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[nibswrites]

okay I have to ask about the clown emoji LOL

Figured the clown emoji would get some notice… So, when I was more deeply entrenched in my adoration for a certain morally ambiguous pirate captain (I still love her dearly but only rotating her in my mind Most of the time instead of All of the time) and thinking about making her and one of my commanders kiss like dolls, I thought, “What if Mai and the Commander knew each other growing up? What if they were close before everything that happened?” So, Leandra was born. It is a completely self-indulgent, complicated, sapphic affair. But here I am, putting on my clown makeup and writing the messy lesbians I want to see in the world. I’ve posted some of this AU for Fictober prompt fills last fall, but I kind of ran out of steam of making the idea its own "thing" (whatever that ends up being)… Maybe I’ll come back to it in the future.

I’d swap my own Mai backstory for yours, but I like this excerpt better (also, content warning for brief mention of animal death):

“So, uh, don’t mind the mess—“ “Gods.” Leandra spins about in the middle of the apartment, taking in the full extent of the chaos. Mai scowls and kicks a dirty sock into the large pile of clothes. “I haven’t had a chance to get my sweeper repaired yet, okay?” “You’ve always been messy,” Leandra scolds. “Don’t tell me this isn’t how it always is. I remember your room when we were kids.” “When Mari would draw a line down the middle?” Mai asks with a smirk. “And she’d kick all your things over the line and keep her side immaculate.” Mai gestures to the room and says, “Then you know that it could be worse.” “It could, but the bar is buried under all your dirty laundry,” Leandra teases. “Ugh, just help me look.” Leandra scans the room and asks, “For what, exactly?” Mai opens a drawer in the desk and starts to rifle through its contents. “It’s… an Imperial access card. It should get us into the facility.” “And I’m sure you obtained that through completely legal means,” Leandra mutters. She approaches a stack of crates pushed against the wall opposite the door, mindful of the appliances mixed in with the mess. She peeks into a bowl and grimaces when she sees that whatever is in it is slightly furry. “I did, actually,” Mai mumbles. “Joon gave it to me.” Leandra glances at Mai, who is holding a jade power core. She sets it back down on the desk with a sigh and walks over to the shelves in the corner, pushing items aside to peer behind them in her search. Leandra squints, and can just make out the inscription, “Employee of the Month,” along the top of the core. With one last sideways look towards her childhood friend, the slump in her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes, Leandra swallows and turns to the opposite end of the room. “I think you may have a problem,” Leandra announces. “Do you mind being more specific?” Mai grunts. She’s tossing laundry haphazardly, checking pockets before casting each article aside for the next one. Leandra does a quick count and says, “Seven cats seems excessive.” “Well, no one else was taking care of them.” “Is this apartment big enough for all of them?” Mai purses her lips, in that way she always did when they were kids and she knew Leandra was right about something but didn’t like it. “I mean, it’s bigger than the other units in this building.” Leandra sighs and runs her fingers along the rings of Scarlet’s model of The All. “That doesn’t mean there’s enough space for all of them,” she chides. “Do you remember the bunny we found?” “The one my mother ‘released into the wild?’” “What, you don’t think she actually did?” Mai scoffs. “Pretty sure she ‘released it from the mortal plane.’ With a shovel.” Leandra frowns and mumbles, “It was in pretty bad shape, the poor thing.” She opens a chest, and notices a small card with Canthan engraved into it. “Hey, is this your access card?” “Ugh, yes. Finally,” Mai grumbles. She accepts it from Leandra and turns it over in her hands, brow furrowed. She huffs. “I really thought I could start over. Be someone different.” With a self-deprecating chuckle, she shakes her head and says, “Guess I should have known better, huh? Can’t run from the past forever.” Leandra’s eyes wander back towards the power core-turned-award. “Isn’t it worth trying, though? If you’re serious, that is.” Mai stares at the card for a moment longer before yanking the blindfold back over her eyes and shoving the card at Leandra. “Take it. It’ll get you into the lab,” she says roughly. Leandra tucks it into a pouch and murmurs, “Thanks, Mai.”

[nibswrites]

WIP Title Tag Game

Thanks @guildtree for the tag!

Prompt: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Ok so... most of my fic writing happens in huge documents that focus on, like, specific characters or themes. I don't pull anything out of them when I "finish" them or publish them, they just live in the document (and I will actually add things I write and publish separate, like fictober prompts, to the "master documents" they fit with the most). So, uh, here's a handful of titles of the gross amount of files I write in, lmao (for the sake of this not going on forever, I'm just picking the ones that have like, a significant amount of work done on them, and not just paragraphs of ideas I thought I wanted to write before my motivation disappeared).

Guild Wars 2

🤡 (...yes. just a literal clown emoji)

Bixxbi

Clifford the big red norn

Eun and Redbeak

Fig's friends

Hmm hmm hmm

I take a hammer and I FIX THE CANON

Lenore & Lucy

Logan's commanders

Myrta

Phia and her merry band of misfits

Silk

The saga of Fig

These plants gay (good for them!)

This is my sandbox

I... looked at my other folders and... uh... I don't think I want to share all of these file names... there are so many... Only including things with more than 5k words because otherwise we'd be here all day.

For any of the Oban Star Racer fans still following me:

Android AU (pls help me) [yes. The (pls help me) is actually part of the title]

Coping fic (I am… sorry I abandoned this one y’all ;-;)

cRYING

Skyrim AU (somehow... has 30k words... what the hell)

The holy trinity is complete (how does this one also have more than 10k words lmao)

Witchering lmao (Are you kidding me right now almost 19k in this one. the holy trinity really IS complete)

There are more for other fandoms I've never published for before (Our Life, Pillars of Eternity, Skyrim, Dragon Age) so I'm not listing any of those for brevity's sake. I don't think I even have that many people I know of who write. Uh. @draw-you-coward if you feel like it? And anyone who might be reading this and also writes stuff and wants to participate, feel free to at me and I'll send you an ask.

[nibswrites]

WIP whenever

Messy shark-rats inspired me to write for the first time in I-don't-know-how-long and I'm proud of it for once, dammit, so here's part of what I wrote this weekend. Also I love Fig and Ghatti's friendship. 1,336 words

Pounding on the door drags Ghatti back to consciousness, and she hisses and pulls the pillow over her head. When the knocking gets more insistent, she feels around on the nightstand for the hand-held display connected to the camera mounted above her door, and finds Fig’s round, freckled face and big nose filling the screen.  

“Wake up, sleeping beauty, it’s 2 PM,” she announces. 

“Fuck off,” Ghatti groans. 

“I’ll pick the lock.”

“Nnngh.”

“I brought you food. Pan-fried dumplings from Xiong’s. They’re fresh.”

Sing-song, like Ghatti’s some stray cat Fig is trying to lure closer. Ghatti wants to tell her to go fuck herself, but sure enough, she’s waving the bag in the air in front of the camera. Ghatti’s traitorous stomach rumbles. “Fine,” she spits, and rolls out of bed. “I’m not putting clothes on.”

She yanks the door open, and if Fig has a problem with her standing there in nothing but boxers, she doesn’t say anything, just ducks through the doorway and picks her way through the piles of clutter to the single, wobbly table shoved into the corner. She sets the bag down and starts to pull out the takeout containers, setting them down among the piles of scrap wires and dirty dishes. “Did you sleep well?” she asks. 

“Never do,” Ghatti mutters, scratching at her side and yawning loudly. Her hair falls into her face, so she flips her head to the left to get it out of her eyes. She runs her tongue over her teeth, the metal stud of her piercing clickclickclick-ing against the enamel, and grimaces at the slightly-fuzzy texture. 

Fig nudges the asura-sized stool aside and plops onto the floor. She clicks her chopsticks together over her own meal, which appears to be vegetables and noodles, and notices Ghatti’s watching her. She holds the carton out to her and asks, “Lo mein?”

Ghatti waves her off and shuffles towards the table. She sits on a stool and grabs the unopened container. Her stomach growls again when steam and the aroma of the dumplings tickles her nose. “Why are you trying to butter me up?” she accuses, plucking one out with her claws and biting into it. 

“No buttering, just thanking you.”

Ghatti stops chewing and squints at the human across from her. “Doubtful. What did you do?”

Fig swallows her food down and dabs at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Nothing. I’m just thanking you for your help last night.”

Ghatti glares at Fig, who blinks innocently and stares back at her. Finally, the asura sneers and says, “This is about Devva, isn’t it?”

“Do you want it to be about Devva?”

“I don’t want anything to be about Devva. I want Devva to disappear back into whatever dark hole you and Fox found her in.”

Fig prods at her food with her chopsticks and says, “Not a hole. The way I heard it, at least.”

“Details,” Ghatti snorts and waves a hand dismissively. She puts the carton of dumplings down with more force than intended, and the table shudders ominously. 

Fig grabs the edge of it on instinct, as if she alone could stop the rickety thing from collapsing under the combined weight of all the garbage piled on top of it and Ghatti’s anger. Seems like she’s doing a pretty good job of it so far. “You could have sat it out. I think she and I could have managed.”

“And leave you alone with her?” Ghatti spits. She grabs another dumpling and digs her thumb claws into it, splitting it from one end to the other and peeling the dough away. “Fuckin’ traitor-ass bitch. Can’t trust her as far as you can throw her. If I ever see her in person, I’ll…” Ghatti still isn’t sure what she’d do to her. But for now, it’s satisfying to drop the dumpling on the table and smash it under her fist. 

Fig watches her, expression mostly neutral aside from the slight downward curl of her lips and wrinkle in her nose that give away her disgust. “I can take care of myself, Ghatt. Besides, I don’t think she knows you’re involved in any of this, at least directly.”

“So?” Ghatti snaps. She turns her hand over and grimaces at the mashed-up meat and cabbage stuck to her skin. Why did she do that? And now it’s all over the table, too. Oh well, there’s plenty of other mess. 

“If you’re worried about her trying to turn me against you, it’s not going to happen,” Fig says. She holds a napkin out to Ghatti, who accepts it and wipes the food off her hand and the table. “It doesn’t sound like she would, even if she knew we were friends. She did seem like she genuinely regrets whatever happened.”

Ghatti glares at Fig. “‘Whatever happened?’ She almost killed me.”

Fig, who has just taken another bite of lo mein, pauses with her chopsticks still in her mouth, her purple eyes wide and her eyebrows high. “She what?” she blurts. 

Ghatti leans away from the table and exhales sharply. “Okay. She didn’t try to kill me. But she didn’t try to stop it, either. But what did I expect? It’s the fucking Inquest. Every asura for themself, everything’s fair game in the name of progress. I just…” She trails off and pushes her left hand into her hair, hunching her shoulders and curling in on herself, and sighs, “I thought she was different.” Then she scoffs and shakes her head. “Guess I was a fuckin’ moron, huh? Serves me right.”

The sound of something sliding against the table as Fig sets her food down and pushes it away from her, and then she rolls up onto her knees and stares at Ghatti in that intense way that always makes her feel like a bug under a microscope, so Ghatt huffs and turns her face away. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” she warns her. 

“Ghatti,” Fig says. 

Ghatt points at her and growls, “I said don’t, Fig. I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity. Thorns, you’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

“Don’t you start getting all huggy and teary-eyed on me, I’ll kick you out.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Fig challenges her, bracing her hands on her knees. She’s still staring at Ghatti, unblinking. 

“Stop doing that, it’s fucking weird. You’re being weird,” Ghatti says.

“I'm your friend and I care about you. Finish eating and put some clothes on. We’re going out.”

Ghatti drops her hands on the table and gapes at the human. “We’re what?”

Fig grabs her food again and stirs it around with her utensils. She says, “Bring your hammer, too. We’re going to the scrap yard. There was an old jade transport brought in a couple days ago. Scavengers have mostly gutted it by now, so we can smash the hell out of it. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay,” Ghatti finds herself agreeing to the plan before she really has time to think about it. But maybe breaking something inconsequential is exactly what she needs. She fishes around for another dumpling and says, “But not because you told me to. For the record.”

“Of course,” Fig snorts. “Whatever preserves your ego.”

“Why you so interested in my ego, huh? That’s gay.”

A wet noodle hits Ghatti in the face, and she splutters.  Fig laughs and asks, “You’d know, huh?”

“Sorry, Figgy, you’re too human-y for my superior taste.”

“You just told me your ex tried to kill you, so excuse me for doubting your ‘superior taste,’” she fires back, and Ghatti snaps her mouth shut and glares at her. Fig’s expression softens a hair, and she shrugs and says, “Not that my dating history is much better.”

Ghatti lifts her takeout carton in the air and says, “To us. We sure can fuckin’ pick ‘em, can’t we?”

Fig laughs and taps hers to Ghatti’s in a toast. “We sure can. To awful taste in romantic partners.”

[nibswrites]

A Figgy Wintersday (Skip the Pudding)

Get it? Because her name's Fig? AKA that Wintersday thing I've been working on for more than a year and keep putting off posting (3,396 words).

The fat snowflakes tumble from the sky and settle whisper-soft on the roads, the buildings, the decorated trees, and Myrta’s tongue. The sylvari giggles and looks at Asphiadh from the corner of her eye. “Twy ih,” she says, with her tongue still poking out of her mouth. 

Asphiadh chuckles and shakes her head fondly. “I think I’m good.”

Myrta pulls her tongue back in her mouth and pouts. “You're no fun,” she grumbles. 

Fig takes a step closer to the pink sylvari, reaching for her hand before carefully tipping her head back a little and sticking out her own tongue. Myrta catches sight of her and grins. “See, Phia? Someone else has got the right idea.”

“And if you eat all the snowflakes, then there won’t be any for me to pelt you with later.”

“Oh! You think you can steal my snowball fight champion title, do you?”

As the sylvari maintain their playful banter, Fig studies her surroundings, mindful of the crowds. It’s not the first time she’s seen Wintersday in Divinity’s Reach. Her first holiday in the city, the priests and priestesses who ran the orphanage took them all out as a group to join in on the festivities, but Fig couldn’t find it in herself to enjoy what the festival had to offer. She should have been at home putting ornaments on the tree with Papa, or stealing cookies with Debs when Momma had her back turned. 

But her home was gone, along with her family, and it was hard to be in the holiday spirit when everything reminded her of what she had lost. 

Pressure on her hand draws Fig’s attention back to the present. Myrta is smiling at her mischievously. “What do you think?” she asks. “We could totally beat Phia in a snowball fight, yeah?”

Asphiadh clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “If you think you’re so good, then wouldn’t it make the most sense for Fig to be on my side?”

“But you seem so confident that you can beat me!”

“And I suspect you know I would win and are looking for an advantage.”

Fig purses her lips and mumbles, “I don’t wanna get between all that.”

“Declaring neutrality! An unexpected tactic,” Myrta gasps.

“And surely, the wisest of the options presented,” states Asphiadh.

Myrta nudges Fig’s shoulder and says, “Perhaps she’s secretly a snowball throwing fiend and wants to be on her own team?” When Fig wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, the older mesmer laughs and squeezes Fig’s fingers through her mittens. “Alright, alright. What do you want to do first, if not a snowball fight?”

While Fig considers their options, Asphiadh adjusts Fig’s scarf and pulls her hat down over her ears. “Are you warm enough, dear? Your cheeks are so pink. I never know how cold is too cold for you humans,” she fusses.

“I’m fine,” Fig murmurs into her scarf. It’s a little brisk, but not terrible.

“Maybe we could find some hot chocolate or cider to warm you up a bit,” Myrta suggests. 

That doesn’t sound so bad. “Sure,” Fig agrees. “Can we go listen to the bells after?”

“Aha! So she’s an enjoyer of the fine arts.” Myrta nods, looking pleased. “You know, I’ve dabbled in bells before. They’re a bit harder than they look!”

“Oh?” Fig knows Myrta likes to sing, and has seen the lute tucked away in Myrta’s home, but she’s never seen her touch it and assumed it was decorative. 

The sylvari nods again as she begins to walk down the stairs. “Aye, I like having everything under my fingertips, I suppose.” She mimes playing the lute, then continues, “They do sound lovely, though. Let’s go get you some hot chocolate, and then we can find a spot to listen to the bells.”

They quickly locate the food stands, including the cart with the hot chocolate. The merchant hands Fig a cup as Myrta counts out the coins to pay, and gently warns her to be careful not to burn herself on it. As she cradles the cup to her face, steam licks her nose and wards off the nip in the air. Beverages obtained, the three make their way through the crowds, Asphiadh keeping her hand on Fig’s shoulder as they follow the bright, chiming sound of the bells to where a sizable group has already gathered to listen. 

“Oh, thorns,” Myrta grouses. “So much for you being able to see, Figgy.”

“It’s alright,” Fig mumbles. At least she can hear them alright.

Asphiadh huffs. “Well, I’d offer to let you sit on my shoulders, but I think my branches might get in your way.”

Myrta shoves her drink at her wife and blurts, “You can sit on mine, Fig!”

“Dearheart, are you sure you’re strong enough for that?”

“I’m fat, darling, not weak. Spent more than ten years carrying the weight of Tyria on my shoulders, didn’t I?” Myrta scoffs and crouches down in front of Fig. “Here, sweetheart, you can hop on if you’d like.”

Fig shuffles forward, mindful of her hot cocoa as she wraps her free arm around Myrta’s shoulders. The sylvari tucks her arms under Fig’s knees before standing up straight and asking Asphiadh, “Can you lift her up the rest of the way?”

The other sylvari looks down at the drinks in her hands, then back at Myrta and Fig, and purses her lips. “Er, sure, can you just hold these for a second?”

Myrta takes the drinks, and Asphiadh places her hands on Fig’s sides and lifts her the short distance to Myrta’s shoulders. After the mesmer hands the drinks back, she grabs Fig’s thighs to hold her in place.  “How’s that?” she asks. 

Myrta isn’t very tall, but their combined height now means that Fig’s head is above even Asphiadh’s. She can see the performers and their shiny metal bells just fine. “Better,” she says. 

“And you hardly weigh a thing. See, Phia? You aren’t the only strong one around here.”

Asphiadh rolls her eyes and asks, “Then what in the world do you keep me around for?”

Myrta laughs. “Plenty of things! You’re still taller than me, love, and a much better conversationalist than my clones.”

The white sylvari rolls her narrow, pink eyes once more before meeting Fig’s gaze. The sharp ridge of her brow lifts and she smirks. “Can you believe her? Ridiculous woman,” Asphiadh quietly mutters. 

“I heard that,” Myrta huffs.

“I know,” Asphiadh says, winking at Fig.

There’s a lull in the music as the performers finish one piece and a soft smattering of applause ripples over the group. When the first notes of the next piece ring out, Myrta blurts, “Oh! I love this one!” and starts to hum along, her body swaying in time as if she forgot Fig is on her shoulders. Asphiadh’s hands flutter towards her, ready to catch her should she fall, but the panic is unneeded. Myrta’s hold on Fig’s legs is secure, and while her body is caught bobbing along with Myrta’s movements, they’re not aggressive enough to cause any discomfort. Once Asphiadh realizes this, she chuckles and says, “Myrta, darling, you’re going to get cocoa spilled on you if you aren’t careful.”

“I wash,” Myrta counters. Still, her movements become more reserved, so Fig risks taking a sip of her drink. 

They stay to listen until Fig finishes her hot chocolate and decides she wants to see what else the festival has to offer. “Well, they have a foot race, if you like running,” Myrta suggests, and chuckles when Fig pulls a face. “They have an obstacle course type of thing, you know, melting snowflakes, exploding presents, and skinny little candy-colored rods you have to run across before you freeze.” Asphiadh makes a sound of disapproval at that one, so Myrta amends, “Maybe we’ll wait until you’re a little bigger before we try that? There’s Freezie, but that might be a bit dangerous for you… oh! The Infinirarium does that yak defense game where you smash toys with candy canes, what about that?”

“Why is everything about this holiday so violent?” Asphiadh asks, voice tinged with concern. 

“Didn’t you know, Phia? Apparently the gods used to come and fight each other over the end of winter,” Myrta explains. 

It causes the other sylvari to purse her lips and give her wife a funny look. “Are you sure someone wasn’t pulling your leg when they told you that?”

“No, really! Look, Fig’s human, let’s ask her. Figgy, didn’t Dwayna and Grenth used to fight each other during Wintersday?”

Fig’s eyes widen. She drops her gaze to the ground and mumbles, “I don’t know, we used to worship Lyssa and Melandru.”

“You don’t know about grenches, then?” asks Myrta. 

Fig shakes her head. “Oh, no, I know about those. Nobody likes a grench. They steal your presents if you’re naughty.”

“See? I told you! Dwayna’s snowmen and Grenth’s grenches!”

Asphiadh shakes her head. “Sounds like some sort of bunk parents use to scare their children into obedience to me.” 

“Aw, come on, Phia,” Myrta chides. She kicks at a small pile of snow; Asphiadh convinced her to put boots on before they left, and she stopped griping about how uncomfortable they were once they arrived in Divinity’s Reach. “But, how about it? Want me to teach you how to use a cap rifle, Fig? Phia would probably throw a fit any other time.”

“As any responsible adult would; guns are not toys, Myrta.”

Myrta rolls her eyes and gives Fig a “told you so” look. “Just don’t aim it at anybody else or yourself and it’s fine! I swear, Phia, if I didn’t know from experience, I really would think you had a stick shoved up your–”

“Myrta!” Asphiadh snaps, but the mesmer only grins wickedly and waggles her eyebrows. Asphiadh sighs loudly and says, “Just take us to the Infinirarium, or whatever you called it.”

Fig casts Asphiadh a nervous glance and asks, “Are cap rifles really safe?”

The sylvari huffs. “Just don’t aim it at other people or yourself,” she mutters.

~

They win, but back outside of the Infinirarium, Asphiadh gently takes Fig’s chin and turns her head to the side to scrutinize where a stray snowball flung by a mini snowman hit her squarely in the cheek. Myrta lingers at her wife’s elbow and peers at Fig, eyes wide and apologetic. “You’re sure you’re okay, Figgy?” she asks again.

“I’m fine,” Fig says, again. “It was just cold and startled me.” And it’s true, after the initial shock wore off, she was alright. 

Myrta glances at Asphiadh, then at Fig once more, and her lips pull up into an impish grin. “Don’t you know, dear? Phia’s a world-class mother hen. She’d pull down the moon for you if you told her it would make you feel better. You’ve got to learn to milk it.”

The concern melts off Asphiadh’s face, immediately replaced by a flat, unamused expression. “Is that what you do, then?” she asks, her tone totally deadpan.

“No,” Myrta sings, drawing the vowel out and turning her shoulders away. She presses her forefinger to her chin, purses her lips, and bends her right leg back at the knee, an exaggerated image of innocence. 

Fig giggles at the ridiculousness of it all, and it’s enough to make Asphiadh’s shoulders drop a hair. She offers Fig an exhausted smile and says, “Don’t listen to her, she’s an awful influence.”

“Am not!” Myrta snaps. “I’m a fun influence.”

“Awful, fun, whatever adjective you wish to apply to yourself, the sentiment remains.”

Myrta drapes her top half across Asphiadh’s shoulders and exhales loudly. “Don’t give me that, you love it and you know it.”

Asphiadh shakes her head and rolls her eyes, even as a smile pulls at her lips. She runs her fingers through the snow between her feet, making a loose pile, as she redirects her attention to Fig and asks, “Well, other than getting hit in the face with a snowball, did you enjoy yourself?”

Myrta did show her how to use a cap rifle, but Fig honestly found more amusement in running around with a large candy cane and smashing the miniatures to pieces, and building up the snow walls and tiny siege weapons while the sylvari fought off droves of toys and, much to Asphiadh’s dismay, the giant golem Myrta forgot about until it first barreled through one of Fig’s walls. That’s when the gun came in handy the most, while Myrta and Asphiadh whacked at it with their own candy canes. “Just like old times, eh, Phia?” Myrta crowed, expertly dodging a punch and delivering a solid hit to the golem’s back, the metallic clang echoing through the space. 

Before that moment, Fig had a hard time believing that Myrta and Asphiadh really did fight dragons. The former is too goofy to imagine being in any sort of combat setting, the latter so gentle and kind that Fig couldn’t picture her getting angry enough to harm anything or anyone. But watching them circle the golem, Fig could tell that their movements were practiced, a dance they had performed many times before, Myrta spinning about and delivering shallow but precise hits while Asphiadh followed up with heavier blows until Toxx would back off and more toys would stream from the dioramas. That’s probably why Fig got hit in the face; she was so busy watching Asphiadh reduce toy charr soldiers to stuffing that she didn’t notice she had walked between the snowman and the group of stuffed griffons until a snowball collided with her cheek. 

Still, they were victorious, and Fig’s pockets are stuffed with candy. She nods and says, “I had fun.”

Myrta grips Asphiadh’s branches and gently shakes them. “See? Everything’s fine! No harm done.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Asphiadh murmurs, brushing Myrta’s hands away before standing to her full height. She lightly tosses one of the snowballs she’d been shaping, and it catches Myrta in the forehead before dissolving into powdery flakes. 

Myrta gasps, “Oh! Oh! You sneaky sneak! I’ll show you!” and blinks away towards where someone left a pile of snowballs earlier. She grabs one and lobs it at Asphiadh, who raises her arm and laughs as it hits. 

“Sneaky sneak? That’s the best you can come up with?” the warrior taunts. 

“Well, I’m not about to cuss in front of a child,” Myrta counters. She’s already grabbed more snowballs, and her form shimmers before splitting into two. Both Myrtas throw a snowball at Asphiadh. She rolls away from Fig, dodging both and getting closer to another pile of snow. 

For the next several minutes, Fig watches them fight, cheering for and laughing at both of the sylvari. Myrta relies heavily on her clones and short-range teleportation, but somehow, Asphiadh seems to be able to tell which Myrta is the real one every time. The fight ends when Asphiadh grabs Myrta around the middle and holds her under her arm before bending over and peppering the mesmer’s face with kisses. 

“Cheater! Cheater! Underhanded tactic!” Myrta shouts, even as she laughs. She kicks and flails her legs while squirming, but Asphiadh’s grip remains firm. 

“Portal yourself away if you don’t like it, then, or admit defeat,” the warrior says. 

Myrta huffs and crosses her arms. “Do you see this treachery, Fig? Can you believe it? So much for being the honorable knight. The only way she can get the drop on me is through seduction and flattery! Boo, I say! Boo!”

Fig cups her hands around her mouth and calls, “Boo!” 

“Oh, alright, let’s call it a draw then,” Asphiadh huffs. She sets Myrta back on her feet, and the shorter sylvari straightens out her clothes. 

“As if! I was winning and you know it, else you wouldn’t have resorted to such tricks.”

Asphiadh snorts and wraps her arm around Myrta’s shoulders, pulling her into her side. “Tricks? Says the mesmer who spent the whole time ganging up on me with her clones. Without them, dearheart, you are outmatched, and you know it.” Then she sighs dramatically and announces, “But I’ll concede my well-deserved victory, and only because you’re adorable when you feel like you’ve won.”

This, apparently, is satisfactory to Myrta, who smugly smiles and tosses her vines over her shoulders. It feels like a bit of a diss in Fig’s opinion, but perhaps it’s only one of their running jokes. She makes eye contact with the girl and her grin widens. “See, Fig? Milk it.” She winks, and Asphiadh rolls her eyes even as her own smile pulls at her lips. 

Yep, definitely a running joke, then.

“So, what’s next on the agenda, Figgy?” asks Myrta. Pride restored with her “victory,” her excitement is palpable in the way she bounces on the balls of her feet and beams at her.  

Fig’s stomach growls, so she says, “I’m hungry. And cold.” She adds the last part as an afterthought, but after sitting still so long after running around, working up a sweat and getting pelted with snow, she realizes her clothes are kind of damp. The chilly air sends a shiver down her spine. 

“It is nearly time for dinner,” Asphiadh observes. “What do you say we go find somewhere to eat and head home for the day?”

“Is there anything else you wanted to see or do before we leave?” Myrta presses. 

Fig casts one final look over the festival grounds. It’s nearly the same as Fig remembers from last year, but the sight of it doesn’t leave quite as strong of a bitter taste in her mouth and ache in her chest. She does still wish Debs, Papa, and Momma were here with her, but she pushes that away and instead reaches for Asphiadh’s hand, tightly clinging to her long, skinny fingers. She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “We can go,” she mumbles. 

Myrta places her hand on the top of Fig’s head and flicks the pompom on her hat before taking Fig’s other hand. “Of course, darling. What do you want to eat? There’s a pub here that serves really good roast, and I know a place that makes amazing stews and soups. What are you in the mood for?”

“Soup,” Fig says. The idea of a nice, hot bowl of it makes her mouth water, and the sylvari chuckle over her enthusiasm. 

“Soup it is, then,” Myrta declares. She starts to walk, and Fig allows herself to be led between the two of them as Myrta rattles off her favorite kinds of soup and Asphiadh occasionally interjects with her own opinions. They’re arguing over the primary differences between soup and stew when they arrive at their destination, and Fig settles into a chair at a table in the corner with a creamy broth filled with noodles, chicken, mushrooms, and savory spices and listens to them chatter. After finishing her meal, she leans back, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs, warm and comfortable and tired from a long day of activity. Her eyelids feel heavy, and keeping them open becomes a struggle. She lets them slide shut. 

“Are you falling asleep, Fig?” Asphiadh’s voice calls from her left. 

Fig grumbles and shakes her head slightly. “No.”

The woman chuckles and says, “Well, at least pull your chair closer to mine so you don’t fall out of it.”

“I’m not falling asleep,” Fig protests. 

Still, the next thing she’s aware of is waking in her bed back in the Grove. Someone pulled her winter gear off and changed her into warm, dry pajamas before tucking her in with Lamby, and the lamp in the corner of the room is on the lowest brightness, the way she prefers it. Fig squeezes the stuffed lamb to her chest and inhales slowly and deeply, stretching her legs out under the blanket before curling up into a tight ball and yawning. The hands on the small clock on the dresser both point up, and the lack of light from the window informs her that it’s still night. Fig isn’t sure how she got here, but that can be a mystery to solve later. For now, she closes her eyes and drifts back off to sleep to the distant sound of running water and rustling leaves.

[nibswrites]

Chapters: 32/32 Fandom: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Original Characters, Original Asura Character(s) (Guild Wars), Original Tengu Character(s) (Guild Wars), Original Human Character(s), Original Sylvari Character(s) (Guild Wars), Original Charr Character(s) (Guild Wars) Additional Tags: struggling to rate this but there will not be any onscreen sex or violence how's that, just some f bombs and other swears, once again tagging this as a ridiculous amount of ocs, like really just an ungodly amount of ocs

I finally got this all uploaded on my ao3 account so they’re all in one place. The first chapter has the prompt list with the characters, pairings, appropriate warnings, and summaries for each if you’d rather just read the ones that seem most interesting to you. There’s like seven fills with Mai Trin! There’s one with Peitha! There’s lots of lesbians of the planty variety! Angst! Fluff! Romance! I’m really bad at marketing myself but there’s likely to be something for everyone!

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 31

Prompt is "It's not your fault" (3,372 words).

The sanitorium is a large, single-story, nondescript building, and never fails to make Fig’s skin crawl. She takes a deep breath before pulling the front door open and crossing the threshold. The inside is even more sterile and depressing; the bouquet of drying flowers at the front desk feels like a very weak attempt to bring some life to the space. 

The woman at the desk lifts her head slightly and looks up over the top of her gold-rimmed half-moon glasses when Fig enters. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Er, yeah, I’m here to visit someone,” says Fig , as she shuffles towards the desk. “Last name is Hart?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” the receptionist murmurs, nodding her head and rifling through a file. “Go ahead and sign in here, and I’ll let her know that you’ve arrived.”

Fig mumbles a thank you as she accepts the check-in book and quill, then taps her fingers against her thighs until one of the nurses appears and beckons for her to follow. She scurries after her down the corridor on the left. “She’s very excited that you’re coming.” The nurse says. They come to a stop in front of a door, and the nurse raps on it a couple of times and calls, “Ms. Hart? Your guest is here.”

“Just a minute!” the cheery voice on the other side of the door shouts. Fig can vaguely hear some thumping, maybe footsteps, or drawers being pulled open and shut.

The nurse chuckles. “You know, I’m glad she has someone to keep her company now,” she says, quietly. “I’ve never seen her so lively. It’s a nice change.”

Fig casts her a sideways glance and swallows. “Um, that’s good to hear,” she stammers. 

The door is thrown open, and a thin, pale-skinned woman wearing an ill-fitting dress with mousy-brown hair in messy braids grins widely at Fig. “Millie! You’re here!” she cries.

“Of course, Debs,” Fig says. She lets her sister tug her inside as the nurse bids them farewell. 

Once the door is shut, Debs does a little spin and says, “What do you think of my dress? I don’t know where it came from. I’ve been holding onto it for a special occasion. Oh, I found some blush, too, but I couldn’t find a brush to put it on, and it looked awful when I tried using my fingers so I scrubbed it off. That’s what took so long. I wonder if they’d let me buy a brush or something?” She’s babbling, her fingers finding their way into her braids and working even more strands loose. 

Fig smiles and gently nudges her hands away. She runs her fingers through her sister’s thin hair and redoes the braids, and Debs stands there patiently and lets her. “I can sneak you a makeup brush if they won’t let you have one,” Fig promises her.

“Oh, you’d do that for me?” Debs gasps.

“Of course, what are sisters for?”

Debs catches Fig’s hand as she finishes her other braid and presses a kiss to the back of it. “You’re the best, Millie.”

Millie. It still makes Fig do a double take every time her sister calls her that. She still can’t really wrap her head around the fact that she still has a sister, that she survived the raid on their home and being held prisoner by centaurs for years before… Fig isn’t really sure how she got free, actually, but figures it’s something Debs will tell her in her own time, if she wants Fig to know. Somehow, through chance, their paths crossed again on a bench in Divinity’s Reach a couple months ago, and Fig’s been visiting her once a week or so since. 

“What do you think of my dress?” Debs asks again. 

“It’s a little loose,” Fig admits. “But I like the color on you.” Not really. The dress is much too big and the shade of purple makes her look washed out, but Debs looks so happy that Fig can’t bring herself to say it. 

Debs pulls on the neckline and frowns. “Ah, yeah, I guess it is…”

“Here, we can fix it,” Fig tells her. No pins, they won’t let Debs have them here, but Fig’s picked up enough tricks from Myrta. She takes the pockets and flips them inside out so she can tie them in a little knot in the front. “How’s that?” she asks.

Debs turns to study herself in the mirror and gasps. “Millie, you’re a genius! How’d you learn to do that?”

“My ma,” she says, instinctively, then grimaces.

“Oh, is she fashionable? Could she give me some tips? I feel like I’m out of touch with the trends.”

Fig releases her breath. “Uh, yeah, she’s a tailor. She loves talking about clothes.”

Debs claps her hands together. “How fun! I’d like to meet her, do you think I could?”

“Sure, Debs, anything you want,” Fig says. She runs her hands down Debs’ dress, trying to straighten out the stubborn wrinkles. She wonders how long the dress was shoved wherever Debs found it. It would benefit from an iron, really, but that’s not an option, not now at least.

Debs scoffs and catches Fig’s hands. “I’m supposed to be fussing over you, I’m your older sister, after all,” she chides.

“Sorry,” Fig mumbles. She pulls her hands back and crosses her arms over her chest, tucking her fingers into her underarms and pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. 

It draws a laugh from the other woman. “You still do that, huh?”

“Hm?”

“You used to do that when Mom would scold you, remember?” Debs asks.

Fig drops her hands to her sides and shrugs. “No, not really.”.

“Oh, never mind that. Where do you want to go today? I don’t want to stay here. The person in the room next door spent all morning yelling and crying, and it made me sad. Let’s go out and do something fun,” says Debs.

“Sure,” Fig agrees. “Is there anything you want to see or do? Maybe we could try to find you some makeup brushes?”

“A shopping trip sounds fun! Though, I don’t have money.” Debs reaches for her pockets, then remembers that Fig used them as a makeshift belt. With a giggle, she motions to them and says, “See? No money.”

Fig chuckles and starts to walk towards the door. “I can pay for them.”

“I’ll try to find inexpensive ones, then.”

Debs keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they walk through the city towards the shopping district, and Fig doesn’t mind, nodding and humming along when appropriate. When they find a shop that sells cosmetics, Debs reverently examines each item she comes across. “We’d never be able to have anything like this when we were younger, right?” she asks. She’s holding a wine-colored lip stain in her hands. “I mean, Mom definitely had some, from when she lived in the city. She and I would sit in her room and gossip, and she’d do my makeup sometimes. I miss that.”

“Right, yeah,” Fig mumbles. She never remembers doing anything like that with Momma, but she was young. Maybe that’s why Momma never did that with Fig. Maybe she did, and Fig just doesn’t remember.

Debs squeals and trots across the store. “Millie, Millie, look at this! Isn’t it the prettiest pink you’ve ever seen?” 

Leaning around Debs, Fig realizes she’s found the eye makeup. She coos over the glittery, colorful palettes, turning them this way and that to admire how they catch the light. “Would you like one?” Fig asks her.

“Hm?” Debs perks up and turns towards Fig, then deflates. “Ah, no, I shouldn’t. I don’t need it.”

“Well, no, but if it makes you happy–”

“That’s okay. We’re here for a brush,” Debs asserts, setting the palette back down and approaching the various applicators and brushes. Fig joins her and idly runs her palm over a particularly fluffy one. “You know, Millie, you’re so lucky,” Debs says. “You have Mom’s complexion and natural beauty. I bet the boys are all over you, huh?”

Fig’s mouth twitches. “Mm, not really,” she mumbles.

“The girls, then? I don’t mind either way, you can tell me.”

She thinks about Fritz, and imagines trying to introduce the cranky tengu to her flighty sister. “I mean, it’s kind of a non-issue for me, I guess,” she says. “And, I’m also spoken for at the moment, so.”

“Oh! You’re dating?” Debs lowers her voice conspiratorially and says, “Millie, are you trying to hide that from me? That’s what sisters are for, right? Tell me all about her. Or him.”

“Them, actually, and they’re… an acquired taste.”

It makes Debs laugh. “What does that mean?”

Fig shrugs and plucks up a medium sized, rounded brush from a small glass container. “They just take some getting used to, is all. What do you think of this brush? It’s really soft.”

“That would probably work,” Debs agrees. She runs the bristles along the back of her hand as she considers it. “Yeah, this is good.”

With a nod, Fig takes the brush and approaches the sales clerk, but makes a detour to snag one of the eyeshadow palettes as well. Debs is too busy looking at different powders to notice as the clerk packs up the purchases and Fig hands her the money. Transaction complete, she returns to Debs’ side and nudges her. “Anything else you wanted to look at?”

“Mm, no, I’m okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Debs agrees. “Something small, though. And sweet, maybe?”

They leave the store, and Fig leads them towards the cafe she and Myrta used to meet at for her lessons. It’s one of the few places in the city that still holds largely positive memories for her. She watches Debs study the pastries in the glass display cases and fret about all the choices. “They aren’t going anywhere, Debs, we can come back and try more later,” Fig assures her.

“You’re probably right, I just don’t know which to try first because they all look so good,” Debs whines.

Fig suggests, “If there are two you’re torn between, we could buy both and share.”

Her sister gasps. “Oh, you really are a genius! In that case, could we do one of the scones and a cinnamon roll?”

“Sounds perfect to me.” Fig orders one of each, and after paying, they step back outside and grab a table on the small patio. 

Debs gently claps her hands together as Fig cuts the roll in half and carefully sets it on the plate with the scone. The scone is crumbly and doesn’t cut evenly, but she’s okay with taking the smaller section for herself and sliding the plate towards Debs. Her sister scarfs down both despite claiming she wasn’t that hungry, between babbling about everything and nothing. Fig again nods along, until they both finish eating and Debs asks if they can keep walking.

They’re over by the obnoxiously noisy contraption that Fig has never understood the purpose of (who is Uzolan, even?) when Debs blurts, “Are you okay?”

Fig startles slightly and stammers, “Uh, yeah? I’m fine. Everything’s great.”

“Hm. You seem, jumpy,” Debs observes. “Like you did something you shouldn’t have and you’re hoping I won’t notice.”

“Well…” Fig hands Debs the wrapped bundle from the cosmetics shop, and Debs stares at it for a moment, dumbfounded, before carefully unwrapping it. She turns the eyeshadow over in her hands wordlessly. “You just looked so happy, so I went ahead and bought it for you,” Fig mumbles.

Debs chuckles and lifts her chin enough so she can make eye contact with Fig. “You’re very sweet, Millie. But it’s not about the makeup, and you know it. Like when you mentioned your mother earlier.”

So she did notice that, after all. Fig shoves her hands in her back pockets and rocks back and forth on her feet, chewing her bottom lip and staring at the cobblestone road. “I… feel guilty,” she admits. “This whole time I’ve been living my life, you’ve been a prisoner, or in the sanitorium. You thought your whole family was dead and I’ve been off with my new one. And talking about them makes me feel like I’m, I don’t know, rubbing it in your face, I guess.”

“Millicent,” Debs says, tone taking on a firm edge. “You were six. Even if you had known I was taken prisoner, what were you supposed to do?”

“Tell someone, or something!” Fig cries. She starts to pace, her steps falling in time with the cacophony created by the self-playing instruments. “We could have had each other! We wouldn’t have had to be alone!”

Debs grabs her arm and pulls, and Fig jerks to a stop. Her sister places her hands on her cheeks and turns her head to look her in the eyes. Fig isn’t even an inch taller than Debs, even with the thicker sole of Deb’s little boots. She only came up to Debs’ hip before. “Millie, it’s not your fault.”

Fig stares at her chin as tears start to well in her eyes. Debs says, “Look at me,” and when Fig reluctantly does, she repeats, “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known, and you couldn’t have fixed it.” 

Fig’s shoulders slump, and Debs presses their foreheads together and squeezes her eyes shut. Fig lets her own close as well. She places her hands over where her sister’s still rest on her cheeks and grips them tightly.

“I do mourn what I lost,” Debs whispers, and Fig has to strain her ears to hear her over the mechanical orchestra. “I’m sad that I missed out on watching you grow up. I’m sad that I missed out on my own youth. But I don’t want to waste time being sad or angry about the things that were taken from me, when I could be spending that time on doing all the things we missed out on, instead.”

Debs’ fingers trail over Fig’s cheekbones to brush her hair back behind her ears, and she asks, “Remember our bench conversation? You asked me what my favorite memory of my sister was?” Fig nods, so Debs continues, “I’m really glad I do get the chance to watch my sister again, and to get to know the beautiful, thoughtful woman she grew into.” Opening her eyes, Fig realizes Debs is staring at her fondly, so she lets her gaze drop and swallows around the lump in her throat. “And as her older sister,” Debs murmurs, nudging Fig’s chin so she looks her in the eyes once more, “I’m so glad that she was able to find joy and peace in life. Because I’m not the only one who thought I’d lost everything.”

Fig wraps her arms around Debs’ shoulders and squeezes her tight, tucking her face into the crook of her neck and shoulder as the tears start to run down her face. Debs holds her just as tightly and chuckles, though it hitches with her own sob. When Fig feels like she can trust her voice again, she rasps, “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Debs squeezes her shoulders, then takes a step back. Idly stroking her own face with the bristles of the makeup brush, she says, “I really do want to meet all these people you’ve mentioned, your mom and your mystery beau.”

Fig drags her sleeve under her nose. “I think that could be arranged. Though it’s moms, plural. Also, I was serious when I said they’re an acquired taste. Fritz can be pretty abrasive.” 

Debs’ eyes light up. “Okay, we have a name, we’re getting somewhere.” She loops her arm through Fig’s and starts to walk, and Fig lets her lead. “Naturally, as your older sister, I want to know all about them. I have to be able to trust that you’re with someone good for you, after all. How did you meet?”

“I am capable of looking out for myself,” Fig scoffs with a roll of her eyes. “But, through several chance encounters. Eventually I asked them if they wanted to go out for lunch, and it just kinda went from there.”

“What do they look like? What do they do for a living? Details, Millie, I want details.”

Fig hums and tilts her head away from Debs, which gets a laugh out of her. “What, what’s wrong?”

“Ah, well, they’re… like, twice as tall as I am, when they don’t slouch…”

Debs’ eyes widen. “Oh! Uh, norn, then?”

“And…. they’re covered in feathers… And they eat bones…” When Debs stays quiet, Fig adds, “I mean, it makes food shopping kind of easy. Just get a whole chicken or something, I eat the meat off it, they eat everything else. Very little waste.”

“You know, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy,” Debs finally says with a smile. “Though, I’ve never met a tengu before.”

Fig chuckles. “They really aren’t as different from us as you might think.”

“Except they eat bones.”

“Okay, yes, Fritz’s clan eats bones. But other than that.”

Debs bumps her hip against Fig’s and says, “Well, come on, tell me all about them!”

So Fig does, as they meander through the city, offering up stories about Fritz and her friends, answering Debs’ questions about them, and eventually talking about her moms when Debs asks about them. Before she knows it, they’re standing back in front of the sanitorium, and the sun is starting to dip beneath the top of the walls that circle the city. Fig walks Debs back to her room, and once they arrive, Debs squeezes her hand and says, “I really am glad you stopped by today. It was good to catch up, and get out for a little bit. So, thanks. Oh, and thanks for the makeup, of course. Even though you didn’t have to buy it.”

“It’s no problem. What are sisters for, right?” Fig asks.

“Do you think maybe next time, I could… meet some of your friends, or something?” Debs makes the suggestion hesitantly, tilting her head down and fiddling with her braids.

Fig offers her a smile and says, “Yeah, if you’re feeling up to it. Maybe my moms? They were really excited when I told them about you.” Not to mention, starting with the sylvari would probably be easier than Fritz, or most of Fig’s other friends.

“I would love that,” Debs murmurs. She holds her arms out, and Fig accepts the unspoken invitation and gives her a hug. “I love you, Millie,” she quietly says in a sing-song tone.

“I love you too,” Fig replies. With a deep breath, she takes a step back and says, “I’ll see you next week?”

Debs nods vigorously. “With your moms! Unless they can’t make it. But I do want to meet them.”

“I’ll ask them when I get home tonight.”

Fig has her hand on the door knob to leave when Debs calls, “Oh! And I want to meet Fritz, too!”

With a laugh, Fig says, “You can meet them! Just not all at once. We have time, right?”

Debs’ mouth snaps shut, and then she smiles gently and nods. “Yeah, we do. We have tons of time.”

There’s a knock on the door, and a voice calls, “Ms. Hart, it’s time for dinner.”

“Ah, I guess it is that late,” Debs sighs. “Okay, okay, you should go. Have a good night, Millie!”

“You too,” says Fig. She opens the door, and finds a nurse with a cart stacked with plates of food and bottles of medications. She nods as she slips around her, and waits until the door closes and she can no longer see Debs waving goodbye before releasing a heavy sigh and letting her shoulders sag. Leaving Debs here is… hard, even if it is probably the best place for her to get the help she needs at the moment. But, it’s not forever, and Fig will see her again soon. They have time, and remembering that is enough for Fig to be able to leave the bleak sanatorium and her sister behind until next week comes.

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 30

Prompt is "Are you with me?" (1,408 words, SoTO spoilers)

Asphiadh paces the halls of the Wizard’s Tower, not caring that the Astral Ward or Rift Hunters cast her weary looks and give her a wide berth. She knows that the details of the circumstances of her arrival have spread, that these people know of her connection to Aurene and the power she possesses because of that. And quite honestly, Asphiadh is happy with the caution. She doesn’t think she could handle countless questions, or worse, people wanting to perform tests and analyses. She’ll accept their fear if the alternative is being dissected in any capacity. 

Not to mention, she doesn’t have a particularly positive opinion of them to begin with, and fighting off a demon incursion is not enough for them to gain Asphiadh’s respect. 

When the rift had opened and pulled Myrta and the seer inside, it was the jotun that stopped her from leaping into the next rift by convincing her to help hold back the tide of Kryptis and prevent the collapse of the Spire. Dagda is lucky that Myrta emerged from another portal, with Isgarren slung over the shoulder of a massive demon, shortly after they’d finished beating back the worst of the invasion. However, Myrta and Asphiadh had only enough time to confirm that neither was seriously harmed before the “Wayfinder” was whisked away for a debriefing. Bixxbi had offered to help see to the wounded, which left Asphiadh to wait for Myrta alone. 

The doors of the war room swing open, and several people shuffle out. Asphiadh recognizes the older norn man with white hair as one of the people who had apprehended her and Bixxbi when they tumbled out of the rift that brought them here. He catches her eye and seems to conclude why she’s lingering outside, because he nods. That’s all the cue Asphiadh needs to breeze past the group and slip inside the room. 

Myrta and the demon have moved to the grassy area outside and are conversing quietly. Asphiadh takes a moment to study the two of them. Myrta stands close to the Kryptis, her posture relaxed, trusting, despite the top of her head only coming to the juncture where her legs meet her torso. The stranger watches her attentively, face passive, but her head turns slightly in Asphiadh’s direction. Myrta follows her gaze and she smiles broadly when she sees Asphiadh. 

“Phia! You’re here!” she chirps. 

The grass rustles softly under Asphiadh’s feet as she approaches, and Myrta blinks over to close the distance between them that much sooner. She embraces her tightly and tucks her head under Asphiadh’s chin. “You’re okay, right? No major injuries or whispers in your head?”

“I’m okay,” Asphiadh assures her. She glances up at the Kryptis watching the exchange quietly. She’s slender, but still towers over the sylvari. Her hands and feet sport wickedly sharp claws, and Asphiadh wonders how evenly matched they would be in a fight. This close, she can see the slight difference in the shades of white between her sclera and iris, can tell the stranger is watching Asphiadh just as attentively as she watches her.

Myrta takes a step back and notices the stare down happening over her head. “Ah! I suppose introductions are in order, though Peitha does have a bit of an advantage. Peitha, this is Asphiadh. Phia, this is Peitha.”

“So this is your ‘headache?’” Asphiadh asks. When Myrta said she was hearing voices since escaping from the rift she got pulled into in Gendarran Fields, Asphiadh didn’t think she’d ever encounter the physical manifestation of them. She certainly didn't think the source would be so large.

“Er, I mean, yeah, this is… this is her,” Myrta stammers. She looks at Peitha, then at Asphiadh, and says, “But she’s been helpful, right? She saved Isgarren and me. A couple of times, really. Though she could have been more forthcoming about her relationship with Ceres.”

Asphiadh grunts and crosses her arms over her chest as she studies the Kryptis, who watches her with an expression bordering on boredom. “That just means she needs you alive for whatever she has planned.”

Myrta splutters, “That’s not… I mean, she isn’t… Ugh.” Her shoulders sag as she mumbles, “Okay, maybe you’re right. She does need my help.”

“With?”

“She… wants me to travel to Nayos with her and save her people from their cannibalistic dictator?”

Asphiadh inhales deeply and looks up at the very blue sky overhead. Myrta pokes her arm and mumbles, “I’m… being too trusting again, aren’t I.”

There’s a low chuckle, and Asphiadh lets her head fall forward so she can squint at the demon. Peitha covers her full lips with one of those clawed hands. When she lowers it, she says, “I like this one.” Her voice is low, a velvety purr, but also has a strange, echoing quality. 

“Well, I’m so glad I have your approval,” Asphiadh snips. 

“You’re the voice of reason, I take it?”

Myrta huffs. “I am plenty reasonable on my own, thank you.”

“You’re also highly predictable,” Asphiadh says flatly. 

“What?” Myrta gasps. 

Asphiadh gives her lover an unamused look. “Darling, I love you very much. But you have a type.”

The statement has Myrta’s cheeks darkening, and she draws herself up to her full height and snaps, “I do not appreciate what you’re insinuating! I’m not cheating on you!”

“I never said you were,” Asphiadh agrees easily. “Only that you seem to be eager to earn the approval of a certain type of woman.” She’s not entirely sure if Peitha is a woman, if Kryptis believe in that sort of thing and how they choose to express it, but she’s also not a fool, and knows what Myrta finds attractive. Mysterious, deep-voiced, and also much taller than Myrta is? Peitha fits the bill to a T. 

Peitha clicks her tongue and pops her hip. “Wayfinder, do you find me… attractive?” she simpers. 

Myrta pushes her hands into her vines and turns her back to both Asphiadh and Peitha. After taking a few deep breaths, she says, “I don’t like either of you very much right now.”

“So tell me, Peitha.” Asphiadh puts a little bit of bite in the unfamiliar name and narrows her eyes at the Krytpis looming over her. “You want to take Myrta… where, exactly?”

“Nayos, the Realm of Dreams,” she replies. “It is where my people are from.”

Asphiadh nods. “Right. And you need Myrta to help you dispose of your despot, is that it?”

“Ooh, good one, Phia. Dispose of the despot, I like it,” Myrta murmurs. She bumps her hip against Asphiadh’s and asks, “It’ll be exciting, right? We’ve been fighting dragons for so long, why not shake it up a bit with some demons?”

Asphiadh slowly pulls her focus from the Kryptis to study Myrta instead. “I thought we were taking a break from all this hero business,” she says lowly. 

“I mean, yes, but… She needs help!” Myrta blurts. She motions to Peitha with both hands for emphasis. “We can’t just say no, can we?”

Well, they can. They definitely can physically do that. But Asphiadh knows Myrta well-enough to know that she wouldn’t turn away someone in need, even if that someone is at least eleven feet tall, covered in sharp, thorny growths, and comes from a race of people who have demonstrated a propensity to possessing people. 

“So… are you with me?” Myrta quietly asks.

Asphiadh sighs. “Do you honestly think I would let you follow a strange, attractive woman into a mysterious portal to do battle with a, what did you call it, cannibalistic dictator? Without me?”

Myrta giggles and grabs Asphiadh’s hands to yank her into a little, spinning jig. “I knew you’d come! Oh, and we can ask Bixxbi too!”

“Now, hold on a moment,” Asphiadh gasps, but Myrta is already skipping away and calling for the asura. Asphiadh sighs and pinches her nose, then casts a wary look out of the corner of her eyes when she hears the grass crunch behind her. It’s Peitha, shifting her weight, and watching her with a passive expression.

Asphiadh turns and points at her. “Just so we’re clear, I’m keeping an eye on you. Myrta might trust you, but I’m not so easily convinced.”

“Hold on to your skepticism, Claw,” Peitha says. She starts to follow after Myrta, and trails her claws along Asphiadh’s shoulders as she passes. “You’ll need it, where we’re going.”

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 29

Prompt is "That's all? Easy" (634 words)

Raphael picks his way through the bustling keep, past the unlikely assortment of allies that have responded to the call to arms. Corsairs, Awakened, Sunspears, Olmakhan… all coming together with the Pact to fight Kralkatorrik. He lets himself have a moment to admire the work that went into building such a massive fighting force and wonders if he’s going to be able to live up to the example the people behind the effort have set. He still can’t believe he let Logan talk him into this. He scans the area, hoping for a glimpse of the storied former Pact Commanders, but soon gives up with a sigh and continues on towards his destination, the table that the new Pact Marshal is leaning over. Two others already stand on either side of him: to his left, a tall, lanky, light grey charr with long, spiraling horns; on the right, a stern faced, light orange sylvari with short, dark green leaves swept back out of her face. 

“Ah, there you are! Here, let me introduce you all,” Logan– no, Marshal Thackeray (that’s going to take some getting used to) says once Raphael arrives. “This is Warmaster Raspuri, of the Vigil.” 

“We’ve met already, actually,” Raphael says to the sylvari, recalling their encounter in Jahai Bluffs. “That fight against the Shatterer. You called me a slack-jawed ninny and told me I’d be more effective catching flies than fighting dragon minions.” As someone who had never seen a dragon from so close-up before, he thought taking a moment to appreciate the beast’s size was a perfectly reasonable reaction to have, but apparently the sylvari thought otherwise.

Raspuri raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. “If you’re looking for an apology, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

Raphael laughs. “No apology needed, Warmaster.”

The Marshal sighs. “Well, I guess I’m glad you two are already acquainted. This is Lightbringer Romulus Deathwalker, of the Order of Whispers.” The charr raises a hand but says nothing.  Raphael offers him a smile. 

“And Magister Raphael Quadir is joining us from the Durmand Priory,” Logan finishes, nodding in Raphael’s direction. “You’re all here because your superiors recommended you, and from what I’ve seen you do, I think you’d be a good fit for this position. Think of this as your first assignment.” 

“I’d settle for a lower-stakes test,” Lightbringer Deathwalker mutters. His tail swings erratically behind him as his claws tap against the dark wood of his gnarled staff. 

“Trial by fire,” Warmaster Raspuri says. “Efficient, if nothing else.”

Logan smirks. “It’ll give me an accurate idea of how you act in high-pressure settings, for sure. Now, I’ve already been over the plan with Commander Myrta, so I’ll fill the three of you in.” He points at the map on the table and starts to explain. “We’ve got corsair ships ready to bombard Kralkatorrik when he arrives, and charges placed in the mountain to bring it down on him and keep him in place. There are three resonance crystals positioned around the auditorium that Commander Myrta is going to need to charge, here, here, and here.” He taps each location, then continues, “We’re going to have to keep the Branded off her so she can power up those crystals and channel Aurene’s magic at Kralkatorrik. It should make him vulnerable, so at that point, we hit him with everything we have. I’m putting one of you at each crystal to make sure we don’t lose them, got it?”

“So, we just blow up a mountain and trap a dragon, then fight hoards of Branded and the dragon himself until we kill him? That’s all?” Raphael summarizes.

“That’s about it,” Logan agrees.

Raphael snorts. “Easy.” 

Across the table, Raspuri rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Great, a jokester. Exactly what we need.”

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 28

Prompt is "I might not get another chance to say this" (1,575 words; also, some spoilers through SoTO).

One might think that ending the dragon cycle might afford a moment of peace, but of course, the world can’t seem to let them rest for too long. It starts with a floating tower disappearing and ends after running through strange portals with a bunch of wizards and demon-like creatures. Myrta steps back into the role of Commander, of Champion, of Wayfinder, a part she knows by heart, and through it all, Asphiadh is at her side, supporting her however she can. And when it’s done, when they stand together looking out at the dawning of a new day, Asphiadh says, “We should go back to our old meeting place.”

Myrta seems caught off-guard by the suggestion, whipping her head towards Asphiadh and watching her quietly, scrutinizing her. Asphiadh continues to stare out at the rising sun and keep her expression and thoughts neutral, until Myrta finally smirks and says, “Feeling nostalgic?”

“Perhaps,” Asphaidh agrees. “It’s been a while since we’ve been back. I only thought it might be nice to see how things have changed.”

“I’m sure we could spare a moment.”  

A week later, Asphiadh tails Myrta as she enters the old cave with the overgrown entrance, visible only to those who know how to look for it. They walk towards the sound of running water until they reach the shallow pool, beside the flat rock outcropping where they used to have picnics and existential conversations, where Myrta first kissed Asphiadh what feels like a lifetime ago.

Myrta smiles and brushes her fingers along the vine slowly growing up the wall, reaching towards the solitary shaft of light in the ceiling of the cave. “It’s still here,” she murmurs.

“It looks like it’s doing well,” Asphiadh observes.

Myrta hums and turns her attention back to the pool. “The first time you saw me nude was here, do you remember?”

With a huff, Asphiadh rolls her eyes and says, “I hardly saw anything, but yes, I remember.”

It draws a soft giggle from the mesmer. She sits at the edge of the pool and dips her feet in, making eddies on its surface as she kicks them back and forth. “I thought things were so awful when I first came here, but knowing what I know now…” Her voice trails off, and she reaches down and trails her fingers through the water.

“It felt simpler,” Asphiadh finishes for her.

Myrta’s hum feels like a confirmation. She looks over her shoulder and smiles at Asphiadh. “Won’t you join me down here?” she asks.

“How could I say no to such a pretty face?” Asphiadh internally preens when Myrta’s cheeks darken with her blush. She pulls off her boots before taking a seat beside her lover. The water is just as cool and clear as she remembers it being.

Myrta leans into her shoulder and sighs heavily. “Coming here was a good idea,” she says. “It’s just as peaceful as it was back then.”

Asphiadh grunts in agreement, and Myrta must be able to tell that something is up, because she raises an eyebrow and asks, “Is something wrong?”

The pouch on Asphiadh’s hip feels very heavy. She reaches into it and brushes her fingers along the single item inside it. Myrta’s eyes track the movement, and she narrows them. “What are you thinking about?” she presses.

Asphiadh takes the small offering and tightens her fingers around it, feeling its round edges clearly against her palm. She withdraws her hand and asks, “When we first met, did you ever think we would be here?”

Biting her lip, Myrta glances at the pool and says, “Depends on what you mean by here.”

“Together,” Asphiadh clarifies.

“Well, considering I did threaten to kill you the first time we met…”

Asphiadh smiles. “You were only trying to protect your friends. I understood and respected that.”

Myrta asks, “Did you think we would be here?”

“Absolutely not,” Asphiadh answers without hesitation. “In a relationship with a Dreamer who is the Champion of the last Elder Dragon and the savior of the world many times over? I didn’t even think I would ever leave Maguuma. I always assumed that the Court was all there was for me.”

Myrta reaches across Asphiadh to place a hand on her fist, and her expression is concerned when she murmurs, “Phia…”

Before she can continue, can insist that Asphiadh is worth more than that, that she always had the power to make a better life for herself, Asphiadh continues, “You’ve pushed me to change, Myrta. It’s been the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done, and I killed my Countess in front of half her court. The past seven years have been some of the most challenging in my life, but I don’t regret any of it. If I could go back and do it again, I know I would. I’d do it if it meant getting to relive every moment with you.”

Tears start to well in Myrta’s eyes, and she laughs nervously. “Okay, what’s going on? Why are you so, so wordy right now?”

Asphiadh turns her fist so her palm is facing up and opens her hand, revealing the thin circle of ash-white wood, the end of one of her branches that Briallen had helped her coax into the shape of a ring. “I love you, Myrta. I love you so much it scares me, because I’m not used to feeling things so strongly. And I’ve been carrying this around for the past couple of months because I wanted to ask you to marry me, but then everything went to mulch again and it didn’t feel like the right time. But, I’m tired of waiting for the world to give us a break, because I think if I keep waiting, I may never get another chance to say this.” She takes a deep breath, and asks, “Will you marry me?”

Instead of a verbal response, Myrta surges forward, placing her hands on either side of Asphiadh’s face, and kisses her hard on the mouth. Asphiadh fumbles to brace herself, then gasps and pushes her away. “I dropped the ring!” she blurts.

“Mulch!” Myrta cries, and they both push themselves off the side of the rock and into the water. When Asphiadh finally locates it, the mesmer holds out her hand and says, “Put it on my finger so we don’t lose it again!”

Asphiadh chuckles and wipes the water streaming down her face out of her eyes. “Is that a yes, then?” she asks.

“Thorns, of course I’ll marry you! Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this?” Myrta grabs Asphiadh’s hands and squeezes them hard. “Phia, I love you! There’s not another person I’d want at my side for the rest of my life. I’ve been thinking about how the hell I should ask you to marry me, and here you are, beating me to it!”

Hands shaking, Asphiadh holds Myrta’s left and carefully pushes the band of wood onto her fourth finger, and Myrta covers her mouth with her right hand as a sob escapes her.

“Are you okay?” Asphiadh asks, suddenly nervous that she did something wrong, that she hurt her when putting on the ring.

But Myrta nods her head quickly, even as fat tears roll down her cheeks and drip off her chin into the pool of water they still stand in. “I’m happy,” she chokes. “I’m so, so, happy.” When she reaches up to cup Asphiadh’s face again and presses their lips together, it’s gentler this time.

Asphiadh wraps her arms around Myrta’s waist and pulls her closer, and when they part, she leans her forehead against the mesmer’s. “Sorry I beat you to it,” she murmurs.

Myrta snorts a wet laugh and nudges Asphiadh’s shoulder weakly. “Don’t be sorry for that, you sap.” She opens and closes her left hand, marveling at the pale wood encircling her finger. “This is yours,” she mumbles.

“Mm, is that okay? Briallen said it’s something other sylvari couples were doing.”

“It’s perfect,” Myrta whispers. She kisses Asphiadh again, smiling against her mouth. “You’re perfect, you clever, scheming, handsome courtier. I love you. Get me out of this pool so I can ravage you.”

Asphiadh laughs fully and scoops her lover up. “Not here, you silly thing. Besides, don’t you want to break the news to all our friends?”

“They can stand to wait a little longer, don’t you think? What if another floating tower goes missing or a demon king tries to invade? We might not get another chance!”

“You know of other floating towers and demon kings?” Asphiadh teases. Still, she helps Myrta out of the water to sit at the edge of the pool, and as the pink sylvari wrings her vines out, she encourages her legs to part so she can stand between them, placing her hands on Myrta’s thighs and rubbing her thumbs along the soft, sensitive leaves there.

Myrta’s purple eyes sparkle mischievously, and she smirks when she says, “Well, if there are, they’re going to have to wait too. I’ve got a handsome woman between my legs, and that’s far more important to me.”

“Selfish little thing,” Asphiadh purrs, leaning forward and nipping at Myrta’s throat.

“You enable me,” she sings.

Well, Asphiadh can’t argue with that, but as Myrta digs her fingers and heels into Asphiadh’s back, and her sweet little sighs echo through the cavern, Asphiadh can’t bring herself to care.

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 27

Prompt is "I don't know if they will accept this" (733 words).

Eun drops into the chair and places their palms against the table. “You didn’t say your associates were going to break into the Ministry,” they snap. The darkly-clad people scattered around the Burrow hardly give them a second-glance; either they trust Eun not to cause trouble or they don’t think they’re enough of a threat on their own, without Redbeak and her sword looming over their shoulder.

Fox stops rifling through their papers for a moment, head lifting slightly, before going back to their business. “How else were they supposed to get your info?” they ask.

“I, I don’t know! Get creative?”

“You say that like breaking into MinSec and stealing those documents from under their noses didn’t take creativity,” Fox sniffs, as they drop the file on the table between them. They almost sound offended. “I’ll have you know, Wraith is one of my best agents. Really, MinSec should be flattered that I sent them and not some random urchin I contracted. Though I suspect I won’t be able to try the same tactic twice.”

“Wraith? Is that what you call them?” The image of the blank-masked figure slipping out the window on the security feed resurfaces briefly in their mind. Eun isn’t sure if they should tell Fox they’re supposed to be looking for them. Fox might already know. They’re right, though; security’s been upped since the break-in.

Fox drums their fingers on the table and shrugs one shoulder. “They found some things that helped verify some of the other information I’ve been able to dig up for you.”

Right, they did say they were doing that. Eun rubs their temples and groans. “I don’t know if they will accept this, I can’t use evidence that’s not legally obtained.”

“This isn’t evidence, Detective,” Fox says, tilting their head slightly to the right. “It’s an anonymous tip. You get those all the time, don’t you?” 

Eun stares at the file before them and nervously chews on their bottom lip. “What did your people find, then?”

“Why don’t you read it for yourself?” 

Inhaling slowly, Eun reaches out for the file and drags it closer to themself. They flip the stiff, manilla folder open and skim the first page, then frantically spread all of the pages across the table to pour over them. “These are… names. Some of these people are very high up in the Ministries,” they say. “They’re, what, accomplices?”

Fox places their feet on the top of the table and balances their chair on its two back legs. “Well, I don’t know, it’s your job to figure that out, isn’t it?”

Eun glares at them, but Fox’s mask faces up, towards the low ceiling, so they have no way of knowing if they even noticed. Then they go back to studying the papers. “I’m not going to be able to start investigating any of these people without probable cause, and there’s no way I can keep an eye on everything they’re doing without help.”

Fox’s chair thumps against the floor as they shift their weight forward, leaning across the table and placing their elbows on its surface, then resting their chin on the backs of their hands. “Lucky for you, that is my job. I’ve already got you an in.” They pull a rolled up sheet of paper out of the sleeve of their robe and offer it to Eun, who unrolls and reads the invitation to a charity dinner hosted by one of the names from the list.

“I’ll make sure you’ve got some extra eyes to watch your back,” Fox murmurs. 

Eun sighs and sets the invitation on the table while fixing the masked figure with an exasperated expression. “This is why MinSec wants you found, you know. You’re too efficient.”

“And as soon as they collectively become half as competent as you, I might start to take them seriously.”

“Is that a complement, Fox? I’m flattered.”

Fox scoffs and turns their head away, and Eun is certain they’re rolling their eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head now, or you’ll have to find a bigger hat.”

“Well, I’m sure you can help me find a quality haberdasher if that ever happens.”

The sound that comes out of Fox’s voice modulator is garbled, but the way their shoulders jerk suggests it’s meant to be a laugh. “I’ll keep an ear out for you, Detective Choi,” they snort.

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 26

Prompt is "Honestly, why would I care?" (724 words)

Bixxbi scratches at where her hair tickles her neck until it’s red and rashy, and finally her momma asks, “Bitty, do you want me to cut it?” 

Ducking her head, Bixxbi rubs the tip of her nose and mumbles, “B-but you said my hair’s pretty.” Thick and richly brown, just like her momma’s, she’ll sit with Bixxbi before bedtime and brush, brush, brush it, telling her how much she loves Bixxbi’s beautiful hair. 

But her momma clicks her tongue and hops off her chair. “Bixxbi, it’s your hair. What I think about it shouldn’t matter. If you don’t like having long hair, you don’t have to have long hair.”

So it gets chopped to chin length. And the next time, Bixxbi asks if she can get it cut even shorter, and shorter, and shorter, until finally Momma just shaves it all off and gives her bare head a gentle pat. “Well, can’t get any shorter than that now, I tell ya’ what!” 

“Is that okay?” Bixxbi asks, marveling at her smooth head, so light and free, with no more hair to tickle her ears or neck. The dark brown lines that run from her forehead to the bottom of her spine are clearly visible now.

Her momma shakes her head and smiles fondly. “Honestly, Bitty Bite, why would I care what you do with your hair? But,” she reaches over and gives her head a little rub with her fist. “Gonna start doing this for luck, ha!”

When Bixxbi starts college, her bald head and tendency to shorten her name to just “Bixx” throws some of her new classmates for a loop. She gets mistaken for a boy. She gets “they-ed” sometimes. Bixxbi realizes that… she doesn’t hate it. Actually, it feels kind of good. Like when she finds the perfect new piece for her collections, a part she didn’t even know was missing finally slotting into place and filling her with satisfaction.

“Do you think, um, maybe…” she says during dinner, rubbing her fist against the crown of her head as her poppa ladles some grub and tuber stew into her bowl, and her parents both perk their ears and patiently wait for her to find her words, like they always have since she started talking (later than her peers, in jolting starts and stops).

“Well now, I think lots of things, Bitty Bite,” her momma says with a grin, when Bixxbi bites her tongue and tucks her head down in embarrassment.

Poppa chuckles. “What’s on your mind, kiddo? No question’s a silly question, remember?”

“Can-you-use-they-for-me?” Bixxbi blurts, all the words running together into one. They take a breath and add, “Um. Instead of she.”

Bixx’s parents look at each other over the table. Poppa is the first to speak, and when he does, his face breaks into a wide smile. “Well, sure we can.”

“You’re not, you know… mad?” Bixxbi asks, voice a squeak.

Their momma takes their hand where it worries their ear and gives it a squeeze. “Of course not, Bixxbi. You’re the greatest thing your poppa and I ever did make, and the thing that makes us happiest of all is seeing you happy. Any ol’ names or pronouns you want us to use, and we’ll do it. All you gotta do is ask.”

Bixx bobs their head and spoons stew into their mouth. Their poppa made it just the way they like it, like he always does. They probably should have known their parents wouldn’t mind the request, because they’ve never minded anything Bixxbi’s ever done or said before. 

“Bixxbi, did you think we’d be mad? Did we do something?” their momma asks.

Pulling the spoon out of their mouth, Bixx hums and shakes their head. “No. But, some of my classmates, just some of them, not all of them, some of them are okay, but anyway. They don’t seem to, like, get it.”

Their parents exchange another look, and their momma says, “Well, just remember, the people worth your time won’t mind all the things that make you, you.”

Bixxbi nods and takes another bite of their dinner, but they know the stew isn’t the only thing making their body feel warm and full. “I love you,” Bixxbi chirps once their mouth is empty again.

“And we love you too, Bixxbi,” they respond with even warmer smiles.

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 25

Prompt is "Do I look like I knew that?" Spoilers for EoD (2,045 words)

Leandra is aware, with the stress of everything, that she hasn’t been taking care of herself as well as she should be.

The familiar, sharp pain in her lungs abated for a time after waking up in that jail cell, and Leandra had hoped that maybe Canthan medicine really was that much better, and maybe they had a more effective treatment for Scarlet’s Rattle than any of the Priory researchers or healers had been able to come up with. But after the fight in the hidden Aetherblade base, the pins-and-needles sensation returned with a vengeance. Leandra used the medication Marjory whipped up for her “in case of emergency, not as an effective, stand-alone treatment” and pushed onward. 

The fight on the docks in New Kaineng had aggravated it again, but dealing with the surly engineer, Yao, had provided enough of a distraction for her to push past the pain. The reactor incident, too, so Leandra used another one of the emergency inhalers while Mai was distracted with averting disaster, and told herself she would talk to Marjory once they escaped that mess. But then Fa showed up at the sushi restaurant, and Navan told her to head to Echovald, and they were ambushed by that corrupted saltspray dragon (who Navan personally knew, because it turns out Navan is actually Kuunavang). Once the dragon is defeated, Leandra’s breath comes in wheezing, shallow gasps, because it’s too painful to take a full breath. Before she can even reach for the pouch at her hip, Marjory is at her side. She takes the medicine from her and frowns when she notices the two missing vials, but waits until Leandra has taken a third and stops struggling to breathe before asking, “So, how many episodes have you had since you arrived in Cantha?”

Including the docks? “Four,” Leandra admits. “Wanted to tell you sooner, but we’ve been busy.”

Whatever Marjory has to say in response to that gets cut off by a set of doors opening and a group of people shuffling out, gasping in shock at the fallen dragon. A tengu, Ayumi, who seems to be in charge explains what happened before Ishan was corrupted, and offers to help once she’s done escorting some refugees elsewhere. Marjory grabs Leandra’s upper arm and says. “Great, that’ll give me some time to sort out my stubborn friend here. Any chance you’ve got something I can heat up some water in?”

And that’s how Leandra finds herself leaning over a bucket of hot, steaming water with a towel draped over her head, inhaling the strong smelling medicine Marjory dumped into it. “Gonna have to make some more of this,” the necromancer mutters. Leandra vaguely hears the clink of glass and can picture her going through her alchemical ingredients. “Gonna have to make more of all of it, since you’ve been burning through it so fast. Has it been getting worse?”

“I don’t know if it’s that, or just the stress,” Leandra rasps. Her throat feels raw too, though the steam is helping. 

“Hm, that’s true. Can I trust you to keep me updated on things, or am I gonna have to keep a close eye on you?”

Leandra rolls her eyes, even though she knows Marjory can’t see it. “I’ll let you know.”

There’s a soft knock, and Mai’s voice calls from a short distance away, “Er, is Leand– I mean, is the commander okay?”

“Oh, did the terrorist in your head help you figure out something is wrong? Maybe she’d like to see the aftermath of her actions first hand?” Marjory snips.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mai demands. 

Marjory scoffs. “What, you don’t know about Scarlet’s Rattle? She didn’t keep you in the loop on that one, about the damage it caused to anyone unfortunate enough to breathe that miasma in long enough? And that’s just for the ones lucky enough to survive exposure.”

“Do I look like knew that?”

Leandra throws the towel back over her shoulders and sits up, barking, “Knock if off!” before a coughing fit overtakes her. She covers her mouth with her arm, and when she finally stops hacking, there’s blood spattered on her sleeve. 

Marjory approaches her and tugs the towel back over her head. “Mai, you’re not helping.”

“She can stay,” Leandra wheezes. She thought maybe things had reached a turning point in Joon’s office, but she should have known better. Marjory isn’t the forgiving type, after all.

The silence that falls over the room stretches on long enough to be uncomfortable, but it’s finally broken by the detective sighing. “Okay, fine. But if you start getting stressed out again, Leandra, I’m chasing her out.”

Leandra nods, and she can hear some shuffling, followed by the scrape of the legs of a stool on the stone floor and the creak of wood as someone sits beside her. “Uh, so, you aren’t dying, right?” Mai asks. 

Marjory scoffs, “It’s just chronic.” After almost ten years, they still haven’t really found a cure. Different treatments with various degrees of effectiveness, yes, but that’s it. 

“But not actively killing me,” Leandra explains, exasperated. 

“Right. Um. I’m–”

“Sorry?” Marjory spits.

Leadndra grumbles, “Jory.”

She huffs, but doesn’t otherwise respond. In the silence, Leandra hears Mai mumble, “I mean, yeah. I am.”

“I know you are,” says Leandra. She coughs again, though it’s not as aggressive this time. 

Quiet settles over them, and once more, Marjory ends it by asking, “Alright, since we’re no longer in immediate danger of dying, mind finally telling me what’s going on with you two?”

“Uh, what do you mean by that?” Mai stammers. 

“See, Leandra told me you were ‘just neighbors’ when we were investigating Ashford’s murder, but I get the feeling she wasn’t being completely honest with me.”

Leandra chuckles. “Your powers of deduction are impeccable as always, Detective.”

“Yeah, well, you did a good job hiding it back then.”

Leandra sighs. It’s hot and stuffy over the steaming water, but it really is helping with the discomfort in her lungs. “Mai and I were best friends when we were kids,” she offers. A stool creaking can be heard from Leandra’s left, no doubt Mai fidgeting uncomfortably. Leandra continues, “There was a vacancy at the temple of Dwayna. My parents were both members of her priesthood, so we moved when they were relocated. The Trin family was right across the street, and we were introduced when our parents realized we were both the same age.”

Mai snorts. “I think they hoped the priest’s daughter would set me on a better path.”

“A terror even then?” Marjory remarks.

Leandra shakes her head and says, “She wasn’t that bad. You know, if you ignore what happened to Calvin.”

“I stand by my statement, he deserved it,” Mai grumbles.

“You didn’t need to hit him so hard, Mai.”

“But did he bother you again?”

Leandra rolls her eyes and sighs. “I did talk you out of the more dangerous schemes.”

“We totally could have stowed away on that fishing boat, Andie.”

“You mean that boat that capsized in that storm?”

Mai sucks in a breath and mumbles, “Oh yeah… forgot about that part.” After a beat, she says, “You still have the scar from our ‘fencing.’“

“Of course.” Leandra reaches up and traces her fingers over the corner of her mouth, the pale, skinny scar that runs from above her top lip to below her bottom. “It’s kind of hard to tell, since the one from the vinetooth overlaps, but it’s there.”

“What happened?” Marjory presses.

Leandra laughs hoarsely. “Oh, there was a traveling swordsman group that stopped in our town. They did more, like, choreographed fights, but Mai became obsessed with fencing after watching them. We’d go out behind her house and pretend to spar with sticks.” She narrows her eyes and reaches out blindly, feeling for Mai. When she finds her knee, she gives it a gentle swat. “She thrusted when she should have parried and ended up stabbing me in the mouth.”

“‘Should have parried,’” Mai scoffs. “If it had been a real fight, I would have won.”

“Sounds like you two were real chummy, so why’d you leave?” asks Marjory.

Leandra stays quiet. Another creak of a stool, and Mai mumbles, “I… didn’t want to stay there my whole life. I wanted out. I joined up with the first crew that would take me and didn’t look back.”

It’s the most Leandra’s ever heard Mai say about why she left, and she wants to ask her why she never bothered to tell her she was leaving, why she never came back, but not in front of Marjory. 

“I mean, I regret some of it,” Mai adds, softly. “Not leaving, but… I did miss you. I just… I mean…” She exhales harshly and says, “You would have tried to stop me. I didn’t want you to.”

Leandra pushes the towel back again and straightens up so she can stare Mai in the eyes, but she’s replaced the blindfold again, with a plain strip of fabric this time. The Kestrels must have found something for her. “You’re right, I would have. Because I know you’re better than that.”

Mai snorts. “Sorry to be a disappointment, but you’re wrong. I’m not like you, Andie.”

“What does that even mean, ‘not like me?’”

Unsurprisingly, Mai falls quiet and scowls at the wall on the opposite side of the room from her. “Whatever, forget I said anything.”

Leandra and Marjory exchange looks, and the detective stands and brushes her coat off. “Feeling better now?” she asks Leandra. 

“Yeah, thanks.”

Marjory nods. “Right. Well, I’m gonna go ask those Kestrels if they’ve got the things I need to start brewing up more of this, or where I can find them if they don’t. Let me know the next time you have an episode, okay?”

Leandra murmurs her thanks again and watches Marjory leave. Trying to escape to give them room to talk, probably, but before Leandra can press Mai for answers, she says, “Tell me more about this Scarlet’s Rattle.”

“Oh,” Leandra blurts, caught completely off-guard by the change of topic. “Well, the miasma she developed with the Toxic Alliance and released into Lion’s Arch was caustic. We didn’t know, didn’t have time to prepare. I stayed trying to help people escape until I collapsed and someone dragged me to the healers in Gendarran, and by then, the damage was done.” She rubs her forearm and adds, “I mean, I was lucky. A lot of people didn’t survive it. A lot of the people we pulled out ended up succumbing to it later, and their final moments were…” Trailing off, Leandra looks at Mai. She’s facing her, listening attentively. “I mean, you get the idea,” she finishes with a wave of her hand. “You don’t need to know the details.”

“So, it’s painful.”

Leandra shrugs. “It was worse right after. There’s methods to numb the pain, improve lung function, suppress the coughing, you know. If I manage my symptoms, I don’t usually get this bad. I’ve just… had a lot going on lately.”

“It’s my fault, then,” Mai mumbles.

“Not directly.” Leandra squints at her and asks, “Where are you doing with this?

Mai repeats, “I’m not like you. I wouldn’t have stayed to help those people.”

“You saved New Kaineng.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It, it just is!” Mai flounders. “I’m not a good person like you, I’m too selfish. I’ve spent so much of my life running from who I was, not trying to own up to any of the mistakes I’ve made, trying to hide what I am. I’m not like you.”

Leandra scoffs. “Looks like you’re also self-aware, which is the first step to changing. Being a good person is a choice, Mai. Are you going to be a pirate and a murderer your whole life, or are you going to try to be someone better?” Standing, she asks, “Ankka’s still out there, you coming?”

Mai sits stone-still on her stool long enough to make Leandra wonder if she’s reevaluating whether she wants to help or not. But she eventually climbs to her feet and says, “Yeah, you’re right. Sooner we stop her from doing whatever she’s doing, the better.”

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 24

Prompt is "Is it over? Is it really over?" (1,631 words) Spoilers for the end of EoD

At the end of it all, Leandra finds herself looking back on the path that led her here, staring down the Void side-by-side with two Elder Dragon champions.

When she first met Soleil, she immediately brushed her off. The young Zephyrite was ill-equipped to be thrown into the war against the dragons, and yet she willingly jumped headfirst into it when she first appeared in the Silverwastes, tracking the Aspect Master, and again when she followed Leandra into Maguuma. Leandra didn’t know what exactly it meant for her to be chosen by the Scion, but she did know that Soleil was a long way from being able to defend anything, much less herself. 

Her one saving grace during that time was how eager she was, in everything. No matter how many times Leandra told her to pick up the sword and try again, she did, with that determined little furrow in her brow. She might never be able to best Leandra in a duel, but as long as she could defend herself, buy herself enough time for Leandra to get there and help, that would have to be enough. 

It wasn’t enough. The deities Leandra prayed to betrayed her, and Soleil didn’t stand a chance on her own against a god of war. Soleil’s broken, bloodied body still haunts Leandra’s dreams, but she knows in her heart that even if she was there, if she had gotten to Soleil on time, that the outcome would have been the same. She doesn’t quite understand whatever strange magic brought her back but she will forever be grateful for it. 

It was a wakeup call for the young elementalist, though. She stopped treating everything like a game and actually took things seriously, something Leandra simultaneously wishes she would have done sooner and never had to do at all, especially under the circumstances it did. War is ugly. She wishes she could have protected Soleil from the reality of it for longer, helped preserve that spark of innocence that made leaping across caverns while running from mordrem feel like a game and not a race for her life. Perhaps it was naive of Leandra to think she could. 

But at the same time, each battle, each loss, made Soleil stronger. Not just as a fighter, but as a leader, as the Scion’s Champion. Whatever Glint’s Legacy required, Soleil was determined to meet it, to shine a light into the darkness and believe there was something worth fighting for on the other side, and even when Leandra found herself losing hope, she could always look to Soleil and find something worth fighting for. A better future, where someone as bright as Soleil didn’t have to take up a sword.

And now, as the world tears itself apart at the seams, Soleil shines as brilliantly as a miniature sun, pushing back the Void and ushering in the dawn of a new day, the start of a new era, one free of the Dragon cycle. How their roles have changed, Leandra being left behind with Joon, Taimi, and Kuunavang while Soleil charges bravely into danger, picking their friends back up and cutting down any obstacles in her way. 

At least until she delivers what looks like the final blow to Soo-won and plummets out of the sky, leaving a small impact crater. Leandra races to get to her as quickly as she can, and when she arrives, Soleil is already picking herself back up. Face pale and legs shaky, she stumbles over to Leandra, accepting the arm the guardian offers her and leaning her whole weight against her. “Is it over?” she asks, voice hoarse. “Is it really over?”

Leandra lifts her head to peer out of the crater and catches a glimpse of iridescent blue scales. “Not quite yet,” she murmurs. 

Soleil follows her gaze. After a drawn-out moment of silence, she sighs, “Almost, though.”

Slowly, they walk over to where Joon, Kuunavang, Caithe, and Aurene have already gathered around Soo-won’s battered body. Soleil seems to regain her strength with each step, until she finally pulls away from Leandra and takes the last few strides on her own to come to stand beside Aurene. Leandra hangs back a respectful distance, but when Soleil realizes Leandra is no longer at her side, she turns and waves her over.

The mood is somber. Killing dragons felt less like something to celebrate starting with Mordremoth, and once they realized the consequences of doing so, each new death had only served to heighten Leandra’s apprehension. Even now, she wonders if Aurene really can manage the flow of magic on her own, or if everything will still come crashing down on them.

After Joon and Kuunavang say their farewells, Soo-won’s eyes land on Leandra, and she swallows hard. “I’m sorry,” she says, because her actions started off the chain of events that led to this moment. Ankka was right about that, at least. 

But the dragon only sighs. “You did what you had to do, Commander.” Then she looks to Aurene, and murmurs, “Can I confess something, little one? I’m afraid to die.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Aurene replies, and Leandra is reminded of just how young the dragon is, how much she’s had to grow up over the past few years to take on the responsibilities Glint left for her, just as Soleil had to. 

 “I once thought loneliness was our burden. Then I met you. Your kinship with the mortals...cherish it.”

Aurene tilts her head down to look at the people at her side, her gaze coming to rest on her champion last, and Soleil takes a step closer, places a hand on Aurene’s leg, and offers her a small smile. Aurene nods and says, “I do. I will.”

And like that, there is only one Elder Dragon.

~

Leandra has retreated to the old temple within Arborstone while the celebration carries on below. Learning the truth about the gods has colored her perception of them somewhat, but part of her refuses to believe that they’ve abandoned this realm entirely. Besides, there’s something familiar and comforting about this space so far from home that draws her here. She sits in the first row of pews and stares up at the stained glass and mulls over the day’s events.

A soft knock draws her out of her reflection, and she turns. Soleil stands in the doorway, shuffling awkwardly. “Uh, hey,” she mumbles. “Your pirate friend said you might be up here. She said some other things too, but they weren’t very polite.”

Leandra chuckles. “Oh yeah? What did she say?”

The Zephyrite seems to take that as her invitation to approach. Her steps are nearly soundless against the old stones, and she perches lightly on the pew beside Leandra. “Well, she said you probably head your head up your ass about something. She told me to leave you to it and that she’d come look for you and drag you down to have fun for once in your life if you were still gone in a half hour, so I thought maybe it would be better if I found you myself.”

“Sounds like Mai.” Even after so many years apart, they’ve fallen into a familiar rhythm. It’s bittersweet: Leandra still resents her for leaving, but despite, well, everything, a part of her is still happy to have Mai back. Their relationship will still have plenty of roadblocks to overcome, if they even can, but… maybe for now what they have is enough. 

“Are you okay, though? Today was… a lot,” Soleil says. She stares at Leandra with her big, dark eyes and fiddles with her bracelet.

Leandra sighs and leans her head against Soleil’s, and the younger woman lets her, leaning against her too. “Feel like I should be asking you the same thing. I thought I lost you again.”

“To be honest, I thought so, too. Aurene said it was a close thing. But I feel okay now, just really tired. I think I could sleep for three days.”

Better than being unable to sleep at all. Leandra wraps her arm around Soleil’s shoulders and says. “I’m proud of you. Of how far you’ve come, how much you’ve grown. I wish I could have protected you more.”

“Oh.” When Leandra glances out of the corners of her eyes, she can see that Soleil has turned her gaze down to where her hands nervously twist the beads of her jewelry around her wrist. “It wasn’t your job to protect me, you know. I knew it was going to be dangerous when I ran off after the Aspect Master. Maybe not this dangerous. But I knew there would be risks.”

“What do you think you’re going to do next?” 

Soleil quietly hums. “Maybe I’ll go home for a bit. It’s been a while since I’ve seen anyone. It just gets tricky, being airborne all the time, right? I can’t just leave the next time some crisis happens. Well, maybe now I can, with skyscales and griffons and all.” She pokes Leandra’s arm and asks, “What about you?”

“Maybe I’ll do the same,” Leandra muses. “I haven’t seen my parents in a long time. Other than that… I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it before.”

“Well, you’ve got time to figure it out,” Soleil points out. “With the dragon war being over, maybe the world doesn’t need a Commander. Maybe you can just… be Leandra for a little bit. Whoever that is, under all the armor.”

Leandra’s lips twist, and she says, “Huh, I guess you’re right.” 

At the end of everything, Leandra finds herself reflecting on the road that brought them here. And at the beginning of everything, she finally gives herself a chance to look ahead.

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 23

Prompt is "No, you won't understand, ever." (1,128 words)

Myrta should have known as soon as Caithe appeared that her day was going to take a turn for the worse.

She’s still stuck in the Eye of the North while she recovers from Bangar’s attack (is it really an attack? Cowardly little snake shot her while she didn’t expect it) when the branded sylvari drops in. “I wanted to check on my little sister,” she says, when Myrta raises an eyebrow and frowns at her. 

“I’m alright. I’ll feel even better when I can get back out there and punch Bangar,” Myrta grumbles. All this sitting still, being unable to help, is making Myrta restless. At least when she’s moving she doesn’t have to think about all the ways this could go horribly wrong, what will happen if Bangar does succeed in waking Jormag. 

Caithe lowers herself into a seated position beside Myrta, then leans down to trail her fingers through the shimmering pool. “You really should rest. You need to take care of yourself.”

When Myrta was a sapling, she might have tolerated the gentle scolding. But a lot has happened in the past eight years, and Myrta still holds Caithe at arms length, still frustrated that she took Aurene’s egg from under her nose and ran, still resenting her for not telling anyone about the sylvari’s connection to Mordremoth, still blaming her at least partially for Trahearne’s death, and still a little bitter that she didn’t bother to follow after Aurene when she escaped to the desert to make sure she was okay. But she’s willing to push all that aside and try, at least for Aurene’s sake, to get along with the Firstborn. She really, really wants to try.

“I’m fine,” Myrta insists. “And Bixx says I should be okay to get back out there soon.” She’s been able to move around with minimal pain, often taking to pacing the length of the hall under the supervision of a guildmate or Asphiadh to make sure she doesn’t run off to leap back into the fray. She still thinks everyone is being a little ridiculous about the matter, but she’s not healed enough to try to outrun any of Cliff’s faster pets, so she’s been good and staying close to the Eye. 

“On the topic of taking care of yourself, I’ve heard some… rumors,” Caithe murmurs, eyes fixed on Myrta’s face as if watching for her reaction. 

Myrta frowns and asks, “Rumors? What kind of rumors?” 

“Well, I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding, something getting mixed up in translation, but I’ve heard you may be romantically involved with a Courtier?”

Oh. Oh. “No, we’re not doing this,” Myrta says. She pushes her blankets aside and struggles to her feet, trying not to outwardly wince when her chest protests the movement. 

Caithe sighs. “I knew it wasn’t true.”

“Oh no, it is,” Myrta corrects her as she straightens out her skirt and picks up her staff. “I’m just not talking about it with you.”

Unfortunately for Myrta, Caithe is just as healthy and spry as she always is. She suddenly appears in front of Myrta to block her path. “Sister, you know we can’t trust the Nightmare Court.”

But Myrta pushes past her. She leans her weight on her staff and makes her way towards the hall to leave, arguing,  “Asphiadh isn’t the Nightmare Court. She’s different.”

“You just said she’s part of the Court!”

“Aye, and d’you know how many parts the Court has? Saying she’s a Courtier means nearly nothing.”

Caithe keeps pace with Myrta and gently explains, “The Court is dangerous, Myrta, and its members can be… seductive. You cannot trust courtiers, I know this more than anyone. If anyone can understand what you’re feeling–”

Myrta rolls her eyes and snaps, “No, you don’t understand what I’m feeling, and you won’t understand, ever!”

“After everything I went through with Faolain–”

“She’s not Faolain!” Myrta cries, turning on Caithe and slamming the end of her staff against the floor so forcefully a burst of pink magic erupts from the top of it, and the elder sylvari recoils at the outburst. Myrta rubs her free hand against her chest, where her top hides the puckered scar from where the flaming arrow pierced her body, and swallows hard. 

Caithe straightens her back and says, “Myrta, I say this because I care about you very deeply. This relationship will only hurt you in the end. I don’t want to see you go through what I did.”

“This relationship? What about our relationship, Caithe? You never once trusted me to help you while still heaping all this responsibility on my shoulders because it was my fucking Hunt, or whatever! Why should I trust you when your advice has hardly ever helped me in the past?” Myrta tries to storm off, but Caithe catches her by the arm. 

“And I’ve apologized for that!” she cries. “I’m trying to make it up to you!”

Shaking her off, Myrta argues, “You know how you can make it up to me? By trusting me enough to make my own decisions! I’m not a sapling anymore!”

Caithe sighs heavily and rubs her face. “You’re right, you’re not a sapling.” After a beat of silence, she sighs again and drops her hands. “Maybe you’re right. I just don’t want to see you get hurt like I did. Am I not allowed to worry about my little sister?”

“I suppose so,” Myrta relents. The anger is starting to ease, and embarrassment takes its place. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, I just… you’ve never even met her. I’ve known her for nearly six years now, Caithe, and she’s not once tried to convert me or anything like that. I really do think she’s different from the Nightmare Court you know.” She glances back down the hall, towards the Scrying Pool and Aurene’s usual perch. “Aurene trusted her enough to bring her here. You don’t have to like her, or approve of our relationship. But I won’t tolerate you lumping her in with Faolain or trying to scare her off because you think you’re protecting me, or something ridiculous like that. Is that fair?”

“I think so, yes,” Caithe agrees with a gentle smile. “For what it’s worth… if she makes you happy, then I hope you’re right about her.”

Myrta snorts and mutters, “Well, if I’m not, I imagine you’ll take care of the situation and no one will ever find her body.”

Caithe doesn’t respond to the accusation, just turns and walks leisurely down the hall, and Myrta figures that’s confirmation enough. Exhaling heavily, she follows after the Firstborn. As long as she doesn't try to kill Asphiadh on sight, Myrta supposes that’s the best she’s going to get out of her for now. 

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 22

Prompt is "Who takes care of you?" (1,945 words)

The biggest downside to Divinity's Reach, Fig thinks, are all the darn walls. 

Okay, sure, they keep people inside safe from bandits and centaurs (Fig shudders and pushes the memory of thundering hooves from her mind). But she misses the openness of her old home, being able to watch the sun rise and set over the gently rolling hills and golden-green fields. So instead, she sits in the shadow of the wall and stares out over the city, at all the people running back and forth like so many little ants.

Because of her perch, she’s able to see the pale-skinned, dark-haired teen as he climbs the incline up to the plaza. Fig hides behind the statue of the woman seated within the branches of a tree and watches him scan the area, and when he starts to walk towards the statue she shuffles the opposite direction, keeping the stone between the two of them and fighting a smile. This goes on for a bit, Fig muffling her giggles with her hands pressed against her mouth, until the boy loudly says, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to eat these kababs all by myself. Mmm, they smell so good.”

Fig peeks around the statue. The teen is standing with his back to it, looking the other way, so she darts out and snatches at the food in his hands, grabbing both skewers and sprinting towards the ramp that will take her to the one green space she’s been able to find in this horrible city, the garden with the stone pillars and the statue of Melandru. “Hey!” the boy yells, and his footsteps pound on the stone walkways. Fig had a head start, but his legs are much longer, and he grabs her under her arms and swings her up in the air. “Gotcha!” he cries. He tucks Fig under one arm and uses his other to tickle her sides.

“Quinn! Stop it!” Fig squeals. She kicks her legs and jabs at him with her elbow, and with a laugh he sets her down. Fig scowls and turns away from him.

“Aw, Figgy Pudding, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to make faces like that? It might get stuck.”

Fig rolls her eyes at his teasing and crosses her arms. Quinn chuckles. He crouches beside her and holds his hand out, and she offers him one of the kebabs before studying the other, the peppers, beef, onions, and potatoes, stacked on the skewer and glistening with the grease they were fried in. Fig’s mouth waters, and she glances at Quinn hesitantly. He’s already sitting on the wall and tucking into his food, so Fig follows after, bending her knees and jumping up as high as she can to try to grab the top of the wall and pull herself up to sit next to him. 

“Here,” Quinn says, hopping back down. He holds his kebab horizontally in his mouth and wraps his hands around Fig’s waist to lift her up. Once she’s situated, he rejoins her. Fig takes a bite out of one of the potatoes and kicks her feet happily. It’s a little cold now, but it tastes just fine, and her stomach has been rumbly for most of the day. She probably would have eaten one of Quinn’s poor attempts at cooking with how hungry she is. 

Quinn finishes long before her, but he sits patiently while she eats, tapping the skewer against the wall. “You sure like this statue, huh?” he asks.

Fig lifts her eyes from her food long enough to look at the statue in question. She pulls a pepper off the kebab stick with her teeth, and it’s a little too big for her mouth, so she chews it carefully and nods. 

“You know, they say the gods abandoned us a long time ago. Except for Balthazar, but some big hero killed him, or something.”

That doesn’t seem right, Fig thinks, furrowing her brow and slowing her chewing. Her papa prayed to Melandru before sowing the fields in the spring, and again in the late summer before the harvest. Why bother, if Melandru wasn’t listening? So she shakes her head.

Quinn chuckles and places his hands against the wall, between his legs, leaning forward and swinging his legs. “Hey, don’t get mad. That’s just what I’ve heard.”

“Who said?” Fig asks, mouth still full of food.

“I dunno, I don’t remember. Could have been one of those loonies that hang out in the alley. You like this statue?”

Fig doesn’t want to tell him the truth, that it reminds her of her papa, because it still hurts too much to talk about it. Instead, she says, “It’s the only place with so many plants.”

“Huh?” 

Fig just points down over the wall, and Quinn leans back to look. “You think that’s a lot of plants? Haven’t you ever been to the royal gardens?”

“They let you in?” Fig asks, incredulous. The guards around the palace always seem to be watching her when she gets too close, so she tends to steer clear of the castle if she can help it. She didn’t realize there was a garden there.

Quinn scoffs. “Well, sure, why not? Throwing people in jail over looking at some plants seems pretty stupid, don’t you think?”

“This city is stupid,” Fig spits. She didn’t mean for it to sound so angry but it’s true. “I hate all the bricks and the buildings and the people, I hate how it smells, and I hate that stupid wall. I hate how it blocks out the sun in the morning and the evening and makes everything so dark, and I hate that you can’t see all the trees and the plants outside the city.”

“Aw, come on, Fig, it’s not so bad, is it?” Quinn asks with a little chuckle. 

“It’s the worst,” Fig asserts. 

Quinn says, “Let’s go check out the gardens. I bet they have all sorts of fancy plants in there.”

“I dunno… What if we get in trouble?”

“We’re not gonna get in trouble!”

“How do you know!” Fig snaps. 

Quinn jumps down from the wall. Placing his hands on his hips, he stares at Fig and says, “Hey, who takes care of you?”

Fig crosses her arms across her chest and glares at Quinn, so he ruffles her hair until she swats his hands away. 

“Come on, Figgy, who takes care of you?”

“Ugh, you do,” Fig huffs. 

“And who is much older and wiser than you are?”

Fig rolls her eyes. “I guess you are older.” Ten years, about, but she’s not so sure he’s wiser than she is.

Quinn boops her nose and sings, “That’s right! And I am not gonna let someone arrest us over looking at some plants. Hurry up and finish your food, and we’ll go check it out, okay?”

Fig stares at him with narrowed eyes. She’s not entirely sure how Quinn would be able to keep the city guard from arresting them, but then again, he hasn’t been wrong yet. So she shrugs and takes a bite out of a chunk of beef, which Quinn seems to accept as a gesture of agreement. 

Fig isn’t able to finish all the food, but Quinn doesn’t seem to mind, finishing it off for her and tossing the empty skewers in the first trash bin they pass. He also doesn’t seem to mind when Fig takes his hand and huddles against his side as they make their way to the palace. “Let’s go this way, less traffic,” he says, pointing towards the left of the main road that leads up to the castle, and Fig nods and follows after him. They take a lift up, Fig holding her breath and squeezing her eyes shut as the little metal cart rattles up, even though Quinn laughs at her and pokes her cheeks until the air escapes with a wet, flatulent sound. She’s still slapping his hip while he laughs out “Ow, ow, ow!” when the doors open. 

“Hey, stop hitting me, we’re here!” Quinn says. 

Fig spins around and leaps out of the lift, and once her feet are on solid ground, she takes a deep breath of relief. Then she looks up, and can’t help but gasp at the sight that greets them, vibrant green bushes immaculately trimmed, tall trees in large pots, and strange, metal structures in the shapes of the moon, stars, and planets suspended from the dome overhead. 

“Cool, right?” Quinn asks, and Fig jumps away from him with a startled squeak. She momentarily forgot he was there, and decides to mask her embarrassment with frustration by swatting at him again. Quinn just laughs and catches her hand. “Come on, let’s go walk around before someone catches us and tosses us out.”

“You said we wouldn’t get in trouble!” Fig cries. 

Quinn rolls his eyes. “Well, yeah, if we don’t get caught.” He takes one look at her face and bursts into laughter. “Oh, look at you! I’m kidding, I’m kidding, it’s totally okay for us to be up here. People come up here all the time. Just don’t look like you’re doing anything suspicious and it’ll be fine.”

Don’t look suspicious, right. Fig shuffles closer to Quinn and squeezes his hand as her eyes sweep over the garden, taking stock of the red-clad guards stationed about. Quinn nudges her and asks, “What do you wanna go look at first?”

Fig isn’t sure how much time passes in the garden, her sense of time skewed due to the artificial darkness as the sun sinks below the wall, but before she knows it, the lamps around the space start to flick on, and she fights a yawn. Quinn notices, and turns around to crouch in front of her. “Want a ride?” he asks.

Normally, Fig would put up more of a fuss. She doesn’t need to be carried around like a little kid anymore. But her feet are starting to hurt so she wraps her arms around his neck. He tucks his under her knees before straightening up, and Fig rests her chin on his shoulder. 

“Well, I think we’ve looked at everything worth looking at up here,” Quinn remarks. “What did you think? Just as stupid as the rest of the city?”

“It was fine.” Fig doesn’t get the point of all the perfectly manicured plants. Papa would weed the fields and thin them out so the seeds that were able to sprout had room to grow, but the squashes always sprawled over their beds and some corn stalks usually ended up in the beans thanks to the birds or other animals. Nature is supposed to be a little messy, he would say. The idea of plopping a tree in a tiny little pot and trimming away half its branches to make it grow a certain way didn’t make any sense. Maybe it’s some rich city person thing Fig just doesn’t understand. 

Quinn sets off towards the Plaza of Lyssa. Fig offers the twin goddesses a small wave as they pass, before Quinn makes his way towards Salma. “You gonna fall asleep before we get back?”

“No,” Fig mumbles, already fighting to keep her eyes open. “I’m not tired.”

“Right, ‘course you’re not.”

But the next thing Fig is aware of is waking up in the corner of the safe house, Quinn’s jacket around her shoulders and her cheek pressed into his side while he snores loudly, leaning back against the walls with his knees pulled to his chest. Fig snuggles closer into his side and lets her eyelids droop shut again. This city and its walls might be stupid, but at least she has Quinn.

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 21

Prompt is "Just in case this doesn't work." (3,054 words)

Fritz feels Fig roll over and place her arm over their side before she buries her face in the feathers between their shoulders. “Good morning,” they croak, and she stills.

“You’re up?” she asks.

Fritz takes Fig’s left hand with their right and gives it a little squeeze. “Never really fell asleep,” they admit.

“Same,” says Fig, with a soft chuckle. “Nervous?”

Understatement, Fritz thinks, but they respond with a little chirr. It’s been a couple of months since Xunlai tracked down their jail-broken jade bot, and by extension, Fritz. It didn’t matter that the thing had been nearly beyond repair when they purchased it dirt-cheap at a pawn shop, that it was theirs and they should be able to do whatever they pleased with the damn thing. Unauthorized use of Xunlai Jade technology, the security grunt had said. Because they could still dictate what someone could or couldn’t do with an obsolete piece of shit. The ordeal had set Ghatti off on one of her anarchist rants, and for once, Fritz found they agreed with her, but they had bigger fish to fry. Namely, the hefty fines and/or jail time they faced. Or, the smug Xunlai higher-ups said, you can assist us in replicating your work. Think of all the people you could help.

Fritz doesn’t give a shit about other blind people that might be interested in their work. It was something born out of necessity: Fritz couldn’t rely on anyone else to help them in a city that was largely hostile towards a tengu unable to see on their own. Coupled with how their village viewed their disability, Fritz resolved to do what they could to be as independent as possible, to prove that they could still live a meaningful life, on their terms.

But you shouldn’t have to, the little voice that sounds suspiciously like Fig’s murmurs in the back of their mind. 

Because, yes, the cameras help Fritz get around, but there are consequences, the awful buzzing in the back of their skull where the electrodes connect that gets more intense and painful the longer Fritz has the jadebot on, the headaches, the nausea. At first they assumed they just needed to get used to it, that if they could just tough it out it would get better. Then they thought it meant they had failed, that nothing would ever fix them, they were beyond help. Now, Fritz sees the bot for what it is: an aid that has its time and place depending on how they feel that day, just as crutches, braces, and wheeled-chairs have their places for people with mobility impairments.

Fritz recalls sitting in the unfamiliar space, unable to see at all because they took their bot, waiting desperately for Fig to arrive after being allowed to call one person. They didn’t expect to hear the explosive shouting match that went down between the Xunlai assholes and someone with an accent so incomprehensible that Fritz immediately knew Fig had brought her ma along. Xunlai owes a lot to Aurene, and by extension, my mothers, Fig had explained after they had finally negotiated Fritz’s release. But apparently, even dragon champions only have so much sway. Fritz had a week to decide which option they would take, like there was even a choice to begin with.

Ghatti probably would have taken the jail time and used it to make a martyr out of herself, to write some music that was a scathing critique of the system as a justification of her political beliefs. But Fritz couldn’t afford the fines and probably wouldn’t last in prison. Not that they didn’t entertain the thought, just as a big “fuck you” to Xunlai. But that week was the worst of their entire life, because every day, Fig refused to leave their side. She never said it, but every touch, every nuzzle against their face, every “goodnight” and “good morning” and “I appreciate you” carried an air of finality. Like Fig was afraid she would never see them again. Fritz wanted to scoff and chalk it up to her being a dramatic worrywart, but… there was a part of Fritz that was scared of the same thing. 

So, no matter how much they wanted to give Xunlai the middle finger and tell them exactly where they could stuff their offer, they couldn’t do that to Fig. No, they don’t owe her anything, just as she doesn’t owe them, but the idea of hurting her, of making her worry, of leaving her to fend for herself when she’s so close to finally getting her citizenship squared away, made Fritz feel worse than using their jade bot for a full day. 

Xunlai gave them seven days. Fritz went back to them after five. 

And now, months of work have come to fruition. Today is the day the operation to implant two tiny cameras into their head, where their eyes would be, is scheduled. Fritz feels they should be excited, maybe even proud of everything they’ve accomplished, an affirmation of how bright and capable they are and what they could do with the right support. Instead, they just feel a heavy, deep-seated dread as they think about all the ways this could go wrong. And knowing that Fig has been worrying about them too is a punch in the gut. Even after doing all this just so they could be there for Fig, they might still–

No. No, they can’t even consider that. It’s going to work out. It has to work out. So Fritz sits up and asks, “What do you want for breakfast?”

Their morning routine is subdued and lacks its usual frantic energy. Fig took the day off so she could go with Fritz and be available to pick them up when the procedure was done, which means she’s not scrambling to get out the door like she usually is. Fritz doesn’t usually use their bot around the apartment, but boots it up and watches Fig push her scrambled eggs around her plate. The feed is fuzzy, especially compared to the new, updated model they’ve been working on, but it’s good enough for them to make out the dark shadows under her eyes. Fritz swallows their guilt with a forkful of food.

When the time comes, they leave the apartment and walk hand-in-hand to the tram station together. Fig lets Fritz sit in one of the priority seats and stands in front of them, holding the loop above her head, but still not releasing Fritz’s hand. Too soon, they reach their stop. As they enter Xunlai, Fig says, “Just in case this doesn’t work–”

“It’s gonna work,” Fritz interrupts her. The alternative is too terrifying. 

“Right, yeah, but, if it doesn’t…” Her grip on Fritz’s hand tightens. Fritz stays quiet, waiting for her to finish her thought, but she seems to think better of it. “You’re probably right. You’re too smart for your own good, after all.”

It’s said with a chuckle but she doesn’t sound amused, just nervous. Fritz squeezes her hand back. “I’ll see you later?”

“Of course, let me know when you’re done.” She reaches up, and Fritz leans down and lets her take either side of their face so she can rub her nose against their forehead. As she pulls away after planting a kiss between their eyes, Fritz watches her face, noting the pinch in her brow and the downward turn of her mouth, and Fritz is once again struck by the thought of all the ways this could go wrong. Sure, no reward without risk, but is the risk worth it? 

…Would these humans be taking this gamble with anyone other than Fritz, forced between a rock and a hard place by  Xunlai’s manipulation but framing it as Fritz’s choice? 

Fritz straightens up and takes a step away from Fig, who stares up at them with those large, purple eyes of hers. “Good luck,” she murmurs. 

Fritz nods, suddenly too angry to respond. How dare these humans try to make them their lab rat, dangling their life over their head under the guise of “freedom” and calling it scientific progress? A sacrifice for the “greater good” is still a sacrifice, and Fritz doesn’t feel like jeopardizing their life for a city that never cared about them in the first place. Turning away from Fig, they march down the hall.

When they arrive at the lab, the project lead greets them with a nod and asks, “Are you ready?”

“Change of plans,” Fritz states, and their tone makes all the humans clad in scrubs in the room freeze. 

~

Fig sounds shocked when Fritz calls her. “You’re done?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Fritz replies. “Wanna meet at the wall?”

They don’t have to specify which part of the wall, Fig knows the spot they’re referring to. “Uh, sure? Don’t you want me to–”

“I’m okay. I’ll be there soon, okay?” Fritz waits for her to confirm that she’ll be there before setting off at a leisurely walk. When they arrive at the stairs, they ascend them slowly, one hand gripping the wall and the other wielding their cane, probing out the edge of each stair before raising their foot and setting it down. Despite their slow pace, when they finally reach the top of the wall surrounding the city, they’re short of breath. Ghatti would be making fun of them for huffing and puffing so much, but thankfully, Ghatt isn’t here. After taking some time to wheeze, they straighten back up and scan the immediate area, until locating a familiar head of golden hair.

“Hey,” Fritz says, once they’re close enough for Fig to hear.

Fig turns and looks them over, quickly, discreetly, but not so discreet that Fritz doesn’t notice the relief and surprise that flashes across her face. “Hey yourself,” she says, scooting over on the bench and patting it.

Fritz takes a seat and presses the button on their cane that makes its segments collapse, so they can fold it up and tuck it neatly into their bag. They lean against the back of the bench and sigh heavily. Fig asks, “So… how did it go?”

“Fine,” Fritz replies. 

“You… have a little headband thing, now.” Fritz hears the quiet, sharp tapping, feels the pressure against the side of their head when Fig reaches up to poke the cameras mounted there.  

“Yep,” Fritz confirms. When they turn to look at Fig, she’s staring up at them with those wide, purple eyes and a furrow in her brow, but it seems considerably less stressed than the expression she gave them earlier. The improved optical feed shows that she has even more freckles than they originally thought. “Do you like it? Or does it just make me look like a loser?” they ask her.

Fig’s gaze drops, and she fiddles with one of her curls and softly chuckles. “It’s fine. It’s just… I thought you were going to get them actually in your head. Did something go wrong?”

Fritz looks out at the sunset, the sky a vibrant orange they never knew existed that blends into pink that darkens to purple. “It’s your favorite,” they remark, gesturing towards the view.

“Yeah, it is,” Fig murmurs. She places a hand on Fritz’s arm and squeezes. “Fritz, what happened?”

Fritz counters her question with one of their own. “They wouldn’t have tried to do something like that on a human, would they?”

Fig is quiet, and it’s enough of an answer for Fritz, but she says anyway, “Maybe, maybe not. Guess it depends on who it was.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Fritz grumbles. They feel stupid that it took them so long to come to the realization for themself. They fiddle with the edge of their tunic and say, “If they’d found me, what, five or so years ago? I probably woulda gone through with it. What did I have to lose, you know?” Then they take Fig’s hand, turning it over palm-up and pressing their thumbs into it, making her fingers splay. “But that’s not me anymore. I’ve got a life worth living now. I don’t wanna just throw it away.”

Fig’s fingers close around their talons. “Fritz,” she murmurs. 

“Would you like me better if I’d gone through with it?” Fritz asks. They know the answer, but they want to hear it anyway.

“No, but I would have supported you if that’s what you really wanted,” Fig replies. She leans against their arm and stares out at the setting sun. “But now that you didn’t do it, I don’t feel bad saying that I’ve been nauseous all day. I kept thinking about all the ways it could have gone wrong.”

“But what if it worked? Wouldn’t that be easier?” 

“You’re not a burden, Fritz,” Fig assures them gently, squeezing their hand again. She’s not the first person to tell them that, but it feels different when it’s Fig. It feels like she means it.

“You wouldn’t have to hand me things anymore, or worry about me knocking things over,” they point out. 

Fig giggles. “You might still do that, you clumsy, lazy doofus. But I don’t mind either way.”

Fritz chirrs softly and applies pressure to the tip of a talon where it rests against Fig’s skin. She brushes their hand away with another short, quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t be as much of a liability,” they mumble. 

“You aren’t,” Fig replies. “You never have been.”

“You… you mean that,” says Fritz, quietly, mostly to themself. 

Fig presses into their side and tightens her grip on their hand. “Of course.” 

Fritz’s heart feels like it dropped out of their chest and is now getting tangled up in the twisty-turniness of their guts, and even though it’s uncomfortable because of their height difference, Fritz leans down to butt their head against Fig’s. The human chuckles and scratches under their beak, and Fritz coos, a sound they would never, ever make around anyone else but Fig. “I…” Fritz tries to say, but their voice catches.

“I appreciate you too, Fritz,” Fig murmurs, her lips brushing against their forehead. 

But Fritz shakes their head. “I… I love you,” they force the words out around the tightness in their throat. Because Fig deserves to hear it, after everything she’s done for them, and because it’s true.

Fig’s hands still, and Fritz’s heart does another little somersault, but it’s different from the first one. The tengu winces. “Sorry, I didn’t—“

But their voice gets caught when Fig gently places her hands on either side of their face and presses their foreheads together, and Fritz relaxes into the touch. “I know you do,” is all she says. “You don’t have to say it.”

“But I do,” Fritz gently protests. “I’m sorry I never said it earlier.”

“Anyone can just say things and not mean it. I’ve known how you felt for a while now. You do plenty to show me how you feel without words, and that’s enough for me.” She presses her lips to their forehead, and they can hear the smile on her face when she adds, “But for the record, I love you too.” 

Fritz wraps their arm around her shoulders and settles in, watching the sun sink towards the sparkling sea and admiring all the little details their old eyes were never able to pick up on. Fig pokes their beak and asks, “So, if they didn’t actually cut your head open, what took so long?”

“Negotiating, mostly,” they explain. “Told them I caught on to what they were trying to pull on me, that they’d never try anything like this on a human and it’s only because I’m a tengu that they were willing to gamble with my life. I may have bullshitted a bit and threatened them that your ma was ready to sue if this didn’t work out and I ended up a vegetable or worse. They denied the accusations, of course, but I think the fear of a lawsuit was enough to get them to back down and be willing to revisit the terms of our agreement.”

Fig’s snort sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Oh, Fritz, you didn’t.” 

“Am I wrong? Am I reading into our relationship too much, Figgy? You wouldn’t seek vengeance against Xunlai if they killed me with their experiments? And here I am, admitting that I love you. I take it all back. I’m going back and telling them to cut my brain open.”

“Gods, you’re a prick!” But she’s laughing openly now, even as she softly punches their shoulder, and Fritz laughs too. It’s probably all the nervous energy from the past several months finally being purged from their system, but they feel light and slightly manic. They kind of want to stand at the edge of the wall and scream out over the city, but that would mean getting up from Fig’s embrace. 

“So, that’s a yes, I am wrong?”

Fig huffs and rests her cheek against their upper arm. “No, you’re not,” she grumbles. “I’d totally blackmail them.”

Fritz smugly says, “I knew it, you sexy little fox.”

“Shut up,” Fig laughs. 

“Hey, so now that we’re not freaking the fuck out, wanna go get all-you-can-eat sushi? I’m starving after, like, six months of hardly eating.”

Fig rolls her eyes at the sudden topic change, but Fritz hears the way her stomach rumbles at the suggestion of food. “We’re supposed to be saving money, but… I guess splurging a little won’t hurt.”

“Excellent.” Fritz stands and pulls Fig along with them. They grab their cane out of their bag, and it extends with a click. 

“Wanna call Ghatt and Ulysses, too?” Fig suggests.

It’s tempting, and at some point Fritz should probably let them know they’re okay. But they shake their head, and Fig nods. “Good, I kinda want some us time where we aren’t freaking out,” she admits. 

“Oho, I like the sound of that. Please explain what you have in mind. In detail, please. I need visual descriptions, being blind and all.”

Fig’s laugh makes Fritz’s heart skip a beat after not hearing it for months. “You’re terrible!”

“But you love me,” Fritz says in a sing-song tone.

“I do,” Fig relents, and lifts their hand to her face to kiss the back of it.

[nibswrites]

Fictober '23 day 20

Prompt is "This better be good" (1,702 words)

Rex groans as he drags his hands down his snout. “That was the last one?” he asks, finally allowing himself to sound as exhausted as he feels now that they’re alone.

Ari nods. “Thank the Spirits,” he grumbles. 

“Come on, that was fun. I could totally sit through another five auditions,” Vince announces, as he raises his hands over his head and stretches his legs out under the table. 

“Then you can be my fucking guest,” Rex growls. As he stands, he thumbs through his notes. There hadn’t been an immediate draw towards any of the guitarists who showed, but there were some decent ones that could probably be molded to fit what they needed. They could work with this. 

From the stairwell, there’s several loud thuds, like something falling down the stairs but growing louder, getting closer. Finally, a bright red flash appears and shouts, “Wait! Don’t leave!”

Rex realizes that the red object is an outrageously tall deathhawk, and it’s attached to a dark grey asura with several silver studs and rings embedded in their ears and face. There’s a guitar case slung across their back.

“Sorry, we’re done today.”

“You are not,” the asura declares, in the arrogant way only an asura could. 

Vince leans forward to peer at the newcomer before making eye contact with Rex. “Er, when I said I wanted to listen to another five auditions, I wasn’t being serious,” he mutters. 

“This is your fault,” Ari hisses and elbows him.

“Ugh, don’t be so superstitious,” the human fires back with a roll of his eyes. 

The asura plods over to the front of the room and sets the guitar case down. Popping it open, they reveal a small but gorgeous, glossy black guitar with a V-shaped body. “Ooh, get that custom-made?” asks Vince. He sounds impressed at the instrument’s appearance, but admittedly, Vince is usually easily impressed.

Rex clears his throat and swats at Vince’s head to discourage him from engaging the asura further. “Look, dude, we’re done today. You missed your chance, but we can take your contact info down in case we decide no one in the current pool works out, deal?”

“Wrong on all accounts,” says the asura as they pull their guitar out of its case and sling the strap over their shoulder. “One, not a dude. Two, there wasn’t a time frame listed on the flier, so I’m not late. Three, you aren’t sold on any of the people you heard today. Tell me I’m wrong, I dare you.”

Rex’s tail flicks in irritation. He glances at Ari, who looks equally unenthused, and raises an eyebrow. “Did you have anyone in mind?” he whispers.

The norn sighs heavily and taps the end of his writing utensil against the table. He doesn’t have to say anything, Rex knows he feels the same. Vince, meanwhile, looks between Rex and Ari, waiting for their input. Finally, Rex huffs. “Alright, sorry miss. We’ve had a long day, we’re hungry and tired, can we do this another time?”

The asura is tuning up her guitar when she says, “Why, so you can weasel away and lose my number? I’m insulted that you seem to think I’m that stupid. And even if you did reach out to me again, it would be an enormous waste of time for all of us. We’re all here now, so why not?” The more she talks, the more apparent her lisp becomes. 

Ari rubs his eyes and mutters something under his breath, but Vince is still watching the asura eagerly. Rex is going to be the tiebreaker here, it seems, and he rubs his right ears. The asura also seems to have picked up on the fact that he’s in charge, because she lifts her chin and meets his eyes. “One minute. I’ll completely blow your mind in one minute, and that is an indisputable fact.”

“This better be good,” Rex grumbles, dropping back into his chair. He rests his elbows on the table and leans forward. “One minute.”

The asura waddles over to the amp and plugs in her guitar, then plays a very loud chord. After fiddling with the knobs on the amp, she launches into a riff that has Vince’s jaw dropping faster than it would if a bunch of shirtless women suddenly walked in. Rex narrows his eyes and watches the asura’s hands, and immediately notices the silver contraption on her left hand that escaped his notice when she first entered the room, focused as he was on trying to get her to leave. 

When she stops, Vince blurts, “Holy shit.”

Rex is not as convinced. He points a clawed finger at her and asks, “That thing on your arm, what is that?”

“Oh, this?” the asura holds up her hand and flexes her fingers, including the metal one. “I had a friend help me make this so I could play easier. You ever tried to play bar chords with three fingers?”

“What, do you like, program it or something?” Is that how she’s so good? 

She rolls her eyes and scoffs. “No, it’s not programmed. It’s not a robot, it’s just a prosthetic. Like I said, the only thing it does is make it easier for me to play. How many asura guitarists have you seen?”

Not many, but that’s not the point. “Do you mind stepping out so we can talk?” Rex asks, gesturing to the men sitting beside him.

The asura offers him a smug grin and says, “Of course. Take your time.”

Once she’s left, Ari admits, “Okay, she was good.”

“She was really good,” Vince agrees. “Right, Rex? You thought so too?”

“I mean, sure, but I’m not sure it’s not just that thing on her hand. Plus, her head is so full of hot air I’m surprised she doesn’t float away.”

Vince laughs, but Ari at least seems to agree, muttering, “I’d be worried about her ability to function within a group. She seems… domineering.”

“Right.” She’d have a promising career as a solo artist, but in a band? Rex isn’t sold.

“Why don’t we invite her to one of our rehearsals then? See how she does playing with the group?” Vince suggests. 

Rex looks down at him and nods. Sometimes he does have thoughts that aren’t related to women or booze, and they’re usually not half-bad. “Alright, if we’re in agreement, I don’t see why not.”

“We’re not gonna go easy on her, right?” Ari asks.

“Of course not,” Rex agrees with a scoff, twirling his whiskers around his finger. “She wants to act like she’s hot shit, she’ll either prove it or get knocked down a few pegs.”

~

Ghatti, as the asura turns out to be named, regards Rex and the others with a slight scowl. “You’re jerkin’ me around on purpose, fuckin’ assholes. Was that 5/24 time? What the actual fuck.”

Ari drags the back of his hand across his forehead and says, “What are you talking about? You kept up fine.”

The norn is right; no matter how many key or time signature modulations and tempo changes they threw at Ghatti, she’d pick up on it after a beat or two and join back in. And she is good. Rex was hoping for a rhythmic guitarist, but her talents would be wasted there, and he can do both fine. It might actually be easier for her to take over melody so he can multitask with the vocals, actually. 

“Yeah, but I’ve heard you perform at gigs before, and I don’t remember hearing anything in weird-ass irrational meters or tonalities.”

Vince perks up at that. “You’ve heard us perform before?”

“Duh.” Ghatti examines her sharp little claws, then picks at her teeth. “That warehouse show, down by the old shipping district. You had another two charr in the group then. Honestly, good riddance. You could tell you all were pulling apart even then.”

Rex bristles instinctively, but… frustratingly, she’s right again. Lack of cohesive artistic vision meant they struggled to come together as a group. By the time the split happened, it was mostly mutual. 

“But, you’ve got potential,” Ghatti continues. “Your bass and drums are tight, and your vocals are killer. Find a halfway decent guitarist and you’re cookin’, and lucky for you, I am kick-ass.”

“Okay, level with me,” Rex says, sinking into a crouch to be eye-to-eye with the asura, who immediately shoots him a sharp glare and bares her teeth. Two can play that game, Rex thinks, as he pulls his own lips back. The glare softens to an irritable scowl instead. “Why join us? You could make it solo if you wanted, or join pretty much any group, but you sought us out specifically. Why?”

The asura shrugs. “I dunno, got a good feelin’ about you. Besides, easier to join up with a band that’s still trying to get off the ground than try to fit into one that’s been doing its thing for a while. As for a solo career, I don’t think people would really go for me singing. Just a thought.” And maybe it’s just Rex, but her lisp sounds a little more exaggerated than usual.

Rex looks up at Ari and Vince and raises an eyebrow. Vince was pretty much sold after meeting Ghatti the first time, but Ari still had his reservations. Now, he offers Rex a small nod. 

Ghatti swings her guitar around to her back and sticks her hand out to Rex. “Did I pass your stupid tests?”

Rex sighs and takes her hand. He gives it a solid pump and says, “Yeah, okay. Welcome to the band, Ghatti.”

“Excellent,” she purrs, and because Rex is starting to realize that she can’t miss an opportunity to be a smug little shit, adds, “I would like to take this moment to remind you that I told you so.”

Standing, Rex rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just be careful that your head doesn’t get any bigger than it already is.”

“You are only jealous of my superior guitar playing skills, but that’s alright; I forgive you. Who wouldn’t be jealous of me?”

Rex rubs his snout and prays that he doesn’t end up regretting this.