual (although Mamoru Miyano is clearly having as much fun as ever). Franchuchu are left to prepare all by themselves for their anniversary concert at the tiny venue where they made their debut. But, they decide they’ll use it as a chance to sing the unperformed encore song from the arena concert for Kotaro, thinking it might relight his spark.

We do get a drop of new information about the plot: turns out there’s a strict deadline on the Zombieland Saga Project, which is the real reason why Kotaro so upset. Maybe whatever necromancy he used on the girls will wear off after a certain amount of time and turn them back into corpses? The bartender at his favorite spot is apparently in on the whole zombie thing, and he’s the one who finally snaps Kotaro out of it. He sprints over to the anniversary concert and literally starts throwing hands with the unreceptive metalhead audience. To finish out the episode we get a glorious slow motion brawl sequence as Franchuchu sing the encore song.

I don’t know if that encore will be the OP or ED, or if it’s just a insert song. It was alright I guess. To be honest I liked Iron Frill’s songs more than Franchuchu’s in the first season, and I feel like that will continue to be the case this season. I’m excited to see the new OP tho, even if it’ll be hard to beat the iconic Adabana Necromancy. And on a vaguely related note, it was cool to see the real Zombieland Saga ost album, Franchuchu The Best pop up in the episode.

Pretty Boy Detective Club

This one has people intrigued because it’s written by the author of the Monogatari series (which I haven’t seen yet) and animated by Shaft. There’s also the extremely Ouran-esque setup, with Maaya Sakamoto even voicing the cross-dressing main girl. Also I just think the title is funny. Honestly I don’t really know what to expect from this one besides the usual Shaft aesthetic, so we’ll see what happens.

Mayumi wears glasses to keep attention away from her pretty eyes, but while stargazing on the roof she gets caught without them by Ayumu Murase in a detective hat. He ropes her into the Pretty Boy Detective Club, a shady secret organization at her middle school. We enter the clubroom and meet the members, a bunch of over-the-top eccentric tropey characters that wouldn’t be found in any non-anime middle school in a million years. Shoutout to that one guy in the hot pants. Then Mayumi reveals that she’s been looking for a star she saw once on a family vacation, and the boys decide to take up her case.

I knew I was really in for something when I was hit with musings about Voltaire right out of the gate. Although from what I’ve heard about the Monogatari series, this kind of ~intellectual~ monologuing is totally on brand. And I don’t know if anyone else picked up on the subtle hints they were dropping in those monologues, but I sense that, maybe, perhaps, beauty is going to be a theme in this show...? Maybe it’s going to be some kind of #meta #commentary on pretty boys anime? That could be interesting, although there’s also a chance they’ll just play it straight. They even have an idol-anime-esque ED sung by the the main cast, so honestly it could go either way.

As expected from Shaft, the visuals are all on point. I love both celestial and geometric imagery so this show’s aesthetic feels made just for me. The shifts in art style are also pretty neat. As for the character designs, my favorite part is probably the snazzy school uniform with the galaxy printed ties and striped pants and skirts. Although Murase’s character momentarily sprouted one of those flesh-fangs that I HATE they look so NASTY.

I has a pretty fun time with this episode, it was just so absurdly Anime. I liked hot pants guy and his poses (tho I don’t love that he’s 12), and delinquent guy who was just tired of everyone else’s nonsense and casually ate food off the ground. They were at the beach too, so it probably got all sandy? And when this popped up I died laughing; truly words to take to heart.

(A footnote about the ED: I thought I had spotted an Elements Garden member in the songwriting credits, and then of course I had to find out if they actually made it or not. The lyrics were written by RUCCA, who isn’t actually in the group but collaborates with them frequently according to the Google Translated version of his Japanese Wikipedia page. He’s written for quite a few Elements Garden produced Aoi Shouta songs, which is where I recognized his name from. The composer is Masatoma Ohta, who as far as I can find isn’t associated with Elements Garden but did a pretty good job emulating their sound. Both of them have done a lot of work for seiyuu, idols, and seiyuu-idols, so I guess that’s why I instantly understood what this song was going for lol.)

#i'm also planning on watching yasuke and way of the househusband #but those are both netflix short series so not counting them with the ~seasonals~#ALSO this post is about the first episodes #but by now the second eps of joran and mashiro no oto have both aired and they were both pretty big improvements #especially mashiro no oto: if you watch only one of these shows i say go with that one #original

0 notes

poetryofchrist · 5 years ago

Text

Reviewing a review of Burns, words, only words

BURNS, J. — The Music of the Psalms, Proverbs and Job in the Hebrew Bible. (Jüdische Musik, 9). Verlag Otto Harrassowitz, Wiesbaden, 2011. (30 cm, XIII, 495). ISBN 978-3-447-06191-9. ISSN 1613-7493. / 68,- in BIBLIOTHECA ORIENTALIS LXX N° 1-2, januari-april 2013 p 192 I don't have the subject text or 68 Euros to spare. But I was curious if the statistics implied in Raymond de Hoop's review hold up in my data. De Hoop writes:

In this chapter he emphasizes the strong relationship between a disjunctive accent and its regular preceding disjunctive, like for instance tifcha-atnach or pashta-zaqef, a relationship, which is also mentioned in the grammar of Joüon-Muraoka (§15i).3 ) More revolutionary is that he refers to the fact that in such regular combination the preceding (“intermediary”) disjunctive might in addition have its own regular preceding disjunctive (“prefix” disjunctive), resulting in combinations like for instance tvir-tifcha-atnach or geresh-pashta-zaqef.

Can you believe anyone here is writing about music? The first question this raises for me is, How often does tifcha-atnach or pashta-zaqef occur in this sequence? Let's remind ourselves what these signs are. Tifcha is g#, atnach is A. And yes they frequently occur in this sequence, 8,733 times. The pair is very frequent in the approach to the subdominant (as a musician would expect). They are both sub-lineal signs. Pashta is the prose version of qadma. They are both supra-lineal signs. They have differing placement. ב֙ ב֨. Haïk-Vantoura interprets each as a single note above the reciting note. One could think of it as an inverted mordent. Zaqef, roughly speaking is its opposite, though there are two the lesser and the greater and her interpretation of them is not quite the same. So how often do these occur in sequence? I count 320 matches for pashta zaqef-gadol and 6532 for qadma zaqef-gadol. So they are each relatively frequent. Now what about the intermediary disjunctive, tvir-tifcha-atnach? d g A occurs 589 times. geresh-pashta-zaqef? no matches, geresh-qadma-zaqef 4 verses only. E.g. Numbers 14:19. What is frequent when there are 23197 verses? Apart from the last one which is obviously rare, the others run from < 2.5%, hardly significant, to about 30 up to 40% of the verses, relatively frequent but not overwhelmingly so. But who would explain music with such statistics? Even the musician Burns writes: “we must assume that the Biblical text contains all essential information for its performance – and consequently any elements that it does not contain – like the exact performance of melodies, which, today, vary from one locality to another – are unessential". This is a very disappointing assumption. We do not need to assume any such thing. We do need to use all the information at hand to figure out what we have. We have melody by a set of inferences on the number and placement of signs below the text. This is the best use of Occam's razor in the analysis of the accents that we have seen in 1000 years. We do not have an indication of mode. SHV herself said it takes musical judgment. We all must learn to judge with what we have and weigh the consequences. The possibilities for musical development are extensive. That is our gift. As for de Hoop's conclusion,

I regret to say that the book is too obvious an “Unvollendete”. Only for those readers who are really acquainted with the Masoretic accentuation the book might offer some interesting insights for study.

There is no 'finished' book on the accents in the commonly accepted literature that I have come across. Haïk-Vantoura's book demonstrates a beautiful portrayal of the musical possibilities. I have put out on the web 929 files that allow one to examine the music as music and to develop further music. I have written a shorter book that attempts to tell the Scriptural story in music and clearly explains Haïk-Vantoura's inferences. I have seen no adequate view of the history of the signs. Older manuscripts than Aleppo are needed. Mitchell's book is the clearest I have read. I am totally biased against studying the existing terminology of disjunctive and conjunctive. Those who 'are really acquainted' with these are lost. The terms are useless when describing music. In the confused literature on the accents of the last 1000 years, they are explained in contradictory ways. The musical phrase never conflicts with parallelism or word recurrence. It is the musical phrase that resolves the problems of understanding prosody in the Hebrew Scriptures. There are plenty of performed examples available from the last link on the music page. Literature I have referenced on this subject:

Adler, Cyrus, and Cohen, Francis L. https://ift.tt/2ZEJsCb.

Anonymous. 1744. The Majesty and Singular copiousness of the Hebrew Language Asserted and Illustrated. In Eighteenth Century Collections Online, via the University of Victoria Library.

Behrens, Kenneth. 1990s. The Vowel Mantra of the Gospel to the Egyptians and the interpretation of the Masoretic te'amim and other ancient cryptic symbols as musical notation, unpublished manuscript.

DeHoop, Raymond, 2013. The System of Masoretic Accentuation and Colometry in the Hebrew Bible. Oudewater, The Netherlands. https://ift.tt/2SELAby.

DeCaen, Vincent. 2005. On the distribution of Major and Minor Pause in Tiberian Hebrew in the Light of the Variants of the Second Person Independent Pronouns. Journal of Semitic Studies L/2.

Dotan, A. 1967. The Diqduqé Hatt’amim of Aharon ben Moshe ben Asher. Jerusalem, Masorah, EJ 16, 1401-82.

Dresher, Bezalel Elan. 1994. The Prosodic Basis of the Tiberian Hebrew System of Accents, Linguistic Society of America, Language, Vol. 70, No. 1.

General synod of the Anglican Church of Canada. 1963. The Canadian Psalter.

Gesenius, Kautzsch, Cowley. 1909. Hebrew Grammar.

Haïk-Vantoura, Suzanne. 1976. The Music of the Bible Revealed: The Deciphering of a Millenary Notation (in French).

– 1991. The Music of the Bible Revealed: The Deciphering of a Millenary Notation. John Wheeler (Editor), Denis Weber (Translator).

Heller, Charles. 2006. What to Listen for in Jewish Music. Ecanthus Press.

Jacobson, Joshua R. 2002. Chanting the Hebrew Bible, The Complete Guide to the Art of Cantillation, The Jewish Publication Society.

Kugel, James L. 1981. The Idea of Biblical Poetry, Parallelism and its history. Yale University Press.

Levin, Saul. 1994. The מתג according to the practice of the early vocalizers. State University of New York at Binghampton.

– 1998. The Masoretic Chant of the Hebrew Bible. AJS Review 23 (1). [Cambridge University Press, Association for Jewish Studies]: 112–16. https://ift.tt/2QzjXy4.

Levy, Elizabeth and Robinson, David. 2002. The Masoretes and the Punctuation of Biblical Hebrew, British and Foreign Bible Society. https://ift.tt/1YteuWj

MacDonald, Bob. 2013. Seeing the Psalter, Patterns of Recurrence in the Poetry of the Psalms, Energion Publications.

– 2014. “Using Software to Analyse Patterns of Recurrence in the Poetry of the Psalms”, Journal of Religion, Media and Digital Culture 3(3), pp.129-148. [online] Available at: https://ift.tt/39kxgLc 2014/.

Margolis, Max L. 1911. The Place of the Word-Accent in Hebrew, Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 30, No. 1. https://ift.tt/2Q9R0d2.

Martín-Contreras, Elvira and Miralles-Maciá, Lorena. 2014. The text of the Hebrew Bible: From the Rabbis to the Masoretes, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

Mitchell, David. 2012. https://ift.tt/2QLvvhV, published in the Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 36/3.

– 2013. How can we sing the Lord’s Song? Deciphering the Masoretic Cantillation in Jewish and Christian Approaches to the Psalms: Conflict and Convergence, ed. Susan Gillingham, OUP.

– 2015. The Songs of Ascents: Psalms 120 to 134 in the Worship of Jerusalem's Temples, Campbell Publications.

Mulder, Martin Jan and Sysling, Harry (ed.). 2004. Mikra, Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity. Hendrickson.

Reuchlin, Johann. 1518. De accentibus, et orthographia, lingua Hebraicae, à Iohanne Reuchlin Phorcensi … libri tres cardinali Adriano dicati, https://ift.tt/37yqsrV.

Revell, E.J. 1971. The Oldest Evidence for the Hebrew Accent System. Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester, Volume 54. https://ift.tt/36bI0tf.

– 1976. Biblical Punctuation and Chant in the Second Temple Period. Journal for the Study of Judaism, Vol. VII, No. 2.

– 2012. The occurrence of Pausal Forms. Journal of Semitic Studies LVIII.2.

Richter, Helmut. https://ift.tt/1UgSNXX.

Rubin, Emmanuel. https://ift.tt/2F3TLpY.

The Hebrew Student 2 (5/6). 1883. Antiquity and Authority of the Hebrew Accents. University of Chicago Press: 164–69. https://ift.tt/2F3TLX0.

Tomalin, Marcus. 2009. Contextualising Accents And Alphabets In The Work Of Christopher Smart, The Review of English Studies, 11/2009, Volume 60, Issue 247. https://ift.tt/2MHBZgo.

Weil, Daniel Meir. 1995. The Masoretic Chant of the Hebrew Bible. Jerusalem: Rubin Mass.

Werner, Eric. 1982. Review of: La musique de la bible révélée; une notation millénaire décryptée, premier recueil: 14 mélodies essentielles, accompagnement pour cordes pincées. Notes 38 (4). Music Library Association: 923–24. doi:10.2307/939998. https://ift.tt/2MIH2gJ

Wickes, William. 1881, 1887. 1970. Two treatises on the accentuation of the Old Testament. Ed. Orlinsky, with a prolegomenon by Aron Dotan.

Yarchin, William. 2015. Were the Psalms Collections at Qumran true Psalters? In Journal of Biblical Literature, 134, no. 4.

from Blogger https://ift.tt/35bwSLQ via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Blogger

0 notes

kitsunegamer · 7 years ago

Text

Chapter 21: Light at the End of the Tunnel

After sitting and relaxing for so long, we're all eager to see what lies in the room beyond the smoldering remnants of the brambles. Aster is the first to stride forward, stirring up embers and ashes. Darwin is right behind him and the rest of us follow. Despite the intensity with which the fire consumed the briars, the tainted vines remain unmarred. We avoid them as much as we can, but they are too thick and numerous now to circumvent. The purple light also remains, continually growing stronger as we continue forward.

The path eventually begins to widen, giving us a little more space to avoid the vines. Then, at last, the path opens into a vast room. The ceiling stretches away into darkness, making it impossible to judge the full extent of the space we've entered. Across from where we stand looms an enormous, blackened tree. The trunk is dark and twisted, with knobbed and gnarled pieces jutting out from around it.

At last, we've reached our goal. This tree stands before us, the source of the vines, or roots, as they have actually turned out to be. The tree is also the source of the mysterious purple light. Before the tree, on a thick clump of roots, stands a small hunched man. As we enter the room, his gaze snaps up to where we stand. A maniacal grin spreads across his face.

"I've been expecting you," he rasps. "My twigjacks have been very agitated because of you."

"And who exactly might you be?" I ask curiously. Let's get whatever information we can while there's an opportunity. If he was controlling the twigjacks, he can't mean us any good, I'm sure. Everything about this situation makes my instincts scream that we're in for a fight, but I ignore them and stay still when he opens his mouth to answer.

"I am Aldric the Outcast." Really? That's all you're going to give us? That's not cryptic at all.

"Why are you an outcast?" I probe. Anything he tells us now will only help if, or more likely when, we fight him.

"I was banished for my ideals, my wide vision," he pauses only a second, "my experiments, really."

Aha. Here's a thread of inquiry that bears investigation. "What kind of experiments were you doing?"

"I wanted to see what would happen when I combined plants with things like pathogens, bacteria, poisons, viruses," he trails off, his unsettling grin still firmly in place.

"But why?"

Aldric laughs hoarsely. "To kill people, of course." He speaks so matter-of-factly it's slightly unnerving.

"Why would you want to kill people?"

"Why does anyone want to kill someone else?"

I roll my eyes at the non-answer. He isn't going to get away with it either. "To protect themselves, perhaps because they enjoy killing - there's a variety of reasons. Right now, I'm asking for yours."

He sighs expansively. "Curiosity, at first. Just to see if I could, you know. Then I found I enjoy it. Besides, what are a few lives compared to the expansion of knowledge?"

Bearington takes a step forward and Aldric's eyes swing over to fix on him. "What kind of knowledge have you uncovered?" Bearington asks.

"You can see for yourself, can you not?" Aldric gestures to the tree behind him with the twisted walking stick he holds.

"So you created this tree?" I affirm. When he nods, I continue, "Why? What was your ultimate goal for such a creation?" It's hard to believe he did it to kill people - the roots are choking the land, not harming the people.

"Ah, to please my client, of course," he responds. Someone else is involved? This plot goes deeper than it first appears, then.

"Who is this client of yours?" It will make things much easier if he just tells us this information, even if it means we might have to venture further into the Underdark.

"A woman," he says vaguely. "A talented caster, but she comes and goes - this world is no prison to her."

Of course, we couldn't be that lucky. Aster steps forward next to me as I think this. Perhaps he has a plan to tease the information out of Aldric? He doesn't say anything right away, but cocks his head just examining Aldric and the tree behind him.

"So let me get this straight," Aster begins after contemplating for a long moment. "can this tree burn or not?"

Wow, Aster, real subtle. Definitely not the tactic I was expecting at any rate! Is he going for intimidation? If that's the case, he really needs to practice his demeanor in the future; he's way too casual for effective intimidation right now.

"I protect the tree," Aldric responds, neatly side-stepping the question.

Aster's smile seems satisfied. "What you're saying is that it can burn. That's why you need to stand there and protect it. I'm not hearing you deny it."

"Well, yes," he admits, "it would be possible if I weren't here to protect it from nosy adventurers such as yourselves. Of course, by burning the Great Tree you would be responsible for releasing the Arlo Heint deep into the underground system."

To Aster's credit, his smile doesn't slip at this news. He's got a good poker face. Instead, he tries a different avenue of inquiry. "Why did your client request that you create this tree?" he presses.

Aldric shrugs casually, "A way to spread the Arlo Heint covertly. It's taken centuries of work, but I still haven't achieved the hoped-for results."

He pauses for a long moment. "Which were?" I prompt when he shows no signs of continuing.

"I had hoped it would spread its seeds on its own. For spores that spread the beauty that is the Arlo Heint simply through contact with them. Instead, however, I must extract the Great Tree's nectar and drip its poison into various sources around the world to ensure the Heint keeps spreading despite various attempts to contain it."

Well, that definitely settles the question of Aldric's sanity. He's barmy. He does raise an interesting question though. "How is it that you can handle the toxin and remain unaffected?"

As I speak, Aster takes a couple steps back and whispers something to Darwin. Before Aldric replies to my question, I hear Darwin murmur back to Aster, "I think both you and I can very much tell he's evil." Bearington also steps back to hear what the two men are saying.

Aldric gives a mirthful cackle. "If I gave that away, it would give you too much information."

Cajolingly, I try to draw the answer out another way. "It merely seems that," I pause as if gathering my thoughts. "You've been working on this for centuries, but you don't appear to be one who would possess such longevity. No offense meant, but you look quite spry for your age."

Bearington speaks up again from where he stands next to Darwin. "Besides, I thought you desired the spread of knowledge?"

One thick, wiry brow rises towards Aldric's wispy hairline in condescension. "Appearances can be misleading. While I enjoy spreading knowledge, I am not fool enough to give away such valuable information to my enemies." I choke back a laugh. He's shared an abundant amount of useful information for someone who already deems us enemies.

Bearington begins whispering with Aster. After several moments of back and forth, they both fall silent. Then, "Kiyo," Aster whispers my name in the soft, almost-floating accent of the Auran language. I flick one of my ears towards him so he knows I'm listening. It also makes it much easier to hear him as he continues whispering. "How do you want to proceed?"

I search Aldric's face for any sign he can hear or understand Aster's words from where he stands. His face doesn't betray him, however; his smile remains fixed and implacable. I keep my eyes fixed on him even as I reply.

"It does not appear that we have many options," I murmur back, also in Auran, only just loud enough for Aster to hear. I'm honestly a little surprised when Aldric continues to smile and does nothing else. Even if he can't hear or understand us, it has to be clear we're planning something. Why else would we bother trying to conceal our conversation? I suppose it doesn't really matter, though, as long as he isn't going to attack us while we figure out our plan.

Aster sighs softly and I can practically sense a metaphorical shoulder shrug. "No, we don't have many. At this point, we can either go back or make this the final point of this journey and just mark it."

I flatten my ears slightly in displeasure at this first suggestion. "If we go back, this whole journey will have been in vain," I point out.

"But it is an option," Aster persists. "We can go back. This doesn't have to be the end, it all depends on if we want it to be."

"Are you asking me to make this decision?"

"Obviously I'll ask the others too. Let me ask you this, though: would you trust me enough if I said that I want to make this the final stop?" He falls silent while I consider his question.

I don’t want to turn back, but I owe him an honest answer. Do I trust him enough? Trust him to put my life in danger and bring me out the other side alive? What happens if Aldric is stronger than we anticipate? What would K'yume's fate be then? Fighting him is fighting a virtually unknown enemy. But we can't continue to let him hurt people! Plus, Aster is clever. Very clever. If we work together as we have before, why shouldn't we be able to take Aldric down, just as all the enemies we've faced before this?

"Kiyo?" Aster prompts softly. I briefly consider my thoughts again. When I feel confident that I hold no reservations about my answer, I reply quietly, "Yes, Aster, I trust you."

Aster turns to the others and, switching to Common, asks if they are willing to make a fight of it. It's hard to make out his words - they sound garbled, like he's talking around a mouth full of pebbles. I know it isn't anything to do with him, however. The building pressure at the base of my skull tells me I've sub-consciously started gearing up for the now-inevitable fight. The anticipation of a fight, of course, triggers whatever it is in my mind that shuts out my understanding of everything except Auran. To be honest, it's practically a miracle I've stayed calm enough to suppress it for this long.

When the others begin to reply to Aster's query, their words have taken on the quality of someone shouting underwater, distorted and incomprehensible, even though I can still hear them clearly. The tone of their answers sounds as if they're agreeing to Aster's plan, though. I expected as much. None of them seem the type to turn back without facing the druid in front of us, even if just to wipe that damnable smirk off his smug face.

Aster takes a steadying breath and goes quiet. A second later, Arvid leaps forward casting a spell causing a profusion of vines to appear, layered over the black roots, growing up between them, all around Aldric and the tree. The vines closest to Aldric writhe around him and fall limp. I assume they were meant to restrain him, but they seem almost as if he was able to manipulate them. Even as this happens, Aster steps forward muttering a spell of his own. He isn't using Auran, so I try to stay out of the line of fire for whatever he's casting. Aldric wobbles as Aster finishes the spell, but regains his balance without falling. Grease, then.

Both Darwin and Bearington throw their respective projectile weapons. Both attacks miss. Aster shouts something to the others, then turns to me. His tone grim but resolved, he switches into Auran. "Either we're going to face something we really can't beat or we're going to get that staff of his, and I'm going to watch him die."

I frown, "If we kill him, how do we destroy the tree?" I raise my sling and fire as we speak, but the shot goes wide. Aldric maintains his nonchalance and his smile as he stands amid the riot of vines as we attack, seemingly unconcerned.

"Don't worry," Aster assures me. "I got that planned." I give a hum of assent as I shift my entire attention to the fight.

As if coming to a decision, Aldric nods and raises his staff. Mist begins to fill the room. Aster snarls as everyone else's vision is obscured, but I can't understand what he's saying since he's instinctively switched to Common.

I decide to ignore him in favor of keeping watch on Aldric. I blink once to quickly settle the change in my vision from looking at the mist to looking through it. It might hinder the others, but the mist poses no obstruction to my vision. After all, my magic is based around ice and snow; what is mist but another form of precipitation?

The mist continues to roll out from the center of the room toward the edges, stopping just short of where Percy stands at the entrance of the tunnel. I see Aldric whisper something and make another hand gesture. I tense, ready to dodge, as he finishes. He then sinks directly into the vines and roots he stands on. This is not good. This is very not good.

I look around wildly, searching for where he might reappear. I absently note Bearington sneaking along the wall at the edge of the mist where it would be slightly easier to see. Erwin, eyes closed and ears twitching in concentration, stands with her blade ready a few yards away from me. As I spin, Darwin throws another dagger - at nothing as far as I can see. Aster, still next to me, pulls out a wand.

Before I can stop him, he uses the wand to bring down a lightning bolt directly where Aldric had been standing up until a moment ago. Just as the lightning strikes, burning away some of the mist and setting Arvid's entangling vines on fire, Aldric rises out of a vine directly in front of Aster.

Arvid rushes forward to defend him, bringing up and swinging his wood hammer. Aster stumbles back several steps in surprise. "He uses the vines to move!" I call over to him.

"The black ones?" he questions.

"All of them!"

"All the vines? All the everywhere? The every-vines?"

I roll my eyes, though I doubt he can see it, even as I pull my morningstar out of my belt. "Yes!" I call over my shoulder as I dash toward our foe. Aldric leaps sideways, never leaving the vine he stands on, and just manages to dodge. He's completely unconcerned about the burning vines. He doesn't really need to be, none of the blackened roots are so much as even smoldering. I back out of reach in case he retaliates against my attempted strike.

Bearington shouts something from behind me, and I glance back to see him run out into the tunnel. Whatever he's doing, I hope it helps us. Leaving that thought, I turn and concentrate on the fight in front of me again.

Aldric is chanting. Erwin leaps forward, bringing her sword down in a cross-strike, but he manages to dodge her blow as well without interrupting his flow of words. An ominous cloud forms above Arvid. Winds begin buffeting him and whip around the room, coming out far enough to tug violently at Erwin's kimono. Aldric doesn't stop his muttered litany, however. Rain begins to sheet down from the cloud, drenching the fire which burns among the vines.

He stops chanting a moment later. The silence is immediately broken by the loud clap and flash of lighting. When my vision readjusts from the sudden light, I see Erwin's kimono has a charred hole in the shoulder. It looks painful but she's still standing. I glance to the others in case any of them were hit as well and might need healing. It doesn't seem so; Aster's finishing another spell, using our enemies distraction to his advantage. As he finishes, Darwin grows until he's like a giant to me. I take a step back to give him more room while pulling out a spell scroll with my free hand. Arvid darts between Darwin's legs, bringing his wood hammer down and connecting with a solid crack against Aldric's arm. The summoned storm dissipates. It's unclear if he lost his concentration or that was the length of the spell.

He raises his staff with his good hand and mist once more billows out away from him. Is that a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes? Maybe this won't be as difficult to pull off as I'd thought.

Darwin steps over me with his magically enlarged body, even as he mutters irritably. Probably about having to deal with more mist. Snapping out his whip, he strikes just to the left of where Aldric had just been standing. It's a lucky shot; it catches the druid directly across the chest and he doubles over with a groan.

I force myself to look away and back to my spell scroll. I read it as quickly as I can without stumbling over any words. As I finish, the scroll goes blank and my fingers begin tingling just at the edge of numbness as the frigid touch activates. Looking up, Aldric stands in an area cleared of mist surrounded by a glowing pink corona of faerie fire. He clutches at his chest with his injured hand, gasping, as he white-knuckle grips his staff with the other. Perfect.

I run past Darwin, careful not to touch him. Reaching our foe, I grab his bad shoulder roughly. He shrieks, the skin blackening all the way up to his neck. The grin, which he'd retained even up to this point, transforms into a deep, growling frown. I dance backward out of his reach, just as Bearington whirls past me to land another solid attack. Aldric slumps with a grunt of pain, his staff the only thing keeping him upright.

He begins chanting again and his hands start to glow a soft blue while some of his injuries disappear. Darwin grabs his third silver throwing dagger and lobs it viciously at his target. It sings through the air, catching Aldric across the side of his neck. The warped staff clatters to the floor as he drops it and clutches at his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

Darwin isn't finished. Swinging his whip around again to increase the momentum, he brings it forward with a sharp crack. It catches Aldric squarely across both legs snapping them with two more sharp cracks. Aldric topples over with a gurgling cry, his hand coming away from his neck as he tries to break his fall. A spray of blood erupts across the floor as he does so, and his eyes roll back into his head before he hits the floor. His body sprawls where it lands and he makes no further movements. I can't even tell if he's breathing. No great loss, if he isn't.

We all approach warily. Carefully avoiding the widening pool of blood, Aster rolls the body over and checks for signs of life while stripping off the druid's backpack at the same time. He looks up and shakes his head. Dead then. One less thing to worry over, I suppose, though it would have been nice to get some more information from him.

Aster rifles through the backpack, looking for useful items. He tucks away everything he thinks might come in handy. Finally, we turn to deal with the tree.

"Can we just knock it down?" Darwin suggests. Aster doesn't answer, frowning and walking closer. His frown creates little furrows along his brow, but they smooth away after a moment when his expression clears. He raises a hand and casts acid splash at the base of the tree. The bark fizzes as the acid sinks into the tree's flesh, eating away at it.

Aster nods in a satisfied way and waves the rest of us off. He spends the next several minutes casting and recasting the spell as quickly as he can at the tree. After an intense ten minutes or so, he stops to catch his breath. In front of him, the tree is now nothing more than a smoking sizzling crater.

Coming over to where we're waiting by the tunnel, Aster explains that acid is actually one of the few known methods of completely obliterating the taint left behind by the Arlo Heint. We stand and begin to gather our things while Aster destroys the roots remaining across the floor of the room. As we leave, he brings up the rear, continuing to work as we walk back up the tunnel. As we reach the first room, Percy sees us and creeps out from behind a boulder where he'd taken shelter. He looks askance at us.

"We killed him," Aster assures him tiredly.

A smile brightens Percy's pale face. "Congratulations on your most valiant achievement!"

Pleasantries and assurances exchanged, Percy rejoins us and we continue to trudge our way back through the tunnels. I breathe an internal sigh of relief when we cross back out of the Underdark into the catacombs. Something about that place makes my fur stand on end.

When we make it up to the storage room, Percy is quietly sick in a corner while we deal with the bodies of his comrades. We wrap up the body of his brother, Alex, but we can't carry more than one body back with us. Aster acid splashes the rest to prevent them from becoming tainted as we leave them behind. The weight of Alex's body further slows our progress, so we unanimously agree to rest for another night in the fountain room we'd stumbled on before. Luckily, we don't run into anything between the storage room and our goal. The night passes uneventfully as we recover our strength. With renewed vigor, we set out (in what we assume is the morning) and make our way out of the citadel and finally back to the surface.

Bright morning sunlight shines blindingly above us. Everything seems so quiet and barren compared with the last few days underground. Vines, or rather roots, still creep out from the crevasse and across the surrounding fields, choking them. Aster and Erwin examine the roots and fields as we pull Alex's body out of the crevasse on a makeshift stretcher. After a quick consultation with Gylnis, the two return to the group and declare that they find no taint on the actual land. The fields are merely withered and choked by the roots covering them.

With so many of the roots sprawling across the land, it's clear the job is too big for Aster alone. We decide to continue onto Aki where Erwin can make a report to the Church and request magicians to help destroy the remaining roots.

As soon as we reach the outskirts of the village, Erwin breaks away, heading directly for the Church outpost. We continue on without her and soon reach the town proper. A yell from across the main square greets us as Hercule spots Percy and runs over. Grabbing his son, he hugs him tight enough to make his spine pop.

Releasing Percy after a long moment, Hercule turns towards the rest of us. As he turns, he catches sight of the stretcher where Alex's body lies. A cry of anguish tears itself from Hercule's throat before he can control himself. He whispers a soft prayer over the body before addressing us.

"Thank you for bringing at least one of my son's back alive. It's more than I could have asked for. Can you, by chance, tell me the nature of Alex's death?"

"He died fighting," Aster says as compassionately as he can.

Hercule sighs, barely holding himself together. "At least he went valiantly. Thank you for bringing back his body; I'll be able to bury him properly." He pauses, choking back tears. "I would like to reward you for doing me such a service."

Taking us back to his shop, Hercule gives each of us a medium bag full of gold. He admonishes us to call on him should we ever need a favor because he has connections all across the lands of Edensil. Many blacksmiths, he tells us, will assist us even if we just mention his name.

Eventually we take our leave and rejoin Erwin in the town square. She tells us that relief efforts are going well in Fellinor and that the Church has promised to send a team of acolytes out to the village within a couple hours to take care of the roots. As we speak, Hercule and Percy come out of the smithy and begin telling the other villagers that it is safe to remain in town. Everyone seems relieved at the news, but we hear several express concerns about their fields. Erwin walks over and assures them that the Church will help anyone who needs it.

The innkeeper approaches the rest of us and insists on providing us free room and board for the night. As we head toward the inn, many of the villagers follow to celebrate our victory.

#pathfinder #rpg #tabletop

0 notes

shatteredskies042 · 8 years ago

Text

NaNo Day 7-8: New York

“So, do you think we can get some support here?” Michael asked the blonde, looking around slowly.

“I think I can get some of them to support us: they’re no fans of the angels and they love sticking it to the man whenever they can,” Ally stated, the sidewalk mostly empty in the afternoon. “It’s just up ahead,” she promised him.

As they advanced down the street, Michael spotted familiar building nearby: “I didn’t know this coven was close to the Continental.”

“The Continental?” she asked him curiously.

A wide smile bloomed over his face, “is it possible I know something about the secret underworld that you don’t know?” he teased.

“Maybe,” she huffed.

“The Continental is an embassy of sorts,” he explained. “Some of the finest assassins in the world come here, stay and relax, take jobs and prepare for the same.”

“Sounds volatile,” the blonde remarked.

“No business is conducted on the grounds,” Michael stated. “Safest building in New York. Even if they don’t like you, someone puts a move on you in the lobby, and a couple dozen guns will take that guy down.”

“Sounds like our kind of place,” the blonde smirked, leading him into cover from the rain under the eve of a building. “The witches are dangerous in their own way, and I think it’d be easier to get their support,” she told him, buzzing the intercom near the door. “Plus, they owe me,” she smiled.

“State your name and business,” a voice snapped over the intercom.

“It’s Allyson, I want to talk to the High Council,” she replied.

“And the human with you?”

“Will be coming inside,” Allyson responded, steel entering her voice.

“Allyson, you know the rules.”

“Have I ever been one to play buy them?” she asked, rhetorically. “Look, you can either open up, or we can enter and trash the place. And I think you guys want your deposit back when you find a new home,” Ally noted coldly. She knew what both of them were capable of, as did the witches.

Silence responded, until a loud click came from the door and it swung open. The two stepped inside, before the doors shut behind them. A quartet of black-clad women awaited them, looking at the pair. “Human, I am to relieve you of your weapons. They will be returned to you when you leave.”

Michael narrowed his eyes and shrugged, slowly drawing and clearing his weapon and setting it on a table. His pair of magazines followed, as did his pocketknife and combat knife. He stepped away, looking at the four, well aware he did not need his weapons to cause some damage.

“Is that everything?” they asked in unison, likely some tactic to unnerve him.

“It is. If you want to search me, you’ll probably have to get through her first,” he replied, looking to Allyson.

“No need. Follow us.”

Michael and Allyson did as they were bid, following two of them as the others fell in behind. They were boxed in, decent enough for preparing for an ambush, or ready to rush the pair if they did something uncouth. Michael kept his eyes looking around, and noticed a few figures moving in the shadows around them. Paranoia?

Ally, how many do you pick out following us? He asked her silently.

At least a dozen in side rooms, she replied, her senses far more sensitive that his were. They’re silent, but I can still hear breathing, she told him.

Think they’re scared? He wondered.

Security conscious. Their last coven was brought down from the inside, a witch hunter got inside and distracted them. He died when his comrades burned their home, but I couldn’t tell you how many of them died.

Lots of witches dead? Are they still an effective force? He asked.

They’re not front line troops, Michael, Ally told him as the group entered a wide elevator. We need support, to keep the operators in the fight, and their magic can help give us an offensive edge, she promised. I probably got us a bit of manpower in the lycan clans, I’ve got a group of them flying in from Germany too. They owe me a favor, she explained.

How well trained are they? Michael asked.

Some are ex-military, but almost all of them have weapons training. We can run training at the Farm when they arrive, she mused, but they’re capable fighters. They’ll make a good front line, with your operators behind them.

You’ve been thinking and strategizing, Michael noted, looking over at her with a smile.

This isn’t just my life on the line, she told him, returning the smile. I want as few of our people to die as possible.

Michael echoed the sentiment silently as the gold doors of the elevator slid open, and their escort detail led them towards a pair of wide doors. They were waved to enter the chamber, and the thick doors slid open silently. In passing, Michael noted how thick the doors were, built to survive breach attempts and a whole host of other assaults. Whoever ran their security knew what they were doing.

The room inside was windowless, shadows thrown in all but the very center of the room: Michael could make out chairs, but could not discern which were occupied and which were empty.

“I am sorry, Miss Allyson, the whole High Council could not be here today,” a voice rang out. “You understand, I’m sure.”

“They’re paranoid after what happened in Albany, I understand,” the blonde replied, striding with Michael in tow to the lit space in the center. “I trust they are listening?”

“Some of us are,” an accented voice replied, relayed through speakers. “It is simply not safe for the entire High Council to meet at once, you see.”

“What business do you have here, Allyson?” A present voice asked them from their right.

We’re surrounded, Michael thought, another tactic used to put them off balance. He closed his eyes and breathed steadily, letting Ally handle it.

“A war is coming to my shores. Heaven wants me dead. We intend to defy them,” Ally stated, “we’re putting together an army to confront the angels when they come marching.”

“We have heard,” another voice claimed, “news of the ambush of the American alphas has spread. We assume it is directly related to your mustering activities.”

“You assume correctly,” Ally said. “I know your people are not warriors. However, they can provide our troops the support and an edge to win this battle.”

“Humans, witches, and werewolves fighting together?” A present voice mused, “it sounds like a volatile combination.”

“Possibly, but we will work through any differences.”

“What do we stand to gain from this war, Allyson?” a voice demanded.

“Apart from slapping the faces of the archangels?” Ally replied, “knowing you took a stand and made a difference when it mattered.”

“If we fought for petty victories, why fight?” another asked, “their armies have uncountable numbers, they have been training for longer than any of us can fathom. We cannot win a fight with them, and we will be slaughtered if our involvement is revealed. And what of the political consequences if you do manage to pull out a win?”

Politics? Michael wondered, wondering where that factored into it.

“Politics is something we’ll deal with after,” Ally stated.

“You cannot just stand against the greatest army in the world and expect the world to be no different the day after should you miraculously succeed,” the same voice repeated.

“We are dealing with things one step at a time,” Ally told them, irritation in her voice. “You don’t plan your victory parade before the battle begins.”

“And what of the human you brought here, Allyson. The latest pet of yours dragged into your mess?”

“Why don’t you step forward and say that?” Michael replied, his eyes narrowing and preparing for a fight.

“Violence does not solve all your problems, human,” a voice scolded.

“You’re clearly not using enough then,” he shot back.

“Who even are you, human?”

“My name isn’t important, my actions are.”

“Like what?” one snorted, “what could you have possibly accomplished in your short life?”

Michael smirked, “I don’t suppose any of you enjoyed the Full Moon Ball earlier this year, at Enara Fortress. I had a hand in keeping sure it was safe. The attack on Heaven a few weeks ago, the man who embarrassed the guards there? You’re looking at him. Madame Von Portia, her quest to become a lich? I was there when we destroyed her and her tether to this world. Now, are you going to get off your high horse and get down to business?”

“Why do you never pick the good men, Allyson?” an exasperated female voice asked.

“Because our definitions are different,” the blonde shot back. “He’s the best man I know.”

“Of course he is, you’ve been manipulating his soul for how many centurie-”

“Enough!” Michael shouted. “We’re done here. You’re more interested in your petty dominions and feuds than the real work. You people have made your case clear, all I can ask is that you stay out of our way.” With that, he turned on his heel, with Allyson moving beside him as they walked to the door.

“Or what?” one of them asked.

“Or the destruction of your last coven will be the very least of your tragedies,” Ally promised cryptically.

The doors slid open, and Michael and Ally stepped out and headed straight for the elevator. Accompanied by the quartet that had seen them enter, no one said a word. A pin could be heard falling in the room, and a sudden move would end in combat. They reached the bottom floor, and Michael began to collect his weapons while their guards peered on. As he secreted his extra magazines and knives back on his person, the clicking of many shoes echoed across the floor.

Ally turned to face the approaching group, squaring her stance and narrowing her eyes. A large group of witches strode into the lobby, all looking at the pair.

“Is it true, Allyson?” a blonde at the head of the group asked. “About?” the angel replied.

“You and your boyfriend fighting Heaven,” she clarified.

“We intend to,” she stated as Michael stepped up beside her. “You know that the High Council has withheld their support, Carla?” she told the young witch.

“The Council didn’t want to do anything after our home was destroyed. They saved their skins first, didn’t bother with the rest of us,” she snarled bitterly. Looking her over, Michael could see the raised and reddened scars wrought by fire, matched with the flaming intensity of her eyes.

“Carla Mortoria,” one of the four guards that had escorted Michael and Ally to the Council stated, interposing themselves between the witches and the pair. “The High Council has forbid any witch under their rule to participate in this affair.”

“Just because those old hags don’t want to take a stand doesn’t mean we don’t,” Carla shot back.

“Speak well of your elders,” the guard snapped, “you owe everything to them. We all do.”

“I left my idolization of them at the same place I got these,” she venomously stated, raising her arms to show the horrific burn scars that resided there.

“Going further may be considered treason, Miss Mortoria,” the guards said in unison.

“Speaking the truth is a crime now?” she asked, mock surprised. “I wanted to expect more from the elders, so wise and knowledgeable. Instead I put my trust in those willing to let the rest of us burn to save their own skins, more interested in bickering and controlling their people than leading.”

“Let it be known,” Ally’s voice rang out, stepping forward. “That any witch seeking refuge will be granted it at the Goddess Island Institute. The accommodations aren’t the greatest, but we can work on it,” she promised. “At the very least, you’ll be safe somewhere with people to protect you.”

“Furthermore,” Michael added. “Any witch under our roof is under our protection, and there’s nowhere you can hide if you threaten it.” He turned to look into a camera, that he knew the Council was watching from. “Impede us or threaten any of us in any way, and I will bring this building to the ground.”

The guards turned then, each addressing Michael: “leave, human.”

The look in his eyes was clear as he looked back at them, daring them to try it, instead only met with passive resistance. “Let’s go then,” he announced, heading for the doors. In step behind him fell Allyson, and the group of young witches.

Words: 2,133

Total: 11,565

0 notes

ranger747 · 8 years ago

Text

More now 2

“Back at it again.”

“You are mad at the penned animals?” Amos asked, his unfamiliarity with the spoken language showing. Sometimes things just came out a little weird. More formal than a native would sound, even though it only came from a lack of comfort with conjunctions and the like. Sometimes straight-up mistakes. They were hard to pin down. Don was used to his voice though.

“It’s just that every time we come here those guys lose it!” Don replied, gesturing to the pigs behind a nearby fence. Livestock of the town possibly hassled by the Gaol herd they were trying to take care of.

“Possibly some were stolen. They’re suspicious of strangers now.”

“You think so?” Don inquired. “Hmm, we never did ask the farmers around town...” Don trailed off. “Wait would the pigs even react to their own getting kidnapped?”

Amos shrugged.

“Let’s do so now. We came here to look for information on the attacks. We’ll start here. The illicit trade trail is now cold.” Amos pointed out, taking course for the nearby farmhouse that seemed to own the suspicious animals.

The combined peace of the still blue sky, gentle breeze, and a lone farm, made Don daydream a bit on the possibility of a calm, slightly dull, life. Amos knocked at the door.

“Ah-hh-h!” they could here the undefined sound of children roughhousing inside, then joined by soft footsteps toward the door. The men took off their beak-like, standard issue helmets. They found that civilian interaction was smoother without them. People like to see the face of their conversation partner, after all.

A woman with long, brown, braided hair answered.

“Oh, hi.” She looked unprepared for the sudden visit by a pair of what the modern world silently considered to be officials.

“Hi my name’s Don. This is my compatriot, Amos.” Amos nodded.

The woman seemed put off by Amos, as most people were. He was large, and the bulky armor and hammer at his hip didn’t help lower the intimidation factor.

Neither did his gaunt face. He had short, black hair, and facial hair in varying states of length, depending on the day. Currently he was sporting short stubble.

The clean faced Don asked, “May we please come in? We’d like to ask a few questions.”

The woman let them in and introduced herself as Donna. People typically acted this way with people of The Boulder. The garnered trust from the common man for their deeds. They even typically are give whatever possessions can’t be accounted for in thieving incidents, like this one. That, along with the occasion donation from the grateful client acted as their money for sustenance for the most part.

They sat at the table in the kitchen.It was the room on the other side of the door they were let through. A generous amount of sunlight streamed through the abundant windows. It had an airy feeling, despite the slight disorganization of the kitchen itself, which Don chalked up to being a parent, not that he’d know.

The srats taken by the men creaked slightly under their bulk. It was normal.

“Do you know about the current situation with the Gaols, ma’am?” Don began.

“Yeah the made off with some of my livestock!” Donna proclaimed, visibly becoming more comfortable around the men, and letting loose her hint of a country accent. “Do you know if the live ones they take typically last long?”

“Unfortunately, in prior events like this, any stolen live stock are quickly used for food. Some go missing though. Maybe the occasional escapee gets out alive?” Don answered.

“You got a funny sense of humor, mister.”

Amos cut in. “Do you have any information that might help us?”

“They went missing ‘round three nights ago. Not even a peep. I guess we slept through it.” she said, in reference the the family at large. “They’re sneaky bastards.”

“Was their anything we can use to follow them?’ Don asked.

“I’ve got no idea where the went to. Tracks were gone by morning. Damn snow.”

“I see what you mean. Winter can’t end soon enough, eh?” Don like to try to keep any interactions related to the current job as lighthearted as he can. He found that people were less apprehensive that way.

“Too right.” she replied. “I apologize, but we.ve got nothing, other than old Yvett down the way.” “Oh?” Don inquired.

“She said she saw somethin’ ‘round that time. Somethin’ about ‘Sillouettes’ up to foul ‘deeds’, or whatever. She’s a witch that came ‘round these parts not too long ago. She’s been makin’ camp around the East edge of town, and keeps to herself, usually. ‘Cept for two days ago. The Apothecary she was doin’ some business asked about the attacks, and she said she saw some shady stuff that night. Awful cryptic way of puttin’ it though. You be careful ‘round her. Not that I think she’s dangerous; just mighty odd.”

“That lady’s nuts!” A young boy poked in from the hallway. “She talks all weird, and won’t bathe.”

“Tony, quit it! She’s just misunderstood!” A young girls proclamation from another room.

“Tony get on outta her were talkin’ about serious stuff in here!” Donna hollered, and Tony ran back to the source of the young girls’ voice, unfazed. That room was the source of the sound of children playing for the duration of their conversation. Don had forgotten it was there.

“East end of the town, you say?” Amos asked.

“That’s right.” Donna replied. “Sorry, I don’t got anything else.”

“Is okay”, Amos said. “We will go see this Yvett about what it was she saw.”

“It’s about lunchtime; why don’t you stick around for a meal?” Donna asked.

The men looked at each other. They had gone without dinner last night after talking with Pete, and went immediately back to the inn that they were staying at to sleep With no objections, they agreed.

After getting to know the family over pumpkin soup and bread, Don and Amos were seen off by the kids.

“Don’t get eaten!” Tony advised.

“Ah.” Amos halfheartedly responded, with a wave of his hand.

“Thank you for the new lead!” Don thanked the family and left, waving to them. He put his helmet back on, seeing Amos had already done so.

“Man, small towns sure do get frazzled by the occasional visit from a witch, huh?” Don said.

“Some bad stories go far.” Amos replied.

“Hopefully this one’s as laid back as the others we deal with.”

They approached the little lake on the East side of town where this ‘Yvett’ was supposed to be.

She was easy to find. Next to the humble though grungy hut usually used by travelling witches, they found her. She was kneeling at the side of the lake, using water to try and tidy up her long, matted, black hair. It was down to her waist, so some of it was spilling into the water, making the action seem futile.

She seemed to realize this and flicked the water off of her hands. “Feh!” she exclaimed, shaking her unkempt mane back into what Don and Amos assumed to be it’s natural, wild state. “How does she see?” Amos inquired to Don.

“Dunno. Let’s talk to her.”

Upon approaching her, she turned towards her new visitors. Don and Amos quickly learned that Donna must have had very little interaction with this woman.

Instead of an old woman. as they were told, they could see she was just a young woman, but the dirty, messy, slightly greasy mane of hair, and her even filthier ragged long, dark dress robes, didn’t make it easy to realize that.

“It be about those wicked shades, correct?” She started, with a gruff voice.

“Correct!” Don began politely. They both sat down with her near her humble camp to begin asking her about what she saw.

0 notes