#Hearthlight

[lightthewaybackhome]

[fernthewhimsical]

Prayer to Freyr

(that rhymes, lol)

Golden sunlight upon golden grain Warmth of the heartlight Communities chosen and born We take what is needed, and share what we have We fight for those who cannot, and raise their voices high We love with all our hearts, and celebrate humanity Golden Freyr who guards us, and provides for us all I honour you

[jeeyonshim]

Dirtgoblin Community Center game release day! Today it's Hearthlight, a solo journaling game where you prepare a last meal for a dead video game character and bid them a meaningful farewell before you attempt a new play through. Every first and third Monday of the month, I release a small game on my Patreon, in addition to early access playkits, a library of all my work to date, an ongoing connected path game, and so much more. The Dirtgoblin Community Center is how I'm making my base income this year, and now is a great time to join!

[abbydjonesoffaerie]

Also, I've been so focused on my two side characters, Sigyn and Skoll, that I've lost Merry and Stray's voices, so I gotta get that recovered. *shakes head*

[quicklikelight]

1577 words of my extremely revised Sawdust & Snow-based original fic written tonight! 🥰

[commander-soup]

cain instinct

[rainintheevening]

Peter writes home from the battlefield every chance he can.

Lucy's letters are full of barely rhyming, rambling poetry, talk of stars and trees and any plants or animals he's seen. He puts in all the words that will never describe any of this, but still there is a great sky above him, and a big heart in his chest, and he hopes she will understand. She could if anyone can.

To Edmund he sends the muddy, bloody, wobbly-writing letters, the ones with rambling memories of Narnian battles and strategy, though he takes care to phrase it as 'playing in the woods', not wanting the censors to get leery. There are also many theological musings, and usually the continuation of whatever Bible verse Ed has sent in his letter. I wish you were here, and yet I am glad you are not, is a sentiment oft repeated.

Susan and Mother usually get the same letter, little stories of kindness shown or soft things appreciated. He asks them for more socks for Jackie, an extra bar of chocolate for Hamish, tells them how he's gotten his whole unit to memorize the Jabberwocky poem, and they make each other smile with it.

Dad is usually named with Susan and Mother, but sometimes he gets an extra scribble, usually a single scripture reference, or the name of a local boy now dead, and a few things Peter asks him to go tell the family.

Eustace gets the occasional missive folded in with the rest, usually sketches of aeroplanes, with which Eustace is fascinated, though they aren't very good sketches. If there's a sketch for Eustace, there is usually also a sketch for Jill, something Narnian, a sword or a forest or a castle.

Professor Kirke only gets occasional letters, usually short and to the point, but written in particularly formal language, as of a king writing to a dear advisor.

They all write to Peter.

Professor Kirke sends exerpts of whatever philosophy or theology or history books he just happens to be reading at the time he remembers to write. Sometimes it seems very random to Peter, but he loves it.

Eustace's letters are infrequent, but burst with colourful descriptions of his school life that make Peter laugh.

Dad usually just scribbles scripture references at the bottom of Mother's letters. Susan signs those too. Mother's letters are full of ordinary home life, rich with the warmth of hearthlight and fresh baking and good books and comfortable chairs and a much loved old quilt. She says what everyone is doing much more clearly, tells how the garden is coming in.

Mother and Susan are also very good at writing to the boys who don't have anyone to write to them. (Peter has a picture of his family, and everyone in Peter's unit thinks Susan is the prettiest girl in Europe, that she should be a queen, but they all watch what they say around Peter, they know how he feels about his sister's honour. But it really does bring up morale.)

Edmund doesn't usually say a lot, but he's regular, always engaging with whatever musings Peter put in his previous letter, making some of his own references to Narnia, usually to things Oreius taught them, and always concluding with a Bible verse. Half the time Ed absently addresses the missive To High King Peter, my brother... He never actually says I'll find you when I join up, I promise, it's just sort of there, between the lines.

Lucy's letters are like blue sky and fresh air and a fierce hug. Sometimes Peter can almost smell Narnia on the paper. They're not long, but she says I love you all the time, and talks of the weather and the flowers, and the girls at school who are struggling, and how she's trying to help them, and there's always a bit of poetry or a hymn that she's written, but it's actually good, compared to Peter's stuff. Courage, dearest brother, she always says. Remember the Lion, she always finishes.

Peter gets so many letters he has to start sending them back to his family for safe keeping.

[scarredwithcruelintentions]

chapter 12: of cursed shadows

Find the master list here!

CW: Act 2 spoilers, traumatic memories and some...*fun*...stuff!

W/C: 5,035

A/N: Hey y'all. It's been a bit. Apologies, life is wild and creativity comes and goes. Hope this was worth the wait!

The group was up and packed a few short hours after Astarion had fallen into his trance in your arms. His consciousness was roused to the sound of you shuffling about the tent, organizing what little had been laid out and re-stocking your daypack with hearthlight bombs and potions of healing. He was in motion, helping you pack and strip the tent, before he had even gathered his wits about himself, so natural this morning routine had become.

Once all was settled and the rest of the group had broken their fast with dried meats and stale bread, they began their trek down to the darkened waters on the outskirts of the myconid camp. Thankfully, both skiffs were moored at the dock, as one alone was not enough to carry the whole of the group. Astarion helped you onto the first one, climbing up shortly after you and jumping across to stand by your side on the second skiff. He and Halsin undid the docking ties and Gale cast an arcane gust of wind to send them on their final venture through the Underdark.

They reached Grymforge in short order, all scampering off the tiny and decrepit vessels onto solid land so as not to disturb whatever might be lurking in those murky depths any further. They made haste to the lift gate, Astarion deftly picking its lock, and took it in two groups to the upper levels of the Sharran ruins. Anticipatory dread continued to build in the pit of his stomach, slowly climbing its frozen tendrils up his throat and rendering his vocal cords useless. He reached out to clasp your hand unthinkingly, and you gave it a reassuring squeeze despite the severity of his expression reflected in yours.

Regrouped and mentally bracing themselves for what lay ahead, the party cautiously trekked forward, Shadowheart lighting the many candles strewn about the dilapidated temple with a flick of her wrist.

“Gale, my boy,” an unfamiliar voice called down from the top landing.

Astarion’s eyes snapped to the man in question as his face paled, hurrying up the last steps to accost the stranger.

“Elminster, what in the bloody Hells are you doing here!” Gale hissed in a whisper.

“I come with ill tidings, a most sacrificial task set forth to you by Mystra herself…”

The wizened old man continued to dawdle nonsensically, and Astarion began to see where Gale had picked up his pattern of speech from.

“For all the gods’ sakes, Elminster, spit it out!” Gale huffed exasperatedly.

“Are all archmages this unnecessarily verbose?” Astarion whispered, low enough that only you could catch the rumble of his voice.

You hid a snicker behind your hand, swatting at him with the other.

“I’m sure I’ve misheard you, Elminster. Mystra wants me to blow myself up when we confront the Absolute?!” Gale shouted incredulously, drawing both Astarion’s and your attention back to the conversation at hand.

“No, my dear boy, I’m afraid you’ve heard me perfectly. This is the only way to appease Mystra, this one final, impossible task bestowed upon you, as she knows only you are capable of completing it.”

“And this will surely regain her favor?” Gale questioned, a look of resignation blanketing his features.

“I’m sorry, pardon my interruption,” you spoke up, “but Gale is decidedly NOT going to blow himself up, especially not for the goddess who spurned him.”

Elminster’s shrewd gaze landed on you, sizing you up, as Gale began to splutter objections.

“Yes, I do believe you’ve heard me perfectly. I vote against this drastic measure. Are there any who would care to back me up?” you asked, cocking a hip out and crossing your arms in a defensive pose.

There was a resounding chorus of ‘no’s and ‘absolutely not’s, Astarion begrudgingly throwing his hat in with the rest of the naysayers. Though the wizard could be infuriatingly dense at times, he couldn’t imagine sacrificing himself for the forgiveness of an ex-lover, no matter the cost. And if it was not something Astarion would willingly do, he’d not ask it of his friend.

Gale stood, dumbstruck, looking at the group with glassy eyes as a choice was laid before him. Mystra’s blessing at the expense of his life, or his freedom and friendship at the expense of her favor. Astarion hoped, for his sake, that he would be intelligent enough to choose the latter, as it had so far proved a more rewarding road.

“Elminster, you have given me much to think on. I make you no promises, but I will consider Mystra’s request,” he said curtly.

The mighty wizard sighed, breathing an incantation over Gale to still the ever-restless orb in his chest, and with a final brief nod, he vanished from sight.

Gale opened his mouth to speak - to thank you or protest - but you stopped him before any words could flow out.

“There will be no reconsidering of these terms, Gale. Your life is worth far more than that of your Goddess’s blessing. If not to you, to us. We need you in this fight. Please remember this,” you said resolutely, if not a little desperately.

Gale’s jaw promptly snapped shut, a grimace of shame schooling his features.

“Besides, there are plenty more lovely goddesses for you to bed in her stead, Gale,” Astarion quipped from beside you.

You jabbed an elbow into his ribs, an oof sound punching past his lips. Gale glanced slyly at him, and though his brows were drawn in distaste, a smirk played at the corners of the man’s lips, betraying his amusement.

“Come on,” you said, stepping forward to take Gale’s arm in yours, “we have much yet to do today.”

Though the green monster in Astarion’s gut could not be quelled completely, he was overwhelmed with a tender fondness at your actions. No matter the obstacle, you stood proudly and defied all odds, choosing the safety and happiness of your companions above all else.

How he adored the many facets he’d come to know of you. ______________________________________________________________

The Shadow Cursed Lands were everything that Halsin had described and then some. The otherworldly, inky shadows seemed to consume all light and heat, creating the atmosphere Astarion assumed the abyssal void of the heavens to be. The rays of the sun did not penetrate the dense clouds of shadow over the land, and he found himself remiss without their guiding light. That, and the gnawing hunger in the pit of his belly, continued to draw his attention from the danger at hand. 

Though he was unbothered by the cold, he could not shake the feeling of being stalked by the darkness itself. He was unused to the sensation of being prey, especially when enveloped by the shroud of false night, but it hunted him nonetheless, setting his teeth on edge. He held his torch high and stuck close by your side for want to protect you from the encroaching shadows. Ever the fearless leader, you showed no outward signs of unease. It was only the telltale quickened pace of your heart, a sound only he was keen enough to hear, that betrayed your fear.

Some ways away, the sound of snapping branches and the scuffing of boots echoed through the hazy darkness, followed by the dimmed glow of torchlight. You dropped into a crouch on instinct, the others following suit. However, you were not fast enough, and whoever stood on the other side of the veil of shadow called out for you to show yourself.

As you raised to stand, hands held aloft placatingly, a monstrous shadow emerged and dragged one of the other party’s travelers, kicking and screaming, into the brush and far from any source of light.

“Yonas, follow my voice! Come back to the light!” the woman, presumably the leader, cried frantically.

A piercing shriek lit the atmosphere, and the man, Yonas, emerged from beneath the thorny thickets of dead shrubbery. However, the man that had been dragged from the group was no more. In his place stood a herald of the curse’s power, some vile and abhorrent mockery of the man that once was, his body infused with the sickening magic of undeath. Tendrils of inky darkness spanned his form in vein-like clusters, the occasional green glow of necromancy threading through them.

The undead traveler took a vicious swipe at his once leader, who, in her unpreparedness, was caught off guard and bore the full force of it. Astarion watched as the energy was sapped from her with that single blow, watched the great effort it took for her to remain upright. Suddenly, the shadows around them began to writhe and take form, all enclosing on their position. The whole of the group, strangers included, formed a circle with their backs to the center, Shadowheart calling on the aid of radiant spirit guardians to shield them from the onslaught of living shadow.

Encircled by the divine light of her spell, the group began hacking, slashing and casting with reckless abandon. Karlach swung Lathander’s Blood in great, sweeping arcs, blinding all nearby shadow and undead creatures. Shadowheart continued to dole out guiding bolts of radiant damage, illuminating whatever otherworldly foes the dancing spirit guardians did not. You discovered that even the shadows were weakened by the clutches of fear, casting a series of disembodied, chittering voices at them.

Though the group worked in tandem and made good progress in the battle, they were overwrought by the sheer number of shadow creatures, and soon they began to tire. With one final burst of effort, Shadowheart casted to turn all undead in their vicinity, their shrieks of agony as they were incinerated with divine light echoing in the abyssal darkness surrounding them.

“You’re fine company to keep in a fight,” the woman, a Harper by the looks of her, panted.

“As are you,” you spoke breathlessly back. 

You offered her a perfunctory greeting and introduction, with her responding in kind.

“Do you have a camp?”

You shook your head, taking down great gulps of the frigid air as you caught your breath.

“Let me see your map,” she said brusquely, snatching the well-worn parchment from your hands as you fumbled with it and making a mark a short distance away.

“There’s an inn nearby, protected from the clutches of the curse. S’not much, but it’s safe. We hope to see you there,” she rushed out, turning to leave before thinking better of it, “A word of caution. Do not venture further into the shadows. Your torch may protect you here, but the deeper into these accursed lands you get, the hungrier the shadows become. You don’t want to end up like Yonas.”

She cast one final glance at the crumbled pile of ash that was once her traveling companion and spun on her heel, the other Harpers following her at a breakneck pace through the darkness.

“Well,” you panted, “shall we see what secrets this inn holds for us?” ______________________________________________________________

The party was met with the stony suspicion of the Harper leader at the bridge to Last Light Inn. Astarion cried out in dismay when the elven druid wrapped you in a series of entangling vines, waxing poetic about cultist interlopers interfering in Harper business, and how she had half a mind to kill you on the spot.

“Kill me and you lose your best shot at taking down Thorm. I may be tadpoled, but I am not some mindless thrall under the Absolute’s influence,” you retorted cheekily.

“It is not possible; how could you, a simple mortal, be powerful enough to resist the voice of the Absolute? I do not believe you.”

With one hand still raised in placation, you drew the Astral Prism from a pocket of your bag, the thing coming to life with an unearthly hum as it was suspended just above your palm. The tadpole in the druid woman’s jar fell silent, no longer squirming to be near its kin. Her eyes darted back and forth between the artifact in your hand and the dormant illithid tadpole in the jar, discerning the truthfulness of your words. 

Just then, Mol appeared to corroborate your story, unwittingly saving the group from a potentially disastrous end. The elf exchanged looks with the Harper woman that had led you to the inn, and with a wave of her hand, the vines disappeared. You stumbled back into Astarion’s chest, the Astral Prism falling into your palm with a deceivingly heavy thunk.

“Well, it looks as though I have read you all wrong. I have many questions, but far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth. Come, follow me inside. We have much to discuss,” the woman said gruffly.

She promptly turned and strode into the inn, Mol making a quip about getting even to you. You thanked the little tiefling girl graciously, and then looked between your companions, a question held in the weight of your gaze. With a shrug, you followed the druid into the inn proper. 

The group dispersed, not all deeming it necessary to follow you. Karlach meandered her way to the forge, pulling the infernal iron she’d collected from her pack as she went. Gale and Wyll went to the storemaster, their coin purses in hand, along with whatever items they were willing to trade. Halsin made his way inside ahead of you, beelining for the infirmary with a mumbled platitude about having ‘business to attend to.’ Shadowheart turned her nose up at the moon magic surrounding the inn and refused to move any further, which you rolled your eyes at. Lae’zel seated herself on the crumbling fountain wall, pulling her whetstone from her bag and proceeding to sharpen her blade.

That left you and Astarion to heed the druid’s call, and though he was not overly fond of the woman in question, her having threatened his ticket to safety, he was not about to break his promise to you. He strode by your side, keeping your form within his peripheral vision at all times. Something cold and sharp churned in his gut, the foreboding feeling of danger yet to come, and he’d be damned if he let any harm come to you.

When they stepped inside, he smelled it instantly. The stench of ash and brimstone, of death and destruction. You began the conversation with the druid woman, Jaheira, she was called, but he was hard pressed to follow along. He found his eyes wandering to the devil playing lanceboard with the little tiefling girl, the smarmy smirk of a cat cornering a trapped mouse drawing his features into a harsh and predatory smile. 

Without thinking, he gravitated toward the two, a maelstrom of questions swirling through his mind. Was he truly prepared to make a deal with a devil to end Cazador’s reign over his person? He wasn’t even sure vampires had souls to offer, and he found himself quickly running short of options that might interest the devil.

I could bed him.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a shudder of disgust wracked his frame, drawing the devil’s attention.

“I sense you have something to ask me, my toothsome friend,” he purred, smirk widening into something dangerous.

“What do you know of Cazador Szarr, devil?” he questioned, uncertainty coloring his voice.

“The vampire lord in Baldur’s Gate? Plenty, including the meaning of those pretty scars you carry.”

Astarion blanched just as you meandered into his peripheral vision.

“What about scars?”

“I see! You haven’t been half as forthcoming as I would have expected, darling Star,” the devil mocked.

“What do you know of my scars!” Astarion shouted, drawing the eyes of all of the inn’s patrons.

“I will tell you, in due time, my vampiric friend,” he murmured, and with a snap of his fingers, he disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke.

Astarion slowly turned his eyes to meet yours, expecting to find questions written in the lines of your expression. While he did find a sad kind of curiosity in the weight of your gaze, it was overshadowed by your compassion for his plight. You did not say a single word, merely held your arms open for him to curl into. He crossed the gap in two great strides, folding into you with a heavy sigh.

“There is something I must -” he began, but you shushed him gently.

“You need not share anything you do not wish to,” you whispered, stroking through his curls.

The two stood in reverent silence for a moment, swaying with the ambient sounds of life within the inn. He lost himself in the rhythmic sound of your heartbeat, the supple softness of your skin, the familiar scent of the soap used to cleanse your hair.

Then, an idea struck him. If words were to fail him, he could simply show you.

“Darling,” he breathed, “would you accompany me to the riverside, so we may wash up before we take our rest?”

He pulled back to look at you fully, and though a bloom of scarlet flooded your features, you nodded resolutely, urging him to show you the way. ______________________________________________________________

Under the protection of the Selunite spell and by the light of the waxing moon, Astarion shed his armor, both physically and metaphorically. You followed his lead, removing your adamantine plate and tossing it none too gently into the haplessly strewn pile of clothing. Shortly, you were left in nothing but your night shift, the material far too thin for the unnaturally cold atmosphere. 

Astarion stopped to marvel at the way your skin prickled with gooseflesh, toying with the laces of his chemise. You crossed your arms over your chest, alerting him to the fact that you’d caught him staring. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, turning his back to you and pulling the chemise over his head.

He registered the sound of a breathless gasp, a horrified, “Oh, my love,” barely audible over the rush of white noise in his ears. He took several calming breaths, willing away his urge to flee and hide from your no doubt piteous gaze.

“May I?” you asked, sounding closer than before, and he startled momentarily.

He clenched his hands into fists, knuckles going white with the strain as he nodded his assent.

The first caress of your fingertips over the marred flesh was both too much and not enough. You traced the pattern of his scars, the memory of their carving playing on a torturous loop in his mind’s eye. He whimpered at the feeling, the featherlight brush of your fingertips translating as blazing pain as he recalled that fateful night.

“Did you know that he’d carved infernal runes into you?”

“Well, I’d rather guessed as much at the devil’s words, but…no. I never knew what it was. All I knew was that he’d branded me, denoted me as his pet,” he shuddered.

“Would you like to see?” you murmured.

He turned to look at you, hesitation apparent in both his posture and expression.

“I…I’m not sure. I’ve carried these marks for nearly two centuries, never once knowing what they looked like. I don’t know if I want to see the cruelty he so brazenly bestowed upon me.”

“Then you need not know,” you intoned simply.

“How - how would you presume to show me?” he asked, apprehensive.

“I would draw the symbols in the earth at our feet.”

Astarion took a deep, steadying breath.

“Show me.”

You glanced at him one last time for reassurance, then knelt at his back. He could hear the sweeping arcs your finger made through the silt of the riverbank, drawing the likeness of his scars so that he might finally know just what torture he carried with him.

When you were finished, you stood, taking a step back. He turned, cautiously, to face you, eyes slowly roving down your form to the dirt in front of you. He took in a sharp breath, riveted to the loops and swirls that you had only just traced along his own skin.

“You know,” he intoned, “if I forget the abuse that created this pattern, it almost has a kind of poetic beauty to it.”

“Do you recognize it at all?”

“Not a bit, darling. It could be anything; the only way we’ll know is if the devil tells us.”

“I would be careful if I were you, Astarion. Devils have ulterior motives. You can’t trust him,” you muttered gravely.

“I know, my sweet, but what other choice do I have?” he asked sadly.

You stepped forward into his space, planting a solid foot in the scrollwork of his scars etched into the riverbank as you enveloped him in your arms again.

“I trust that you know what you are doing,” you murmured against his chest.

“I hope you are right,” he replied, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head.

He inhaled your scent deeply, taking in the quiet calm of the moment. However, it did not last long, the telltale spasming pain of his hunger wracking through him with a wince.

“You haven’t eaten since the mountain pass,” you stated.

“What on earth gives you that idea?” he asked, barely hiding his grimace of discomfort.

“You cannot lie to me, my Star. We have spent most nights since in each others’ embrace, and you have not left once to hunt.”

“Fine, you are right. I have not eaten since.”

“What’s it been, a tenday? Why haven’t you said anything?” you scolded.

“You are more than my meal ticket, darling. We need you healthy and well more than we need me,” he whispered, self deprecation evident in his voice and words.

“Don’t you ever say such a thing again,” you hissed vehemently, “Do you have any idea how distraught I’d be if I were to lose you?”

At a loss for words, Astarion merely shook his head.

“I would lose myself if I lost you.”

The weight of your words hit him like a blow to the gut, punching a needy sound from him. He pulled you forward, knocking you off balance as his lips mashed to yours in a feverish kiss. He broke it quickly, striding to sit at the base of a tall tree. He widened the spread of his legs to make space for your frame to fit between them, patting his thighs at the question in your gaze. Your heartbeat quickened and the rosy flush of your desire deepend to a scandalized scarlet.

Nevertheless, you obeyed.

Shuffling into place, you pressed your back snugly to the solid planes of his chest and leaned your head against his shoulder, baring your neck to him. He swept the tendrils of your hair back, allowing his fingers to trace your delicate flesh in a cool caress as he did so. You squirmed in his lap, hands fisting in the material of his breeches at the thighs, fanning the embers of desire pooling low in his belly into flames.

He wrapped one arm around your middle and the other across your chest, palm resting on your shoulder as his thumb traced your collarbone, pulling you tighter to him. You gasped as he ran the tip of his nose along the line of your jaw and then down the column of your throat, inhaling deeply at your pulse point. His lips retraced the path up your neck and to your earlobe, pulling on it gently with his teeth.

He did not stop to question the enjoyment he took from making you writhe, instead losing himself to the rhythmic squeezing of your hands at his thighs, the steady drum of your heart and your warmth pressed close to him.

He placed wet, open-mouthed kisses back down the line of your throat, listening intently to the way your pulse picked up speed again and your breath came in short, hard pants. He licked a stripe back up to your pulse point in a final teasing motion, and groaned at the salty tang of your skin.

“Are you ready?” he murmured against your neck, more vibration than sound.

“As I’ll ever be,” you breathed, hands squeezing tight over his thighs.

His fangs sank home into your artery, reopening the mostly healed puncture wounds from his first feeding. He could taste the desire in your blood more thoroughly this time, and though he took small pulls, he knew he would never get enough of it. He imagined it was comparable to the chocolate sweets mortals loved so much, rich and filling and oh-so-addictive.

He had every intention of pacing himself, of savoring the moment, until he heard a moan escape your lips. Involuntarily, he answered with one of his own, and he began to lap greedily at the blood spurting from the wounds in your neck. He could feel the aborted rocking motions of your hips as you pressed impossibly closer to him, and it was all he could do to not rip your throat out. 

He moved his hands to grab your hips, encouraging you to push back into the telltale tightness of his breeches, delighting in the drag of your plush bottom against him. He moaned in unison with you, pushing against you in time with the pulls he took of your blood.

Though he could still taste the lust in your bloodstream, he could also feel the trembling of your body, chilly with the shock of blood loss, and the hands squeezing his thighs became steadily weaker in their grip. He pulled away from your neck, chest heaving with the effort it took and the arousal alight in him.

You whimpered at the loss of him, and he indulged both you and himself further by lapping at the sluggishly leaking marks of his fangs. He felt you remove your hands from his thighs, continuing to lick at you as you pulled the amulet from between your breasts.

“You little minx,” he chuckled, licking up the final droplets spilling down your neck.

You giggled deliriously and breathed the incantation, cupping it in your palms. It worked instantly, restoring the warmth and color to your skin. You hastily dropped the amulet, craning your neck to plant a sloppy kiss on his lips. He moaned in surprise, lips parting as your tongue swiped along their seam, uncaring of the blood still staining them. 

He lifted one hand to cradle the back of your head, the other anchoring itself at your waist as he leaned into you, shifting his weight as he gently laid you down. Your warm palms came up to cup his face, running your tongue across the razor sharp tip of his fang, and he groaned as he sucked the blood from the wound. 

You continued to kiss him messily, crimson tinged saliva smearing your swollen lips, until you were positively gasping for air. He pulled away, giving you space to catch your breath, to find a faintly pink string of your shared enthusiasm still connecting him to you. Like a man possessed, he dove back down to mouth wetly at your jaw and down your throat, licking over his bite mark once more.

“Astarion,” you panted, but he could barely hear you over the rush of your blood in his ears. He continued to kiss his way down, sucking small marks into the supple skin of your bosom.

“Astarion,” you called down, a little louder this time, pulling his face away from your chest and up to catch his eyes.

“I would have you right now, if you’d let me,” he growled, pressing his hips down and reveling in the delicious friction of meeting yours. You bucked back up into him with a surprised gasp, but ultimately shook your head.

Through the haze of lust clouding his vision, he tried to discern your hesitation. This was the first time he could recall actually wanting someone, let alone as badly as he wanted you. He pushed his hips into you again with a wanton sound, but you did not lift yours to meet him this time. He closed his eyes in dejected frustration, whimpering.

“Look at me, please,” you intoned.

His eyes opened slowly, focusing on the warmth in yours. It wasn’t heat, per se, that he felt in your gaze, but that of the pleasant fuzzy sensation that he couldn’t quite put a name to. Your thumb brushed over the apple of his cheek reverently.

“There’s no need to rush,” you smiled coyly.

“We could be mindflayers tomorrow,” he countered.

“We could, or we could not. Would you rather do this now and regret it later?”

He was annoyed to find that you had a point.

“But I want you like I’ve never wanted anything,” he whined, cinching his eyes shut with a pained expression.

“And I you, sweet Star, but not like this. Not in the haze of bloodlust, with all caution thrown to the wind. No, I want you when you are ready.”

He whined again, mouth prepared to open in protest, but stilled at your next words.

“When I am ready,” you whispered, voice small.

His eyes snapped open, and he caught a glimpse of his own fear in yours. All of his desire, his need, halted instantly as he recalled your own plight.

“Of course, darling,” he breathed, placing a chaste kiss upon your lips and touching his forehead to yours in a show of quiet affection. You hummed your approval, content to lay like that with him for a while.

After some time, he insisted that the two of you get up to wash the dried blood and spit from your faces so as not to draw too much attention back at camp.

“Let them stare,” you smirked mischievously. “I know you’d take great pleasure in their jealousy.”

He laughed heartily at your devious smile, feeling light with contentment.

However, he could not silence the alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind that this was not a part of the plan, and he was venturing out into unfamiliar territory at significant risk to himself.

As the two of you walked back to camp in companionable silence, he could not help the panic that stirred in his chest.

What am I doing?

[eilinelsghost]

Writing Patterns: Closing Lines

Tagged by @thelordofgifs to share the final lines of my ten most recent fics. Thanks for the tag, this sounds fun! I've done the first line one before, but have never really looked at the closing ones...let's see what happens

Then he smiled, a brief flash of mirth, turned again, and was gone. (These Echoes We Have Left: 13.7k, T, Finrod/Bëor)

And then, wordlessly, he took her in his arms, and he shivered as she pressed her lips to his, as she reached up to thread her fingers through his hair and draw him down beside her upon Ennor’s autumn amid the grass. As she whispered acquiescence and wove their souls together beneath the sun’s last light. (And Joined Them Thread by Thread: 500, G, Amarië/OC)

"It was never meant to be sailed in this direction,” he added with a glance aft, “but it seems his luck has held. I know of no others.” (Forgotten Stones: 2k, G, a funhouse collection of all ghosti's favorite characters somehow ending up in the same place during the 3rd Age)

Crumbs, after all, were better than starvation. (No Gentler Pain: 13k, T, Finrod/Bëor)

"Thou shalt choose for us, Andreth," he said with exaggerated formality, "shall we be better served by flax or by wheat in these fields?" (Seedlings I: Winter/Spring 2024: 1k, G, collection of ficlets featuring lots of folks)

And then, as though this was the final herald they awaited, the twelve lifted their burdens from the dim grass and without a word passed soundless into the trees. (Darkly the Sundering Flood: 15k, T, Finrod & Beren)

“Take my hand, dear one. I am here.” (An Anchor Incarnate: 1.4k, G, Gwindor & Gelmir)

"I was…in Beleriand I wedded your son.” (In Memory Beside You: 1.3k, T, Finarfin & Bëor)

“Forgive me,” the king whispered, then turned and followed the water back the way they had come. (In These Holy Waters: 11.6k, T, Finrod/Bëor)

“Elenya,” he breathed as his fingers passed through the silken gold, stroking it back from his face, and then Nóm’s arms were about his waist, the king’s face buried against his chest, and Balan held him as the last candle burned out and they remained alone in the hearthlight. “I will not.” (And Still the Light Returns: 10.4k, T, Finrod/Bëor, Bëor & Belen)

Hmm not sure if there's a pattern or not. 6/10 are dialogue, but that's just barely a majority? Let me know if you see any patterns here I'm missing! I always love seeing what people pick out in what I've written that completely slips by me.

Tagging in @welcomingdisaster, @sallysavestheday, @thescrapwitch, @swanmaids, and @searchingforserendipity25, and @that-angry-noldo if you haven't done these yet!

[narmora]

🌟 Shooting Stars - Master List 🌟

Overview of my silly little BG3 Gale x OC fic 💖 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Five days have passed since Nori crashed into the most backwater part of the Sword Coast, head pounding with the hangover of the century and now for some reason dubbed leader of a ragtag gaggle of misfits, all of them at least twice her size. Just when she thinks the situation couldn’t possibly get any weirder, the sky decides to open yet again, throwing one more lost soul into her lap.

After what feels like an eternity of frantic dimension-hopping, Ley escapes the monster in her back by a hair’s breadth - only to find herself plunging through the stratosphere of a world she’s never heard of, inhabited by people whose language she doesn’t speak. Beaten and battered, she hauls herself from the wrecked remains of her ship and stumbles upon a colourful bunch of adventurers. All of them for some reason infected with wriggling, alien parasites. Among them, a man in purple robes, charming and eager to teach her the ways of his world - and host to a beast craving to sink its claws into her. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 1. Chapter: Prelude 2. Chapter: Falling 3. Chapter: Stalker 4. Chapter: Gifts 5. Chapter: Caged 6. Chapter: Words 7. Chapter: Flowers 8. Chapter: Hunger 9. Chapter: Surge (Part I) 10. Chapter: Surge (Part II) 11. Chapter: Farewells 12. Chapter: Weave 13. Chapter: Revivify 14. Chapter: Confessions 15. Chapter: Reading 16. Chapter: Forward 17. Chapter: Hunt 18. Chapter: Respite 19. Chapter: Ignis 20. Chapter: Hearthlight 21. Chapter: Exile 22. Chapter: Revenant 23. Chapter: Solace 24. Chapter: Rosymorn 25. Chapter: Zaith'isk 26. Chapter: Hshar’lak

[violet-stormbringer]

The Princess and The Thorne, Chapter Four: The Winter Ball

Ras loved Autumn, especially near the end. That just meant it was closer to Winter, and that was her favorite season. 

Outside, the Autumn season brought crisp, frost-edge leaves and a bright, fiery treeline to the mountains. Students donned cashmere scarves and woolen coats, and were allowed to wear heavier boots in order to step gracefully through puddles and fallen leaves. Whenever they finished their meeting, the Birchmeier Society was met with the night sky, thick with stars. Each time, Freddie exclaimed over the constellations dotting the sky above.

But the idyll didn’t last long. A storm kept Ras and her fellows awake one night, and everybody was groggy and sluggish on their way to the assembly. One of the ornamental cherry trees had lost a branch, and the Groundskeeper, Karson, was seen hauling the fallen branch away with a gardener. The leaves were mushy and slippery; more than one student slipping on them with a shriek.

Hartmann kept crackling sheets of notes in her blazer. “I’m announcing the Winter Ball this morning,” she whispered to Ras while they walked. “It’s the first time I’ve ever done it. It’s such an honor.”

Despite the honor, Hartmann looked pale. Gonzalez asked her if she was fine, and Hartmann claimed to be perfect well.

After the hymns and the usual announcements, Hartmann stepped up to the stage. “I’m pleased to announce the Winter Ball next month,” she said. “We shall entertain the Archambault Academy students and ensure they have a wonderful evening. Voting forms for the theme will be placed in common rooms, to be collected by the Prefect Commitee. Thank you, Lady Renaldt, for this marvelous opportunity to show just how welcoming Gallatin College can be.”

There was applause and excited cheering. Beside Ras, Gonzalez whooped. Hartmann sedately exited the stage.

Max leaned up against Ras, grinning. “Excited to see your one true love again, hmm?” Her tone was teasing.

Ras rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m excited to see Princess Rosario again. But not for any reasons you might think. She’s a nice lady to talk to, I’d like to be her friend.”

“I dunno…” Max teased. “After that confession of yours, I think you wanna be more than friends with her.”

Ras groaned. “Please don’t bring that up, there’s no way I’m in love with her after just one meeting…”

Max jostled Ras’ shoulder and the pair of them headed to class after the announcement. Later in the day, at a meeting with the Birchmeier Society, Lucien gathered the members around a table in the library.

"We're voting for turn-of-the-century glamour for the Winter Ball," he said. "It'll be appropriate for the Archambault people, and we’ll get to wear something nice and interesting. Plus, the Prefects should enjoy it since it’ll be traditional and appropriate."

Meanwhile, gossip was sparking about which of the other groups were voting for. The Gallatin Swans, the lacrosse team, were wanting traditional Hearthlight revelry with ballgowns and suits; The Prefects were officially impartial, but rumor was going about that Hartmann wanted a fire and ice theme; Max suggested a ghostly theme with the claim that her Starlings were behind her; and some students were gossiping about the Children of Hecate aiming for a fairy tale theme.

The common room ballots were carefully guarded when Ras arrived, and she was told that the voting would be completed with a great ceremony, and that someone was to count them in the middle of the night.

Lucien’s idea for turn of the century glamour was definitely interesting to Ras, though she wished she could’ve suggested a mythological theme. She would’ve loved to theme an outfit around one of Westerlind’s Heroes. She could imagine it now, a suit emblazoned with Erdrick’s Seal, accompanied by a crown accessory like he wore when he fought.

She shook her head, snapping herself out of her imagination, and she cast her vote. Lucien’s idea was interesting enough, no need to go against it.

When Ras returned to her dorm and lights-out was called, she listened to her fellow dormmates discuss the options, all until Mr. Griffith rapped on the door and sharply called for quiet.

“Unless you want a five o’clock start tomorrow.” He threatened, and that got everybody suddenly in the mood to go to sleep.

When the morning came, and it was time for the assembly, the college held its collective breath while Lady Renaldt opened an envelope to read out the theme for this years Winter Ball.

"I'm pleased to announce," she said, leaving an emphatic pause for suspense, "that we shall enjoy a historical theme for our Winter Ball at the end of the month. Preparations shall begin shortly."

As soon as the announcement was made, the obsession with themes translated into who would be escorting who to the ball. Notes were passed, friends were consulted, and whispers followed the more popular students down the corridors. Naturally, everybody was also interested in knowing who Ras would escort to the ball, whispering when they thought she couldn’t hear about who she’d invite; or who she wouldn’t invite.

“So.” Max said, leaning up against Ras after Philosophy one day. “You takin’ anybody to the ball? Oooor,” A pause, and a sharkish grin, “are you planning to go alone so you have the best chance of woo’ing your beloved Princess Rosario?”

Ras groaned, rolling her eyes as she did so. “Max, don’t you have things to do? People to invite?”

Max looked offended, putting a hand to her chest in a mocking gesture. “Ras! I’m hurt! I’m just looking out for my best friend!”

“By being a nuisance?”

“Would you have me any other way?”

Ras deflated, sighing in defeat. “...No.”

“Exactly!”

Eventually, Max relented in her teasing, and went on her way to invite her chosen partner to the ball, and she left Ras alone. Ras, of course, was going to go alone. 

‘ Not because I want to spend time with Rosario, ’ she tried to justify it to herself. ‘ But because it’d give me a chance to stand out. I’d be able to talk to some of the others from Archambault, too, it wouldn’t just be Rosario. ’

With that, Ras made her choice, and excitement rose through the college. It was rumored that even Mr. Griffith said he didn’t find the idea as distasteful as usual; and everyone was talking about who was going to wear what to the ball.

The trip to Archambault was uniformed, but this was a more flamboyant affair. Bustles and corsets, along with frock coats and smoking jackets were the dress code for the occasion; guests were to wear masks, though how elaborate was usually left up to them.

Ras had decent evening wear in her wardrobe, but most of her more expensive clothing was sold after the incident involving her Mother, and she’d have to reach out to her Mother for extra money if she wanted something magnificent.

And unfortunately, she did. So she wrote a letter to home.

‘Dear Mother, As you are no doubt aware through our repeated correspondence over the year, the Winter Ball is approaching soon. In my various attempts to restore some semblance of cleanliness to our Family Name, I have made a significant amount of progress by socializing with the right people and keeping my grades as high as can be. In addition, I’m sure you will agree with me when I suggest that a proper outfit for this wonderful occasion would do much to improve our standing in the eye of the public. As such, I would request a tidy sum of money so that I may commission myself a suitable outfit for the Winter Ball. Your beloved daughter, Ras Thorne.’

Ras sent the letter out with the morning post, and spent the rest of her day in her classes, hoping against hope that her Mother would be able to spare a pittance for something Ras could wear.

When she awoke the next morning, Ras was approached by Mr. Griffith in the hall on her way to Philosophy. He passed a letter to her and bid her a good morning. The letter was marked with the Thorne Family seal, as well as a priority stamp. Her mother spared no expense in replying, at least.

‘Beloved Daughter, It was a pleasure and a relief to hear you were doing well. I could not be prouder of the work you’ve put in to restore our Family Name. In regards to your request, all you need do is send the tailoring bill to the address listed, and I shall see it paid in full. Regards, Matilda Thorne.’

Ras huffed as she folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket. At least her mother’s writing was as awkward as her own, and she’d been given leave to get herself an outfit for the ball.

It’d be hard to arrange a tailoring visit, but Ras managed to write to a tailor in Fenburg and put in an order. Many of her peers had the same idea, it seemed, for in the days leading up to the ball, more and more parcels arrived by courier, and the excitement was building.

Ras’ own parcel arrived with three days to spare, and she couldn’t have been happier with how it looked. 

Ras had ordered a crimson-colored brocade smoking jacket with white culottes and a dark red mask with a feather attached to it. The left sleeve was missing, and instead attached to the left side of the jacket was a capelet matching in color to the jacket, upon which the Thorne Family sigil was emblazoned.

Max whistled when she saw the outfit. “Well, that’s going to look very smart indeed. Princess Rosario won’t know what hit her.”

By the time it was the week of the ball, most of the teachers had given up on their attempts to teach anything of substance, and instead allowed their students to read and review textbooks and previous tests. Until finally, the night of the ball was upon them.

During the day, the first snow of the year arrived, sending the younger students into paroxysms of excitement. At night, however, an odd, hushed feeling had descended upon the dormitory whilst everyone prepared; the noise and bustle had faded, replaced instead with a tense focus. Eventually, everybody was ready.

Dressed in a severe black suit and tails, Mr. Griffith led Clemency Dorm out. Delacroix and Max walked arm in arm, both wearing black; Max wore a close-fitting suit that was just on the edge of too scandalous, and Delacroix’s bustled gown was beated with jet in bewildering geometric patterns, making her glimmer as she moved. Hartmann fell into step beside Ras as they were led from the dorms in a procession towards the banquet hall.

A vast Hearthlight fir tree nearly reached the ceiling, covered with simple white candles. Wreaths bursting with berries were draped along the windows, and the scent of spiced fruit filled the air. The light from the chandeliers’ was warm and inviting.

Miss Dalca was wearing a long lilac gown with a daring asymmetrical neckline that made it look as if she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine; Mr. Blanchard wore a respectable suit and tails that looked similar to Mr. Griffith’s. Lady Renaldt presided over the hall from the teachers’ dais, wearing a sapphire blue gown. 

Just as Ras was about to settle in with her fellows, the doors were thrown open and the Archambault students arrived, led by Lord Haberlin, who strode to the dais and bowed as though to a monarch.

“We are delighted to be here at Gallatin for this lovely little party,” he said, voice ringing across the hall.

“And we are delighted to return your hospitality for the wonderful dinner earlier in the term, Lord Haberlin,” Lady Renaldt replied, a cool smile on her lips.

With that, the duty of greetings was done, and it was time to mingle.

Princess Rosario wore a burnt umber gown and her hands were dripping with rings; a golden sheen sparkled in her dark, tightly-curled hair. Auguste Renaldt smiled graciously as she spoke to Mr. Griffith. She wore a perfectly tailored gown in a pale grayish blue that contrasted dramatically with her own dark skin.

The musicians struck up a stately waltz, and students moved to take their places on the dance floor. Ras caught Lady Renaldt’s eye, and with a formidable look from the Headmistress, Ras knew right away that the dance was not optional. Disappointing, but she figured as much.

Which only left the question, of course, who was she to dance with?

Not that it was a question, really. She took a deep breath, adjusted her tie and ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it and allowing many a few strands to fall out of place. 

With a confident stride, she approached Princess Rosario, who was surrounded by an entourage of Archambault hangers-on. She was chatting away happily with said entourage, even as Ras approached. At her side, a heavyset, stony-faced woman stood, glowering at a hopeful Archambault student who’d been attempting to ask Rosario to dance.

“Princess Rosario will not be partaking in the dance,” she said in a low, flat tone that suggested the dance was a moral failing. “It’s not appropriate.” 

Rosario sighed, taking a sip from her glass. “Ibarra, why do you never let me have any fun?”

“Because, your Highness,” she said in a tone that made it obvious this was an argument they’ve had before. “It is my duty to keep you safe.”

As they spoke, Ras began to rack her brains, trying to place something. Her frown must have caught their attention, because Ibarra cleared her throat.

“You there.” She spoke, her tone level. “Say your piece.”

That’s when Ras had it. She snapped her fingers, and gave a sly grin to Ibarra. “Correct me if I’m wrong, m’lady, but your accent. That places you from the north coast, does it not?”

A flash of surprise in Ibarra’s eyes, but she quickly collected herself and offered a nod, a small smile gracing her lips. “Indeed.”

“I’ve only ever had delicacies from that area, though I’d very much like to visit. Tell me, is the wine still as excellent as I recall?” Her tone was nostalgic and wistful.

“It is,” Ibarra nodded again. “In fact, my brother owns a vineyard in that region. He sends the Princess and I bottles of his latest to sample, and it is a treat every time.”

“Wonderful!” Ras smiled. “If I may have the name of your brothers vineyard, that I may procure some wine in the future?”

Despite herself, Ibarra’s smile returned, a bit wider, though still small. “Certainly.” With that, she pulled out a card, passing it to Ras who tucked it into her pocket with grace.

“Alas, while I would love to remain and discuss the pleasantries of wine, I fear I can feel Lady Renaldt’s gaze turning my back to stone. May I borrow the Princess Rosario for a dance?”

Ibarra’s expression cooled, and she looked Ras over before inclining her head, another smile gracing her lips. “You may. Enjoy yourselves.”

Rosario passed Ibarra her glass as Ras offered a hand to her, and while the two moved away, Rosario whispered to her.

“I’ve never seen anybody get by Ibarra so smoothly. Well done.”

“Nothing to it,” Ras admitted. “I was genuinely excited to meet someone from the North, and Ibarra seems a sweetheart. Just gotta remind myself she ain’t as scary as she looks.”

Rosario giggled at that. “Well, still, it’s lovely to see you again.”

Everyone's eyes were upon Ras and Rosario as the pair passed on their way to the dance floor. Rosario was a prestigious dance partner, of course; Lady Renaldt looked faintly dismayed, a thought that gave Ras a smug sense of satisfaction. Likely, Lady Renaldt had designs on Rosario for her daughter, Auguste. Unlike her, however, Ras’ motives were far less complex.

She was in love with Rosario. No she wasn’t. She wanted to be friends.

‘Face it,’ she thought to herself, the inner monologue dangerously close to becoming outer monologue. ‘You’re into her. Just roll with it.’

She hated arguing with herself, she was always both in the right and in the wrong. This time, she was in the right, and there was a part of her that was smug about it.

Rosario's dark eyes sparkled when she met Ras’ gaze, watching her with frank curiosity. 

The pair made their way through the crowd of students, dodging elbows and occasionally pushing people out of their way.

They took their places, with Ras facing Rosario, head held high. The music struck up, and the pair began their dance. 

As they danced, Ras moved closer to Rosario, tilting her head to show off her neckline and allow the Princess glimpses of her skin; shifting so that the other got a rather good look at Ras’ pale visage. Rosario’s eyes widened in surprise, and there was a faint blush on her face; she was surprised, but altogether flattered at Ras’ movements.

As the pair circled past the musicians, Rosario spoke. “Auguste told me about your family situation. I have to wonder, has it been difficult for you?”

Ras felt a tinge of irritation, and had to resist the urge to scowl. She really wished Auguste would mind her own damned business. She cleared her throat, and offered a smile.

“It has certainly been…interesting, being under so much scrutiny as a result of my Mother’s actions.” Ras admitted, and she kept her eyes focused on Rosario. “Alas, there isn’t much I can do about it, and I do rather wish people would keep to themselves on this subject.”

Rosario nodded. “I meant no offense, of course. My apologies.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Ras assured her, still smiling. “Let us just enjoy ourselves, yes?”

Rosario smiled in return, and more pleasant conversation was brought up as the pair danced the night away. Rosario’s beringed hand was warm on Ras’ shoulder, and when the pair parted, she looked back to Ras with a wistful expression.

“The dance was wonderful, Master Thorne. Thank you.”

Ras bowed her head gracefully, still smiling. “Worry not, the night is not over yet. We may yet share another dance before we must away.”

Before Rosario had chance to respond, Lady Renaldt called for silence before speaking.

"A marvelous Winter Ball dance," Lady Renaldt said, "and a wonderful entry in our winter tradition. Lord Haberlin and our illustrious teaching staff have been observing the progress of our Crème de la Crème competition, and I am pleased to note that Gallatin College is in the lead. May the finest college win!"

After a small round of applause, she went on to announce the next stage of the evening: a formal tour of the grounds, showing off the beauty of the Gallatin surroundings. 

“The snow,” she said, “is perfect for tonight.”

Alongside Rosario, Ras was led in a procession to retrieve coats and scarves, ready to face the outdoor cold.

The groundskeeper, Karson, was in the cloakroom, briskly handing out warm clothes. She wore a simple black suit, her dark hair tied back. 

Once Rosario had retrieved her coat and she joined the procession ahead, a teacher from Archambault pushed ahead of Ras. She was a middle-aged woman in a charcoal-colored suit, and she fixed Karson a disdainful glare.

“Karson, yes? The cashmere scarf. No, the green one.”

Karson ducked her head. “This one, Lady Serafin?” she asked, holding it out.

Lady Serafin let out a huff. “No. That’s obviously turquoise. What sort of staff is Lady Renaldt employing these days? Hurry it up, else I’ll tell her about your poor service.”

Karson’s face turned wan, and she murmured an apology as she passed the correct scarf.

Ras, however, was seething, and she couldn’t let this slide. She cleared her throat and spoke.

“Personally, I think Lady Renaldt would be more sorry to have invited a poor guest. What sort of woman takes her anger out on someone as kindly as Karson? You should be kissing the boots she polishes, not disparaging her for a mistake involving the color of your ridiculously gaudy scarf.”

Lady Serafin whirled around, eyes widened and mouth agape at Ras’ scathing commentary. She touched her hair and gathered the scarf to her chest. “Y-yes, well…” She spluttered, as if searching for a defense. Under Ras' scathing glare, she folded, and with a huff, she strode out, leaving Karson and Ras in peace.

Karson took a long and shaky breath. “I hate these special events, you know…” She spoke, her voice barely a murmur, yet filled with rage all the same. “A-At least normally it’s just the Gallatin lot, and they’re fairly kind. The Archambault ones are so much worse, though…Students and staff alike.”

“Honestly, I agree. Why do they have to be so…obnoxious?”

Karson snorted. “That’s…It’s nice to hear someone else say it. Thank you, Ras.”

A pause, then Karson’s lip began to tremble, then her face crumpled. She covered her face with her hands and burst into silent sobbing.

Ras took a deep breath, and from her pocket she pulled a handkerchief. Karson looked startled, but she took the handkerchief gratefully and wiped at her eyes.

“I’m sorry…” she muttered.

Ras only shook her head and wrapped her arm around Karson in a hug. “‘Swhat friends are for, y’know?”

Karson looked surprised, but she returned the hug. Her shoulders were trembling, as if she were about to burst into tears again. Then, she withdrew, a soft smile on her face.

“I don’t wanna mess up your outfit,” she said, voice quiet. With a glance at the students gathering in the quad, she spoke again, “You ought to go, Master Thorne. Thank you.”

Ras inclined her head at Karson, before gathering her coat and heading into the snow. Rosario caught her eye, and waved Ras over to her. Her breath steamed in the air as, in a brightly-colored procession, the students from both schools walked to the barouche carriages for a tour around the lake. The driver tipped their hat to Ras and Rosario, and the pair stepped aboard.

Rosario was shivering despite her heavy fur coat, and fumbled with the fastening as she stepped aboard. Just after Ras joined her, Ibarra entered as well, sitting down opposite of Rosario, a looking presence in the carriage with the pair. As the carriage began to move, Rosario groaned.

“You don’t have to come everywhere with me, Ibarra. It’s just a formal tour. What would happen here?”

“It’s my job, your Highness,” Ibarra said in a flat-tone that left no room for argument.

Rosario sighed, bundling up in her layers of clothing. “Sorry about this,” she whispered. “She’s being ridiculous, and she knows it.”

Ras chuckled. “Ah, it’s not so bad. I’m sure that once Ibarra warms up ‘ta me, she’ll allow us all sortsa freedoms.”

Rosario Rosario sighed, her breath a cloud in the cold moonlight. “It’s better than at home, at least,” she said, “but you’re right–I should be allowed to see more of the world while I can…”

“Under appropriate circumstances,” Ibarra muttered ominously.

“Ibarra! Stop eavesdropping!” Rosario snapped, then more quietly, she leaned against Ras and spoke. “Maybe we can arrange something at the next joint event…I’d love to make up for her nonsense.”

As the barouche wound around the lake, Rosario talked about her plans at the palace for Hearthlight; Zaledoan royal tradition involved the Crown Princess singing in front of hundreds of spectators. Rosario, surprisingly enough, was not pleased with this, and was not looking forward to it.

Meanwhile, the frozen lake sparkled in the moonlight; the snow giving everything an unreal, bluish cast. Beyond the college loomed the mountains, pale and huge in the distance, and Ras once again fantasized about scaling those mountains and declaring herself to the world below.

She was interrupted as the barouche paused, and a firework shot into the sky at the far edge of the lake, exploding into sparks. Rosario’s face shines in the golden light, gasps and applause ring out from the other carriages as more and more fireworks erupted.

“You know, I was wondering…” Ras whispered, leaning against Rosario. “...if you had any ideas on how you’d make it up to me, as you promised. We don’t have to wait…”

Rosario looked over to Ibarra, then back to Ras, and she nodded before she drew Ras closer to her, bringing her lips to Ras’ and smashing against them in a heated, passionate kiss. Rosario’s chattering teeth made it a little difficult to be too swept up in the moment, but Rosario was warm and enthusiastic; her hand resting lightly against Ras’ cheek before running her gloved fingertip round to the nape of her neck and sending tingles down Ras’ back.

When they parted, Ras looked over to see Ibarra looking pointedly at the treeline, a faint flush on her cheeks, entirely embarrassed at having watched the duo kiss. Rosario stifled a giggle behind her glove and rest her head on Ras’ shoulder as they watched the rest of the fireworks.

As the night came to a close, and the pair said their farewells, Ras was suddenly overcome with fatigue, and she was relieved when it was time to retire back to the dorms. The moment her head hit the pillow, she was unconscious.

The aftermath of the ball felt anticlimactic: everyone was exhausted the next day and none of them could muster any enthusiasm for the fact that Gallatin was in favor for the Crème de la Crème contest after the students' conduct for the evening. Ras’ dormmates’ demeanors ranged from grouchy restlessness from Max to constant yawning from Gonzalez. Some people buoyed up by the end of the term, while others were moody at the prospect of going home for the holidays. Suitcases were packed and hauled downstairs by porters; people constantly chattering about their holiday plans.

One morning when Ras was fetching her bag from the dormitory, she caught Hartmann meticulously folding her spare uniform into her suitcase. Her suitcase was only partially full, without many personal belongings inside: just clothes and her Athletics kit.

“Home soon,” she said, her tone neutral and guarded. “Are you looking forward to it?”

Ras groaned. “No. I really don’t want to go home and see my Mother. You know my situation, yeah? It’s bloody awful.”

"Mmm," Hartmann said, her tone bright and brittle. “That can be difficult indeed…”

Soon enough, the final day of the term arrived. Ras and the rest of the Gallatin students were herded by carriage, and then by train, to Fenburg. Just as when Ras had made this journey the other way, the platform was chaos: full of noise and bustle from hugs, tears, excited whoops, and reassurances about staying in touch.

Crowds upon crowds of Gallatin students poured from the train onto the platform, met by guardians and relatives. While Ras waited to disembark, she spotted a tired-looking Karson hauling a shabby suitcase from the guards’ carriage; she was on her way home too it seemed. Ras’ mother was, of course, nowhere to be found because the woman couldn’t bear to be on time for once. Fortunately, this meant that Ras had a moment to say goodbye to a friend or two before she eventually showed up.

Ras’ first choice, of course, was Max, who pushed off the rail she was leaning against to give Ras a hug, despite the large backpack she was hauling.

“See you again, Thorne,” she grinned as she reached up and ruffled Ras’ hair, “when we’re back in prison.”

Ras snickered. “Don’t forget the snacks this time, Meyer, sitting in my cell listening to you and Hartmann bicker like a married couple is worth at least a couple fistfuls of popcorn.”

Max’s only response was to stick her tongue out at Ras as she was called over by her own parents, waving a farewell to Ras as she walked.

Next, Ras picked out Freddie, who threw her arms around Ras in a big hug. “Have a good holiday, yeah?” She grinned.

“I’m more excited for what sorta things we’ll get up to when we get back.” Ras returned the grin. “I’m sure the Society has all kindsa secrets an’ stuff they’ll be willing to show us when we’ve proven keen.”

Freddie’s eyes widened, as if she hadn’t thought of that. “Goodness, I hope so. It all sounds so exciting!” A pause, as Freddie’s parents called for her. “Sorry, I have to go! See you back at Gallatin!”

Ras waved Freddie off, and then turned just in time to see her mother standing on the platform, watching her intently.

“Hello, Ras.” Matilda Thorne, Ras’ mother, stood before her. Her tone was as cold and detached as ever.

“Hello, Mama.” Ras struggled to meet the same level of coldness that was given to her, and her voice cracked almost imperceptively.

Unfortunately for her, that was still enough to displease Matilda, who let out a ‘tsk’. “Come.” She commanded, whirling around. “Our taxi awaits.”

Ras followed after, and kept her head low, doing her best to ignore the stares of those who recognized her mother.

This Hearthlight was going to be something, for sure.

[lightthewaybackhome]

Excerpt: A warm kitchen can’t be matched when it comes to mentally, emotionally, and physically tending to our families and friends.

A short and cozy article for our newer Homemakers about our kitchens and what a friend she can be to you. Ladies, let's share our favorite things about our kitchens. Anything from what is produced to decorations.

[fernthewhimsical]

Mood board for the Goddess Holle or Holda. She is a deity of hearth and home, of spinning, magic, snow, and winter. She is also the leader of the Wild Hunt and the Queen of witches and alves.

Sources: [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X]

[jiubilant]

“You’re sure,” says Shiv’s father after they’ve made so, so many fishcakes, “you want to do this?”

Shiv, her hands full of cod-and-leek mince, stares at him. “Da.”

Her father spreads his hands—which are, like hers, sticky with fish and flour. “We can still eat them.”

In the frying-pan on the fire, the last of the fishcakes sizzle in agreement. When summoning one’s ancestors on a day of ceremony, it’s Velothi custom to make enough food, be it fiskekaker or a more traditional dish, for both the living and the dead. According to Da, anyway. Shiv thinks, surveying the crispy golden patties heaped on every platter and trencher they own, that they’ve made enough food for the living, the dead, and the entire street.

“Sure as harbors,” she says, and drops the cake she’s shaped into the pan. It hits the ciciliani oil—haggled in Dockside’s only Hlaalu market for a price that had made Da smug—with a fragrant, leeky hiss. “Why?”

“When you were younger,” says Da, toweling off his hands, “you didn’t—”

“—I was pit-a-pat of vexatious spirits,” says Shiv breezily, “and suchlike. Most mortally frighted of the immortal. And now I en’t.” She peers into the pan, then nods down at it. “Fini.”

Da, sensing another pun, gives her a suspicious look. Then he brightens.

“Ah,” he says. “Finny.”

He fishes the cakes out with the serving-fork. Shiv dunks her hands into the washbasin. It’s a parry, her spinnery about spirits and such, and they both know it—which is why she’s grateful that, while Da plates and she dries her paws, the space that is hearthroom and home office to the only lettered coves on Beefskid Street is warm and comfortable and quiet.

“If you’re sure,” says Da at length, quietly. “As harbors. Come here.”

He’s sitting by the hearth. Shiv sits across from him, sweeping the hearthstones with the great broombrush of her tail. She watches Da cap the bottle of oil with his thumb, turn it upside-down, then swipe his thumb—shining, now, with ciciliani—through the ashes in the hearth.

Then she gives the nearest platter a wistful look. “Kitchen-physic first?”

“After.” Da studies her as if contemplating how to do her makeup. “Look at me.”

Shiv looks at him. It becomes more difficult, up close, to look at him. When she was a scrib, the lines in his face had been fainter, easier to mistake for the tracks of a nearby smile. Now the hearthlight, honest as a scolding aunt, casts him in disturbing relief: an old man as full of grief as the cup that, just last week, some greenhand drunk on shore leave had thrown in his face.

(He’d been Velothi, that boy. He’d seen Da’s Company chain.)

She must have let her thoughts onto her face, some, because Da smiles at her in the usual way: calm and purposeful, as though he parcels out his waning stock of smiles by need. He likely does. He’d smiled at the greenhand, too, ghastly in his courtesy, ale dripping in foamy gobs down his chin.

“Chin up,” he says.

It’s a bene excuse to look at the rafters. Shiv shuts her eyes when he cups her face and touches his thumb to her brow, mostly so he won’t get grit in them, but also because the gentle pride in his hands makes her whole face hurt. A clump of ash crumbles down her nose. She wrinkles it—

“Here is my child,” says her father in the language of Veloth, with which fire converses with air. The words are simple. His voice is simple too, hoarse and glad and warm, pronouncing the prayer without pomp. “I commend her to you. I ask that you guard and guide her with love, with patience, with prudence, and that you bless her with the wisdom that you learned in life. Say hello.”

This last, Shiv realizes after a moment, is meant for her. She cracks open one skeptical eye. “To the glim?”

Da’s accustomed to her phraseology. He smiles again—softer, this time, and in the wry way that always makes her think of Auntie. “It’s polite.”

Shiv glances sidelong at the fire. For several years she’s slept by the hearth, cooked oatcakes on the stones and porridge in the pot, warmed her hands above the friendly heat of the glimfenders. It’s almost easy, she thinks, to see the fire as Da sees it: alive, listening, a door through which the dead look out.

“Hullo,” she says to the hearth. She flicks back her ears, uneasy and intrigued, then clears her throat. “Made you fishcakes.”

The fire crackles. A twig crumbles in the grate with a sighing hiss.

* * *

“D’you feel different?” asks Rafe the next morning. His mouth is full. He’s walking with Shiv out of Birgit’s, where they’d stopped for breakfast before work: hot porridge, skyr sprinkled with bilberries, bread topped with generous slabs of brunost. “Like someone’s watching you?”

Rafe’s discovered girls and gotten stupider. For the past few years, ever since he made journeyman and started earning a wastrel-wage as Da’s scribbler, he’s been loitering in taverns and letting his hair grow long; whenever he tosses a raffish, Rafe-ish smile at Vivienne Onis or some other maid, his curls flop with cherubic charm into his face. Viv thinks he’s funny, like an organ-grinder’s little monkey. Shiv thinks he should shave.

“En’t like that,” she says with a scornful flick of her tail, pulling him by the sleeve to let a carter pass. “S’like how you pray to Notorgo. Doesn’t feel like he’s got toplights on you, does it?” She looks at him sidelong as the cart rattles by. “Crumb on your gob.”

Rafe prods the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

“Other side.”

“Thanks,” says Rafe, and—with an older brother’s presumption—ruffles her ears before she can duck. Then he’s sauntering across the street, hands in his pockets, smiling and nodding at the fishwives.

Shiv, scowling, watches him go.

“Like someone’s watching me,” she mutters. “‘Cause I’m fascinating, me.”

Then, for no reason in particular, she looks over her shoulder. The nape of her neck prickles. The plume of smoke dancing from Birgit’s chimney, bending on the wind, twists for a moment like a smiling mouth.

[abbydjonesoffaerie]

I made this for something that might be something but it too new for me to be really sure it's something, but it's something enough that I kinda want to share, but I'm also afraid to share because it's so new.

[hpowellsmith]

Have you ever said what Asher wrote then erased in his hearthlight letter? It's killing me not to know

Hmmmm, I think that's something that I'd like to leave up for interpretation, details-wise! It only comes up if you're romancing Asher at that point, though, so it's related to that - they feel shy, and also a bit uncertain about leaving an affectionate paper trail in case someone saw it.