#It's a simple gesture (and an angle that requires some skill) and yet

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 7

Charles Vane x OFC

In which some things are left unspoken that perhaps should be said, and others are uttered that definitely should not have been.

Prompt:  “Looking for mermaids?” Content: introspection, sex-negative attitudes, crass objectification, angst, angst, angst. Catch up here.

Notes: I’m embarrassed to admit how long it’s been since I posted the last part, so I’m not even going to look up the date. Especially since this chapter resumes right where the last one left off! I hope you can remember what was going on with all that “Mrs. Vane” nonsense, because none of the other characters are letting Hope (or Charles) forget it... Also, fair warning, this ends on an cliffhanger, but I do have most of the rest already written and hopefully will be able to put it out in a more timely manner. Words: 2300

It's so much worse than she had thought. Bad enough that Captain Vane might now have the impression that she feels some romantic inclination towards him, but to learn that it’s spread to the entire crew, too? Jack’s words have set her to brooding all the more intently. Hope barely even noticed him depart.

Because . . . she doesn’t feel that way about Charles Vane. Does she? What face could she be making, that Jack thinks he sees longing in her eyes when she contemplates their captain? A ridiculous notion.

And yet. Hope has never believed in lying to herself. A capable woman faces all of the facts head-on. To do otherwise would leave a lady trapped. Outmaneuvered. Society thrives on the soul-numbing lies it requires women to tell themselves. And Hope’s most fervent promise to herself was to leave that sort of thing behind.

No self-deception, then. When she thinks of Charles Vane, her chest warms. His presence on deck sets her heart beating faster, and the effect is not solely due to his authority, is it. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does she listens eagerly, interested in every rare glimpse into his mind.

Bother. Jack might be onto something. 

Those stray thoughts she suffered through in the wee hours last night may not only have been sparked by Vane’s unusual proximity. The warmth in her body spreads lower.

When she turned to piracy, leaving Society, she abandoned its restrictions. This included a short period in which she satisfied certain curiosities. So her maidenhead is gone. Its passing was . . . anticlimactic. She hasn’t thought much about sex since then. Pities the women required to perform that marital duty on a nightly basis, if she’s being honest. And she’s quite motivated to keep to her course now, a life of independence that will hopefully culminate in the acquisition of a small fortune sufficient to set up her own comfortable retirement by the time age starts to stiffen her joints.

She’s surprised, then, to find the notion hidden in the depths of her mind that with Vane, such intimacy could be different. The way his hand had molded itself around her thigh last night, the feel of his arms around her and his breath against her neck when he’d smelled her perfume. Her body had responded so much more vigorously than expected.

But it was probably just the drink. And reactions such as those are always fleeting, aren’t they. Such feelings are not an acceptable reason to risk her respectful place on this crew by tumbling into bed with its captain.

Hope turns away from the rail, puts her back to the sea and gathers her thoughts into a forceful summary of conclusions. Yes, it seems she is harboring a certain affection for Charles Vane. But it’s manageable. Not something she is going to allow to interrupt her plans. If she can just figure out how to wipe the dreamy schoolgirl look off her face that certain perceptive members of the crew have apparently noticed, she should be fine. Because it’s not like her feelings are returned. He would have made a move by now. She remembers her early suspicions, that Vane might be attracted to her, but things had settled, quite comfortably, between them since then. She’s almost embarrassed to have been prideful enough to have thought it.

That issue being settled, she marches herself back up to the helm to adjust their course and sets her thoughts to things that are truly important.

~*~

Fellows pulls through; the cache is there, and no soldiers in sight. They make quick work of hauling it all onto the Ranger. The sun is slanting low by the time they’re done; they’ve had to swing around the long way to avoid being spotted by anyone that could later connect their ship to the theft.

Days like these remind Vane why he’s so grateful to have such a skilled navigator, who can locate their position so precisely that they can leave the sight of land and come back in at such an exact, advantageous angle. Swoop in on the cache from nowhere, and swoop right back out again. They’re like ghosts today.

Rich ghosts. He’d never hear the end of it if he ever drove her away with his clumsy, misguided affections.

Vane knows he will have to be very careful tonight. Their ship could not be seen returning from the location of the cache, and there was not enough time to return Mr. Fellows home from a more roundabout angle before sundown. Which meant their guide was spending the night on the ship, bunking with the crew, and Hope . . . Hope would of course be sleeping in the captain’s quarters with her “husband.”

Vane exhales, fingers gripping the railing as if the wood might impart some of its steadfastness. To have had her unexpectedly in his arms was one thing. A pure, heavenly moment that had caught him by surprise. It was quite another to know that she was to spend the night with him again. How could he possibly stay calm, and feel her body just beside his, in his own narrow bed?

It would be a simple thing to sneak a hammock into his quarters, of course. He feels his face burn a bit as he becomes aware that he’d like to pretend that particular solution had just never occurred to him.

Hope’s smart. She will definitely think of it herself, anyway.

~*~

Hope finds herself down by the guns. It’s not her turn to help with the cleaning and re-setting, but she doesn’t want to be anywhere near Fellows, or Vane, or the boisterous crew in the mess. Besides, she likes being seen doing extra work; helps combat many of the prejudices about a lady on board. She settles in next to Stevens, one of the handful of her old Starling crew that had been accepted with her into the Ranger’s fold.

“Mrs. Vane,” he says by way of greeting just as she starts the scrubbing. He doesn’t say it like the other crewmen had. There’s scorn in his voice, and perhaps a hint of a question.

Hope scowls. “Not you, too.”

Stevens nods, as if she’s passed his test. They work in companionable silence for a while, until the only other man on this deck stretches, stows his tools, and exits via the ladder. Probably sneaking off now that Hope has effectively taken his spot. Only then does Stevens speak. “Been hopin’ you’d come talk to me.”

Hope looks up, without pausing her work.

“Seem to be finding your place here.”

“Everyone has use for a good navigator.”

“More than that. Look like you’re fitting in.”

“Do I?”

“Or is this just what you do. Make people like you. Find your way to the top, the inner circle, even if you’re just making the best of it.”

There’s a bitterness to the way he’s speaking, but Hope doesn’t feel like it’s directed at her, necessarily. Stevens has always had friendly feelings for her, that’s why he followed her to this crew. She decides to say very little, invite him to say a little more. “Can you blame me?”

“Guess not. You’ve always had a way with people.” He glances at the hatch, though there’s no one there. “Big take today,” he comments.

Hope grunts in agreement.

“Biggest we’ve had, since leaving Nassau.” He puts a little more oil on his rag. “Big enough to make up for the Starling.”

Hope’s hands stop moving. She forces them to continue. “I . . . hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Stevens sniffs, a sudden rush of nose-clearing air. “We have. Me and some of the boys.”

He has to mean the rest of the Starling crew. There’s four more of them, those that Vane hadn’t seen a need to punish for her brother-in-law’s stunt, fine seamen who hadn’t seemed like a mutiny risk to Jack when he recruited them out of the splinters of that disbanded crew. Hope had even vouched for them.

Apparently Jack can’t be right about everything.

“With your help, Hope, it’d be easy.”

~*~

Vane’s quiet contemplation is interrupted by Jack’s voice. “Looking for mermaids?” he asks, joining his captain on the deserted stretch of deck and staring down into the dark waters alongside him. The ship is safely hidden in a cove, and most of the crew are down in the mess for their nightly meal.

Vane replies with a rather rude gesture.

“No, there’s only one maid you’re interested in.”

Vane looks up sharply.

“Has a nice ring to it, ‘Mrs. Vane.’ I suppose that’s why the crew can’t seem to stop saying it.”

He grunts. “Torturing her.”

“Maybe just a little.”

Jack lapses into silence, but Vane is certain that won’t last for long. Maybe he should walk away now, avoid the question that is sure to be coming next. However . . . Vane can’t stop asking it of himself, either. So he may as well just let Jack say it.

“I’m out of more subtle advice,” Jack says. “And you never were one for subtlety, anyway. So here’s this: if you want her, just take her already.”

Not exactly what Vane thought he’d hear. He shifts, looks more squarely at Jack, and plays dumb with his reply. “I have.”

“Not onto your crew. It’s obvious how much you want her in your bed.” He’s eying Vane closely.

Is this what Jack thinks of him? He’d always pegged Jack as a bit of a romantic, seeing how well he treats Anne. He’d been bracing himself for a conversation about deep feelings. Not this crassness. “And as a member of my crew,” Vane growls in reply, “she’s got full rights here. I can’t have her by force.”

“Who says you need to force her?”

This is not what Vane wanted to hear, either. The last thing he needs is to build up a false hope. “Lay off, Jack. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turns squarely back toward the water.

“You really can’t tell.”

“I’ve tried flirting with her, Jack. When we first got her. She rejected me quite squarely.”

“Sometimes I wonder what it is you consider to be ‘flirting,” Charles, when most of your experience is with whores who already know how your coin spends.” Or girls looking to yoke his power, but at least Jack was kind enough not to mention that part. “Is it possible your approach lacks a certain . . . art?”

“Don’t say you’re offering to teach me,” he growls.

Jack’s hand flutters in the air. “You’re a lost cause anyway.”

“I’ve already resolved to never try again.”

“But why?” Jack leans over the rail, seeking his eyes. “She’s as smitten as you are; I don’t see how you can’t see it.” He sighs. “You’re too much alike, too proud and too timid, both at once, to see what’s right in front of you.”

“I know what’s in front of me,” Vane retorts, choosing to ignore the accusation of cowardice. Because he likes Jack. He’s let him get away with worse without rearranging his face over it. He can let this one go too. He takes a deep breath, and feels himself scowling. “I’m not going to say anything to her. Leave it, Jack. You weren’t there this morning. When she woke up and found herself in bed with me . . .  she made her lack of interest abundantly clear.”

Jack is shaking his head. “I can’t believe that. More likely you’ve scared her off with your extreme stoicism. How is she to know of your interest, if you’re not giving any signs of it?”

Vane looks over from the corner of his eye. “If I’m not giving any signs, then how can you be so certain that you know my heart?”

Jack claps him on the shoulder. “Because I know you too well, Charles. I know your tells. And you’ve gone through too much trouble to capture this bird.”

Vane growls his disagreement with that choice of phrasing.

Jack keeps barreling on. “Yes, yes. She’s a great value to the crew. But that’s not why you took her.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Is that not what you did? You saw what you wanted, and you got control of her. We didn’t have to come down so hard on the Starling. But you needed to stake your claim. Now I feel like we’re all just holding our breaths. I’ve never seen you like this. You took her, I don’t understand why now you won’t take her. Tough as she is, she’s too much a maid to be the one to take the initiative. She might even be a virgin still. In need of a strong, experienced hand like yours to guide the way.”

Vane grunts, he can’t help it. He’s been trying so hard not think this way, but Jack’s words bring unbidden images to his mind. Hope’s wide eyes, looking up at him from his pillow. The softness of her flesh; the sounds she’d make if he—

Jack’s still talking. “God knows you both could use it. And she won’t be getting it anywhere else, not with you looming over her as you are. So why don’t you get on with it? Scoop her up and throw her in your bed. Hope’s not more than a bird you’re keeping in a cage if you keep going on like this.”

“Is that what I am.” Hope Wickham herself materializes from the shadow at the end of the deck. How long had she been standing there, listening, fuming? Long enough, judging by the look on her face. Charles Vane feels his heart sink down to his knees.

On to Part 8

Taglist is open: @navigatrixnarrations​ @ladyhubris​ @summertimesadness101 @23orso @n3rdybird​ @bitchyikes​

[47-shades-of-hitman]

In Your Likeness | Chapter 6 - Bruised ego and painful memories

Agent 47 sat idly on a chair in Mr Howard’s office, facing Diana, who had taken place behind it per Howard’s earlier insistence. She had a pile of papers in front of her, her fingers steepled together under her chin, auburn hair tucked neatly into her trademark bun. The navy of her dress was nearly black in the dim light of the lamp standing a little away, which was emitting an odd, orange light.

“So, what have you learned so far? Any ideas on how you plan on bringing this mission to a successful end? Thoughts on your partner?”

He cleared his throat. “Miss (L/n) is… Kind. We’ve been training together for a few days now.”

“How does she fight? Capable enough?” Diana quizzed, jotting something down onto a file with a fountain pen the same shade as her nails.

“I believe so. It’s surprising how fast and agile she is.”

“Very good.” Diana gestured towards 47. “Elaborate, if you will.”

Agent 47 shifted in his seat.

“She’s cunning and quick and uses techniques I would never have thought of. Did you know that the best Assassins can perform something named a Leap of Faith? They throw themselves off somewhere high and then land safely in shrubbery or something soft, as if they’re diving. It’s fast and efficient – where I lack quick climbing skill, never really needing it, she can be on top of a large building in a matter of seconds and leap back off before I can even reach halfway up.”

“Higher grounds.” Diana commented. “Efficient in the art of scaling, then. Anything else?”

“Their wrist-blades. I believe she calls it a hidden blade. When she flicks her wrist, it expands and can easily stab someone a few inches deep. Convenient for quick attacks.”

Diana nodded, seemingly impressed by the findings. “That’s it?”

“No. She uses her enemies’ bodies to get herself where she needs to be, that way she can successfully throw people off, stagger and kill with just one move. It’s interesting to analyse.”

“Do you feel like you’re able to go on your first mission together, then? Did you read the files I handed you earlier?”

“I can do it on my own, too,” 47 said, “since the contract consists of just two targets.”

“Nothing of that, 47. This first mission is meant to see how you’re working together in the field. Should things not work out or get out of hand, the damage isn’t too severe and we know that we should find another way of solving Caelum. For now, this is what – and whom – you have to work with.”

 A little away, you sat in Miranda’s office, flicking through the documents regarding the mission at hand – Karl Wasserman and his new wife Georgina Johnson, owners of a high-end perfume line, found themselves in fraudulent affairs with an Egyptian whitewashing company and thus, a client wanted to see them out of business.

It wasn’t too bad, but to you it was quite new; The Brotherhood of Assassins never really worked with contracts requested by individuals – your mission laid with maintaining peace for the public and protecting it at all costs. A killer for hire was not something you saw yourself as.

“(Y/n), the Eldest requires your presence.” Miranda informed you, typing away at her computer. “He says to meet him in his office in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” you said, standing up and putting away the folder.

You set for the Eldest’s office and found yourself standing at the door, waiting for Mr Howard.

Hearing muffled voices, you recognized one to belong to 47 and the other to Diana. It was difficult to make out, but you caught a few lines nevertheless.

“…But coming back to the subject of agility. Scaling buildings and parkour, is it something you can see yourself doing?”

“I’m not too sure. Miss (L/n) seems eager to teach me, but our way has proven to be perfect for decades. Why change it now?”

“You need to know each other’s methods to prevent miscommunication and confusion.”

You raised an eyebrow, not too amused with hearing of his doubts, but then, you thought it wasn’t too great of a plan either. Sure, Agent 47 was a skilled killer, you had to give him that, and he hadn’t done anything unkind to you other than aiming a gun at you during your first meeting.

In the end, you were both lone wolves. What good would it do to actually go on missions together which didn’t directly affect Caelum, like the contract you had just studied? You’d only weigh each other down.

“This is a situation none of us had foreseen.” Diana said, “We just need to deal with it in this way now. It’s too dangerous to send you both in individually. You know Providence, but you don’t know the Templars. Miss (L/n) knows the Templars, but not Providence. Both of our institutions do not fully trust each other blindly, so we agreed upon sending both sides into the battlefield. Plus, this is too large to tackle on your own. We need an extra pair of eyes.”

“Couldn’t you have asked Lucas?” 47 quizzed.

“No,” Diana said, “We need him for other things in this project. And as I said, both compan—”

“Are you eavesdropping?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin at a sudden, unknown voice behind you. Instincts kicking in, you moved within a second, slamming the stranger against the wall, hidden blade at their throat. It was a man in his early-to-mid fifties – wholly unfamiliar to you – with salt-and-pepper-coloured hair and stormy eyes.

“Who are you? You don’t work here.”

You angled your blade a little, allowing him to move his head a bit upwards, away from it.

“My name is Lucas Grey. I arrived here this morning. I’m part of operation Shalom.”

You huffed, releasing him immediately as you recognized the name, embarrassment creeping up your cheeks and neck. “Right... I ah… I apologise.”

“No harm done. You must be Miss (L/n), then.”

You nodded and crossed your arms, stepping away from him.

“They’re in there, in case you were wondering.”

“You haven’t answered my question yet.” Lucas stated.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Were you eavesdropping on them?”

“No.” you lied, “I was waiting for them to be done discussing whatever they’re talking about. Mr Howard told me to meet him here in a bit.”

As if on cue, the doors of the office swung open and revealed both Diana and 47.

“Ah, I see you met Mr Grey.” Diana said.

“Yeah.” you replied, mentally adding ‘and he met my blade’, feeling ashamed regarding your childish response to his sudden appearance, even though he had said that there was no harm done.

Mr Howard approached and gestured towards the room so that you would enter.

Your gaze briefly crossed 47’s and you gave him an awkward smile, passing him and sitting down in the chair where he had been sitting previously. It was still warm-

-Wait, why would you even notice that? You shifted a little.

Diana and Mr Howard exchanged some quick words.

Meanwhile, 47 and Lucas stood a little behind them, muttering amongst themselves, and then briefly looked at you. You threw one leg over the other to shield your discomfort while you wondered if they were talking about you. Activating your eagle eye to focus on their conversation didn’t help at all, either.

Mr Howard soon entered the office and closed the doors, breaking your line of vision.

“So, (Y/n). We have a lot to go over.”

You hummed in agreement, folding your hands in your lap. “What do you want to know, sir?”

“How are you experiencing this alliance so far?”

“Well, Agent 47 is certainly a man who knows what he’s doing. He’s capable albeit a bit stiff, but there is potential to work together, sir.”

Mr Howard sat down and put on his reading glasses, running a hand through his beard.

“What’s his way of operating?”

“Silent, unseen, avoiding collateral damage as much as possible. The ICA holds a whole arsenal of resources he can use, varying from explosives to poisons and melee weapons. It’s interesting. Sir.”

Mr Howard nodded, scribbling something down. He looked up at you expectantly, waiting for you to continue.

“He told me he uses disguises as well. Knocks people out and takes their clothes in order to blend in, sir.”

You rubbed your arm and leaned back a little. “He hides in plain sight, sir.”

“Does he use higher or lower grounds?”

“Lower, sir.” Mr Howard wrote something down.

“Do you see yourself working on a contract with him?”

“Sir, I am not sure if this is what we stand for as the Brotherhood of Assassins. The people involved are all elite, they don’t intervene with the peace of the common people and—”

“That is none of your concern, (Y/n). A contract is a contract and you are going to fulfil it together.”

You swallowed thickly and nodded.

“You need to show us how you collaborate on the work field, hence why we have given you such a simple contract to carry out. We need to see if this goes well before trying to tackle anything greater. Behind the scenes, we’re preparing a lot. Your opinions on the matter are in this case to be disregarded of. Do you understand me?”

You bowed your head. “Naturally, sir. I apologise for doubting your choices, sir.”

Mr Howard put down his pen and folded his hands in front of him.

“(Y/n), I need to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

You straightened your back, shifting to the edge of your chair.

“You know that I am growing older. Next spring, I’ll be seventy-five years of age. In five years, I am retiring from my work as the Eldest of Council. We need new members on the Council, and I wanted to ask you if you were open to that. You’ll start in the lowest rank, of course, but you’ll be able to climb over time. That way, our people can shift one rank up and you’ll be added.”

Your eyes widened at the suggestion. “Oh, you’re catching me off-guard, sir. That is quite the request you’re making.”

He kindly smiled at you. “We want you to become a teacher and mentor as soon as you turn forty.” Your stomach churned – it would mean that you’d be given less action and mainly teaching, but your body would eventually not allow that much action anymore, anyway – “And also take up a position in the Council. You’re one of the best Assassins we’ve ever had, and given that there are no descendants to the (L/n) line, we need you to teach the younger ones.”

Biting back a sarcastic remark on both you and your brother being childless, you once again bowed your head. “I’m honoured, sir. Do you allow me to think it over?”

“Of course,” he replied, “But know this. In order for you to be promoted, we need you to work along with Operation Shalom. Give us your all.”

“Always, sir.” you said, “Is there anything else you need to know, sir?”

“For now, you’re dismissed.” he said, “If I require your presence, you’ll know.”

You stood and straightened your back, bidding the Eldest of Council a good day before leaving the office.

 You didn’t feel like seeking out 47, opting for the training hall on your own.

Hearing him talk about not really needing you during his mission had struck a raw nerve –

 “- I don’t need you, (Y/n). Trust me, I’ve got this.”

 You closed your eyes, slamming down onto the punching bag with immense force.

Your mind was there again; Half a decade ago, the evening before your brother headed on the mission that would turn out to be his last. Anger and sorrow tugged at your heartstrings with every blow you punched into the bag, crying out behind the force of your protected fists.

 “Joseph, I don’t mind coming along. An extra pair of blades will only make it easier.”

“You have plenty of other things to do. And it will be good for me to slash up some Templars to take my mind off… You know.”

 Sweat travelled down your brow as you kicked your leg up at liver-height, the chains holding the bag up rattling at the disturbance.

 “Okay. Be careful, Joey.”

“Of course, (Y/n)-ey. I know what I’m doing.”

 Your flushed, sweaty cheeks masked the single tear escaping your eye perfectly.

You felt your wrist jolt in pain, but no matter – it was nothing compared to the pain of grief tugging tearing at your heart.

With a groan, you concluded your onslaught on the training bag, panting heavily, wiping your brow with the towel that hung around your neck.

“Are you alright?”

Sebastian approached with in his hand a bottle of cold water, handing it to you.

Quickly taking off the wrappings around your hands, you smiled and took it, gulping it down greedily.

“I’m fine. Just a bit… Frustrated with some annoying Templars who pushed my buttons this morning.” you lied. It felt bad to not tell him the truth, but secrecy was important.

“Did they provoke you?”

“They eventually regretted trying to do so.”

Seb chuckled a little. “That’s the (Y/n) I know!”

A smirk tugged at your lips and you buried your face into the towel, patting away the sweat.

“So, what’s new today?”

“Ah, nothing really.” Sebastian responded. “Laura cut a wrong wire which caused his internet to be fucked up for the rest of the morning.”

“Typically Laura.” you sighed, rolling your eyes.

“Women, am I right?” Seb jokingly added, earning a lethal glare from you.

“I’m only kidding, women are perfectly capable of—”

“I know, Seb!” you laughed, hitting his chest playfully.

He grabbed your wrist and pushed you back a little.

“Wanna fight, huh?” you taunted with a grin, causing him to hop into a fighting stance, and you were about to lightly jab at his stomach when you heard someone clearing their throat behind you.

“Am I interrupting something?” 47 asked.

“Most certainly not.” you dryly replied, your playful demeanour replaced by severity.

“Ah, Tobias, this is Sebastian, he works in IT. Seb, this is Tobias, the exchange Assassin I told you about.”

They shook each other's hand a bit awkwardly, and Sebastian backed away slightly.

“I’ll eh… I’ll leave you two be.”

“Thank you for the water.” you told him upon his departure, but he rushed away with sudden urgency, seemingly uncomfortable.

“That’s your friend, then?”

You nodded. “He’s a bit of a dork, but I love him like family.”

47 hummed. “I supposed that we would meet up to discuss our mission.”

“Of course,” you said, “But I feel like I should shower first. Meet me upstairs in twenty.”

Agent 47 agreed on that idea to be best.

You withdrew to your bathroom, stripping down, running a quick shower.

After refreshing, you went to see 47, finding him where you had told him to meet you.

“Come with me.” you said, leading him to a more secluded area where you could talk over your files in peace, without Council members scurrying around, which would only cause distraction by typing away at documents and making phone calls.

 “Sit.” you gestured to an empty seat, putting the folder on the large table in the middle of the room, stepping over to the wall to reveal the expanse of a skylight in the ceiling, water floating on top of it, appearing to the outside world as a pond. It allowed light to stream into the room and you sighed. “That’s better.”

You sat down next to 47, unfolding the papers in front of you, laying them out on the surface of the table.

“Karl Wasserman and Georgina Johnson. Newly wed, hopelessly in love, inseparable.” you said, turning to the hitman next of you.

“What can you tell me about how this works? Contracts, I mean. I rarely prepare this thoroughly for missions. Schedules always change, anyway. All I need are my eagle vision and my hidden blades. Never have any trouble.” Well, that was a lie, “Usually.” you added.

“Well, as you may have noticed, the ICA has received a contract from a client. Diana has collected all intel for me and then leaves me to prepare. I pick a few items to bring and let her know what I need. Then, I’m sent out to the target’s location and either slip in or go undercover.”

“A lot of work, then.” you mused. “How do you handle emergencies? Collateral damage and all?”

Agent 47 let out a sound. “Differently than you. The first time I ran into you, you had killed a whole bunch of politicians.”

“They were all Templars. My target happened to be among them.”

“So you don’t kill just your target?”

“It’s collateral damage we’re talking about, 47. Not actual enemies. Those Templars were my enemies.”

“How can you be sure that they were connected to them?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “No, the large Templar cross stitched on their sleeves isn’t a dead giveaway.”

47 was unaffected by your scowl.

“Right. I suppose that’s where we differ. I only kill my target and you kill your target plus all the Templars you encounter.”

“One Templar less is one step closer to protecting the Pieces of Eden. Are you telling me that you’ve never had to kill someone else while on a mission?”

“Of course I did.”

“Well, then. What’s the problem?” you snapped, prickly.

“There is no problem. It will be if you make it one.” he calmly stated.

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Fine. Let’s just go over this contract and get it over with. It’s not like you need me, anyway.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he quizzed.

“I overheard you talking to Diana.”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“No—Actually, yeah, but that’s not the point, I’m just…”

You deeply inhaled, not wanting to let your chagrin take the better of you. You were an adult, for fuck’s sake, and the last thing you wanted to be petty to an assassin you tried building a friendship with. Ageing did not cause it to be easier to make friends.

And so you sighed, folding your hands in front of you. “I’m sorry.” you said. “I let my emotions become the better of me, it’s just… I don’t like feeling unnecessary.”

“Why do you think you’re unnecessary?”

“You said you’d rather do this contract alone.  That I’d only weigh you back.”

“Well, don’t you think of it the same way, then? That you’d rather go on your own as well?”

You were overreacting – you knew it, but it had triggered some locked away memories about your brother. It was too soon to pour out your heart, let alone to a man who you barely knew and who didn’t know how emotion worked, and thus, you bit your lip, swallowing it away.

“We both aren’t too happy with those circumstances. Let’s just make the best of it. The sooner it’s done with, the better, right?”

47 agreed with a nod.

You reached for your papers, seeking intel on the first target, but you flinched as your hand hit the side of the table in your movement. You had forgotten about punching the bag the wrong way earlier.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” you said, holding your wrist. “Just a little accident during my earlier training. It’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

Agent 47 looked at your hand. “Let me see.” he stated, not even a question. He gently took your wrist in his hand, his skin surprisingly warm to the touch. His fingers were soft safe from his trigger finger, which now traced along the purpling hue on your wrist. “That seems like quite the bruise.” he muttered. “Maybe try some ice-”

“I said that it will be fine. Stuff like this happens all the time. I’m sure that one of my toes has been broken before, too, but I’ve never gotten it checked out. It’s still a little crooked, but it barely hurts anymore. This is not even half as bad and will be gone soon.”

“If you say so.” 47 said, releasing your hand, turning back to the table. “Let’s talk about Karl Wasserman. Have you thought of any method you’d prefer to use?”

You soon joined in, discussing your findings, yet your hand laid limply in your lap, utterly relaxed despite the slight pain you felt. Your skin was turning blue and angry, but for some reason, 47’s touch lingered.

Shaking it off, you focused on the matter at hand, deciding upon the way Wasserman should die.

[bat-besties]

Your secret is safe with me

A belated present for @djpurple3

Declyn and Virgil are the ultimate duo when it comes to close-up magic and its use in cons - and that's as much Delcyn's skill as Virgil being an actual mage on the run from the army.

As the two travel around the country through each season, their familiar dynamic begins to shift with the weather. 

6k words. Anxceit Fantasy AU with friends to lovers, bed-sharing, card games, and a lot of friendly bickering. 

AO3 

Edited and titled and with snow description by the lovely @5-crofters-jams 

------

Clubs

“Is this your card?” Declyn flicked his fingers to display the four of clubs.

The woman leaned back on her chair with a creak. “My baby sister could do better close-up magic than that.” She raised her eyebrows at the tent hung with yellow and black awnings and faintly mystical sigils before settling with particular disgust on Declyn himself. He was decked out in a pastiche of the outfits of the Royal Wizardry, the private army of the king any mage was required to join by law. It wouldn’t have been convincing even if they weren’t usually stationed at the palace. But the deception wasn’t meant to be seamless; he was clearly a charlatan. 

The sound of the rest of the fairground was barely faded, people chatting, singing, and cheering like a pack of wild animals.  

He gave her a brittle smile. “Is it, good lady?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Very good,” Declyn said, lingering over the words as he reached for another deck of cards. He shuffled it without looking, the cards falling back and forth and crossing around his hands. For a moment, he let go, and the cards kept on shuffling. He took her palm and laid it face-up on the table. To the woman’s credit, if the cards moving by themselves were surprising to her she didn’t show it. “Now. Let’s get down to the real business, hm?” 

“Going to tell me I’m going to find a tall, dark and handsome husband?” she said derisively. 

Declyn nodded as he bent over her hand. “Oh, totally, that is the classic line and I always follow it-” Then he looked behind her, whip-quick. He squinted at the air. “Oh. Oh, but this is very interesting. You’d like a tall, dark and handsome husband, wouldn’t you, a certain...Jake, is his name isn’t it?” 

She shifted uncomfortably, but she couldn’t pull her hand from his fingers encircling her wrist. “Who told you that?”

He waved his other hand into the air as a smirk snaked across his face. “Magic, good lady. Nothing more.” 

“Will he-” she bit her words off. “Someone must have gossiped.”

Declyn tilted his head. “Will he what?” He put on a sympathetic frown. “Will he love you back?” 

“If you were really a mage you’d be arrested by now,” she said with a toss of her head. A blush stole over her cheeks; her eyes didn’t meet Declyn’s; her pulse was rushing where his fingers touched it. Numbers and people, those were the only things Declyn knew how to read and they gave him more information than a thousand citadels of books. 

He hummed noncommittally. 

Screams rose outside before being suddenly cut off. He suppressed a flicker of irritation at having to work with this noise, let the moment stretch, and...

“So? Do you know if he likes me?”

Based on the way Jake was hanging over the bar every moment this woman’s coworker was serving… “I’d say no.” 

Her face crumpled into anger. “Why you-”

“Ah, ah, ah!” He held up a single finger. “He doesn’t like you yet.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about you-”

Declyn reached into the shadows of the tent and plucked a bottle of coloured liquid from them. “I had a feeling you would visit.” The candles flickered as a breeze stirred the tent. Their light made the bottle almost look as though it glowed from within.

She couldn’t look away from it. Five gold pieces had been the plan… should he stretch to ten? 

“Of course, there is a price… perhaps-” 

The tent disappeared. Declyn blinked for a moment at where it had been, then at the crowd whispering and cackling at the sight at him, then at the people in the same robes as him but which looked incredibly genuine surrounding him with their hands outstretched like they were about to attack-

He slowly brought his arms down and put them parallel along his stomach, fists turned against his body in a gesture which in an actual mage would have meant the only person he could shoot at was himself.   “Ah! Respected mages!” He put on a smile which suggested that, if he had magic, sweet wildflowers would grow wherever he stood. “Come to enjoy the fair, I see?”

“Are you a mage?” the leader barked at him. Authority was carried in every line of her body, from the proud arch of her neck to the tense stance she stood in, like a lioness ready to pounce.

Declyn weighed his life over his profits. He took a moment too long to admit, “No. I’m a performer. Some skill in reading people, a love of close-up illusion, you get the picture-”

“People of Goodwyn,” she said loudly. “Have you any proof of this man being a mage?”

The woman raised her hand nervously to point at his card deck. “He can make it move without touching it.” 

Rolling his eyes, Declyn picked them up again and began to shuffle them, then drew them out to show a thin thread connecting them which was clearly visible in the strong sunlight. He wove his hands across each other to show how he manipulated the thread. Unlike earlier, his hands never left the end cards. 

“He wouldn’t stoop to that if he had magic-” one of them said to the leader. 

“If he was dodging service? He’d stoop to anything,” the leader said. 

Declyn gave her a brittle smile, biting back comments about the nobility of murder and being used as the pawns of a tyrant king, about the reasons a person might not want to be a living weapon- but they were words in defense of someone who would be best served if he kept his mouth shut. “I repeat my deepest apologies for my insolence. Now, if you would return me my tent, respected mages, I shall be on my way.” 

With a wave of her hand, the leader brought back the tent neatly folded. “I’d leave this fair, were I you. You’re an embarrassment to yourself more than you are to our fine institution. Magic is not a toy, and you are out of line.” 

“I’m glad to have a reminder of my place,” he said with a wide, insincere smile. He swept everything on the table up in the velvet cloth and tied the top. “A simple person without magic such as myself forgets.” The table collapsed with a bang and he slung it over his back with two leather straps he’d attached to the base. The chairs folded, the tent could be carried slung over his arm. The illusion was broken, clear as anything. He held the chairs out at an angle from him as he walked past, forcing the mages back out of his path, and he let the bottom of the table drag along the grass, flattening it. A little petty, but what could they expect? 

More than anything, he wanted a final quip about Jake to the woman, a smooth exit line, and he would have dared it if he was alone. But the chairs were a barrier, the grass was flattened so it wouldn’t show footsteps, and those simple tricks were one of the less graceful flourishes in the most elaborate and longest-running con of his. 

Invisible as he had been in the tent when he moved the cards, swirled the breeze, handed Declyn the bottle and read the cards over the woman’s shoulder, a true mage followed Declyn out to safety. 

What better place to hide than with someone who any accusations against would look ridiculous?

And how better to scam people with magic than adding a real mage to your battery of card-tricks, illusion, and ability to read people? 

*

The road stretched out over the horizon through green stretching in every direction. Tufts of grass sprung up in the dirt road, blowsy white flowers lay sprinked like spilled popcorn in the fields, the smell of dust and wild garlic and the unrepentant blue of the sky arching above them anchored the two travellers into the moment. Fat drops of fuzz buzzed through the air, bumblebees similarly intent on their destination. The men’s backs were bowed with the weight of their possessions, and the one-two scuff of their feet in time beat a familiar pattern. 

There wasn’t silence between them; that space was too filled with birdsong, chirping insects and the occasional exhale as one adjusted the heavy pack on his back.

Declyn didn’t look as striking outside of his fake robe, he was of medium height, medium build, and had hair and eyes the same colour as the road. The mage also didn’t have an appearance which might have betrayed his identity, not in the same way the leader’s confident posture might have. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and heavy eye-bags gave him a look of perpetual exhaustion. That exhaustion was most often directed at the partner in his illegal double-act. 

When Declyn had run into him fresh out of running from the army, he’d been a mess of sharp angles and edges, eyes never able to stay in one place or meet another person’s, skittering between attacks of insult and defenses of overdone apology. Now, he could be hardly described as relaxed, but he could fall into playful banter or slow contemplation with Declyn easily, or their winding, passionate conversations which tried to set everything right in a society they existed in the periphery of. Rest, hearty inn food, being less anxious and not pushing his magic as much had rounded out the edges of his face and body. 

Declyn watched as Virgil scrunched his face up and tilted it into the sun, leaving his eyes closed longer than he’d be comfortable with if he were anxious. Once Virgil had blinked his eyes back open, it seemed now would be as good a time as any to bring up the raid. 

“Thank you for following me out, Virgil, I do appreciate you not trying anything hasty. Fireballs are not as much your forte as invisibility.” 

“That was one time!” Virgil protested. “I’m not the one who got us run out of town for somehow finding a real truth serum to sell the mayor.” Declyn knew he wasn’t annoyed as his tone would have suggested to someone else.

“Now that it’s over, we can laugh about it!” Declyn said. “The admission he was hoarding grain really did cause such consternation! Nothing so exciting had happened in that little town for years.”

“We could laugh if I didn’t almost get an arrow in the ass,” Virgil grumbled, but the corners of his mouth were twitching up despite himself. His low voice and withdrawn expressions were only intimidating five minutes into meeting him, Declyn thought. After that, they were practically endearing. 

“Oh, of course, of course,” Declyn said, voice dripping with sarcasm. The effect was lost because he, too, was smiling. Encounters like the one earlier could really spook Virgil, and he was glad this one hadn’t as much. 

One-two, one-two. They didn’t even notice how in time their footsteps were.

“You did a good job,” Virgil said. “They were idiots, not High Command, and that helped a lot. But you weren’t too bad.”

“Why, thank you, Virgil,” Declyn said archly. “I shall remember your effusive compliments for the rest of my days.”

“Course you will,” Virgil said. He tilted his face into the sun once again. “This weather would be nice if it didn’t make you so fucking sweaty.”

“Strike two for being charming. I feel I might just swoon away.”

“You’re the silver-tongued one of the group - as you keep telling me they called you in your home city.” Virgil teased. “So you should be doing the flirting.”

“They also said I was cold-hearted.” Declyn’s face twisted into a pantomime of disgust. “Rue the day I flirt with you.” 

They laughed together, the noise swooping over the birdsong and buzzing insects, a natural part of the summer landscape. 

“The thought of you being in one of those little squadrons is bizarre,” Declyn said. “You’re so not a team player.”

“Yeah, not a huge fan of groups,” Virgil said. “Or leaders. Or orders.” He shrugged. “Or the group hating you for not following cruel orders, but that’s just the way of that kind of structure, isn’t it?” 

A rebellious village who wouldn’t pay taxes after a poor harvest; being pushed into formation by his leader; the order to burn and destroy what the crown couldn’t have- 

a deluge of water to put it all out which shocked them so much they didn’t trace it to Virgil until he was invisible and untraceable in the woods. 

“It’s best to work alone, this we both know well,” Declyn said. He’d struck off alone when he was just barely sixteen, leaving the crowded city he’d been born in where his cup games and card tricks had to jostle with hundreds of others scratching and pushing for a living, heading for the novelty of the mountains and travel. Even before, he’d been a solitary child- how much that was a choice and how much he’d driven away other children in his deceitful schemes and scheming deceits was a matter of interpretation between him and them. He was always wanting, wanting, wanting, and until he met Virgil and began to work even more elaborate schemes, he thought there wasn’t even a chance his ambition could be satisfied.

Virgil nodded. “Nice to work alone with you.”

There was a not-entirely serious lilt to his voice, and it quietened something inside Declyn. He gave Virgil a cordial nod, also not entirely serious. “Likewise.”

Virgil gave a little evil laugh. “That’s right. You’re stuck with me.” 

Diamonds

“Virgil, never in my life have I met someone who washes brambles straight off the hedgerow. Please, eat them like a human being.”

Autumn meant walking back to the fires of the city, and walking meant stealing brambles (as Declyn would say) or blackberries (as Virgil insisted they were called) off the hedgerows they passed, along with the apples of any farmer who had let his tree grow too far over his fences.

Virgil plucked another blackberry off the hedgerow and hosed it down with a little stream of water he collected from the moisture in the air. His eyes glowed purple as he used his magic. “You don’t know where this thing has been.”

“On the bloody hedgerow!” Declyn said with a wild gesture at the clean-looking bush. “Where else?”

“Maybe there are insects in it, or maybe...a mouse has been there, or-”

Delcyn was bickering, but not annoyed. “Sometimes I forget you grew up in the palace, and at times like this-”

“You say that like I was a prince rather than a child soldier-”

“Child soldier, you’re so dramatic, you were a cadet at best-”

“And, yes, we did wash fruit, so we didn’t get sick-”

“Virgil,” Declyn took a big breath. “Are you completely sure that this innocent little berry, washed by the rains, dried by the suns, is less hygienic than some of the food we get served at the cheaper of the inns?”  

“Look, if an insect gets into a stew at least it’s not alive.” Virgil picked another one and washed it again. “Just let me live, dude.”

Declyn looked at the orange leaves which fell as they did every year, showing the turning of the seasons, the sky cloudy and stretching out to infinity, the dew-drops on a spider’s web which was itself a miracle of nature. Then he decided he was much too petty to let this go. “Of course, there’s nothing more normal than washing your brambles- sorry, blackberries -” He picked a ripe one and tossed it upward to catch with his mouth.

There was a flash as the blackberry disappeared and reappeared in Virgil’s own hand. He carefully hosed it down, eyes glowing with purple in a way Declyn knew was natural but nevertheless decided to read as an insult, and then handed it back to Declyn with a completely shit-eating grin. “Now you’re not gonna get poisoned.”

Declyn held up a single finger as he gathered his faculties.

Virgil couldn’t help snorting with anticipatory laughter.

“Never-” Declyn began

“Uh-huh?”

“-so insulted-”

“Oh really?”

“This is an affront, a misuse of your magic-”

“You sound like the leader I had when I was thirteen-”

Out of principle, Declyn threw the blackberry to the side of the road.

Virgil merely opened a hand and it flew back into it. He began to hose it off again.

“Virgil, not once in my thirty years of life have I felt the need to rinse a piece of fruit. I am not a bloody noble. Outside of the palace, neither drinking water nor food were so abundant.”

Virgil flicked his eyes over Declyn, to see if he’d gone too far. It wasn’t like tension could build up about their backgrounds with how often they bickered bringing them into it, but there were sensitive parts for both of them. “Give me a bet,” Virgil said.

“Pardon?”

“Give me a bet,” Virgil repeated. “The winner gets the other to eat his way.”

Declyn rolled his eyes. He knew Virgil was placating him, but...he didn’t mind too much. “Fine. The bet is very easy. You find a single insect on a blackberry, and you’re justified.”

“How’d you know I won’t lie to you that I saw one?”

Declyn gave Virgil a look. They both knew Virgil didn’t lie to Declyn. Whether Declyn did to Virgil they were much less sure about - or, Declyn was more unsure than Virgil seemed to be.

“Fine,” Virgil said. “C’mon you wriggly little motherfuckers...”

As Virgil poked around the hedgerow, Declyn continued contentedly eating blackberries, happy to pause walking for a short while. He scrunched his eyes and tilted them up into the weakening rays of the autumn sun.

Five minutes later, Virgil conceded defeat.

“I win, of course,” Declyn crowed. Even if Virgil had given it to him, victory was still tart and sweet as he popped a blackberry into his mouth.

Virgil took one of the highest brambles from the hedgerow. With ceremony, he placed it on his tongue. “Well,” he said after it was eaten. “I’m not dead yet.”

“No. I wish we could carry more of these,” Declyn mused. “It would be nice further on down the road…”

Virgil tilted his head as he thought about that. “You got that empty bottle from earlier? The one which had mead in it.”

“Unfortunately I might have possibly sat on my pack when we had lunch and there was a rather nasty crunching.”

Virgil hummed in thought. “Can you give me the pieces?”

Declyn rooted through his backpack and found the shards at the bottom, which he carefully extracted and put into Virgil’s cupped hands.

After just a moment focusing on the shapes, Virgil’s eyes began to glow as the edges of the glass shards melted and attached, so a crystalline bowl shape was made. “There you are.”

It looked almost like the kind of diamond dishes nobles would propose with.

“Yes, a thousand times yes!” Declyn said as he took it off Virgil. “Oh, my darling.”

“What the-” Virgil looked back at the bowl again and his eyes widened in understanding. “Oh!” He laughed. “Only the most expensive things for you.”

“My, it sparkles in the sun like how your eyes look when you hear your favourite edgy songs about ghosts and lost lovers started by a fair performer!” Declyn teased. “It’s almost as cutting as your comments! And it’s so deep-” He flashed Virgil a smile. “It still probably can’t carry as much as those eye bags, though.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, less into the play-acting. He seemed almost embarrassed.  “I thought I’d get you something as genuine as you are.”

Declyn held a hand over his heart. “You say the sweetest things.”

They walked on, filling the makeshift bowl with blackberries- “Brambles,” Declyn corrected.

“It’s my wedding too, I can call them blackberries.”

“If I call you handsome, can I call them brambles?”

Virgil’s cheeks went pink, and Declyn laughed, because he had won - even if he was pretty sure Virgil had still let him.

When they came into town, a group of kids in ragged clothing ran up to see the performers, and they handed over the blackberries as Declyn put on a show with close-up magic and Virgil sat and watched, seeing as he hadn’t had time to go invisible. Declyn drew coins out behind the children’s ears and left them with the kids. It might have to be a night on the grassy verge of the road, but Virgil didn’t think about stopping his partner.

They left the bowl with the kids too.

“It was Virgil’s wedding proposal to me,” Declyn said seriously.

“Really?” A girl tilted her head to look at it and assess it.

“No,” Declyn said. “It’s just glass, but don’t say that to whoever you sell it to. Besides, Virgil and I...” He met Virgil’s eyes. He’d been about to make a jab about how different they were, but that didn’t feel true. Maybe lying to Virgil was only hard when it hurt him. “When the time comes, Virgil will know when I’m proposing.”

“I’ll know when you con someone out of their dish and I help get it off them in plain sight,” Virgil joked, and warmth flooded Declyn’s chest. He’d kept his friend happy, and all was well in the world.

“You’re no good at sleight of hand,” Declyn said as if in answer to a question a few exchanges later.

The little girl wandered off, uninterested now that she had the dish.

“I don’t need it, I have actual magic,” Virgil replied.

“And you give yourself away so obviously!” Declyn said. “If it’s something like today and you can’t go invisible, you should still help.” He drew his cards out of their inside pocket of  his cloak. “Come, I should teach you.”

“Oh yeah?”

With a flick of his wrist, Declyn drew a card out of his sleeve. “This one is child’s play. Come on, at least try.”

Virgil laughed through his nose. “Only because it would piss everyone else off back home.”

Spades

It was the first snowy day of a crisp winter. As they walked in the icy cold, Declyn had teased Virgil about his cosy palace upbringing (that many mages could build crazily efficient central heating) all the way into town, and completely missed the purple flicker in Virgil’s eyes which preceded a pile of snow sliding down a rooftop and landing directly on top of him.

Declyn toppled over. The uncomfortably wet and unbearably cold sensation of snow soaking into every part of his being caused him to shriek in mild shock and not-so-mild irritation as Virgil laughed so hard he fell into the snow himself.

“And you-” Virgil was almost breathless. “You just-” He cackled. “Serves you right-” The way he laughed was bubbling and open, like a child- ha ha ha ha!

A sharp spike of something went through Declyn at the sight of Virgil, red-cheeked and eyes crinkled as he laughed in whooping bursts. He decided the spike was definitely a need for revenge. “Oh, Virgil!” He called in a sing-song voice. “I shall of course forgive this-” As soon as he had his friend’s attention he gathered up a pile of snow and lunged for Virgil’s neck. Virgil rolled out of the way at the last moment, flicking snow at Declyn. Not to be outdone, Declyn feinted right before darting his hand over Virgil’s wrist and using his knee to pin him down. He gathered a handful of snow and held it over Virgil’s face in triumph. “Any last words?”

Virgil’s chest kicked beneath Declyn and at that and his wide-eyed expression he let go immediately. “Too much?”

Virgil nodded, closing his eyes for a brief moment and pushing himself up. “Give me a moment, then I’ll utterly destroy you in a snowball fight.”

For a few moments, Declyn sat shivering as Virgil composed himself and watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. Then he leapt to his feet with a wicked grin. “Ten seconds to prepare, then we go?”

Declyn matched Virgil’s expression. “Prepare to be decimated.”

*

When they tumbled into the inn, both were soaked and shivering. Virgil looked embarrassed to come into the building that way, but Declyn was riding high on his victory and came to the counter without a shred of shame at the snowmelt he was trailing over the entrance.

“A room for two, please.” It was cheaper than two singles.

The innkeeper gave the two of them a searching look. “That’s seven fiebri, three more for breakfast, and we only have ones with one bed left.”

“That’s quite alright.” It happened sometimes, and they were happy to just stick to their own sides.

The room was small and plain, but it had a lock to protect their possessions and a bed, and that was all they needed. They dumped their soaked packs by the fire in the hope they might dry by morning, then kicked off their damp clothes and pulled on new ones, playing over the highlights of their match, and deciding they were too tired for dinner.

It was very cold, as night fell, and Delcyn teased Virgil by putting his cold feet on his back, which resulted in Virgil heating himself up so quickly that Delcyn pulled his foot away with a yelp. They fell asleep quickly, exhausted by the walking and snowball fight that day.

*

Declyn woke up to Virgil cuddled into his side. He was soft, and warm. His breath whistled through his nose as he slept and Declyn was going to have a heart attack. It hurt to be so close. All of it hurt: the way the morning light drifted across Virgil’s hair, rumpled and a little greasy from travel and completely out of bounds for Declyn to touch, how defenseless Virgil was, the warmth pressed steady to his side, the scent of soap and smoke- the curve of Virgil’s cheek, how it had softened since he left the army, even his bloody eye bags which didn’t disappear after hours of rest-

Declyn could read cards and other people, nothing else. This pain was a foreigner in his body; he couldn’t translate what it was telling him. It was just Virgil.

Was he angry at Virgil? No. No, that felt all wrong. Jealous? Grieving? No, Virgil wasn’t going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.

They were stuck together, weren’t they? This was...it, now.

Declyn and Virgil. The same scam, the same routine, the same banter, the same understanding, the same room every night. To his horror, heat prickled at the corner of his eyes. That sounded perfect.

Scrunching his eyes shut to try and squeeze the tears away, he instead sent one rolling down his cheek and onto Virgil’s.

“-fucking inn-keeper,” Virgil growled without opening his eyes. His voice was rough with sleep and to hear the normal rasp of it from him now, with the foreign aching beating at Declyn’s breastbone like a second heart, was cataclysmic.

Suppressed sobs were tremors, tears flooded his eyes, and the wanting wanting wanting Virgil usually quieted in him was back, but as something entirely different. He wanted Virgil to be awake, and with him, and at the same time he couldn’t bear for him to see.

Naturally, Virgil woke at Declyn's slight shaking beside him. "Dec?" his eyes blinked open. "Oh, fuck, I..." He scrambled back to the corner of the bed, trying to give Declyn as much space as possible. "I'm so sorry, I was asleep, I swear. Maybe you can try and breathe with me-"

Declyn didn't know what to do. He threw Virgil's pillow at him. "I'm not panicking, you fool."

"...you kind of seem like you are, dude." Virgil got off the bed fully, edging towards the door. "Do you want space? I can hang out downstairs, give you time-"

At that, Declyn's sobs only increased.

"What- what is the matter, then?" He was panicking, and it was so like him, Declyn thought, and-

Declyn had never called a spade a spade if he could call it an ‘digging implement with exciting capabilities never seen before- you could even carry it by the handle!’ and sell it for twice the price, but Virgil was adamant about not letting Declyn even subtly convince or manipulate him. Besides, his words felt inadequate and flimsy. There was no dignified way to ask for what he wanted.

“Come cuddle me, you dumb fuck,” Declyn sobbed.

Virgil’s eyes widened and he came back to  bed, laying down besides Declyn. “Geez, they don't say you're silver-tongued and cold-hearted for nothing,” he grumbled. But he scooted up to Declyn and wrapped his arms back around him gently.

Declyn buried his face in the crook of Virgil’s neck, curling his arms in front of him as he squished against Virgil’s chest.

Virgil didn’t ask what was up, even though this was hugely out of character. He just held Declyn close and rubbed his back occasionally.

Needing to be close, not knowing why, Declyn wiggled his ankle between Virgil’s and in response Virgil tangled their legs together.

Virgil breathed deeply, already sounding like he was half back to sleep.

Declyn let their chests move together. He could feel Virgil’s heartbeat.

After some time, Declyn’s sobs tailed off but he didn’t want to let go. Still, he should compose himself, put himself back together, all of that…

But he didn't. Around them, the sound of people clattering around to get out of their rooms came through the thin wall, there was a distant crash, a shouted disagreement. They made the moment better, because they made it real. Declyn felt a puff of air in his hair as Virgil slid back into sleep, and he let his own eyes flutter shut. Just a few more minutes of this and they'd be on the road....

And so, Declyn drifted back off into sleep in the arms of his partner.

They woke up late, ran a game involving Virgil vanishing and reappearing dice, then walked to the next village, all without discussing it. That night-

“Single or double bed?” Another bored innkeeper, almost indistinguishable from the one in the last town.

Declyn grinned at his friend. “Still feeling cuddly, Virge?”

“Oh, I think a little birdie told me the answer-” In the same elaborate gesture as Declyn used to reveal the products of his close-up illusion, Virgil flipped his partner in crime off.

“Shame, really. You do run like a furnace. All that luxurious heat as a child must have soaked into your skin-”

“-and they say the streets of your city are covered in shit.”

The innkeeper was singularly unimpressed at their snarking. “One or two?”

Virgil shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to take pity on Declyn’s cold-bloodedness and say one.”

In a worldless negotiation of eyes and limbs, they found themselves tangled together before they drifted off that night.

Since it was winter, they said a week later, this new arrangement was sensible.

As the buds began to bloom into spring, it didn’t change.

Hearts

It was a hot afternoon, pregnant and storm-heavy, the kind of sky which made Declyn ache in wanting. Spring was ending, and endings made him antsy. Time to go, to move, to do...but they’d eaten their lunch in the shade of an oak tree and the light was dappling Virgil’s face, and the wanting stilled into restless playfulness.

“Come on, Virgil, indulge me and guess the top card of this pile.” Declyn shook the pack at him. “It’s brand new.”

“I literally saw you cut it open and remelt the seal yesterday,” Virgil said.

“Details, details,” Declyn dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Come on, do guess. No magic.”

Virgil stuck his tongue out at Declyn, but took the pack of cards and turned them over in his hands. “Uh...well, you said that people usually go for the picture cards, so it’s better to pick a number card. But then, you know I know that, so you might just pick a picture card, if this was for me and not someone else…”

Declyn didn’t reveal anything, putting on a very impressive poker face as he watched Virgil’s lashes tilt downwards as he looked down at the cards. Virgil cut him a searching look.

“Oh…” Virgil said, his face glowing more red than gold despite the yellow light.  

Declyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Virgil ran a finger over the seam of the cards, eyes glowing purple as he disappeared the wax effortlessly. “Ace of hearts,” he said simply. He tipped out the pack to reveal, as he’d said, the ace of hearts on the top of the pile. “Is this your card?”

“It is indeed,” Declyn said. “I’m impressed.”

Virgil gave him another untranslatable look. He flicked his wrist, and Declyn was looking in his eyes as the card disappeared, so he saw there was no real magic used. Sleight of hand.

Declyn raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you can surprise me without your magic?” But his voice was approving, and suggested he would very much like to be surprised.

At that, whatever the look was intensified, Virgil’s mouth setting in a competitive quirk. He shifted closer to Declyn. He put his hand into the pocket over Declyn’s chest, and from it pulled- “Is this your heart?”

“Card,” Declyn corrected quietly. The brush of Virgil’s fingers still burned warm against his chest.

“I know what I said,” Virgil said. He was more hesitant, his eyes shifting as they searched Declyn’s own. Looking for something. Scared, but not backing away. A flush rising in his cheeks.

What was Declyn’s heart? Frozen solid, a shouting foreigner, a traitor which now flooded his own face with colour?

Slowly, he reached out to push Virgil’s hand holding the card against Virgil’s own heart. He moved their hands again, to feel the fluttering of Virgil’s chest. Last night, his head had risen and fell as it laid on Virgil’s steady breathing. His lips parted. Words, however, had deserted him.

His eyes met Virgil’s again, and there was no beating in his own chest, even as Virgil’s heart thudded against his fingers. He recognised that foreign rhythm from inside himself, from the first night of snow. “Virgil,” he said distantly.

“Yes?”

“Virgil, how long have we loved each other?”

Virgil’s eyes widened. “Both of us?”

Declyn nodded.

“I- I loved you- shit, Dec, I don’t know. I just- I guess I thought about it dicking around with the bowl. When you got all excited about teaching me card tricks after. I dunno if it was before, or after, but around- around then.” Virgil was beginning to tear up. “Do you-?”

“I don’t know,” Declyn said. “I didn’t know. But I think-” He moved one hand from Virgil’s chest to clumsily wipe at his tears. “I think, yes. I do. For a long time, now.”

“Then come kiss me, oblivious,” Virgil said gruffly, a little choked-up.

Declyn leaned in without thinking more.

It was Virgil.  The scent of soap and smoke. A quirk at the corner of his mouth that he couldn’t control. Steady pressure, warm and soft. He made sense. He was real. The kiss was not everything Declyn had imagined - Declyn had been too stupid to imagine, too scared, maybe-

But had he tried to imagine, this was nothing he could pretend.

When they pulled away both of their faces were tear-tracked. “Absolutely no-one else can know we both cried like this,” Virgil said with a wet laugh.

“And no-one will,” Declyn said, wiping at his own eyes. “Your secret is safe with me.”

In the distance, the sky broke into rain. They could see the curtain of it hanging over the mountains, grey and misting. The air began to cool, even as far away as they were, and the golden light sharpened as if reflected off glass. It was the kind of weather which made Declyn curl up against Virgil’s side, letting his partner card his hand through his hair. Tension eased from the air, shivering the leaves above as it drained away into swirling breezes. The land rolled endless away from them, with its skeins of roads unravelling into the distance. They had travelled so many of them this spring, but the playful light made them look new once more. As always, the roads tugged a place inside Declyn he didn’t think would ever be subdued. That tugging would pull them to new adventures, every day as long as he followed it. For now, it was a sweet ache as they took their unhurried time underneath the oak tree.

They kissed again, long and slow as summer days. It felt a lot like a beginning. 

[prettywordsyouleft]

The Perfect Match

Summary: Jinyoung couldn’t believe someone like you could match him in any way when he first met you. But that didn’t stop him from thinking of you constantly either. 

Pairing: Park Jinyoung x reader

Genre: meet messy / “soulmate” au / fluff

Warnings: none

A/N: This is dedicated to @ahgase55g7 who not only is an amazing friend who listens to me and all my fiction ideas all too much, but actually convinced me to write this fun little story. I hope you love how it’s come together, Amanda!

Word count: 6233

Like most people in society, Park Jinyoung wasn’t immune to the belief of a perfect match. Every person on Earth had at least one, another human who could come into your life and fit next to you like a puzzle piece. Of course, some would refer to this matching phenomena as having a soulmate, except you weren’t limited to just one person.

In a land where people’s faces blurred with one and the other, the population so large that it made it impossible for a simple face to stand out against the crowd, a system had been formulated by the ancestors of their time to help with finding your match.

It seemed silly really, to rely on something as simple as a zodiac sign; an animal year you were born under that would lead you to the one who would fulfil your life’s potential.

And yet here he was, just like everyone else around him, aware of the little nuances people signified themselves by. A snake embroidered on your favourite jacket or a set of goat earrings, everyone had their way of distinguishing themselves for others to read. A beacon to find someone who complimented you in every way with their own animal. Everyone had multiple levels of compatibility, a triad of good and bad, with each sign having at least one perfect match.

For Jinyoung, as a dog, he was on the hunt for a rabbit.

It wasn’t as if he was actively pursuing it. There was, after all, more to life than searching for bunnies on backpacks or headpieces. He was a hard-working entrepreneur, attempting to make his big break in the art industry. He envisioned a space in which art would be displayed at the forefront, to colour the individual and evoke emotions within them that left a lasting impression.

He wanted to bring some of the old back into this modern world.

Of course, his dream was bigger than his reality. He had the building, the time, and most importantly the dedication.

What he lacked were exhibitions that would draw the attention into his facility. He needed to branch out, employ some contracted artists who matched his vision and start planning for his big moment.

And that’s when he met you.

“Am I late?!” a voice screeched, heels clinking across the tiled floor in a way that disturbed the harmony within the art gallery, Jinyoung whipping around to see who would be so bold to do such a thing. You appeared then, face flushed with colour from your evident haste, your steps not slowing any despite how close you were to him now.

“Woahhh!”

Your eyes now round as saucers as you noticed the sculpture ahead of you, you tried to redirect your path somewhere else, and Jinyoung managed to reach out in time, yanking you back towards him and away from the precious artwork you nearly assaulted. Instead, with the acceleration of the movement, the force sent you both sprawling onto the floor, Jinyoung taking most of the fall.

For a moment, everything was silent.

And then, just like the tornado that you had been spinning into his world, your mouth started to move just as fast. “Oh my God, are you okay?! Of course, you’re not you’re on the floor! And you caught my fall, I’m so sorry! Can I help you, does it hurt?! Is there-”

“Up!” he managed to instruct once his lungs inflated with enough air that your incident had knocked out of him and you scrambled to your feet, a hand reaching down for his and pulling him up just as quickly.

Your avid gaze scanned him from head to toe, actively searching for an obvious sign of distress or pain. Unfortunately for you, it was all internally and he suppressed a groan, his eyes growing hard the longer you did it. Jinyoung cleared his throat noisily. “Are you here for the interview?”

Nodding animatedly, you swung out your arm, blinking in confusion when you noticed it was still linked to his. Giggling nervously, you snapped your hand back, letting him go. “I’m Y/N. I rung earlier.”

“Earlier?” he repeated and once again you nodded with far too much energy. He sighed, just watching you was exhausting. Then again, that could very well do with the way you had crashed into him just before as well. Jinyoung frowned; he hadn’t received a call from anyone today.

You slowly glanced around the studio, your gaze widening and your mouth fell ajar as you soaked in the assorted artwork. When you had spun around the room entirely, you then lifted your index finger to your mouth. “This is an art exhibition?”

“Well, yes,” he answered as if that wasn’t the most obvious reason for the display before you. He scrutinised you, not seeing what he had expected from a candidate. Most carried large portfolios around with them and dressed in professional attire. Whilst your blouse and jeans combo was clean, it definitely didn’t leave him with a great first impression. “You’re an artist?”

“Oh goodness no, I’m a writer!” you exclaimed, waving him off casually. You then grinned. “Though, I suppose words can be like art. Not everyone has the gift of the gab or the skills to write creatively.”

“A writer?”

You nodded up and down and he grew dizzy. “That’s me! You are the place looking for a part -time editor, right? I’m so terrible with directions; I got lost three times on my way here. That’s why I was late.”

It all made sense now, and Jinyoung let out a laugh, the gesture rupturing out from his chest so loudly that for a moment you merely stared. And then you joined him, laughing heartily that you hadn’t realised he had stopped. He then shook his head firmly. “I’m not hiring a writer.”

“Really?” you asked and he folded his arms, cocking his head to the side. Instead of apologising as he expected you to, your eyes grew round again, a curse leaving you before you spun out of his space towards the exit, taking yourself out to torment the sidewalk and whoever else got caught up in your wind. Jinyoung was stunned, you had left without so much as a polite farewell and he blinked after your departure, trying to decipher how such a person could even exist.

It was then when he noticed you left something behind, crouching down to inspect the item. He stared at the bunny plushie in horror, wondering how on earth someone like you could be someone who matched him so perfectly.

“There are better matches out there for me,” he murmured, carrying the signifier into his office and placing it down heavily on his desk. Scrunching his nose up at the item, he then let out a cry in pain, the adrenalin now wearing off and making him reach for his back haggardly.

“Stupid bunny!”

Jinyoung never expected to see you again. Although you had dropped the bunny behind, he assumed you would cut your losses and focus on the more important things in life. And despite coming to this logical conclusion, it didn’t mean he stopped thinking about you.

Not at all. 

For the next two days, he replayed the interaction with you from all angles, sometimes cursing you out for your erratic mannerisms, and others chuckling at how different you were from everyone else. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was intrigued by how someone like you existed. He was so used to his quiet lifestyle where everything was a result of his hard work. He knew what to expect from each day due to the personal standards he maintained. With you, it seemed life was much more exciting. He almost envied you, the carefree nature in how you came in and subsequently departed, uncaring of your first impression you left behind. Granted, you had been in a rush, all the same, he could tell there was a different set of priorities between you both. 

Jinyoung wondered if he took everything too seriously and was missing out on some magic in life that you seemed to have discovered. Or maybe you carried it from within. He just couldn’t figure you out. And the fact that you were someone that matched him on the zodiac compatibility charts didn’t ease his mind any.

Still, when you stepped back into the gallery later in the week, albeit with a slower gait this time, he was stunned. Blinking rapidly to ensure he wasn’t imagining your appearance, he came down from the balcony above, thumping down the stairs until he stood before you, his breath unstable. You smiled brightly and his heart thudded in his chest unevenly.

“This might sound really odd, but-”

“Your bunny?” he cut in impatiently and your lips curled up further.

“Oh thank god, I did drop it here after all!” Without any hesitation, you reached forward for his forearm, shaking it excitedly. “Please tell me you kept it safe!”

“I didn’t know if you would come back or not, so I’ve stored it in my office,” he explained and glanced down at his arm you still encased your hands around. He didn’t understand why he was being so weird today. Maybe that just came from being in your company. He was slightly dejected when you yanked your hands away with a nervous chuckle.

“Sorry, I get a little too animated sometimes.”

His mouth twitched, humour evident in his eyes. “A little?”

“Mhm!” you hummed positively as you followed him to the room off the side of the atrium, marvelling his office as if it was the most amazing space you had ever entered. It made Jinyoung anxious, unable to see what impressed you with his own eyes. “Woah, you have a lot of credentials.”

Your praise didn’t make him satisfied, instead, he turned to peer at you curiously. Handing over your bunny, he then folded his arms across his chest and leaned back into the tabletop. “Only what’s required of me to run an art gallery.”

“Only?” you echoed, shaking your head to refute his sentence. “Your passion is evident with all these achievements. I admire you for reaching out for your dreams. Being a curator must be a fulfilling role.”

He didn’t know how to answer you, overwhelmed by your words. You were the first person to tell Jinyoung how proud you were, and you were a mere stranger. It struck a chord within him, his mouth falling ajar as he sucked in a steadying breath.

You truly had a multitude of charms to you that he wasn’t expecting.

Shaking the bunny in your grip, you attached it back onto your bag’s handle, patting it now that it was safe where it belonged. “Thank you for taking care of her! I shouldn’t keep taking up the time of someone as busy as you are.”

“Did you get the job at the editing firm?” he blurted out and your smile that had been reaching up into your eyes left them, disappointment filling the space where happiness once was. You didn’t hide a single emotion in front of him and Jinyoung stared back at you intently. It was refreshing to meet someone who he didn’t have to work so hard to understand how they felt - even if you were still one of the most confusing humans he had ever come across.

“No, but that’s okay right?! Someone will find my skills set useful soon!” 

“Do you want to go grab a coffee, if you’re not busy?” he continued, surprising himself along with you.

Leaning forward, you peered into his face for signs of something he was unable to decipher before you grinned. “Do you like me, Mr Curator?”

“Jinyoung,” he introduced rapidly and shook his head. “I uh, just feel like I might have played into your unfort-”

“You’re really cute right now!” you exclaimed with a giggle and nodded your head. “I’m kidding about the liking part, but getting a drink does sound appealing. Should we?”

You both walked to the closest coffee shop after he locked the front door to the gallery, Jinyoung peering at you every now and then. You didn’t seem to be as affected as he was in your company. His mind was reeling, had he truly just offered you coffee and fumbled over it? Receiving a single praise from a stranger sure seemed to affect his psyche more than he had realised.

But Jinyoung knew deep down there was more to it. The way you hadn’t left his mind and reappeared as if he had conjured you up himself seemed to speak volumes to him. Even if you had some less than desirable traits, you had hooked him in some way. Jinyoung wanted to understand you more as if he had been presented with a piece of artwork with no obvious way to describe it. Every time he thought he had an answer, you would show another angle, leaving him with no other option than to observe you further.

It was his staring that seemed to unsettle you the most once you were both seated with your beverages, your cheeks flushing the longer he did so. “Do you always observe people as if they’re paintings too?”

“Well, I-” Guilt flooded his features as you giggled, playing around with the straw to your iced latte. 

You leaned in closer and Jinyoung snapped back, rigid from your easy approach. “So tell me, Jinyoung, what kind of impression do I leave you with?”

“Chaotic,” he answered immediately, cheeks reddening when he realised he said it aloud.

You laughed heartily then, satisfied with his answer. “I like that. The mind of a creative writer is pretty much just that.”

“Are you published anywhere?” he asked and your humour simmered down. Jinyoung became aware accomplishments were something of a weakness for you.

You shot him a wry smile after sipping at your drink. “Unlike you, it seems my drive isn’t as proficient. Maybe one day, I’ll make it big, but I doubt my words far too often. It’s easier to edit others.”

He could relate to you there. Sure, he ran an art gallery, but none of his own paintings were displayed there, despite being known as an artist for most of his life. He shook away the connection, returning to the first part of your reply. He pursed his lips together before asking, “You’ve observed me too?”

Grinning, you nodded. “One might even go as far as to say they’ve looked you up online, Park Jinyoung.”

This surprised him, though he was unsure if he liked that you had or not. Had you figured his zodiac sign matched yours in any way too? He instinctively fingered the dog logo on the corner of his phone case on top of the table, wondering if you had noticed it before now. You seemed to pay his action no notice, lifting your hand up solemnly instead, ready to pledge an oath of some kind.

“To be fair, I mentioned the other day I’m useless with directions, right? Well, I remembered the name Gallery Park and that’s how I found my way back to get my bag charm today. I admit I was curious about your work, from one creative enthusiast to another. However, I have to say it wasn’t as impressive online as it was in person.”

“Ex-excuse me?!” he squeaked, his thoughts screeching to a halt, derailed at your dismissive approach. You weren’t teasing, that much he could tell with your casual gaze and he gaped at you, confusion settling in. Hadn’t you just praised his efforts earlier?

“Who designed your website? Are they boring and dry in nature? There was nothing compelling to bring any attention to what you or your gallery hopes to achieve at all.”

“Bor...Boring?!” he repeated, and your eyes rounded, realising he was the one behind the website. You weren’t apologetic in the slightest and he gasped for air to calm his nerves.

He had been right to consider you chaotic. You were definitely tampering with his peace once again. “It’s professional.”

“Sure, sure,” you agreed with an unconvincing tone, glancing out the window, something outside catching your attention. It irked him and he placed his hand down on the table with more force than he intended. Your stare found his again, now amused by his clear dishevelment. “Did I strike a nerve?”

“More than one,” he admitted gruffly and you giggled, taking another drink. Jinyoung didn’t know what to do. Part of him wanted to get up and leave, to walk away from your tumultuous personality and back to where he felt most at ease. He stared at his take out cup, gulping some of the coffee down and then over at you. Still, you made no attempt to apologise. Just as you had said earlier, he had worked too hard for what he owned. You had nothing that he could compare to and-

“I felt bad for interrupting your hiring process the other day, so I did this for you. If you don’t like it, you can simply throw it away.” Slipping a USB stick towards him, you then picked up your drink, shaking the cup and shooting him another smile. “Thanks for this. It was nice spending time with a professional today.”

He couldn’t figure out if your last line was a dig or not. In fact, Jinyoung didn’t have a single clue on how to take anything when it came to you. He had experienced so many emotions in the short space of time, acting uncharacteristically from his usual self too. And yet, he still couldn’t shake how intrigued he was over you. When back at the gallery, he booted the USB up in his computer, opening the file immediately. The document soon appeared and he scrolled over the multiple pages quickly, trying to figure out how this would be of any benefit to him. 

“What is all this?” he murmured, returning to the top of the document and began to read. 

He soon realised you had taken the information on his website and reformatted everything. From the front page introduction to the current exhibition details and even his about page, you had transformed it to sound, well, he wasn’t able to think of a single word for it. It was coherent yet appealing, your choice of words executed as beautifully as fine paint strokes, each word earning its place and showing why it was there. 

You hadn’t stated his achievements in a bulleted list, instead, you had gone into them as if you had been a part of the journey yourself, describing Gallery Park and Jinyoung himself in a way that highlighted his strengths effortlessly. He had to admit, this was far better than what he already had on his web domain. Jinyoung was excited, as if he had been introduced to a new person with an amazing outlook in the art industry.

In reality, it was just him and that kind of overwhelmed him. How could he sound this good?

Scrolling through again to the end, he stopped, cursing his hasty reaction to you earlier. You were good. Too good. How had you not been hired?! He felt as if he had become the biggest fan of your words, now sitting here feeling let down that he had finished reading through. He craved more, wishing for further content with your flavour on it. 

He regretted giving back the bunny. There was nothing to bring you back here, nothing that stood out as something that could lure you back so he could thank you. Congratulate you as much as you had him earlier. The doubt you showcased in your work, Jinyoung wished to eradicate. He was desperate to do something, anything for you.

It was then that he saw something taped onto the underside of the USB stick. A URL. Typing in the web address, he discovered your world. The magic that encompassed you as a person came from within here. He spent hours going through your works, reading stories both fantastical and realistic enough that he felt he knew the characters as if they were people he had met in his life by the end of the story. He hadn’t realised he didn’t eat dinner until his stomach begged at him into the later hours of the evening to feed it and slowly he roused from the drunken stupor he felt he was under, shaking away the remnants of the last world he had read and packed up for the day. He walked out of the gallery and locked up, frowning when a hand shot out in front of him.

“I wondered, would he be hungry by now?” you started and Jinyoung froze, eyes glued to you as you bounced into view. You feigned a thoughtful pose before grinning again. “I have no idea if you have allergies to food, so I tried to pick something common. Here.”

“What… what are you doing here?”

“Should I go?” you countered and Jinyoung snapped, lurching forward and shaking his head as he gripped your wrist. You smiled warmly, liking the feeling. 

“How did you…?”

“You have to sign up for my blog to read my content. Only you would choose a username with your initials in it, Jinyoung.”

He chuckled, relaxing somewhat. “How come it feels like you know too much about me?”

“Maybe I do,” you teased and shook the bag of food. “Are you going to take it or not?”

“Want to come in here and eat with me?”

“Ooh, back into the building that has so much going for it?” you announced, nodding happily enough. Jinyoung unlocked the door again and took you into the back room, the small staff cafeteria lacked a lot in content. Only a lone fridge where he stored drinks for his clients and a small table decorated the room and you glanced around before smiling.

“Did you hire anyone?”

“No one shares the same vision as I do,” he told you with a shake of his head.

You smirked. “You aren’t prepared to see other people’s visions either.”

“I saw yours,” he mentioned and you faltered, chewing on your bottom lip lightly. Jinyoung smiled as he reached out for one of the packets of food and opened it. “Well, I read it.”

“What did you think?”

“You should let the world read your words, Y/N. They’re better than you think of them,” he encouraged and you didn’t respond, making Jinyoung feel vulnerable. He wanted to be just like you, to show the praise you had for him right back. He wasn’t as bold as you were, however, and grimaced at your lack of reaction. “Do you, not uh, want to?”

“I thought if I wrote for a living, I would get to live my best life. I’d share my favourite thing with everyone. Turns out, it doesn’t keep money flowing as well as I’d like. So I picked up editing tasks because other people have words that need to be shared too. It’s hard to balance both sometimes.” You blinked rapidly and turned so he could see you deal with your emotions. “Ah, why am I telling you this?”

“The same reason you remodelled my portfolio,” Jinyoung stated, realising the longer he stared at you that he was becoming captivated. He smiled. “I think we have a connection, don’t you?”

There was no giggle, no teasing in your eyes as you looked at him. Instead, you radiated a warmth he had never seen before from another person. Was he watching you fall for him as the seconds went by? Your lips curled up, your hands reaching to catch your head as if it had grown too full to hold itself up alone. And then you nodded.

“Maybe there’s more to explore with you, Mr Curator.”

Jinyoung didn’t try to hire you right away. He had attempted to pay you for your website work, but you flat refused it, telling him you were truly doing him a favour. And that you had. With your amendments, the site traffic seemed to double. He was soon receiving messages about the venue, wondering if he would be open to holding functions there for business clientele. Whilst Jinyoung hadn’t ever imagined anything other than art exhibitions, this was a smart business tactic. The more people visited the gallery, the more word of mouth would travel. It wasn’t long until he was making a steady name for himself in the more affluent circles.

And that’s when Jinyoung realised he needed someone savvy with words to be in charge of PR. “You would be perfect for the role. You say it yourself, you have the gift of the gab, Y/N.”

You looked at him carefully, your fork remaining raised midair. It had become somewhat of a tradition over the last three months that you ate dinner together at least once a week. Tonight, Jinyoung had taken you out to an Italian restaurant, and you seemed to connect this to his offer. “Is this delicious meal a form of bribery?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “If I say yes, will you work for me?”

“I don’t want to,” you announced and he frowned, your rejection confusing him. He knew the temporary roles you were holding at various positions around the city were taxing for you to keep up with. He wasn’t offering you something short-term. You had often proclaimed to want more of his stability in life. And he was literally offering you a way to reach out for it right now. 

Your eyes remained resolute and he sighed heavily. “Why not? What is it that bothers you about the gallery?”

“The gallery isn’t a problem. I’d love to work there and see it grow into a bustling hub for art enthusiasts. Jinyoung, the problem is you.”

“Me?” he echoed. Even after knowing you for as long as he had, you never failed to surprise him. He arched an eyebrow, wondering if this was one of your dramatic moments. “What about me is a problem?”

“Everything about you is a problem to me,” you mentioned, sparing some of the pasta in your bowl, spinning your utensil slowly, methodically. He watched the motion as if he was the pasta you were coiling, his stomach tightening the longer you didn’t answer him directly. “I can’t work with someone like you.”

“Like me? Y/N, you’re being ridiculous and-”

“I like you, Jinyoung,” you confessed, eyes lifting away from the food finally. You smiled, albeit gently compared to your usual ones. “Can you imagine liking someone so much but then you have to work for them too? There’s no distinction between work and personal life. I can’t do that.”

Jinyoung blinked slowly, his fork clinking into his bowl the longer he deciphered your confession. And then he snapped his eyes up to find yours. “You can’t just say that!”

“Why not? It’s the truth. What if we fight as a couple, and then at work we have to engage in projects closely? I don’t think my mind could handle that.”

He was all but hyperventilating at your casual reply. Sure, it showed you had thought about it carefully, but he couldn’t comprehend that right now. You were acting as if he and you were already something. Jinyoung didn’t know what you were to him.

“Y/N, you can’t just confess you like me without thinking about my feelings too!” he hissed out, taking a long gulp of his wine. You giggled and his eyes nearly fell out of his head. “How can you laugh right now?!”

“Because you’re being cute again.”

“I’m-!” he started, voice an octave too high and Jinyoung glanced around himself awkwardly before leaning towards your unaffected eating self. “I’m not cute, and you’re moving far too ahead of yourself!”

“So you don’t like me back? Well, that sucks,” you replied, letting out a heavy sigh. And then you went back to eating. “I still can’t accept the offer. You’ll find me staring at you, yearning over my one-sided crush at the most inopportune moments and I’ll eventually have to quit when you haven’t fallen in love with me within a year of employment.”

“You’re toying with me,” he concluded and whilst you did grin, indicating your wicked play, something about the look in your eyes told him it wasn’t all false. Just as he had that night you first bought him food, he could see the emotions unfolding in your eyes. There was a sting from his hasty dismissal, yet the warmth remained in the back at a safe distance this time. 

Jinyoung realised he was waiting for it to come forward as it usually did. But you didn’t allow it, looking down at your meal and exclaiming that his offers always came with such delicious food. 

He couldn’t taste the flavour anymore.

Your confession plagued him.

In fact, the scenarios you created did as well, making it harder for him to work in the office some days. He would be working on answering emails or planning out upcoming events for the gallery when the image of you would sneak up in his head, offering forth several options. Sometimes your careful words that night would win out, showcasing just why working with you would be a nightmare. The fantasies would more often than not turn down a path you hadn’t voiced. He would imagine the shared smiles, subtle touches and bouts of unrestrained passion after hours until Jinyoung was certain there was something terribly wrong with him.

More often than not, whenever he was riddled with thoughts of you, he would find himself standing in the atrium, eyes glued to the entrance in anticipation. 

He’d think back to the way you had come through the automatic doors, barrelling over like the chaotic wind you were. Jinyoung was positive that on that day you had swept off with his heart, rattling it enough that it now only beat in tune for you. 

He was hesitant to speak of his growing feelings to you, however.

Although it was petty, your confession over dinner that night had wounded his pride. Whilst he had still been in a land of denial then, he knew he had hoped to be the one to tell you how he felt first.

That you were the rabbit to his dog, the matching puzzle piece he had hoped to meet in his lifetime. Opposites attract and you were the complete mirrored image of him. His calm was messed with your wind, the peace challenged by your chaos and his head rivalled your heart. 

Jinyoung knew this was love.

He was aware deep down that he wouldn’t feel complete until he told you, and so Jinyoung began to plan his confession. You might have stolen his thunder but he’d still be able to create the perfect brew between you both for a love storm to take over. He decided he would use the ruse of convincing you to work for him, knowing that if he sounded desperate enough, you would come to his aid.

And that you did.

“Okay, I’m here, how long do we have until the clients arrive for tonight’s event? How could you hire a catering team that would cancel on the day at such short notice?!” you exclaimed as soon as you were inside the atrium, hands reaching up into your hair to tie it back from your face. 

You looked determined and ready to work.

So Jinyoung let you.

Taking you into the kitchen, he pointed to some of the food he had started preparing. “It’s not a huge event, luckily. Can you finish prepping these two dinner plates and I’ll go upstairs and ensure the private viewing room is ready for them to arrive.”

“I’ll bring them up when I’m done,” you announced and he nodded, happily leaving you to the task before dashing upstairs to give himself a pep-talk. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this anxious and when you entered the room, he was startled, flinching visibly. 

You chuckled as you placed the food down, approaching him and reaching for the collar of his shirt to tidy it. “I’m sure the client tonight must be important for you to look this frazzled, Jinyoung.”

“I uh-”

“I believe in you. I know you have it in you to make sure tonight goes as smoothly as you hope,” you continued, unaware of how your words were lending him the courage to continue with his plans. He smiled, standing there as you smoothed out his attire, waiting until your gaze shifted up to his. When you did, you narrowed yours, questioning his expression. 

“The client is already here.”

“Where? Oh my god, go greet them! I’ll dash down as soon as I can so you can entertain them.” Your eyes darted around the room rapidly and you gave him a little shove. But Jinyoung didn’t shift away, and a short puff of air slipped from between your lips impatiently. “Why aren’t you going?!”

“I should greet them in a way that would dazzle them, right?” he asked and you nodded all too much, making his smile curl up further. He cocked his head to the side. “Make a lasting impression that they cannot forget?”

“Yes, Jinyoung, would you jus-”

Your sentence effectively cut off when his lips met yours. Reaching to hold your face with both of his hands, Jinyoung kissed you passionately, his mouth moving against yours in a way that he could tell had surprised you. Your hands gripped at his waist for support from his sudden approach, soon relaxing and slipping around and up his back as you kissed him back. It seemed like an eternity was spent between you both as he explored your mouth, bodies flush against one another as your tongues danced together. This was heaven, a Nirvana that had been in front of him all this time and he had been so slow to reach out for.

Yet Jinyoung knew the wait had been worth it. His feelings for you were at their highest point now, and he was certain you could taste how he thought of you the longer he kissed you. It was giddying and even he was having a hard time keeping up with all the explosive lust enveloping you both.

Eventually, you needed air. It was reluctant, the way you tore your mouth away from his, eyes hooded as you tried to comprehend everything that had just happened. “I’m not quite following you.”

“I was just greeting my client,” he murmured, eyes still locked on your swollen lips. He smirked, satisfied with his handiwork. Rubbing your face gently, he travelled up until he was seeing your eyes, the lust sitting right on the surface, along with the warmth he had grown to enjoy the most. He grinned, resting his forehead against yours and dropped one hand away from your face. “God, I love you.”

“You can’t just say that!” you breathed, hands now gripping onto him for support. He laughed, how had he known you would be the type to go weak at the knees. Blushing profusely, you blinked rapidly, trying to garner some sort of response. “You can’t tell me you love me without me being ready to hear it!”

“You’ve been ready a whole lot longer than I have.”

“I know,” you complained, sucking in a deep breath and trying to fight your way through the lust to find some sense of coherency. You looked up at him, completely lost. It was surprising to see, you normally went along with everything so easily. You were searching for confirmation, and if he hadn’t of been pressing into you so closely, Jinyoung was certain you would have pinched yourself to see if you were dreaming. You took a deep breath. “Tell me again.”

“I love you, Y/N. I love how chaotic you are. How magical you make my world feel. How I wish to be around your carefree spirit every day. You’re my match in life, I’ve known that we matched from the beginning.”

“You did?”

He nodded, smiling back at you. “You left it here for me as a sign from our first meeting. I knew with how crazy you drove me back then that you were the one for me.”

You frowned but didn’t say anything else, a smile soon erasing any doubt. Stepping up on your toes, you hovered around his mouth, your breath fanning on his face. “The food’s getting cold.”

“Are you hungry?” he wondered and you smiled, nodding your head. He faltered. “Really?

“Are these lips ever going to find mine again, or will you have me starve?”

Jinyoung laughed before he kissed you again. And when that kiss ended, the next began, the food long forgotten with another hunger. It was when he travelled his lips to your neck that he suddenly stopped, brushing your hair aside with his hand. He blinked, looking at the small tattoo behind your ear. “You’re a tiger?”

“Mm,” you hummed, arching your neck towards him for the pleasure to continue. You pouted at him when it didn’t. “Is that a problem?” 

Jinyoung smiled, chuckling even, before he shook his head firmly. “No. You’re my perfect match.”

_________________

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[capricornus-rex]

Two Sides of the Coin (2)

Chapter 2: One for the Job | Jidné Sheedra x Cal Kestis

Summary: Hell-bent on exacting revenge and retrieving the Holocron, the dreaded Darth Vader is now on the hunt for the young Jedi Knight, Cal Kestis. Under the assumption that he still possessed the artifact, while fueled by the intrigue of the boy’s strength and skill with the Force, the dark lord hires the bounty hunter, Jidné Sheedra, to track him down and have him delivered alive. However, the task becomes a trial for young Jidné, as she faces a conflict that tests her beliefs of a scarred past she had hidden for so long.

Also in AO3

Tags: Fem OC, Jidné Sheedra, Force-Sensitive! Fem OC, Bounty Hunter! Fem OC, Jedi! Fem OC

Previous: Part 1 | Next: Part 3 | Masterlist

2 of ?

MODALA, KAGAN SYSTEM, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

The planet was nearly barren, blanketed with grey skies and silver clouds that hung low—but neither thunder nor lightning appeared, yet the possibility loomed as low as the puffs and pillars of clouds as it seemed to close beyond the peaks. Mountain ranges framed the horizon in silhouettes as black as charcoal. Woodland barely covered the gorges and quarries, flora was sparse and selective—you’d see more rock than leafy greens, to see some vegetation, one would have to trek for miles.

Rocky terrain outstretched itself to the far reaches of the planet, leaving barely any room for water to spring, empty craters served as bowls to a rain that may never come. A city stood into the middle of the wasteland, a beacon and an oasis—for those running away from something or someone, or those who just want a nice tall glass of liquor to drown away their grievances.

The same shuttle escorted Vader to the surface of the planet, it docked near the enormous structure that distanced itself away from the border of the city. Strategically placed near a lake, it was nothing but a block of concrete, adorned with statues that served as mere ornaments upon the gates of the fortification. The architecture was crude, perhaps the owner invested it all on the space. From a certain point of view, it was deemed a castle—at least in a ruffian’s standards.

The lone dark lord of the Sith ventured into the stronghold. A hatch in the giant metal door popped open and out comes a scanner droid, grumbling in a throaty, alien language at Darth Vader.

“I am here for the Bounty Hunter’s Guild.” Vader simply said.

A single glimpse was enough to prompt the person on the other side of the door to let him in. The main door creaked, pulling its weight was enough of a burden in its rusty cogs, and the castle owner raised the door high enough for the esteemed guest to bring himself inside. The guards at the entrance to the main audience hall slightly shifted upon the sight of Lord Vader—who ignored them as he passed them by—wordlessly, they agreed that the guest is tenfold the terror than anyone who’s set foot into their stronghold.

Darth Vader’s grand—albeit abrupt—entrance into the main chamber caused all heads to turn and the chatter to quieten. Literally standing in the center of attention, he ignored the curious and intrigued gazes, their eyes unable to penetrate through that black shell from head to toe.

The castle owner, a human male—whose face was etched with wrinkles and sullen cheekbones—sat at the center of the chamber, surrounded by his guests and fanned by a pair of scantily-clad, lavender Twi’leks. When Darth Vader stepped into the brightest light in the room, the master of the house sprang from his throne with his arms extended on both sides—a boisterous welcome, contrast to Vader’s entire demeanor.

“Well, well,” the owner beamed, his voice mingling with the soft, robotic breathing of the dark lord. “Welcome, welcome!”

He was received with an indifferent silence. The owner started over with a throaty chuckle through the clenched smile.

“Baz Oldak, head of the Guild’s local charter, how can I be of service, m’lord?” he introduced himself in a jester-like tone, mixing between sarcastic and genuinely welcoming, curtsying at the dark lord while keeping a safe distance.

“I require a bounty hunter,” Darth Vader simply said, and then let himself finish to emphasize the next words. “Your best one.”

Baz Oldak chuckled, impressed by the simple yet heavy request.

More heads and eyes shifted, side-glances played along Darth Vader’s periphery but he blatantly ignored them all, not knowing that most of them were actual bounty hunters. The idea of being hired by none other than the Darth Vader himself is a demanding job—but a rewarding one nonetheless once his contract is satisfied. The idea of being flushed with coin from the most powerful authority in all of the systems is each and every single hunter’s wet dream.

“Well now, Lord Vader,” Baz rubbed the curve of his chin. “And who’s the miserable sod that one of my hunters will come after?”

“That is only between me and whom I’ll choose,”

“By all means, m’lord,” Oldak motioned to the entire room with one slow sweep of his arm. “Take your pick.”

The blood-red coating of his helmet’s sockets gleamed menacingly under the spotlight; ever since he stepped into this place, the sleight of his head finally panned across the room—he was personally scouting the one.

Apparently, he wasn’t satisfied with the variety before him. He angled his head back in front of Oldak.

“None of these seem to be capable,” Vader commented. He stepped closer to Oldak, to which the ordinary male took one step back out of sudden terror; the dark lord spoke in a hushed tone, albeit it’s more frightening than his usual tone. “These couldn’t be all of your hunters? I heard that this local charter of the Guild housed one of the best. Surely, that’s no exaggeration.”

“My, my, I suppose I’m going have to bring you to the back room,”

The codenaming didn’t faze the dark lord, though it intrigued him. Oldak spoke in whispers, his words only came through Vader, and then gestured to a particular area across the chamber where he may find what he needs.

With great haste, Darth Vader brushed past Baz Oldak’s shoulder, the impact of his black duraplast breastplate was enough to leave a bruise.

“She isn’t expecting any visitors though,” the small man quipped a final time, massaging and flexing his shoulder as Vader halted—hoping that this little host would have said something more substantial.

The blast door led Darth Vader into a room. A lounge of sorts with a booth in the center, but the shadow of the canopy obscured the body of the one who’s seated alone, glass of liquor in hand. Their legs perched over the center table were the only ones exposed under the light, the boots slightly wiggling in a leisurely rhythm but there was no music—not even a light note or melody in place.

As Vader went closer, he was able to gradually make out the face of this hunter who kept their head low in the shadows. The silhouette of the Sith lord had already occupied the hunter’s periphery, to which they had no choice but to pull their head up to face him in the comfort of their shade.

“Well, let’s see, now…” a female voice hummed. The whites of her eyes slightly popped out in the dark. “Tall, dark…

Her eyes examined Vader from top to bottom, she afforded a little chuckle, “Brooding. You must be the fabled Darth Vader.”

Silence from Vader, exempting the slow, huffed inhaling and exhaling through his mask.

However, he sensed the smallest twinge of fear within this young woman. He wagered that her confidence sourced only in the shadow of that canopy. She remained unmoving and pressed on with her questions.

“So, what brings you to this desolate skughole?”

“A contract, no less. Your guild head spoke highly of you and I wanted to test out the wares, Jidné.”

A scoff-like chuckle escaped her nostrils, she raised her eyebrows—not caring whether Vader could see her expression in the dark or not.

“Then you must be very desperate,” Jidné retorted as-a-matter-of-factly, tipping her head a bit before sipping her glass.

“My previous agent has performed quite disappointingly. I am simply expanding my options.”

“How perceptive,” she puts down her glass, untangled her crossed legs and pulled them away from the table, finally showing her face into the light—to face Vader.

Long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders, the loose locks that dangled from her hairline framed her young face. A scar—whose flesh has healed and pinked over time—traced the contour of her cheekbone, standing out from the natural color of her skin. To Vader, she was but a child wearing a woman’s clothes; his curiosity brought him nothing but questions as he studied the girl.

So young, for someone in such a dangerous occupation. He thought to himself as he saw through the red film of his helmet’s socket.

Though the appearance didn’t matter to him as long as she could finish the job.

She leaned forward and propped her elbows on her knees. “Now then, who’s the goose I’m chasing?”

Darth Vader was never one for long conversations, and he always kept himself reserved with his words unless necessary.

“A boy,”

“A boy?” Jidné scoffed, afraid that a laugh might offend him. “You have to do better than that, m’lord. But okay, I’ll bite: what’s the deal with this boy?”

“That boy is a Jedi.”

Jidné’s head angled to the side, her interest significantly piqued. Her squinted eyes under the shadows of her room prompted Vader to elaborate.

“And what’s so special about this Jedi—besides the hefty bounty on his head?”

“He is in possession of something vital. Bring him to me alive—along with what I want from him. I can guarantee your payment will cover both his bounty and your fee,”

“I suppose Baz told you that I require a 50% upfront payment. Also, you do realize that you have to pay a portion for him—he calls it a referral fee.”

“Consider them all done.”

Darth Vader slightly angled himself, turning back to the guards, bellowing a single yet firm “Guards!” and a pair of Stormtroopers poured into Jidné’s lounge room—one of them held a cylindrical case. He puts it down on the center table, a single turn of the handle and the hydraulic lock unlatches; revealing columns of credits neatly lined to the very walls of the case.

In a single glance, Jidné estimates the total contents to cover her upfront and Baz’s referral—with a quite generous tip just so he can shut his mouth. Her client has certainly outdone himself.

“The bounty and the other half of your fee will be given once you’ve delivered what I ask.”

She fished out a single bar from the cylinder, light danced on the clean, golden finish of the money as she examined it under the light. She returned it and sealed the container herself.

“By any chance, do you know his name?”

“No. Red hair, that’s all I can tell you.”

“Okay, that narrows things down a bit,” she leered, making a pensive face as she rolls her eyes and bobs her head. “Good enough.”

Jidné stood up to her full height, but not even she can level herself with the literal standing of the dark lord—whom she wagered to be no less than six feet and three. She had to lean an inch back to fully view his entirety. The light of her lounge room highlighted the sharp edges of his mask and the crimson film on the sockets showed her distorted reflection.

She awkwardly stepped to the side, the canister filled to the brim with credits in her hand, and proceeded to leave Vader in her own chambers as she prepares herself to head out.

“Remember, bounty hunter: alive.”

That reminder stopped Jidné in her tracks, she glanced over her shoulder until Vader was back in her peripheral vision. Her snarky attitude had been taken over by her deadpan, serious mode the moment she saw herself to the door. Now, a firm tone of the voice lingered in her throat as she answered.

“Yes, my lord.” She assured.

Finally, Jidné exited the room and left the door open for Vader. Her right hand searched for the leather holster dangling by her belt, she pressed her palm against the fabric until it sank to follow the mold of the weapon inside, her fingers blindly tracing out the vague shapes that embossed over the holster.

She zipped through the crowds loitering by the doorway of the main hall and headed to the docking bay of the castle where her beloved carriage awaits her.

[moonlightheretic]

Chapter still unknown FULL (or is it?) WIP NSFW (it gets dark ya’ll)

“Where are we?” I struggled to find my bearings in this dark tunnel. The ground seemed unstable, pebbles shifting underfoot. My hands reached out in a blind haste for something solid to guide me through the dark. The walls practically disintegrated at my touch and nearly caved inwards. I did not feel safe. This place was one wrong step away from total collapse. I stumbled, my feet slipping into the rock ridden path, his hand caught my arm.

“You do not need to know.” He answered simply, pulling me to my feet.

It was becoming his go-to reply for everything I asked. I wasn’t satisfied with it. He watched my struggle and called flame to his hand, the hollowed cave’s secrets scattered into the shadows cast by the wiggling ignition. “You have stripped me of my weapons and most of my dignity. Do you mean to strip me of basic information as well? Am I so scary to you, Dread Wolf?” I challenged. Bitterness chewing through my words.

“They elected you as Inquisitor, not for your skill in battle alone. You are formidable. In any case, there is no benefit in informing you, it will make little difference. You will activate this one, as done previously.” His voice dipped into the octaves of an order.

“Where are we?” I pressed. “I want to know what you will destroy.” I stood firm, shoulders squared, refusing to tread further. He turned to face me, the blaze in his hand distorting the shadows across the planes of his face.

“When has any truth of my plans comforted you? Or perhaps, any truth at all? You live, stuck in a halcyon that never existed and you yearn for its return.”

“And who painted that pretty picture for me? This impressive hiraeth? A lie built on lies, a tower, and then brick by brick, a rotunda, and finally, a castle! What a beautiful empire you raised. Such an artist as you perhaps, should have erected that on Skyhold’s walls.”

We dove into a thick silence, neither of us giving in. I could almost see him biting his tongue, any remark quelled by fledgling self-control. He took a breath and smiled.

“You evade blame almost as skillfully as you evaded me, ah, but then again, where are you now?” He tilted his head, his left brow raised. “I wonder, what more dances have you that I not discovered yet?”

“I believe it was you who taught me to dance, Solas. I cannot take credit for my skills, when I have the master in front of me.” I gestured to him.

A muscle in his neck twitched and the fire cradled in his fingers strengthened significantly, staining his skin red.

“There is work to be done. Enough.” Even though the fire was causing us both to sweat in this enclosed space, his words were of pure ice.

We advanced upon this hovel, a crumbling crooked crevice of rock and stalagmites, dripping with Maker knows what. His steps were full of confidence and prior knowledge, muscle attuned with memory. He maneuvered past the tight angles with experience. He had been here before, perhaps?

“Whose bright idea was to locate an artifact in this dreadful place?” I snapped, as I was compelled to duck when a bat screeched by my head. Ah, but if a bat made its home here, surely there was an additional entrance to this hollowed nightmare.

He answered me with a chuckle and then reassured, “It isn’t far. Have patience, Inquisitor.” Ah, so he was no longer angered by my words, or had he folded the displeasure up and saved it for later?

I grabbed his illuminated jaw and snapped his head towards me. “Patience? I waited for you! With each year passing no more than a decade of drought! I have been patient, Solas.”  I wasn’t expecting a simple comment to provoke such raw emotion into my words, but there I was, fingers digging into the flesh of his jaw.

Solas’s eyes crept over my face, tracing every detail with his heavy gaze. “And so you have me.” He remarked gruffly and shrugged me off. A small draft tingled against my skin, the blooming flame flickered and listed, perhaps a vein in this stone body led to freedom, after all. But, I could only see what his flaming palm afforded me.

I felt it before I saw it. The anchor reacted, fizzling, smoke-like, and churning the air around it a greenish hue. My first reaction was to recoil and hide it within my cloak. Solas’s armored arm slithered into the fold of my cloak, the fabric hissing against his metal arm guards. He held onto my throbbing hand, pulling it from its hiding place, cool fingers calming my shivering ones, he presented it to the artifact before us.  Mist entrapped light uncoiled around the artifact, as if we had woken it from a long slumber, its light stretched and billowed in flight, like a flag caught in the wind and it rippled and convulsed, as if it was rejoicing. A warm welcome, indeed. A statue loomed behind, a winged and headless figure of a woman. Mythal. She was immured in this foul place, a feeling of sorrow washed over me.

“We are within the Vimmark Mountains.” He informed, sullen and remorseful, his eyes lingering on the statue.

A mountain chain, opportunity screamed into my mind. Then we could be in the vicinity of Kirkwall or even Ostwick, or rather, it was also possible we were somewhere in between. What mattered the most was the very fact that we were under a mountain.

“Surely, this place has significance.” I argued, playing along, with my eyes following his.

“Indeed.” He whispered.

Solas closed his palm and in doing so, snuffed out his flame. We were bathed in a greenish and golden light, I stole a glance, his mouth set in a hard line, eyes devoid of emotion, and in doing so, he gave me nothing. Unreadable. He was skilled not only in magic, but also, in masking his intentions. He was undeniably powerful, but so was I.

My heart hammered in my chest, possibly my only chance at stopping the Dread Wolf lay within these simple and faulty rock walls, carved out by water. Maybe, I did not need my little dagger, for it, could not compare with a mountain.

The next set of actions were to be done without instruction, as they were no different than the times prior. But this time, everything would be different. Hesitation would no longer best me.

I neared the artifact, Solas stepped behind me and observed. I lifted my hand and waited, the artifact pulsated with green waves of light surging upwards, and revealing thousands of tiny eyes glaring back at us in this aphotic sanctuary. Fucking bats.

I felt my release and I moved closer to it, the lights brightened in response, and I wondered, could I not only activate the artifact with the anchor, but also destroy it? Hell, I could bring this entire cave down and trap him in, weaponize our very surroundings…and so I did. I had only used the anchor’s power as much as I required of it, in the past, I was too careful to abuse it. That some calamity might befall myself and others if I used it for anything but its intended purpose, but what I needed most was in fact, calamity, itself.

I opened a rift right into the very center of the artifact. In less than a blink of an eye, it exploded into a shower of glass and stone, its ancient powers reveling in the new found freedom. In an instant, the small pocket of this mountain, shuddered and began to collapse, as the rift twisted it into its own shape, pulling and knotting, then thrusting and flailing. The bats flew to an escape as dust, stalagmites and murky water rained down, then chunks of rock plummeted downwards until the very ceiling threatened to fold in like a deck of cards. I tried to avoid the falling debris as the area shook, thunderous and vengeful. I could hear the bats, screeching in terror and I made my way to follow them.

“Moon’Hwa!” Solas roared. Eyes lit, his hands invoked a barrier, though as the mountain piled high, he was struggling to hold it. He gritted his teeth and grunted under the weight, too preoccupied to stop me, for if he let go, we would surely be buried. So this was his limit. I crawled along the ground, my back was pelted with rocks and earth. I covered my head with one hand and dug through debris with the other. He fell to his knee behind me, his gaze burning a hole in my back. The consequences of my actions stopped ricocheting from my body, I peered upwards to realize that his barrier was stretching, enveloping me within its safety.

My heart clenched and I dared to look back at his face. The barrier wavered and he gasped, rocks shimmied through, bouncing off of his pauldrons. His eyes squinting, and I thought I saw the shimmer of tears catching on his lashes, the veins under the skin of his neck and face enlarged as he strained to keep the barrier solid. A stalagmite jabbed into his cheek, drawing a bloody trail down his face. I comforted myself as guilt pulled at my sleeve. I needed to be ruthless, the world depended on it. He saw me as an asset. An important one, if not for the anchor, would he not let me drown in stone and earth? I steeled myself within this resolve. Thus, I needed to get the anchor as far away from him as possible. I pushed onwards and the barrier flickered as it followed me, or rather, it kept one step ahead, an encouragement to go further. Guilt sent its timely reminder and I bit into my lip to keep from turning back. You are leaving him to die. An enormous section of rock slammed into the barrier, it blocked where the humble draft of air whistled through. That meant, the only way out was the Eluvian. I gulped hard, facing disappointment. It would have to do.  Dal’nim will lose her father.

“Be quiet!” I seethed, shaking my head in an attempt to be rid of its voice.

It was becoming hard to breathe, the same air I breathed before filtered into my lungs and I quickened to the eluvian, a beacon in this turbulent darkness. Bats dropped to the barrier, sliding around me in a freefalling current of death. I inched closer, my fingers breaching its fluid reflection, the barrier wavered and as I pulled myself in, the tiny collapsing cavern was blasted with blinding blue light. The noise was…indescribable. My ears rang and ached as I was pushed into the eluvian by the blast, flying head first into the sanctum. I was followed by pieces of rubble, stalagmites, and a multitude of dead bats. The eluvian grumbled and screeched against the green tile as it too was shoved forward, denting it in the process.

I scrambled to stand, collecting my wobbly legs and propelling them to move, I clutched onto the eluvian, and with all my strength I heaved my weight into it, I screamed as the heavy golden oculus resisted my nefarious machinations. With one last heave, I pushed it into the bat littered floor and it shattered as if it were glass. The pieces flung everywhere, slicing my face and hands, the twinkling shards then seemed to dissolve, pooling into a clear and shimmering liquid at my feet. I did not wait around to discover what would happen next. My feet pummeled against the same elaborate green tile, I did not know where I was going, and I only knew that in this matter, distance was a friend. It was blur of gold and green, this place, I threw myself into eluvian after eluvian, until I could find something with the semblance of familiarity. I needed to find Dal’nim. She and I could be free of this place. I could contact Iron Bull, we could go to Rivain. The anchor will kill you. A sobering reminder. All hope gained, was lost in an instant. I…could cut it off, but, my eyes glow with its power, its infection could be septic? Oh, what was I going to do? There was so little I knew. My left fizzled and sparked emerald, free of Solas’s control.

I picked eluvians randomly, changing directions at will, his agents stopped and stared, I charged into them, not caring who I knocked over. It seemed that they simply did not know what to do with me. Perhaps, I had even been veiled as a secret from them. In any case their reaction time was cut short, because once I was within eyesight, I was already gone. I stopped to catch my breath, my chest heaving. This labyrinth was endless, eternal even. My palms stuck to my knees as sweat dripped from my face, not only sweat, no, but tears. They poured from my eyes, a deep mournful cry belted from my stomach. My fists clenched into the fabric of my trousers. I had more than likely killed him. No! I couldn’t stop to grieve. I had to leave! I needed to find Dal’nim! Priority reminded me.  I stood straight and stepped forward, I nearly tripped as my foot caught the edge of sunken tile.

The tile beneath my feet waned, breaking off and splintering into the damp soil. A large gust nearly wiped me from my feet and howled in my ears, I held on to the fragment of a statue to my right for dear life and my hands slipped against its wet surface. Cool droplets coated my face and hair and I turned to see what commanded such a force. A siege of water surfed upon the wind, upwards, over the edge of the cliff side before me, like a waterfall in reverse. A perpetual haze clung to the air, broken pillars and archways framed this place, half shrouded by the mist. This area felt wrong, like I wasn’t supposed to be here, let alone know of it. Old Oaks careened off the cliff, hanging by their roots, as if they, themselves, wished to be elsewhere. Otherwise, this space was devoid of life, but it did not feel empty. This island in the sky, a mere token of a once larger chain, wasn’t particularly large, its counterparts were scattered elsewhere, dipping into the horizon as black dots. Perhaps it was meant to be forgotten? My eyes completed a wide sweep of the island. There was no other eluvian than the one I emerged from. Was this a dead end? My only hope was in the distance, an area still mysterious, as it was outstanding in comparison to everything else this place offered.

A crypt nearly swallowed by erosion and mist, dwelled behind archways and pillars. My steps were chosen carefully, and I swapped from pillar to pillar leading into it, hanging on with all my might when the windy tsunami blew into me. Perhaps there was an eluvian lurking inside? I looked behind me before entering into this forbidden dwelling of the dead, a chill slithered into my bones, every muscle screaming I turn around, flee from this miserable place. But my desire to escape compelled me to ignore those sensations. Torches blazed upon my entry and I nearly jumped out of my skin, bravery almost forgotten. The braziers illuminated the stairway that descended into the depths of the unknown. My only companions were the buoyant echoes that bounced from my steps. My palms sliding flat along the golden walls, a steady reminder of what surrounded me, solid and strong, I could lean my weight into them without worry.

The braziers ignited as I passed by, this place was slowly drawn back to life. With each step taken, a noise loudened just a bit more, a wailing. Though, it did not originate as the result of the wind that labored against the crypt’s exterior. Odd. The landing of the stairs opened into a single room, it was unremarkable, except for the eluvian placed in the center and an exquisite golden recurve bow and full quiver leaning against it. But this reflection, this swirling picture it painted was not of me, nor was it of the room that sheltered it. I approached it, curiosity luring me in no different than a moth to flame. My fingers brushed its liquid like appearance, causing it to ripple, its image stayed the same. A thrashing figure, whom appeared to be female was tied to a massive tree, yet her head was…distorted. As if she wore some type of gargantuan crown that all but consumed her head. Her screams reached me and a gasp erupted from my throat when realization slammed into me.

Those were arrows. Countless arrows driven into her skull. She seemed to be trapped in unfathomable agony. I could not even see her face, for there were so many. How she managed to still live was …disturbing more than it was remarkable. She was a living pin cushion. She squirmed, her legs twisting in the grass, her head rolled from side to side, searching for a release from the pain and she wailed into the void, a haunting noise that echoed throughout the room. She should die. She deserves to die. It was like watching my mother all over again. I felt sick, what was this horrifying depiction? I was entranced, empathy surging like a rapid. I pulled my dagger from my boot and stepped in, gooseflesh punctuated my skin and my hair stood tall. Wait—

Blue light engulfed the humble room, and the taste of blood pricked at my tongue. I was thrown, a force splitting me from the suffering sight before me and I landed in a heap, limbs locked in place, I was physically held to the floor by an unseen force. The air knocked from my lungs, I found it challenging to breathe, and I stained against the invisible chokehold. The anchor’s light vanished as it was sealed.  

“S-Solas!” I winced, air pushing out of my lips with a wheeze.

“Inquisitor, I must thank you.” His voice rang overly cheerful, pulsing with falsehood, his expression read differently. Eyes alit, sharp and unashamedly bright, the blue light trailed him as he turned to face me.

“You were most forthcoming with your intentions for me. I gave you the floor and your performance was…inspiring.” He shook his head, his face embellished with drying blood and dirt. “If my hands weren’t preoccupied with saving you, I would have clapped. A pity that your plan ultimately failed.” His words ending with the cold tone of finality.

I faced my defeat with a retort and growled despite my predicament, “How did it feel to have a mountain fall on you, Solas?” My emotions swirling in an unending whirlpool of despair for my failure and…relief, shameful relief.

“How did it feel? Ask the mountain. Although, you would face a difficult time finding it. I believe as of now, it stands below sea level.” He smirked and faced the eluvian.

He picked up the ostentatious bow and a single arrow from the quiver ruled in shadow, there was a slight shake to his hands, besides his haggard dirt/blood stained face and rock pelted armor, it was the only evidence that hinted at the event that befell him earlier.

“You left me to die when Corypheus besieged Haven! I was YOUR scapegoat! You are nothing but a coward.” The memory, along with rage found me, my mind fumbling with excuses.

“You’ve sacrificed more for the greater good of your cause, have you not? Your rage is misplaced, Vhenan. At one time, you were gladly complicit!" Solas argued, "As I am sure you are starting to remember." "Yes, at one time, I was gladly stupid." I retorted. "I thrived off of your praise alone, the Inquisition taught me I didn't need it."

“Yes, the same Inquisition that now terrorizes Ferelden and the Free Marches, searching for you. How wonderful of a teacher.”

“As were you, if my memory serves me right.” I seethed. “Though, I cannot claim to know what is real anymore.”

His left arm held the bow aloft and he seemed to ignore me, the light from his eyes illuminating its exquisite carvings and jeweled features, I had honestly never seen a bow so beautiful. It looked like it didn’t belong here, like it didn’t belong to this time. Solas nocked an arrow onto it, then to my horror, he took aim at the tortured woman, his right eye closing as he concentrated. He pulled back, deliberate and graceful. The arrow took flight, into the eluvian. I gasped when I heard the impact, I wished I could have covered my ears when her cries of agony hit me. I couldn’t understand how the poor female had any available space left on her head.

“Inquisitor, I must warn you not to wander in this place, for there are areas you may not return from, much like these arrows." He instructed.

“Who is she? What did she do?” I asked panicking, dismissing his warning.

“She numbers among they who killed Mythal. A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment.” He reached for another arrow. “They? Have you more prisoners? Why not kill them?” I reasoned.

“The first of my people do not die so easily, as you can see.” Another arrow flew coupled with another cry of agony. He navigated around my question, I knew not to ask more on the subject. This man had more walls than a gated palace.

“I assume that applies to you as well.” I pried, agitation digging in.

His smirk returned for the briefest of moments, before a deep melancholy was ushered in by his dipped brows and frown. He observed the bow in his hand, his fingers gripping it until his knuckles nearly turned white. “Andruil killed her with this bow. A fine gift, bestowed upon her by Mythal, herself. Yet, it ended in an act of greed, further sullied by lust for blood and power.” His head shook gently and he set the bow down, leaning it against the eluvian.

“When the veil is torn down…wont the Old Gods be freed?” Panic rose in my throat like bile.

“I have plans.” He pulled his hands behind his back and watched the suffering Andruil before him, eyes glassy and reflecting the writhing figure in his view.

“I-I didn’t think you were…I never thought you were capable of-“ I stuttered, the weight of his words plunging me into a deep ocean of fear. Did he imprison the other Old Gods in their own chambers of agony? Just who was Fen’Harel?

Andruils anguished cries bled through the eluvian, and staring into it was a God in the figure of a man whose eyes were gleaming with pride.

Last line credit goes to my friend AYSIA

Yeah I realize its not done. Like there needs to be a flashback for the opening yada yada. 

[lexiseigneur]

Part 2 Chapter 1: The disappeared

2800 B.C.

The queen fled through the trees and the cursed thing followed. She cried out in anguish when it struck, leaving a bloody welt on her shoulder. But she escaped its grasp and ran on. When a river blocked her way, she plunged into its tumultuous waters. On the shore, the thing screamed and paced. She swam fiercely because she had to live. For her people and for her unborn child.

----

Quinlan dreamt. It was obvious as soon as he stepped out of the trees’ shadows. They lined a familiar cobbled road. In dreams, the false sunlight never burned. It gently warmed his skin. On the horizon, the hills and vineyards were blurs, like an impressionist painting. Were he to explore further, the details of this imaginary world would solidify around him. He had done it at times, just to see how intricate it could become.

It had dawned on him recently that the ability to control one’s dreams was uncommon. After Lexi had asked if he missed Europe, Quinlan had explained how he often visited his native Italy and sometimes summoned people from his past to talk to. Her answer had been “You do WHAT?”

While she sometimes noticed she dreamt, she could not influence their course. But Quinlan could, for most of his long life.

Fifty years after their deaths, Quinlan met Tasa and Sura at will. They had been his first motivation at acquiring this ability. Then his pragmatism had taken over.

Mostly, he would use dreams to hone his skills in combat or war tactics. Training was training, whether in dreams or in body.

Quinlan picked up a stone which he rolled between his fingers. Looking, smelling or feeling helped stabilize his dream and assert his control. It had taken a great deal of time to achieve that level of proficiency. Still, the dream could slip away.

Today, he would practice opening his mind further. It frustrated him how he still lagged behind Lexi in that regard. He blamed peaceful times. His quest was over, and some of his drive for perfection had fanned.

For this practice, he elected to summon a guide. It was always the same person. It had been for two thousand years.

“Mother?” he called.

“Quintus.”

He turned around. Ancharia grinned. The intense sun reflected in her grey hair. When she appeared, it was always in the clothes she wore the night of their first encounter.

“You have neglected your training,” she said, surprised.

“I have. Would you like to know why?”

“I cannot imagine a valid reason behind such frivolity.”

This version of Ancharia did not know of his success. Her level of knowledge changed between her appearances. Quinlan failed to understand why. This time her ignorance was agreeable. Who did not enjoy sharing good news?

“Because the Master is dead. Defeated forever.”

Ancharia covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Her eyes turned shiny.

“Oh, my son! You did it! You slew the beast!”

Ancharia hugged him. Quinlan marveled at the warmth of her body and the scent of olive oil in her hair.

“We did. It’s over and we won.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much.”

“You taught me so much, could you help me once more?

“Anything! What do you wish to know, child?”

“I cannot open my mind as much as I wish.”

“I see.”

She took his hand and the countryside melted, replaced by a silver world. His own soul lied ahead and Lexi’s next to it. Everything shimmered with their light.

“Yours is brighter but captive. A firefly in a glass bottle,” said Ancharia with a nod.

Lexi’s soul rippled and danced, free. His was tightly enclosed within a transparent armor.

“How can I break the bottle?”

“You wished it here, simply wish it away.”

“If it were that simple…”

“Oh, but it is that simple. You haven’t done it yet because you are afraid.”

What could that possibly mean? She was part of his mind, so she couldn’t be mistaken.

“You let your light shine through and the feeling terrifies you. It feels like falling. You are scared of breaking once you reach the bottom. As she did.”

Ancharia gestured toward Lexi. Quinlan scowled.

“She is not broken.”

“I said she broke, not that she is still broken. Pay attention, child.”

The tone, soft but full of authority sent him into a whirlwind of nostalgia. Those dreams were wonderful. Those dreams were horrible. Her face turned gentle.

“You love her, don’t you?”

“More than anything.”

“Then why do you hide things from her?” she whispered.

A man appeared behind her. Sprawled on a concrete floor, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. Quinlan knew him because he had killed him. Ancharia peered at Quinlan’s face like a mother would look at a disobedient toddler. He took a step back.

He did not wish to continue this. Quinlan shut his eyes and the dream disintegrated. He awoke. It was not fleeing since this was not really Ancharia.

His Strigoi senses informed him that the sun was still high. Lexi slept deeply, undisturbed by his malaise. He preferred keeping it that way and attempted to fall back asleep. Her cell phone emitted a shrill sound. Lexi slammed her hand on the device then grunted when it rang on.

“This was not the alarm, someone is calling you,” Quinlan said.

She dragged the phone across the nightstand then her pillow. The glow of the phone made them squint. The screen was now shattered but still functional.

“Ha crap…not again,” she mumbled.

Gus’ name was barely visible between the cracks webbing across the glass.

“Gus? What’s happening?” she asked after taking the call.

She slurred her words from sleepiness.

“Yo…Did I wake you? It’s business hours ya know? Not very serious if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Screw you.”

He laughed.

“We’ve got a mission. It’s one of those collab settlements. Argentina this one. They had just started building stuff so it’s just a handful of people. They didn't give news for the last three checkups. This morning, their families went to find them. They cracked their car windows open, smelled ammonia and high gated the fuck out of there.”

Due to constant persecution, which had turned systemic after the passage of discriminatory laws, collaborators of the Strigoi regime sometimes chose self-exile. They built villages in remote areas with elaborate anti-Strigoi protections which required considerable preparations. Healthy and capable settlers arrived first and more vulnerable members of their families followed. Lexi looked at Quinlan and grimaced.

“Hey, Gus…I’m sorry but…”

“No,” he said instantly.

“I’ve got to be at the lab tomorrow…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s not something I can postpone.”

“Fine…fine. You gonna owe me for this one again. What about Q?”

Quinlan took the phone. Lexi buried her face in her pillow, and he stroked her back.

“The locals say there are caves nearby, a whole maze of them. We think they hide in there. A damn death trap.”

“Are those caves mapped?”

Gus had a sardonic snort.

“Not even a little.”

“I can still manage by myself and Eva can take Lexi’s team. When do we depart?”

“In six hours. See ya.”

He hung up which prompted Lexi to bury her face deeper.

“He will forgive and forget eventually. Not that there is anything to forgive. Having both of us for such a simple mission is redundant,” said Quinlan.

“He is so pig-headed…last time I missed a mission he called me ‘ma’am’ for a week.”

“Perhaps I should miss missions more often…”

Just a week prior Gus had called him a “snarky stuck-up party-pooper”. Whatever that meant.

Lexi looked at him with one eye and her cheek rounded from a smile. Of course, she would remember as well. It had been a source of great hilarity.

“I guess I should get ready and leave with you if I don’t want to run to New York,” she said and stretched out of bed. They had only one car.

“We still have plenty of time…if I drive.”

The mission might take anything from two days to a week. It sounded short and in the scope of his lifetime, it was laughable. But every second out of each other’s light felt like an eternity. Quinlan gently pulled her back to bed.

****

Raul was quiet and grave after he picked Quinlan up from Manhattan. He should have been sharing the details of the mission and the plans he had no doubt already devised with his cousin. Something was bothering him, and Quinlan detailed his face for a clue. Unshaven and dull-eyed, the Sun Hunter formed a sorry picture.

“You are distracted,” said Quinlan.

“Yeah, you can say that.”

Quinlan would not ask for more. It did not appear like the issue was relevant to the mission. It was likely a personal matter.

“Eva and I broke up. She wants kids and I don’t. T’was mutual but shit it still sucks.”

There was a moment of silence. Lexi would have described it as ‘awkward’. She also would have encouraged him to support Raul in this trying time. Humans liked to have their choices validated.

“It sounds to me like you both made a sensible choice. Procreation is not a subject that allows for compromise.”

Raul looked at him in complete disbelief then burst out laughing.

“Are you kidding me? You’re the one who actually gets it. Everyone from Gus to my fucking mailman thinks I’m an idiot, and I should just have a kid with her because I would end up liking it anyway.”

His lips rose in disgust.

“What kind of fucked up advice is that? Like what if I don’t end up liking it? I can’t return the kid, can I?”

“No, I do not believe there is such a thing as a return policy on offspring.”

“Thank you! They all act like I’m some kind of monster. And I want to scream at them that they are the messed-up ones.”

Quinlan did not want to encourage Raul’s ranting but this last point picked his curiosity.

“How so?”

“Those guys from Iceland…you read their report? Yeah, so they say we won’t get rid of the Strigoi at this rate. Except if we make a vaccine. And the handful of brainiacs left say it won’t happen. I’m not having a kid if there is a single chance they might end up infected and then they’d have to swallow a fucking pill and I’d have to hold their hand while they die. Or worse.

“They would not swallow that pill and they would turn and I would have to hunt them down and look in the face of my kid, with their brains too scrambled for them to understand who I am. Then I’d have to kill them. Like when Lexi killed Amir. I’m not doing that.”

“You think the others irresponsible for not having such considerations?”

“You bet your ass I do. But I’m not gonna tell them that. Would be social suicide.”

Raul shook his head.

“And I get it, you know? I love Angela, and I would die for her but she ain’t even mine and I worry all the fucking time.”

Quinlan worried about those humans as well. And above all, he worried about the Sun Hunters. But his fear was different. Humans did not expect to bury the children they loved while he lived with that certainty. He worried their ends might come too early or too painfully. Quinlan considered his fellow Hunter under a new light and with more respect.

“You know Amir would have been twenty-five tomorrow?” asked Raul.

Lexi had told him, but he found it too crushing to keep track of such anniversaries. Should he maintain that habit, his entire year would be spent grieving.

 The airport was almost empty. Few New Yorkers were willing to leave the safety of their city. After the first checkpoint, Raul and Quinlan waited in the quarantine area for two hours. In that room, the walls were covered with various instructions and information. Posters gave advice on avoiding Strigoi abroad (staying inside at night, avoiding forests and countrysides etc…). In a corner, a smaller placard showed the faces of collaborators on the run, including the two doctors who had so far escaped their execution following the Manhattan trials. The larger posters encouraged travelers to report any person showing symptoms of infection to the dedicated hotline of their destination countries. Such telephone numbers were listed underneath.

Raul took this time to share all that he knew about the mission. Seventeen men and two women were missing and drone sweeps had found nothing. The locals would direct them to the caves but were instructed to remain put for the moment. Quinlan agreed with that order. It would be stupid to send humans to their deaths when this was a trivial task for him.

Nurses came with U.V. lights. Unsurprisingly, Raul was not infected and they did not attempt to check Quinlan for worms. The flight would last fourteen hours and to prevent Raul from opening up about his feelings once more, Quinlan extracted a book from his pocket.

“Watcha reading?”

“A Tale of Two Cities.”

“Dickens, huh? A bit modern for you, no?”

Quinlan looked up, mildly surprised Raul knew about that novel. Then he read on as Raul took out a familiar comic book from his bag.

“You read this drivel as well?”

“Lexi is right you know, this is tight.”

-----

Their New York apartment was small, but the simple decoration made it feel bigger. Though the population in the city had decreased dramatically after the Fall, real estate was still rare despite laws promoting their availabilities. Buildings close to the blast of the atomic bomb had been deemed too structurally unstable and were being demolished one by one. Other flats and houses still required thorough decontamination. No one wanted another plague because a worm had managed to survive in a carpet.

Lexi waited for opening hours by watching TV. Since Quinlan did not care for this form of entertainment, she took advantage of his absence to enjoy shows. Some of them had laugh tracks, and she could only imagine the judging looks Quinlan would have given her. It was soon time for her to go.

The neighbors often rushed to their doors to watch her leave. She pretended she could not hear their hurried steps and their breathing when she locked her door and made her way to the elevator. It was time to abandon this flat. Humans here had grown too curious. Perhaps this time they could find something more isolated. She would insist on it.

A delivery man grunted a hello without looking up from his phone when the doors slid open. Somewhere after they passed the tenth floor he must have looked up because his heartrate became deafening. She also ignored him.

A few years ago she might have attempted a nod or a smile, but she had since learned it was pointless. Adults stared or attempted too hard not to. Children old enough to have seen Strigoi sometimes cried and once a very old woman had fainted.

Fortunately, Lexi could drive from her building parking lot to the one in her office of her company, Lifeline. Her assistant welcomed her with a pile of papers to sign. The red circle logo of the company and its name, Lifeline, was printed on each page.

“Could you get me a replacement phone and send this one out for repair?” she asked.

She took her sim card and memory card out of the phone before handing it out to him.

“At this point, you might want to consider buying screens in bulk.”

“Or they could make them sturdier.”

“I doubt anyone is making anything of this brand at the moment. The prices increase all the time.”

“Thanks for the info. Look up if they are any companies making phones and get me one of those.”

It was a common problem. Qualified workers and infrastructure were used for essentials and as long as old electronics were available from the pre-Fall times, resources were rarely spared to produce more. For her own company, it had also been a struggle. Most of their equipment during the first year had come from local universities whose labs were deserted. Three-quarter of the staff working with this equipment had been trained on the job.

Things were finally running smoothly. Now they were producing blood locally in other countries. Today a German envoy had come to open another lab in Munich. They had the equipment and needed cell cultures and know-how.

Lexi stood behind a two-way mirror, a small microphone against her cheek. The receiver was tucked neatly in her employee’s ear and hidden by her thick dark hair. Her name was Claire. The prospective client entered and they greeted each other then sat on each side of a large desk. Humanity was not ready for a Dhampir selling blood.

“So you are interested in opening a production facility with us…” said Claire with an impassible face.

“I believe there’s been a mistake.”

The man smiled without any sign of confusion. Lexi decided she did not like him.

“You’re not interested in buying blood? We don’t sell anything else,” said Claire without returning the smile.

“We are interested in all of Lifeline. The entire company.”

He took out a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and deposited it ostensibly within Claire’s reach. She didn’t acknowledge it.

“It’s not for sale.”

“My employer has the infrastructure to produce and distribute blood to half the world.”

Lexi rolled her eyes. The half of the world in question being the one that could pay generously for it.

“It changes nothing,” said Claire as she got up and pulled down on her blazer jacket.

“Your unwillingness to expand this enterprise kills people.”

Claire tilted her head and Lexi stopped herself from growling.

“What we’ve done so far has saved plenty, and we‘ll continue doing so by ourselves.”

“Make him leave. You don’t need to be polite,” said Lexi.

“By coming here under false pretenses, you wasted your time. Worse, you wasted my time. Security is on its way.”

Lexi chuckled. Unless Claire had telepathic powers, no one was on their way. The man shrugged, tossed a card on the desk and strutted out of the room. He did not linger in the building but he also did not rush.

Claire sat back down, undid her tight bun and kicked off her shoes.

“We were preparing for this extension for weeks. You should eat him.”

“I cannot eat people just because you don’t like them.”

“Not with that attitude,” she mumbled.

Lexi removed the earpiece and returned to the office.

“Let’s hope the next one isn’t a capitalist pig,” Claire said as she picked up her shoes.

“I’ll close the file and join you at the lab when I’m done.”

Lexi took the card and sat down. It was the man’s name and number as well as the name of his company, Axatus Inc. and its symbol, an infinity loop. She shoved it in a drawer on a pile of dozens of such cards. Lexi ground her teeth. Quinlan had gone on a mission without her because of a dick who thought he could make money on the backs of the sick. She opened her laptop and searched for the next flight for Argentina. Only the next day. At that time, the Sun Hunters would be at the mission site in the middle of nowhere. Possibly already finished. Today would be another day of boring lab work and phone calls. She held her head. It felt so empty. Of all days to be alone, this one sucked. Lexi took a deep breath and went to work.

***

The Belvedere Castle’s exterior had changed since the Master’s head had rolled on its terrace. The Mayor had converted it into a museum about the Fall. Or rather a warning that betraying one’s race would not be forgiven nor forgotten. The only “frivolous” spending authorized by the city’s administration.

With a handful of flowers bought from a nearby vendor, Lexi strolled the path leading to the open-air theater. As the sun set, the clear skies were more golden than ochre. Facing the pond, slabs of granite stood erect. The names of the fallen were etched on the stone. Those who had fought the Master but not lived long enough to see victory. The list was not in alphabetical order. On the first stone at the very top, she read the name Abraham Setrakian. Followed by Dutch Velders, Vasily Fet, Nora Martinez, and Ephraim Goodweather. Next to the names were holes just large enough to accommodate the stem of a flower. When she knew the name, even vaguely, she deposited a white rose. When she reached the last name, a stone weighted her stomach. She spoke to him in her mind, and she imagined the words forever lost in the silver place.

“Happy birthday.”

She could almost hear Amir laugh at her. Others were coming and she left before fearful humans could spot her.

Lexi needed to run an errand then she could return to Greystone. There was no way she would face Gus without an apology. And those worked better in the form of a gift.

Lexi seldom shopped in New York. She also took care to never do so with any regularity or discernable pattern. At every gate leading to the city and at the main exit at the airport once could read the city’s motto: “New York, safest city in the world.”

And it was true by any measure. Little to no crime, no homelessness, and above all, no Strigoi. But Lexi had not felt safe in the city since the Manhattan trials.

Only a handful of people roamed the supermarket when Lexi entered. She made a detour in the aisles to avoid them and reached the back shelves. Bright red and with random goods carefully displayed. Some were secured down with chains, others were attached to bulky anti-theft devices.

Lexi had noticed with the years that while Gus shared liquor or wine readily with other Hunters, there was a bottle he didn’t. In a state of drunken cheerfulness, he had shared how his mother had given him his first drink on his eighteenth birthday in the form of cherry liquor and coke. Of course, it hadn’t actually been his first drink but still. Every birthday, they toasted with it. By Lexi’s estimate, Gus had two birthdays worth of cherry liquor left, and the coke was long gone.

After calling half a dozen shops, this was the only one still stocked with those products. With a satisfied grunt, she grabbed the bottles. Finding the perfect present was always a thrill.

Only one person stood at the cashier’s desk and she waited with her head down. Under those lights even with her hood and her tinted glasses people would notice her skin if they paid attention.

“That’ll be 75 dollars,” said the cashier, a young man, with an empty expression.

“But no…I used my food card. This is all food.”

Lexi sighed quietly and took a step back. This would take a while. The cashier rolled his eyes and pointed at the groceries.

“Green labels go on food cards but not blue or red ones. If you put back the steaks and the pancake mix then you’re golden.”

“But…”

“Look, you can either pay for those or put them back. There is no haggling here.”

“Fine,” he said and tossed the two items toward the cashier. Then lower he added “stupid commie system.”

The cashier looked at him with the wounded pride of a New Yorker.

“You can go back to Chicago and starve with the rest of them.”

The customer turned bright red, almost swelling from his anger. Until the security guard walked by as if taking a stroll. After scanning the food card once more, the total fell to zero dollars but a warning appeared.

“Are you aware this will max out your card for a week?” said the cashier in a rehearsed tone.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Are you aware your choice of items lacks sufficient intake of a vital nutrient?”

“That’s ‘cause you took my damn steaks.”

The cashier clicked another button and a table listing vitamins popped on the screen.

“We advise you to consider switching to the iodine enriched bread or including serving of seaweed salad. Both those items are currently available here, for your convenience.”

“Fuck you,” said the man and left with his groceries.

“Charming,” whispered Lexi.

For a moment the cashier nodded in agreement until he looked at her face. He made a strange strangled sound, but still scanned the items.

“It’ll be 205 dollars,” he said. “Please.”

His voice was suddenly high-pitched. She paid and left quickly. With a stone in the pit of the stomach, she rushed out of the city.

-----

The situation perturbed Quinlan. Details stood out as soon as they reached the cave.

Its entrance formed a wound in a wall of sharp stone and bled a trickle of water. The Sun Hunters stayed behind and stared at the wet sand with similar apprehension. The soil stretched undisturbed, save for Quinlan’s boot prints. For good measure, he closed his eyes and focused. Sterile water and the mineral scent of old places. In the depth of the cave, the rushing of an underground river. Strigoi could not inhabit that maze and he would not risk venturing deeper.

“Is there another entrance?” asked Quinlan as he returned to the hunters.

“The locals say that’s the only one,” said Gus.

“They assumed the villagers were gone but I doubt they searched their houses thoroughly. If their first idea is that Strigoi are suddenly able to cross streams, I’d think twice about trusting their every judgment.”

Raul waved over their local guide and asked him in Spanish if they had searched the village. He looked at them with incredulity.

“Ni en pedo,” he said. He maintained a good distance between him and Quinlan.

“What did that mean?” asked Quinlan, unfamiliar with the expression.

“Don’t know but it doesn’t matter, we’re gonna check anyway,” said Gus.

Then he grumbled about “weird-ass vanishing Strigs”.

 A dozen houses surrounded a hangar. The buildings nestled within the confines of high fences surmounted by U.V lights. The gate hung wide open. The Sun Hunters divided into units to search the habitations. Piles of beams, bricks and power tools stood by most. Half the buildings lacked windows. One didn’t have a roof.

Quinlan squinted despite his sunglasses and hood. Sunlight fell mercilessly on his head. In the distance, a chain of mountains appeared almost as blue as the sky. Not a trace of civilization as far as he could see. The vegetation was sparse but the settlers had had no intention of cultivating the ground classically. Even with more regular sunlight than up north, indoor farming remained more reliable.

The teams emerged from the houses empty-handed. Unsurprising. The ammonia scent was diffuse and he could not hear the savage sounds produced by Strigoi.

Only the hangar remained unsearched.

“Get the spikes,” he asked a Hunter.

For Strigoi hiding in soil, they used javelins coated with silver. The hangar reminded him strongly of the lowest level of the bunker. It smelled of wet dirt and fertilizer but not of sap. They had not yet planted anything. Soil filled half a dozen elevated beds deep enough to accommodate trees. And slumbering Strigoi.

Eva and Raul’s units had the spikes. It satisfied Quinlan to see them work together without a trace of awkwardness. When he glanced at Gus, he could tell he was making the same observation. Quietly, a dozen hunters spread and lifted the metal spikes above the black dirt. The rest stood at the ready with carefully aimed rifles. Quinlan also prepared, wounding up his leg muscles and drawing his sword.

Eva and Raul looked at each other, and she raised one finger, then two then three. At that mark, the Hunters stabbed down as one. The spikes pierced the soil. Quinlan tensed, his gaze sliding across all the visible earth. Nothing happened.

Strange.

Gus pinched the base of his nose and exchanged a look with Quinlan. He slashed at his own neck with his hand and Quinlan nodded.

“Listen up, guys! Pack all the gear except for the drones. Marcus, we do a last sweep, I’ll drive.”

The Hunters just as disappointed as their boss returned to the SUVs and loaded back all their equipment. Marcus tweaked with his drone by the jeep.

“You can smell them, right?” Gus asked.

“I do but only in the settlement and its repartition is unfocused. Rather unusual.”

“This shit ain’t right.”

“Agreed. I will investigate the houses.”

Gus departed with Marcus. The buzzing of the drone soon crisscrossed the clear sky.

The houses were Spartan and all identical. Merely blocks of wood and concrete built for safety without any regard for aesthetics. Inside each finished house, he found signs of struggle. Broken furniture, smears of dried blood already swarming with flies and the diffuse stench of ammonia.

Something about the blood also bothered him. He could not put his finger on the exact reason until he reached the kitchen of the last house. There had been a fight in there. The table was broken across the middle and the floor spattered with the remnants of an uneaten meal.

Quinlan ignored those distracting scents. He followed a faint trail and found his target under the fridge. Without much effort, he tossed the piece of furniture aside. Underneath, he found dust, more spilled food and a thin metal cylinder the size of a battery. It ended in a vicious barb covered with blood. The probe of a Taser.

Quinlan brought the object up to his nose. Now he knew. This was what he should have been smelling until now. Pure human blood, this one O negative. In the other houses, the blood had been what he expected from a bag. Old blood with the tinge of a mild anti-coagulant used for preservation. He had spent so long consuming such treated blood that his nose had grown accustomed to the perfume of the drug. Quinlan put the probe in his pocket and went back to the SUV. He hailed Raul.

“I need a UV lamp.”

Raul, without question, rummaged in one of the trunks and tossed him a heavy torchlight.

Quinlan returned to the kitchen and closed all blinds. He switched on the lamp and the purple glow filled the room. Fluorescent yellow specks covered the floors and the lower parts of the walls. Strigoi guano. Like a mist. It made little sense for a Strigoi to release its waste that way. It also made little sense for Strigoi to use weapons on their prey.

“Call Gus and tell him to come back,” he told Raul as he handed him the UV lamp back.

“You found something?”

“I found evidence that no Strigoi ever stepped inside this settlement. This is a simple case of human on human violence. Not our problem.”

“What the fuck?”

He showed him the Taser probe. Eva stared with keen interest.

“I don’t recognize the brand. Must be a new one,” she said.

“Someone sprayed Strigoi guano inside the houses as well as bagged blood. This was staged.”

Eva made a wry face.

“You think someone didn’t like the idea of collabs living the high life?”

“A highly trained and resourceful someone then,” said Quinlan.

“Yeah, so they won’t ever find them and if they do it’s gonna be in tiny pieces.”

“Possibly, but it does not involve us.”

When they informed their Argentinian guide, he was relieved.

“So there are no Strigoi here? It’s safe?” he said in Spanish with an accent that made it difficult for Quinlan to follow.

“Yes, but you might want to call the police since…” said Raul.

“Of course,” said the guide insincerely.

“Give them this,” added Quinlan and he handed the probe which the guide took reluctantly.

He held the object as if ready to toss it away as soon as he was free of their gazes.

“We’ll call in a few days to check that you do,” said Raul.

The guide waved impatiently and after more pushing from Raul, promised to inform the local authorities. Quinlan doubted the investigation would amount to anything. After all, who cared about a handful of missing collaborators?

***

Quinlan was not in a pleasant mood when they landed in New York. None of the Sun Hunters were. They dragged themselves out of the plane and toward the luggage retrieval area. No satisfaction of a job well done counterbalanced their fatigue.

“Maybe I should just retire,” Gus said after sipping at a cup of cheap coffee bought in the airport.

A few white hairs peppered his temples and looked away. By human standard, Gus was young, merely in his thirties. By Hunter standards he was well within his rights to quit and enjoy a comfortable pension.

Of the Sun Hunters who had celebrated the cleaning of New York, few remained. The crowd of Hunter attracted looks, friendly nods and a few cheers. Quinlan cared little for such attention but it helped his human companions.

When they made their way to the parking lot, they stood straighter. Quinlan took the wheel and Gus sat in the passenger seat while in the back Raul and another Hunter snoozed.

“Will you? Retire?” asked Quinlan.

“Dunno. I always feel like that when something goes to shit. Let me finish my coffee. When my brains start back up, maybe I'll know.”

He raised his cup and took another sip. When Quinlan pulled up in front of the Sun Hunter headquarters, he could not feel Lexi within the city. Quinlan checked his phone. She had gone back to Greystone as her work deal had come short. On the last line of her text, she wrote,

“If you focus I'm sure you would be able to see me from New York.”

He borrowed a car then left the city. The canals running through the streets had been decommissioned threes year after New York’s clearing. It was dark but the streets were bright and bustling with life. It was always jarring when they traveled to other cities. In most of the world, humans stayed inside their homes at night. Most shops opened and closed depending on sunlight hours.

New York was free of those concerns. While here humans felt safe, it did not change how hideous those buildings and streets were.

He stopped in a deserted road still hours from Greystone, cut the engine and used the silence of the countryside to look within himself. Dream Ancharia’s words distracted him for an instant but he succeeded in pushing them away.

Lexi had told him to find the door that would lead to the silver place. But its doorknob was round and smooth and slippery. The whole exercise frustrated him. Through this door, he would be able to see but most of the time he didn't. He simply attempted to relax until he felt warm all over. When he did that near her then he felt her as though touching her with invisible hands.

He tried both. Failed at the first then also at the second. He tried again until the frustration made him growl. It was pointless. Quinlan took the road again.

When he reached the familiar forest of Greystone, he still could not feel Lexi. He was surprised since at that distance the Bond should have been back. The deeper he drove, the more his surprise morphed into worry.

“Lexi?”

There was no answer because she was not there. But her car was. When he entered, her bag sat in the entrance.

The wooden floor of their bedroom creaked. He focused on that sound and found another. A heartbeat. Someone was in the house. He tried again to find the Bond and failed.  

This was his home and someone had violated it with their unwanted presence. A burglar? Or someone with more nefarious intentions? His thought went to the terrorist who had almost blinded Lexi.

Quinlan growled lowly, unsheathed his sword and ran up the stairs. A body smashed into him and his sword left his grip. As they tumbled down the stairs in a mess of limbs, Quinlan noticed several things.

White hair, inhuman strength and the perfume of limes with a sweet finish. Their fall ended abruptly as they collided against a wall. Both jumped to their feet in a eerily similar fashion. She stared at him with wide eyes and he gawked back. It made no sense.

As thought in pain, she touched her temples and shook her head. She looked the same, smelled the same but she could not be here because the Bond was not. Their home, the real one, the only that mattered, was gone. If he had been able to vomit, he’d have done so.

“How?” whispered Lexi.

----

The woman tossed a piece of paper on the table. It was a police report in Spanish.

“They were sloppy. This can’t happen again.”

“If this new formulation works, there won’t be any need for more subjects,” said the man.

“You actually think we are going to find a formulation that works?”

“Well, yes…you don’t? Why the hell did you accept this then?”

“Because I was tired of hiding and if another rich idiot wants to waste his money on this wild goose chase, who am I to refuse?”

He shook his head.s

“If we manage we won’t need to run. It would dwarf the invention of vaccines or the discovery of antibiotics. We could help peop…”

“Shut up. Don’t give me the help people crap or I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Fine. But at least tell me you understand this is our way out of this mess.”

“I do, I also think it’s not the only way out.”

[rimeshard]

Back Catalog of Items

As a vendor, Riley tends to go through a ton of items at any one given market, shop stall, booth or festival. I’m keeping track of the items she sells in this post!

Some of them might return; some of them are too rare or meaningful. Who knows 💀

The most recent incarnation of the catalog can be found [ HERE ]. Note that the items there [ unless they have a ‘Restocked’ stamp! ] will not be listed here until they’ve been sold.

NOTE: I won’t be keeping track of who buys them; each marketplace will have its own post after its completion that announces that information.

[ Tarnished Scorn-Ring ]

A forlorn looking ring with a single blue-black gemstone of indeterminate worth set in its center. The band is thick, yet is able to stretch to fit on any finger that tries it on without yield or warping the metal, from Gnome to Tauren. Wearing this ring while unencumbered with the weight of emotional devotion to another fills its wearer with a sense of warmth and comfort, and they are able to easily remove it and re-gift it. A bearer that wears this ring while their heart is pledged to another will feel nothing but sorrow and boundless misery while their partner is close - eventually fostering a Pavlovian resentment towards them. What appears to be a simple strip of gold is in reality an indestructible, unknown alloy; taking a runic hammer to it, shooting it off or freezing the metal to make it brittle will not remove it from the bearer’s person; even removing the finger itself will cause the ring to simply materialize onto another one. 

The only way to truly remove the ring for the burdened one is to terminate their feelings towards their loved one with full cognizance and determination. Only then will ring will then shatter off into brittle, blackened pieces. If the previous owner attempts to rekindle the relationship then unrestrained, the innumerably indestructible sharp shards of the ring’s remnants will stop at nothing to drive themselves into the loved one’s heart.

[ Kul Tiran Music Box ]

A carved wooden music box, pieced together from roughly-hewn, polished and lovingly lacquered driftwood, slightly larger than an average human male’s palm. When opened, it displays the obvious inner trappings of a music box anchored within; a contraption featuring rows of tiny keys that drag across a metallic rotary spindle dotted with raised pinpricks. The box does not appear to require any wind-up mechanism, and plays from where it last left off when closed. A slow, soothing melody, reminiscent of a joyous key of the Daughter of the Sea plays upon opening the lid to this music box, and a glistening arcane projection of two female figures embracing dance in the blank space of the vessel.

Opening this box to play on any shore of Kul Tiras will summon melancholy spirits of those that have drowned at sea, looking to be put to rest in finality from their untimely oceanic demise.

[ Scarlet Libram Bindings ]

Abandoned covers of what looks to have been a libram belonging to a paladin of the Scarlet Crusade. The pages have all been mercilessly torn from the spine in ragged clumps, leaving only shreds of parchment behind that stubbornly stayed glued to the baseboard. The libram’s covers are bedecked in untarnished gold, with large oval rubies bound by golden prongs in the four corners, and an embossed symbol of the kingdom of Lordaeron as a battle standard in the center. Behind it is the symbol of a flame, made to shine incandescent when the bindings are tilted and viewed at differing angles. All holy power seems to have been stripped from these bindings, leaving them as little more than decorative iconography. Perhaps a collector is interested in restoring or maintaining it.

No hidden effects here - these bindings can be used to repair a Crusader’s broken libram, or perhaps burnt in effigy by someone whom the Crusade has harmed.

[ Thorval’s Missing Blood Vial ]

A chipped vial covered in stickied fingerprints that persist no matter how forcefully one tries to wash them off. The vial is empty, but has a reddish tinge stained to its transparent glass, that likewise cannot be scoured. Adding even scant drops of any one creature’s fresh blood, several mana crystals, and then corking the vial and shaking it will cause the drops of blood inside to replicate at an abnormal rate. This blood is identical to the donor’s blood and can be used how one sees fit.

The longer one shakes the vial, the more blood is replicated. It is ill-advised to proceed once the glass container is filled, as doing so may force the coagulated blood to develop sentience, burst angrily from containment and wholly defend itself against further agitation.

[ Firehawk Fletching Pouch ]

A loose leather pouch of intensely colored, carefully formed and cut feathers, designed to aerodynamically help guide an arrow to its target. They have a color gradient ranging from a deep crimson to a vibrant white, and are perpetually warm to the touch. When correctly attached to an arrow shaft and fired from a skilled ranger’s bow, they appear to engulf the surrounding atmosphere in dazzling flames, leaving a trail of embers in their wake. Elongated and dagger-like, these sharpened feathers give off a vibe of unsettling anger and even betrayal.

A ranger that uses these feathers as fletching against a target that they hold considerable ire towards will find that shots explode on contact - dealing damage to only allies in a rain of red-hot embers.

[ Jar of L’ghorek Jelly ]

Riley and her former partner took place in an undersea battle with the might of the Alliance in order to protect Azeroth’s coasts from the risen demigod L’ghorek, manipulated by the Twilight’s Hammer into service to fulfill a sinister plot of destruction and mayhem. Riley herself was able to directly damage one of the creature’s many eyes, and recover a clay jar’s worth of inner eyeball jelly that had stuck to her armor. This jelly appears to retain an oily state when removed from water, making it perfect for machine lubricants, sloughing over healing wounds, moisturizing cracked skin and more.

Customers - especially those prone to whispers - are not recommended to attempt to use this jelly for personal lubrication, as it may still contain the taint of the Void, despite best attempts to have it purified.

[ Evercracked Geode ]

A small, plain rock, roughly the size of an elf’s closed fist.  When broken open, the rock reveals itself to be a sparkling geode, rimmed with valuable crystals - the bulk of which are contained together into a large random gemstone, pre-polished and ready for sale, able to be safely chipped from the rock’s remnants. When left covered, the geode - no matter how small the pieces of which were crushed - will revert to its original form, so long as it remains undisturbed. Cracking it open again a full day later will reveal yet another precious stone; replicated and guaranteed to make the beholder wealthy through resale.

The buyer is cautioned to keep only the original pieces of the geode together and completely undisturbed during its reformation process. Attempts to manipulate the geode onto larger rocks to greedily facilitate the spread of the gems within will result in the rock instead taking a living form and attacking the owner without remorse or relent - once it is destroyed, the original geode replication rock cannot be recovered.

[ Vrykul Death Mask ]

Lesser Vrykul were not given the honorable death they so desired. Those made mortal by the curse of flesh who died in mundane ways - nothing inherently worthy, such as battle, or even through a worthy trade, like a smithing accident - were not given an interred burial in revered grounds like Shield Hill. Their shamed faces were covered with roughly carved wooden masks, and their bodies were cast out to be pecked apart by ravens, unclaimed by any who passed them. They were given no weaponry with which to defend themselves in Helheim. These rotten, fetid carvings, swollen by the elements and worn over time, took on echoes of the rage and sorrow their bearers feel while trapped within the inescapable realm of Helya’s domain.

Placing this mask on one’s face - covering their eyes, nose and mouth - will immediately cease all bodily functions within that person, effectively killing them. While their body bears this mask, their spirit is tethered to the body; able to move freely between material spaces or observe an opaque, blurred version of the Shadowlands. For all intents, the person wearing this mask is dead, and cannot be revived until someone else removes the mask.

[ Val’kyr Haunt Seeker ]

A finely sculpted lifelike statue, carved out of marble, in the shape of an ascending val’kyr; the very tips of her toes connecting with a flared base, her wings ablaze and pike raised aloft into the air in a gesture of triumph. The base is inscribed with a golden plaque bearing the name “ANNHYLDE” in faded vry’kul runes, smoothed over as if reverently stroked by passerby. This statue is imbued with the blessings of the Light most Radiant, and will seek out and destroy untethered wayward spirits when placed into an area in which one haunts. The val’kyr will briefly animate and reach out with its pike, pointing towards and firing a bolt of Light at the spirit to coalesce and ensnare it into itself. In this manner it will keep one’s home clean from rebellious souls.

If the Haunt Seeker is relied upon too heavily to maintain the spiritual cleansing of one’s hearth, it will gradually darken in both form and shade - the marble taking on an ashen appearance - until the figure ‘dies’ and is reborn as a vengeful Scourge val’kyr. It will animate fully, lifting off from the base, and release the dense cluster of souls it has collected over time in an orchestrated attack against its lackadaisical owners.

[ Tattered Heraldic Standard ]

A heraldic standard that, when untouched by any hand, bears a grayed and matted appearance, not giving any true clue to whom it belongs. It looks to be made of thick and rugged burlap, designed to withstand many battles and banner-waving, but has no iconography sewn into its bearing, or any hint of former house information. When a soldier under a council of repute touches the standard to shoulder it into a battle, the colors of their gallantly pledged order spread like watercolors onto the grey, dyeing down to the very fringes the soldier’s true colors of loyalty, along with the house sigil. In this way, a Sovereign, Duke, Lord or Baron may test their army’s patriotic dedication within their ranks; if one among them who bears this standard is treacherous, the banner will begin to warp as if touched by bleach to the turncoat’s true house colors.

If a soldier is truly loyal to none but themselves, the standard will remain tattered and grayed despite any goading or fevered attempts to impress those of a higher station with their sworn loyalties.

[ Thalassian Phoenix Earrings ]

A pair of ornately designed, filigree-encrusted truesilver earrings. They are dripping with flawless almond-shaped sapphires and Azerothian diamonds in a symmetrical pattern, visually evoking the plumed feathers of a rising phoenix, with the hoop viewed and formed as its beak gracefully clasping onto the wearer’s earlobe. The truesilver bird is at first shown with its feathers clasped to its breast, and while worn, slowly open to reveal what appears to be a triumphant approach into the dusk. While discernible as heavy and cumbersome to wear, they are unnervingly light to hold. They may have belonged to a Thalassian bride or even royalty, given their ornate design. Merely being in the earrings’ presence evocates an aura of morose loss.

One who is suffering from a yet-incurable illness can bear these earrings to have their body be put into a permanent stasis. Unlike other items that may go so far as to physically stall the bodily function of the bearer in question until such time as they are removed, these earrings merely put the sufferer into a stiff, dreamless sleep from which they cannot be awakened or interacted with, even through the Dream or in the Shadowlands. One is advised to remove the earrings before the truesilver phoenix fully appears to be taking flight, or the soul of the bound being will travel with it to parts unknown.

[ Bag of Underbelly Rats ]

A purple-dyed burlap sack bearing the Kirin Tor’s golden all-seeing eye sigil in its center.  Opening the sack releases a single engorged rat from the Underbelly of the Dalaran Sewers. The rats are always slightly violet-tinged with phosphorescent white eyes, and bearing any conceivable mutation or temporary magical power from the multitudes of potions sent to the Sewers. The summoned rat is loyal only to the sack owner and will obey the orders given, but is instantly dispersed into a cloud of arcane dust if the sack is opened again to replace it with another at-random rat - in this manner, only one Underbelly rat can be summoned at any given time. There appears to be an infinite amount of rats summonable in this fashion. This sack functions as a one-way portal FROM Dalaran, and the bearer cannot use it to visit the Sewers themselves.

Attempting to summon more than one rat at once by vigorously shaking the bag upside down will instead summon a swarm of vicious and rabid rats that will turn on the sack-bearer.

[ Obrahiim’s Abandoned Scroll Case ]

An elongated, blackened and tattered scroll case, with a ripped, ragged strap affixed to its body designed for ease of shouldering it and its contents. The case itself is empty save for several undisturbed cobwebs; devoid of any parchment or quills. As a whole, this case looks to be engraved and branded with varying spider-like designs, evoking a Nerubian influence. Tarnished gold leaf flecks cover the breadth of the case, and it is speckled with cracked gemstones and sockets; it held obvious significance once, perhaps as a gift, but has been left to rot in abandonment. 

The longer the case is held, the more fantastical the flood of architectural designs into one's mind becomes. However,  an obsessive consultation of the case results in an increasingly arachnid and disturbing pattern given - influencing the case’s querent with nightmares of spindled legs and unceasing whispers.

[ King’s Amber Chunk ]

A roughly cut yellow gemstone, with innumerable facets man-made and otherwise inside and out on its face. Within the entirety of the crystal's length, and peppering the depths of its makeup, are tiny golden rivulets of various shimmering, refractory shades. King's Amber is formed from ancient trees located beyond the southernmost point of the Bleeding Hollow ruins in Terokkar Forest, and is incredibly difficult to gather by one's self - the broken trees, floating unstable islands and native wildlife is usually treacherous enough to deter the casual adventurer. While not very resonant, King’s Amber is mostly desired both for its natural luster in jewelry and study of fossilized remnants.

Cloudy King's Amber may be clarified in an oil-bath, as the oil fills the numerous pores that give the piece its turbidity. The resulting oil is then usually recommended by smiths in the know to quench finished blades being forged for nobility, as it gives the metal a sheen that normally requires hours of polishing. Cracking open the King’s Amber will release what appears to be hundreds of tiny fireflies that give the piece its luminosity; only skilled jewelers need apply to work with this material, unless they want to completely dull the intent of owning the piece.

[ Humble Veneration Candle ]

A candle traded to Riley at the Tournament of Ages in exchange for the bindings of a battered Scarlet libram. While humble in nature, with wax sourced from the Storm Peaks - nothing obtuse, such as foreign wax from Kul Tiras, or Pandaria - the candle is formed in a pillar with a thickened wick, allocating a long burn time. The candle itself gives off a pious appearance; humble, not dyed or painted white, and even rough in places from its handmade dipped formation. Riley was able to secure this candle, noting even in her state of undeath that it held great spiritual ties to the Light. The Forsaken - yes, Forsaken - paladin that had hand-formed this candle had done so in reverence and in use for quiet repose, not to be used in a pompous ceremony at a service for the passing of a collection plate, and thus it embodies the virtue of ‘the eye of the needle’.

[ Ruhkmar’s Scrutiny ]

What appears to be a natural gemstone the size of a Gnomish index finger, smooth and hexagon shaped, with a gradient scaling innard of piercing yellow to a depthless black from the surface to its core - giving off a sacred reminiscence of an unblinking, all-seeing iris. The gemstone itself contains no natural visible or invisible flaws within its structure; no air bubbles, no cleaved cavities, no clouding and no scuffs befouling its form. A jewelcrafter may be brought to stunned silence at the natural formation of this gem; the only ‘flaws’ being a scant remnant of stonework clinging to its underside, betraying its unethical removal and theft from an Arakkoan statue. This can be easily removed by one skilled at the craft. Perfectly formed, this gemstone collects, stores, refracts and then multiplies any sunlight or holy Light shot towards it; in this manner, it may be attached to a weapon as a foci for one versed in such practice.

The buyer is cautioned to not stare too deeply into the iris’ black center to trace back the beautiful hues comprising the gem - while they will not hear whispers attributed to the gods of old, they will however feel a white-hot burning in the back of their eyeballs that cannot be alleviated by any means, akin to gazing unblinking at the sun for a long period of time.

[ Azshara-Print Beach Towel ]

The last vestige of a very, very failed business venture on the part of a very, very entrepreneurial Goblin. His mindset being that beachgoers loved having their own unique towels with which to sun themselves on at the beach, many with customized prints - and why not an image of the most beautiful creature on Azeroth, the Queen of the Naga herself? A generously described “artist’s rendition” of the Queen was drawn up by a poorly compensated artist - always pay your artists! - who swelled her bosoms up to a size befitting the Goblin businessman’s aesthetic. The towels were printed and offered by beachside shack - another very poor business decision - and without delay a cadre of Naga Fathom-Lords had arrived, tridents in hand, to shred the Goblin, his shack, and the stock of badly-made merchandise. Hardly absorbent, threadbare and mass-produced with cheapened ink, this towel is the last of its kind due to the prior owner’s severed head being carried back into the tides with the Fathom-Lords on one of their trident prongs. None have tried to desecrate the Queen in such a manner since.

Waving this towel at a beachside will undoubtedly summon a small army’s worth of infuriated Naga, all of which are  hellbent on recuperating the dignity of their beloved Queen. Otherwise, it’s a pretty awful rendition of Azshara’s person. Maybe it could be worth some coin to a fanatical Highborne? It doesn’t seem to have any curses or ill-intent otherwise.

[ Handcarved Reed Flute ]

A memento from a famous traveling singer and verdant-clad performance artist who made his living busking in the busy streets of the Seven Kingdoms. When particularly pleased with the accompaniment of a performing child to draw in the admiring eyes of a generous crowd, this artist would gift his impromptu partner with a piccolo carved from a simple hollow reed, to keep them amused when he would leave until such time that he would return. The minstrel made the grave mistake of visiting the cursed city of Stratholme on the day that the crown prince of Lordaeron made his choice to purge it of its festering rot. Struck down, the minstrel’s spirit wanders the streets of the ever-burning city, refusing to stop performing for the lost souls of the damned, in the hope of providing even the smallest respite.

This reed-carved flute has retained its shape and tensile strength over time, and is still a functional instrument. Even a feeble attempt to play it will almost always lull the player’s audience into a calm stupor, regardless of their feral nature, drunken rage or bloodlust. If played by a particularly skilled performer, it will add a concerto depth and a ghostly accompaniment to their song by an unseen, grateful partner.

[ Unending Pouch of Jerky ]

A leather piece that folds open into a bisected wallet. One can pull out countless pieces of a meaty jerky - the source of which is entirely unknown - that fills the stomach of the owner and whomever they wish to share it with. This is not your typical mana-based mage food; it is wholly filling, and does not appear to be constructed from arcane magics. The cohesion, flavor and chewiness of the jerky changes each time a piece is withdrawn, as if the meat source was not consistent; sometimes stringy, sometimes beef-flavored or chicken-flavored; sometimes exotic foods appear, such as venison, zhevra, basilisk, boar, chimera, Barrens kodo, Icecrown penguin, or even supple hawkstrider and toughened corehound meat; on rare occasions, the owner may withdraw a rotted, fetid piece of flesh from an abomination in Acherus.

The exceedingly greedy may find their muscles atrophying when using the wallet too much as a primary food source, suggesting that the constant divvying is depleting their own flesh for sustenance.

[ Slice of Petrified World Tree ]

The intense heat and pressure from the fires of Teldrassil crushed the boughs of the great Tree beneath its own crumbling weight. This compression forced a rushed petrification of the remaining wood; what wasn’t wholly consumed in the fire remained as an eerily beautiful organic sculpture of twisted, blackened lumber, and when the ash is dusted away, it reveals a piece with innumerably beautiful layers. It is hard to tell if this is directly from the Tree, or a Kaldorei building that nestled within Dolanaar or other Kaldorei settlements. This is a unique piece; several palm lengths tall and an inch thick.

The purchase of this item invites the spirit of a lost Kaldorei that perished in the fires of Teldrassil to haunt your home. They will soil your food, wilt your plant life and snuff your hearth - for obvious reasons.

[ Cartel Multitool ]

A beaten-down and worn looking wooden pocket knife with innumerable layered tools stashed within, bearing the mark of what one assumes is a foreign Goblin cartel. Only the attuned buyer - or one gifted it - may utilize this device, and fold it open to its full size; while human finger-length, it has obviously been enchanted by a prior crafter to expand outwards when necessary to retrieve the needed tool. When opened, this item can function as anything reasonably designated as a hand-powered tool. This includes, on record: an axe, a crowbar, a small hammer, a saw, a collapsing drill, a can opener, a hole punch, three varieties of screwdriver, a dagger, nail clippers, a leather punch, spring-bearing scissors, a metal file, a wood chisel, a pair of removable tiny pliers, a magnifying lens with two settings, a multipurpose hook, a stainless steel pin, a wire scraper, a cuticle pusher, a fish scaler, and a corkscrew. One gets the impression that nearly any man-powered tool can be pulled from the folded depths.

The buyer is recommended to replace the tool that is withdrawn from the multitool promptly when finished with it. Giving more than a passing glance over some of the more otherwise unremarkable tools within the set reveal them to be embossed with hardened bone and toughened sinew, not metal and leather; conclusions can be drawn that the tool has recouped its losses of items from the previous owners in trade for their carelessness.

[ Morose Stuffed Owlbeast Plush ]

The forlorn remains of a half-charred owlbeast plush, presumably recovered from a Darnassian settlement following the destruction of many Kaldorei homesteads. This owlbeast has foul-smelling burnt false hair, is missing a soft felt horn, and has a large rip in its midsection; half of its stuffing is spilling, and one of its button eyes is coming undone and needs to be resewn. It is able to manifest a morose ‘hoot’ when gently squeezed - just so, though, as to not encourage more stuffing to fall out. The owlbeast, when encountered by one who would foster it back to ‘health’ with lovingkindness and care, immediately imprints upon such a prospective owner, and fills them with an aura of comfort.

Keeping this stuffed animal around other dolls unattended will result in their wanton destruction - stuffing ripped out, eyes pulled off, outfits slashed - by the jealous spirit of the creature. If the owlbeast is completely repaired by its purchaser, the ensuing rampages will stop, but the comforting aura will persist and magnify.

[ Silver Hand Tabard Shreds ]

Shreds of what was once a tabard of the Silver Hand, braided together in a rope as to not be torn apart. The embroidered silver fist emblem of the Hand can be felt within its pleats, giving off an almost unnaturally warm glow when held by those that reverently follow the path of the Light. Those in the close presence of this braided relic are often brought to a deferential silence, in memory of the Order’s - and in particular - Highlord Tirion Fordring’s sacrifices; grasping it while ungloved will fill the beholder with visions and warmth of the Light’s will - superseding their own, in some ways, with its gentle guidance.

Reliance on this tabard for grace will inevitably lead to an unhealthy dependency on it - the beholder not being able to draw on their own connection to the Most Radiant. The more they try to seek validation and pleasure through the Light’s warmth, the more the tabard is reduced to a ratty, tattered cloth, the braid coming undone and the fabric fraying into meaningless threads.

[ Candescent Vase ]

An unoffending flower vase, hand-blown and translucent. It has tinges of seafoam greens and blues that swirl through its form, culminating in a pure white rolled rim, and is threaded with thin veins of pyrite throughout. The vase is reminiscent of an animated ocean’s rolling tide when viewed at varying angles. Placing greenery within this vase, along with pure water, will ensure that it never wilts; not a petal or pistil is out of place once its stalk is placed inside. Those partial to keeping the flowers everlasting within the vase may yet feel slightly anemic themselves for as long as the flora remains within.

While useful for continual harvest of rare herbs and flowers, one is cautioned to not keep more carnivorous plants such as the Gorgrond Flytrap in this vase, as it tends to draw more upon the owner’s life force to thrive.

[ Cracked Gold-Rimmed Monocle ]

A dandy plate-glass circular lens, rimmed in gold; it is missing its securing chain. While the glass was once pristine, it is now spiderwebbed and the metal bezel is bent and tarnished. Acquiring and affixing it in one's dominant eye orbit offers them a distinguished appearance, inviting confidence and camaraderie. Despite the glass's thickened cracks, once the monocle is worn, one is able to see through the lens with odd clarity - especially viewing the more affluent; the lens highlights coins and jewelry the viewer's target has on their person, regardless of where the wealth is shrouded.

Wearing this monocle for extended periods will cause the bearer to see nothing but hallucinogenic projections of untouchable coins and piles of jewels in seemingly innocuous locations.

[ Broken Jinyu Pearl Set ]

What appears to be a broken set of pearl jewelry; a necklace and set of earrings nestled within a crushed velvet jewelry box. One gets the sense that if the earrings were fully put together, they would construct something evocative of Jinyu aesthetic - a pile of unrepaired jewelry parts sits in the box, tangled up into itself. There are a set of opalescent blue pearls, threaded through knots of thin silver chains; unseemingly bent trident-like fork rounds out as a clutch for the pearl pair. The necklace in question has a set of tangled pearls equal if not larger in size than the earrings, and is interspersed with dripping, torn chains of cracked teal-tinted diamonds in pear cuts. A skilled artisan could repair these pieces and sell them for a decent enough price, given that their knowledge of Jinyu jewelcrafting suffices.

Once repaired, if a potential buyer has a strong rapport with the sea - Kul Tiran in blood, a shaman that specializes in healing waters, an elf that may have been a seafaring merchant, even a mage talented in frost magics - any sort of oceanic affinity may belong here - they may find themselves drawn to wearing the jewelry, and it will greatly amplify any connection to all forms of water and its manipulation. However, doing so will force any food or water that is near their lips to turn to a sickening pitch consistency while wearing the jewelry - their hands can grasp the food, and even others may attempt to feed them to circumvent this - but the nourishment will consistently turn to the viscosity of repulsive sludge once it nears them. Rapidly removing and re-adding the jewelry will not bypass this effect, as its curse is immediate, and lingers for several days after the jewelry’s removal.

[ Coronet of the Waning Crescent ]

A beautifully thin silver circlet, the face of which is set with a series of round-cut opaque moonstones and glimmering opals. When a buyer places this crown on their brow, they instantly become physically blind - unable to see anything on the mortal plane that has not been touched by pure moonlight. The landscape that has been illuminated by this light shows a shifting and blending history of past, present and future, specifically happening at the highlighted location. These isochronous cycles will happen in a loop until the coronet is removed and sight is returned to the owner.

Excessive use is not advised. Constant reliance on the past and future visions provided by this coronet may cause the bearer to begin seeing blended versions of history from varying failed and successful timelines interfering with their normal sight to where they cannot discern what is ‘real’, what is the Prime timeline, and what is tangible.

[ Isochronous Lantern ]

A tiny lantern with four unique stained glass sides on a rotatable bezel. Each panel of the crafted glass displays a different seasonal depiction of a lone tree atop a hill; in the spring, the tree is blooming with buds; in the summer, it is fully blossomed and shade-bearing; in the fall, a harmonious color of descending leaves piles around it, and in the winter, it is a dignified, barren trunk, covered in a layer of pure snow. The lantern, while the panels are sizable, only has enough space in its bottom hinged drawer for a tealight-sized candle; luckily, four of these are included for the buyer’s convenience. When lit and kept only within the confines of the drawer, while turning the panels towards its corresponding scene, the lantern will emit without end a warm light and a pleasing seasonal scent, until the owner blows it out or it is otherwise snuffed with malevolence. 

The tealights are, in color, season and scent: • A green Spring, carrying the scent of the perpetual springtime of Eversong Woods; light and floral, with a hint of melancholy petrichor. • A yellow Summer, featuring the scent of Pandaria’s Heartland in the Valley; an earthy, summery dew with blooming flowers and ripe vegetables. • An orange Fall, giving off the scent of the forests of Lordaeron prior to the Scourge’s rampage. Heavy with oak, and the perfume of soil and crunching leaves underfoot. • A blue Winter, the dead stillness and iron-wrought, bloodied scent of Wintergrasp. A light and brisk scent of peppermint with an undertone of metal and copper.

Sometimes curios are just that - curious. There appears to be nothing malevolent behind this lantern’s existence; only the morose feeling of one waiting seasons for a loved soldier to return home.

[ Arakkoan Solar Orb ]

A perfectly sculpted, spherical orb made of an unbelievably thin glasslike material. There is not a single point on this human palm-sized orb that belies where the crafter finished their task to shape its form, giving the impression that it just appeared naturally; swirled with a brilliant bevy of gradient reds to whites, the orb is reminiscent of a pure sunrise, devoid of any obfuscating clouds. It functions much like a touch-lamp; tapping the orb in varying degrees and holding down one’s hand intensifies the heat and light given to a near-unbearable point. Tapping it again while on reverses the glow to an ‘off’ tinge. The orb is safe to use around flammable objects and small children, as its surface remains cool, despite the heat and light it gives.

The owner is cautioned not to drop, crack or break the orb, as doing so will flash the surrounding area - albeit briefly - with the heat, light and intensity of the sun, many magnitudes beyond what even the most capable fire mage is capable of handling in abjuration; scorching the expanse of the orb’s field of light like a solar flare to where not even ashes remain.

[ Steelspindle Spider Webbing ]

A spool of carefully threaded spider webbing, harvested from the Steelspindle spider. While the thread is thin, this particular breed is imposingly large - roughly the size of a yak calf, with a fully grown leg span comparable to the height of a healthy male Draenei. Their webbing is prized for being twice as strong as equivalent cables of Titansteel when properly processed, and is not used to stickily trap; strung only to trip up prey in a catacomb to bear down upon them with powerful jaws in group formations. Their tendency to engage in vicious in-fighting in the wild, combined with Horde and Alliance conflicts in the outer reaches of Terrokar Forest (their natural habitat) has dwindled the population to near-extinction. Luckily, Riley had contacts with a prior Outpost established in Draenor, beset by grown Steelspindles that had escaped a clutch brood.

There is nothing overtly dangerous about the usage of a Steelspindle spider thread spool, or its webbing. The obvious weaknesses to spider threading apply; tension, fire and frost, though it takes an inordinate amount of each to break the threading. Nonetheless, one is advised to check for any remaining egg casings; while the Steelspindle starts very small, it has a voracious appetite and can quickly take over a living space with impunity. The most important trait of the Steelspindle spider is its asexual egg sac reproduction - if even one gets loose, you’ll have a full infestation on your hands.

[ Oblationary Skull Candle ]

What appears to be a greasy, crooked set of candles made from an unknown tallow. They are joined together at their flattened ends and wrapped into a solid mass by a length of blackened twine, sealed with a wax stamp of a tusked skull. The candle itself is slippery and difficult to hold level. When one end is lit, the other flickers to life, and the thinned wick begins burning equally at an unnerving rate. This appears to be lifted from a shrine in particular dedicated to Bwonsamdi, and kindling it will not be taken without heed by the loa - who sees the action as both a challenge and a pair of potential offerings.

Alarmingly enough, in a catalog of dangerous things, this is easily the most dangerous. The one who lights the candle will wager their life with the act of prolonging the life of their target in kind, in cases of grievous injury that cannot be easily mended. Both ends, one representing the wounded and one the stabilizer, burn equally, until they reach the wax skull seal. Should the skull be melted in full before the injured is brought from the brink of death, both lives will be forfeit; the enkindler must stabilize their target, or lose both of their souls in the process. Snuffing the candle in any capacity once lit is not recommended, as deals reneged are looked upon poorly by the loa of Death.

[ Defiled Temple Hookah ]

A traditional water-based smoking pipe, operated by loading tobacco into a bowl, placing it atop a stem, warming the bowl with coals, and drawing the smoke through a downstem and into a cooling chamber of water - which is then siphoned into the user’s drawn breath by hose. This particular hookah is in immaculate condition for its age and appears to be sin’dorei inspired; the glass base is blown with wreathed, arcing flames and imparted real gold sparks atop its lip. The downstem is a brilliant gold and has four valves, and the accompanying clay bowl with which to fluff the tobacco into is a lacquered black. The hookah includes four hoses, to be shared with a large party; hookah is intended as a social activity, after all. The hookah and its accessories are packaged into a shellacked wooden box for easy transport. 

Smoking any manner of tobacco or felweed with this hookah as a vessel will impart the inhaler with hallucinogenic, untrustworthy visions of the past in the location which the smoking session takes place. Not all visions are preferable to witness. One is advised to not remain under the effects of the smoked substance for too long; drawing through this hookah for elongated periods of time causes irreparable damage to the smoker’s lungs - not biological, but manifests as a buildup of gunked fel tar, the source of which can be traced back to the Black Temple itself.

[ Emerald Dream Flower Stamens ]

Sourced from trusted - and well compensated - druids that have access to the Emerald Dream, these collected stamens (the protruding male part of a flower that has the pollen on it, for the botanically uninclined) are housed in a small glass bottle with a corked stopper. Enchanted to not dry out, this pollen can be used to cross-breed with other Azerothian plants, resulting in bigger blooms, larger yields and awe-inspiring colors. This item is recommended only for the most skilled tenders. There are whispers that what lies within the darkest parts of the Dream, presumably purged by skilled adventurers and Cenarius himself, has yet lived on through these unblemished grains.

This item may facilitate a gardener or practiced Druid of the Grove to be able to replicate plants from within the Dream, or hybridization with other plants - advancing endless possibility for the most creative or adept. They are forewarned that scant grains of the pollen collected may be tainted by whatever had previously affected the Dream’s peaceful rest; some wounds, while healed over, are not so superficially burnished.

[oceanmastertrash]

the tide knows our names- part 2

gif from @dcmultiverse

Summary: The reader is part of ancient council of Atlanteans known as Tidewatchers who can see/predict the future. As Arthur settles into being king, You get a powerful vision of an attempt on Orm’s life. 

Part: 2/?

Word Count: 1,770

Warnings: Not in this chapter.

chapter one  / Read on Ao3

Author's Note: I did not expect to get this chapter out this quickly but it's lovely and I'm grateful for the inspiration! Also, thank you so much to those who replied, liked and reblogged! I honestly wasn't sure if anyone would read this, so that was very encouraging. Hope you enjoy this chapter even more! I'm obviously setting things up but I had fun digging more into the meat of the fic with this. And, most importantly, we get a certain dethroned King in this chapter so that's fun.

While your first instinct was to swim straight to the palace and demand an audience with the king, you calmed yourself of that nonsense. You’d had years of training in your craft and knew better than to immediately fly off the handles and cause a panic. While your vision had been immediate and clearer than most, you had learned the hard way that all portents could be misinterpreted and required due care.

So you sought the advice of some of the older Tidewatchers that you most trusted. You were no young guppy in age or experience but the council had been at this for decades, passing down the knowledge and patterns of countless generations. Something in you screamed at the delay but it was the right call, a cautious call, perhaps, but the right one.

The elders sat with you through another Watching but all you got for your trouble was a clearer image of the blade as it stabbed Prince Orm. And that was quickly covered in blood. No insight into the assailant or when the attack occurred. You and the elders led a brief but vigorous deliberation of all angles of your vision before finally, and at last a message was sent to Vulko, who arranged a royal audience and at last you were on your way.

It's not that you were nervous per say, you knew this had to be done as this had been the duty of Tidewatchers for centuries before you to inform the king of threats and relevant patterns. ...but you couldn’t exactly say you were excited that your first official meeting with the new king would boil down to you telling him someone was going to kill his brother. Oh and also you had no idea who the attacker was or when this assault would happen. You knew the how all too clearly but that would hardly help much in the immediate future other than telling him that it had definitely happened in the palace. The others ultimately ruled that, given the vibrancy of your vision that it would be sooner rather than later, but even that could be wrong. The art of Tidewatching was nothing if not the art of weaving sense out of running water.

So there you were, heading to a royal appointment with a vision of doom. You did your best not to let your worry show as you entered the palace. You’d been many times over the years in your training and duties as a Tidewatcher but this was the first time you’d been on your own. It was not, however your first time presenting a portent to royalty. Though your first encounter was not the sort to do much to bolster any confidence on how this sight shall be received.

You were greeted by a footman who then escorted you through the various hallways to where King Arthur would be receiving you. You couldn’t help but scan the areas you swam through. So many of the hallways looked alike and yet you couldn’t help but hope that one of the passages would light up in bioluminescence as if to say “ THIS IS THE ONE ”. but of course none of them did and you soon found yourself in a small audience chamber with the King of Atlantis and his much presumed future Queen. The footman bowed deeply to the party before leaving and shutting the door being him. You bowed and while Mera gave a graceful nod in reply, a muscle twitched in Arthur's face that signified his discomfort with the gesture. You straightened wiothout commenting but instead filed it away.

“My King-” you began but he cut you off.

“Since it’s just us, can we just stick with Arthur?” he said.

Mera sighed in a resigned sort of way before smiling kindly at you.

He ignored her and continued, “Please, sit down.”

“Alright, Arthur, “ you acquiesced, sitting across from their sofa on one of your own. This was certainly not how your last encounter with royalty had gone. “My name is Y/N.”

“Yes…” he began, as if searching for what to say, “You’re one of the Tide Pods?”

It took so much effort not to snort at your new king as Mera gently corrected him, “Of the Tidewatchers.”

Arthur took it in stride and just barrelled on, “And you guys can see the future, right?”

You gave a small smile, “Simplistically yes, but technically no.”

Mera looked like she might step in and explain things but Arthur fixed you with this interested look. “How would you explain it then?”

“We see patterns and interpret them,” you said, which was the perfunctory, textbook answer but you knew he needed more than that. If you’d learned anything about your calling it was that before you could really get into the meat of answering that question, you had to first lay down the basics. “We have spent hundreds of years watching the tides of time and studying the flow of events. When Atlantis sank beneath the sea, we as a people were devastated. My people wanted to find a way to keep such a cataclysm from happening again. The ocean spoke to us and my people listened. We learned to read the signs. Things are seldom clear cut or simple, most of the time it is like reading an ancient text and trying to figure out the translation that makes best sense within the context.”

He looked truly interested in this explanation, he may not understand it but you thought it counted for a lot that he was at least engaged in trying. The same could certainly not be said of all kings.

He paused, taking a beat to really absorb before asking, “Okay… but Vulko said something about you having a vision.”

You smiled. He was a quick one, and one you had more than a feeling would make a great king, “He did. And notice I said most of the time. Sometimes the ocean speaks up. It still doesn’t always speak clearly but sometimes it really wants to make sure you get the message.”

He smirked like he found your phrasing amusing but he was willing to follow the metaphor, “And what did the ocean say to you?”

He had done such a good job at getting you rolling and in the flow that for a minute you forgot what you were there for. You paused, trying to figure out how to phrase it, but, before you could find the right words, there was a commotion outside the door.

And then there, entering the room, was King Orm- Prince Orm- you had to correct yourself, yet there was still something so very kingly about his countenance that it was hard to look away from.Vulko entered behind him and you noticed at least two escorts behind them but when Vulko shut the door, they remained outside.

“I apologize for our tardiness, my king, we came as swift as we could.” Vulko said as he and Orm walked to the other receiving couch. Vulko gave Mera and Arthur a deep bow, but Orm gave them a smaller one with a very careful amount of deference. You could tell it was hard for him but he did his best not to show it.

If Arthur was perturbed by their being late, not an ounce of it showed in his countenance. “It’s alright, glad you made it.

Prince Orm was a tall man, and an imposing presence to be in the same room with. That’s not to say that Arthur was neither of these things but while the current King was built like a mountain and wielded the power to move the ocean, he had something of a less closed off air to him. Arthur was arguably more approachable, but that was perhaps just the setting. You had no doubts that in battle or on the throne Arthur could scare even the bravest warriors witless but he was more at ease with just you few in company. While Orm did not look like he was marching into battle, he did not look quite at ease. He was far more guarded.

You, meanwhile, were caught off guard. You quickly stood and bowed. Orm paused for a fraction of a second, as he regarded you. Something battled in his face for the briefest glimmer, it was only through your skills in the ways of Tidewatching that you could almost recognize a trace of both surprise, regret, and gratitude. Then the flash was gone and his steel composure returned.

“Your grace,” you said quickly.

He gave you a small nod in acknowledgement, “Y/N.”

All of the nerves you’d had before entering the palace had returned in spades. This was not what you were expecting at all. A sit down with the king to share your grisly vision was one thing but to come face to face with the subject of your ill tidings was not something you were remotely prepared for. You finally managed to get out “I was not expecting you.”

“Apologies,” Mera interjected, “Your message to Vulko said it that your needed to speak to us and Prince Orm.”

You fought so so hard to not cringe. You’d meant about Orm, not with Orm. You knew you should have crafted that message yourself. But given the urgency in matters, you’d trusted your Tidewatcher sister A’bree to see it through. And for that delegation, apparently a word was misplaced or perhaps misinterpreted and now here you were. There was no sense in going back now or beating around the bush.

It was always said that the Prince was shrewd and he proved true to his reputation in sensing your hesitancy for he said, “My presence is not needed I take it.”

He was being tactful, and trying to not take it personally but you could see how it goaded at him, to be excluded from something of importance: to be summoned and then dismissed with little thought. It would certainly rile you too.

And without allowing yourself to second guess yourself any further, you spoke out as he started back to the door, “No- stay.”He stilled instantly there was half a beat of utter silence before you remembered your court manners and said, “my prince. You should hear this.”

This was not going to be easy for anyone but there was no point in excluding him simply to make things easier on yourself.

You could see an exchanged look between Mera and Arthur as Orm carefully sat beside Vulko. You, however, returned to sit at the edge of your seat, back perfectly straight as you prepared yourself for what you must say.

You almost expected Arthur to pick your conversation up where you’d left it but he had a deeper gravity to him than he did a moment before and seemed unsure what perhaps a king might do next.

Orm had no such hesitations, he could sense something, he’d picked up on it the moment he’d entered the room and was ready to meet it. “What did you see, Y/N?”

You took a breath and met his eyes, his haunting ocean eyes, “Your death, my Prince.”

A/N: I'm definitely looking forward to exploring this story more as we get more into the plotty bits but I've had so much fun figuring out how the Tidewatcher stuff works. Also it should be stated that Orm was originally not going to appear this chapter but then I said "it's my fic, I can introduce him when I want" so here we go. If you are interested or wanna see where we go, please reply, message, and like! Support really means a lot to me.

[raendown]

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Chapter: 5/18 Word count: 1956 Summary: When Tobirama is exiled from the Senju clan without warning, without even the chance to plead his case, it feels like his life is over. What does he have to live for now without his older brother to believe in him? Captured by the Uchiha in his moment of weakness, Tobirama slowly learns to live again with the last people on earth he would have ever expected to care for - or to fall in love with.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI in the blog header!

Chapter 5

The seals on his wrists were hasty and clumsy, no sophistication in the symbols. They were drawn in the fashion of someone copying an image without truly knowing the meaning behind it. Someone in the Uchiha had clearly gotten their hands on some kind of chakra suppressant seal to use as an example but it was obvious that none here were masters of the art. Any self-respecting seal master would have cried themselves to sleep at just the thought of having their work bastardized as much as the mock cuffs that had been forced upon him the moment he woke up after his last visit from the two brothers.

Not to say that they didn’t work. Sophisticated or not the seals accomplished what they were meant to. He could feel his chakra seething just under the surface, boiling and rolling and crashing against the barrier they made like water breaks against a cliff, but they were sufficient to keep him from releasing anything and thus he remained powerless. Maybe if he hadn’t spent the last month motionless and flopping about on the floor letting his muscles atrophy then he might have been physically strong enough to think about another route for escape. Hindsight had always been a bitch.

All things considered, though, his situation wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. He had expected his jailors to drive him hard with impossible tasks but Madara hadn’t lied when he talked about hauling laundry around. It earned him all sorts of different looks, from curious to barely concealed distaste, but he supposed he could understand that. He too would have stopped to stare upon seeing his ancestral enemy waltzing through the compound to go wash clothes in the little stream running through the western quadrant. Knowing he would have done the same did not stop him from making each trip with a stiff back and a constant frown of discomfort, hating the feeling of so many hostile eyes on his back. It seemed a miracle that no one had yet tried to attack him while he was vulnerable. Whether they refrained because Madara had warned them to leave him unharmed or whether they all simply enjoyed seeing him lowered to this state had yet to be determined.

Tobirama hurried back to the Head family home as quickly today as he had every morning for the past couple of weeks. Working for Madara wasn’t so bad as long as he was able to keep his pride in check. And doing that was easy enough when he reminded himself that he was literally nothing now, no clan name to back him, no authority to wield. Honest work was about the only option he had left, though if he had found honest work anywhere else he would certainly have expected to be paid for it, but even if he would hesitate to admit it he was grateful in a strange way for a break from the horrors of the battlefield. So far the work he had been given was mostly house chores and it was a novel thing not to wash blood from his skin at the end of every day.

Letting himself passed the front gate of Madara’s home, Tobirama first made his way around to the backyard to hang the clean clothing up to dry. When the line was full and his basket empty he went in through the back door, eyed the dishes in the sink, and then dismissed them in favor of wandering down the hall towards Madara’s office. Easy his duties might be but some of them were still abhorrent. That particular chore could wait until the end of the day when he could get rid of them all at once.

Madara’s office was cushier than his own workspace had been in the Senju compound, one corner of the room piled high with pillows in case the man was too tired to crawl down the hallway to his bedroom at night, the other wall lined with squat bookshelves and ancient weaponry hung like decorations above. Tobirama made his way straight towards the pillows to flop down and stare morosely at the man kneeling at his desk, right under the window where he could make full use of whatever daylight came filtering through the protective mesh screens.

“Done?” Madara asked, not lifting his gaze from whatever he was reading.

“Clearly,” Tobirama drawled in return. Then he sank further down in to the pillows and closed his eyes to sulk pointedly.

“Hmm, that was quick.”

“Didn’t feel quick. Why do your clothes always require extra scrubbing?”

Madara chuckled. “I make sure they’re extra dirty just to frustrate you.”

Even if he knew that wasn’t true, it still sounded enough like something he would do that Tobirama gave a low noise of disgust. Actually he had noticed it was really Izuna’s clothing that always took longer to clean and from the dirt stains in certain places he suspected a harsh training regimen as the culprit. He hadn’t yet found the courage to ask whether his rival had always trained this often or if it was a newly developed habit; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Was he supposed to feel guilty about how much damage the man could do in battle without himself there as a shield, an equal force to cancel out the deaths either of them were capable of causing in a single encounter?

As if sensing his thoughts spiraling downwards again, Madara grunted from across the room and Tobirama opened his eyes just in time to catch the scroll that had been tossed at his head.

“You’re supposed to be a genius, right? Here’s your next chore.”

When he opened it to find columns of messily scrawled numbers he lifted one eyebrow with conflicted reactions warring inside him.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let the prisoner do your accounting?” he asked. Madara waved his question off with one hand, still engrossed in his own work.

“There’s no names on there to tell you who our suppliers are, no locations to give away. It’s just numbers. You’re a scientist, shouldn’t you be good at numbers?” The man shrugged carelessly. “Reckon the columns and you can take a break. Just make sure you’re back here to cook dinner.”

“Seriously?”

“Like I said: they’re just numbers. What harm could you do knowing how much we spent on food the past few months?”

Tobirama held his breath, unrolling the scroll to take a second look. There was a lot of damage he could cause with these numbers, actually. Many people would pay handsomely for even small information like this; he could think of a dozen different weaknesses he could assume from just food budgets alone. He would have liked to say he could buy his way back in to the Senju’s good graces by providing them with inside information but he wasn’t that stupid. They weren’t that easily bought, as much as he wished suddenly that they were. Since the scroll in his hands was as good a distraction as any against such musings he buried himself in the task given to him without complaint.

It was oddly nice to be given something to do that used his brain again after so long. Working out simple arithmetic wasn’t exactly a challenge but the routine calculations were time consuming and it was better mental exercise than wondering what he could add to his detergent that would make the laundry a little softer once it dried.

When the damnable seals had first been applied to his wrists and he realized Madara was serious about putting him to work he had thought perhaps they intended to take advantage of his mind. He’d been infamous from a young age for his genius and his knack for creating new jutsu, new weapons, and for the sealing skills he had cultivated with the aid of books sent to him by their Uzumaki allies. As much as he appreciated not being forced to bring those skills to bear in a war that would inevitably find its way to the people he once loved, household chores did get boring after a while. Being asked to help with the accounting was almost like Madara was granting him a treat for good behavior.

He avoided mentioning that in case the fool grew contrary and took it away.

Although it only took him twenty or so minutes to work through the entirety of the small portion he’d been given, Tobirama neglected to mention he was finished for another couple of minutes, taking an opportunity to quietly study the other man in the room. Madara was more of a mystery to him every day. The most Tobirama had ever known of him before was a screaming battle persona and the exaggerated memories Hashirama liked to wax poetic about every so often. He had expected his time under the man’s thumb to leave him bone-weary at the end of every day from bring run in to the ground with work; he had expected to be humiliated and degraded, to have his temper tried at every turn.

Reality was much harder to wrap his head around. Madara was calm in the moments between the never ending string of disasters that made up his life. For making such an impressive figure in battle he was incredibly goofy in everyday life. He woke with his hair sticking out at funny angles and walked in to walls before consuming his morning coffee. He sat down on pins the clan children left on his cushion and hung his body out the window to shout at them without a care for how it left his rump on comical display. He tripped on rocks and absently stabbed people with chopsticks while making gestures and even stood on his own hair sometimes when he tried to get up from his desk.

But in the moments around those, when he was still and there was no one to disturb him, he was as calm and poised as any clan head should be. Under the screaming and the wild mane there was a good head with a smart brain. Beneath that lay a bleeding heart that gave in to a good set of pleading puppy eyes faster than Tobirama had ever seen.

Had he been captured by any other clan at odds with the Senju, Tobirama knew very well that most would not have taken the time to hear his story let alone believed him enough to look in to it themselves. And even less would have seen any point in keeping him alive once they realized that he could be of no use as a bargaining chip. Maybe Madara really did just want a slave to keep his house clean and his yard tidy but he was a kinder master than Tobirama would have found in anyone else. If he had been given the option to choose his own path he would have chosen death in an instant. But if he had to choose his own captivity, as much as he hated to admit it, he would choose Madara a hundred times over.

At least, based on his experience so far.

Warm and comfortable in the mountain of pillows he had sunk his body in to, Tobirama never noticed he was falling asleep in the midday sun until his eyes slid closed and he was already gone. The scroll of accounts slipped from his fingers to roll gently across the floor and bump in to Madara’s knee but Tobirama was not awake to see the soft look in those dark eyes as his greatest enemy sat and watched him sleep away the afternoon.

[fernandoelly12-blog]

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[jamiekturner]

The Best Drawing Tutorials: Learn How To Draw

Good drawing tutorials teaching you the simple steps of how to draw a face or how to draw a person are not easy to find. Everybody wants to learn to draw realistic portraits, but good tutorials are unfortunately scattered on the Internet.

In this article, you will find some of the best tutorials about how to draw step by step.

Digital artwork is so common nowadays that we consider it as something natural, and we almost don’t remember how it began.

The main reason for its success is that it takes traditional realistic drawings to the next level.

-> Click here to skip to the actual drawing tutorials.

Drawing human anatomy, especially how to draw faces may be the biggest challenge of traditional drawing, especially if you don’t have the right approach.

Image source: Arman Akopian

It will take a lot of practice and time before you learn how to draw a head and how to draw a human in general, paying the necessary attention to every part before you’ve finished the entire figure.

Interestingly enough, artists that know how to draw a realistic face or person are in demand on the market regardless of their digital skills.

That’s why we encourage you to learn how to draw realistic people too, practicing drawing with the help of many advanced sketching tutorials, universally applicable theories, techniques, comic arts, tips, and methods which will later on converting your traditional creation into a digital format.

Image source: WL OP

What your easy drawing tutorials will reveal first and foremost is that traditional realist drawing requires much more effort than its digital counterpart, which is why artists often fall behind.

We’re not saying there are no people whose drawing doesn’t go further than the screen, but the recommended drawing tips are to still follow some old school painting before going into digital design. For instance, for drawing faces, the classical standards always apply.

Therefore, we’ve decided to share some of the most interesting tutorials about how to draw a person step by step for beginners, where the most important traditional drawing techniques and methods are mixed with digital tricks aimed at bringing life and dynamism to the creations on the screen.

Image source: Esben Lash Rasmussen

There is a variety of intermediate and advanced level learning to draw tutorials that can provide you some helpful tips, teach you how to do a pencil drawing, human sketching, color processing, or how to handle perspectives, shapes, and proportions. For now, we hope we’ve shared enough techniques and practices helping you to overcome the initial drawing difficulties.

Is never easy learning how to draw. It takes a lot of time to practice and you need to have good guidelines and easy step by step drawings tutorials to follow. Finding the right sketching tutorials hasn’t been easy but I’ve managed to make a pretty good list of drawing tutorials that would help you in your quest for becoming a master of drawing.

I’ve sorted them in six categories: the drawing of a face, the human body, hands, hair, animals and caricatures and also added at the end other resources where you can find lots and lots of drawing tutorials.

Drawing humans

Image source: Deryl Braun

The nose of the character you just drew looks like anything but a real nose? We understand your distress!

Before you’ve actually started to recreate humans as they really are, you have to learn how to do realistic faces, but there is no need to worry – Soon, you will be able to easily recreate your favorite characters.

The trick is to learn how to do blending – take a pencil and a piece of paper, and use the tutorial to learn how to shade light and dark gradually. This is the first step towards replicating essential skin contours.

In fact, shading is the first thing you need to learn in order to make shapes look three-dimensional and part of the lesson about how to draw a face step by step.

Once you’ve adopted the basics, proceed with face drawing. The secret of drawing a face is to look at features carefully,  paying special attention to interlocking shapes in order to apply shadows and highlights in the right places.

Next thing you need know, is learning of drawing heads. Soon, by daily practice, you’ll be an expert in drawing facial expressions, and combining elements in incredibly realistic portrait drawing having a lot to do with the character you are trying to recreate. Let us guide you through the process of drawing step by step:

Drawing faces

The most difficult, yet most rewarding part of your drawing experience will be learning how to draw realistic faces, as this is something even experienced artists are struggling with.

Our purpose here is to teach you how to make pencil portraits, where the steepest learning curve is of natural expressions.

How to Draw the Head from Any Angle

In this tutorial, you’ll see Andrew Loomis’s approach to drawing heads. It’s a great method for head drawing from various angles, learning the details of head proportions.

How To Draw A Female Face: Step By Step

There are many ways to draw. In this art video, the author shows some of the tricks he has discovered over the years that he uses in his own art and art teaching.

Drawing, shading and blending a face

How to Draw a Face Accurately – Exercises to Improve Your Drawing

Learn how to draw with pencils with this guy’s step by step drawing tutorials. He’ll show you how to draw anything from beginning to the end, but especially a portrait reference.

For some subjects like drawing animals, getting used with the basic shapes first is a useful practice. For human face drawing, the preferred method is of starting with the eye. But whatever the subject matter or method, he will always show you the easiest and most effective way how to draw realistic images.

How to Draw a Pretty Face with Pencil

Basic Anatomy for the Artist – Lesson 2

Drawing the Human Eye

How to Draw Eyes

How to Draw a mouth and teeth

How to Draw a Realistic Eye

How to draw ears

Lackadaisy Expressions

Facial Aging

How to draw lips

Eye-drawing tutorial

Drawing a facial expression

Facial expressions are an important part of how to draw a human face experience. It helps to understand how people are feeling or what they want and expect you to do. The information they provide for drawing people is vital, the same as the experience artists glean by simply looking at random people.

When learning how to draw face, the best source of inspiration is looking at people while they’re relaxing.

Part of the process of how to draw a person step by step is letting them share their emotions with you, paying specific attention to every detail. It is considerably easy to understand how to draw a face when people are comfortable and keep theirs in a comfortable position.

Besides, it is critical for them to look at you without a specific emotion so that you can pull out the perfect eye scratch, and translate every detail to the portrait sketch.

As you can see, the basics of drawing a person are really simple. It takes only to ‘spice them up’ with a pinch of your own creativity, and you’ll have the best step-by-step drawings at your little finger.

How to draw Various Expressions

In this video you will see learn to draw 5 different types of expressions and the principles of creating these shapes. The author will also explain how the art of cartooning is perfect for learning how to sketch a face and various facial expressions.

Facial Expressions in Comics: 10 Tips to Help You

How to draw 4 types of facial expressions

Drawing human body

How to draw the Human Figure – Body Construction tutorial

How To Draw Characters in Perspective: Bird’s Eye View

How to Draw Gesture

Female body study

Clothes study

Clothing Tutorial

Drawing hands

Don’t worry about being unable to recreate hands and legs, as both are perceived to be the most difficult body parts to portray on a drawing or a sculpture.

Keeping the focus on faces as the most challenging parts, we’d consider their connection to emotional states for the second position on our ‘difficulty list’. Part of the larger anatomy drawing tutorial, hands are the perfect tool to showcase fear, anger, serenity, resignation, or even surprise.

These tutorials of how to learn to draw will also teach you to recreate the hand’s anatomy: you need to consider the basic bone framework first, and work around it with the right proportions for further drawing the muscles’ actions. Not an easy draw, anyway, but an important stage of the process of learning how to draw good.

Draw arms and hands

How to Draw HANDS and HAND POSES

How to Draw Hands, 2 Different Ways

How to Draw Hands – 5 Different Ways

Tutorial: Drawing Hands

Drawing Hands and Feet

Basic Anatomy for the Artist – Lesson 6

Drawing hair

Drawing hair won’t make the ‘human challenge’ any easier, and will be particularly intimidating for beginners already fighting hard to manage drawing the head techniques.

Usually, some serious commitment to detail is required, which explains more or less why some artists gave up on their dream and preferred sloppy scribbles instead.

Even for those who’re in the branch for years, drawing hair is still a daunting experience. That, however, is because they didn’t adopt the right approach to overcome their fears. Drawing hair will require you to pay attention to three specific details: the strands, the structure, and the tone of the hair. You need to practice this is you want to learn how to draw people step by step.

Image source: Serge Birault

First and foremost, you have to make hair look shiny, which can be easily achieved by shadowing and highlighting certain parts with a wide loose pencil. Start with the lighter tones first, in order to reveal the structure. Once that’s done, proceed with the darker strips.

Don’t be afraid to do strand by strand, even if it takes a lot of time, but it will help to maintain certain drawing proportions. Of course, we’re not saying each and every hair has to be depicted, rather that the hair needs to appear rich, crispy, and highlighted with light and mid tones in certain areas.

An important rule you shouldn’t forget for completing your face drawing tutorial is avoiding too many dark tones, as they can affect the shine of the hair.

You’ll be required to do some highlighting even when the hair of the original character is really dark, by simply applying more mid-tones than the ones usually used for lighter hair. In that case, you better stick to medium gray as the darkest tone you’re allowed to use.

How to Draw Hair the Easy Way

Emily’s Tutorials: How to draw realistic hair!

Drawing hair demonstration

Need tips on how to draw hair? The author is walking you through her tips for creating realistic hair texture. The tips apply no matter what medium you’re working in for drawing portraits.

Detailed Hair part 1

Hair drawing tutorial

Drawing animals

Drawing animals is as challenging as drawing people, even more, if you may think you’re less familiar with them than you are with human nature.

Once again, there will be a variety of lifelike reproduction details to pay attention to, and a large effort to make the drawing unique instead of simply duplicating someone’s previous work.

Luckily, there are many animal-inspired artists and admirers who prepare in-depth tutorials and provide rich illustrations teach you how to recreate these charming creatures in easy realistic drawings.

How to Draw Animals

Dog portrait

Drawing caricatures

How to Draw Caricatures: The 5 Shapes

How to Draw Caricatures: Head Shapes

The post The Best Drawing Tutorials: Learn How To Draw appeared first on Design your way.

from Web Development & Designing http://www.designyourway.net/blog/resources/tutorials/drawing/the-most-comprehensive-drawing-tutorials-collection/

[bubblesthemonsterartist]

OBI DOING THE KOREAN BOW THIGH THING. SHIRAYUKI'S REACTION. YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR FATE, JOANNA.

Authors note: This video cannot encapsulate how hot the “Korean bow thigh thing” can be, but here’s a link in case you’re confused about the description. Note that this is not the same as a traditional bow - the one linked is fiberglass and the one in the fic is a traditional horn bow (which requires a lot more strength to string). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPG3z9I-rh4

“That’stoo much!” Shirayuki exclaims, eyes wide as he hands her a longbow taller thanshe is.

“Comenow, Miss,” Obi laughs, “you picked me up off the floor. I’m sure you can handle this.”

“Liftinga body a few feet off the ground is a bit different from drawing a bow,” shereplies, puffing out her cheeks. She eyes the bow dubiously. “I’ve never used thisweight.”

Heleans in close, his voice dropping low. “Are you saying it’s too much for you?”

Hereyes snap to his, heat rising up her neck and she purses her lips. Glaring at his infuriatingly pleasedexpression, she yanks the bow from his hands and marches past him towards thearchery range.

“Youforgot your arrows!” he calls behind her.

“Thenbring them with you!” she claps back.

Hislaughter echoes through the streets. “As my Mistress commands.”

~~ ~

Thesun is just starting to set, long shadows spreading from the forest edge and acrossthe range, and the dull thud of arrows striking a target breaks through thecacophony of night critters beginning their evening song.

Shegrits her teeth, embarrassed at the grouping of her shots. She told him thiswas too heavy for her. Pulling the last arrow from her quiver, she exhales,rolling her shoulders. Lining up the shot,she notches the arrow and draws the bow, her arms shaking a little from theeffort. When she releases, it sings.

…andhits just a little to the left of center.

Shesags.

Alow whistle comes from behind her. “Not bad, Miss. I thought you said you neverused the weight before?”

“Ihaven’t,” she replies, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He isstaring at the target with an expression that soothes the sting of her woundedpride and causes something warm to circle in her belly. “I’m a much better shotwith a lighter bow.”

“Doyou want to try mine?” he says, gesturing to the unstrung weapon in his hand.

Shirayukieyes it. She has to admit, she’s tempted; she has always been curious about thearchery styles from up north. “Are you trying to get out showing me all thoseskills you claim you have?” she asks instead.

“Whatskills might those be? I have many.” His teeth flash, sharp, and Shirayuki’sfeels far too warm for a Spring evening. Clearing her throat, she glances atthe target.

“Youspent your whole recovery bragging about what a good shot you are,” sheresponds, crossing her arms. “This is your chance to prove it.”

His laughter rolls like thunder. “…I wonder.”

Sheturns back, the quip on the tip of her tongue turning to ash when she sees him weave the bow between his thighs, sliding the lower limb down to his calf andpulling the upper limb right beneath his groin. When he takes a wider stance, itdraws the fabric taunt.

Shefeels… strange. Herwhole life has been spent among warriors, mercenaries, and weapon dealers ofall kinds. And she has seen bows strung like this countless times before, but-but when he flexes his thigh, arm taunt and hand grasping around the upper limbto draw it from a half circle to a gentle curve with controlled precision, it’sa new experience all together.

Shelooks away.

Henudges past her to take her place at the end of the range and sheshuffles out of the way, conflicted and confused at her sudden demureness. Whatwas wrong with her? It was just some simple archery.

Andyet-

Andyet, she feels oddly shy following his motions as he adjusts his stance, herskin a little too tight as his focus moves away from her entirely and towardsthe target. The softness from his easy smiles has melted away, leaving theangles of his face sharp and his eyes intent.

Henotches the arrow, pulling back until the fletching grazes his cheek and aimsupward; the motion is smooth, practiced, and with no strain at all. Her eyes followthe line of the arrow down the exposed stretch of corded arm and he releases, theentire act an orchestration of rigidity and relaxation.

Bullseye.

Shefrowns.

[jcmorrigan]

A Good Listener

Well, it happened. I wanted to write a oneshot for my current shipping poison. And, as usual, the fic took over and wrote itself. I snooped around, and either ff.net doesn’t have an archive for the Netflixverse of ASOUE or I couldn’t find it, and this is most DEFINITELY Netflixverse and not bookverse (though it contains bookverse elements and some mild spoilers for the bookverse and presumably things that have not yet been filmed for Netflixverse). So you’re getting this uploaded right to Tumblr.

Title: A Good Listener

Fandom/Verse: A Series of Unfortunate Events, Netflix series

Pairing: The Hook-Handed Man x The Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender

Rating: PG (swearing, small animal death, nothing actually steamy but implications that there may one day be steam - not quite T but not quite K+ either)

General notes: The Hook-Handed Man will be referred to by his bookverse canon name (so beware of spoilers in the FIRST PARAGRAPH). All the rest of Count Olaf’s associates will be referred to by names I came up with and assigned to them and should not be taken as canon or even popular fanon (though believe me, I’d be flattered if they were referred to by these names elsewhere). Fic assumes Grim Grotto and the revelations within will be played close to the books. 

(Also mad props to @gavillain for story advice and fine-tuning. I don’t even know where my writing would be without you, man.)

STORY UNDER THE CUT HERE GOES

If you asked Fernald what his best qualities were, he would not have thought of himself as an exceptionally good listener. He would instead have cited his acting talent (not entirely accurate) or his skill doing various criminal acts as required by Count Olaf (though with perhaps a twinge of doubt on his own part). In order to save face, he might have even claimed he was excellent at figuring out how to operate machinery such as telephones on the first try. This claim would have been entirely false and would have fooled absolutely no one.

           If you asked a certain other member of Count Olaf’s entourage what Fernald’s best qualities were, however, the first thing they would say was that he listens. He was, in fact, the only person that ever really seemed to listen to them.

           Before the Baudelaire children ever came into the life of Count Olaf and when his nefarious schemes were directed toward other matters than their fortune, he and his troupe were based out of a theatre of somewhat good repute located in the arts district of the city. As it turned out, running a theatre and performing shows of dubious quality was an excellent front for criminal activity ranging from arson to petty thievery to actively trying to undermine the largest secret organization dedicated to justice in the known world. Olaf had filled his theater with what he believed to be like-minded people: the bald man Bolton, the white-faced twins Charlotte and Emily, and Fernald, the one who would often come to be referred to as the “hook-handed man” after a gruesome incident best not detailed within this tale.

           Fernald was a rather exceptional case, as he himself had previously been affiliated with the very organization that Olaf had cursed and spit upon. The great schism had brought him to the conclusion that he was far more suited to setting fires than dousing them, and he had resolved never to look back. This didn’t mean he was exceptional at not looking back at all. Some things he had left behind refused to stay in the past, at least in his memory. Some days, he wished he could set fire to thoughts in order to prevent them from ever coming back to haunt him. Olaf, of course, had seen his prior involvements as an asset; a peek into the enemy’s defenses, so to speak. Olaf was a cruel master, but one with whom Fernald felt like he was on the right track.

           He was attached to his teammates as well. Bolton was difficult to get along with at first, but the two of them had found common ground to bond over after some time. Charlotte and Emily, he could never keep a good handle on which was which, but they didn’t mind Fernald calling each by the other’s name so long as he participated in their gossip sessions. Much to Olaf’s annoyance, when the four weren’t involved in a scheme or rehearsing for a masterpiece by “Al Funcoot,” they could often be found playing cards backstage, with the inevitable result that Fernald would lose.

           That was exactly what they were doing, making a point to ignore Olaf, on the day that they heard him step onstage with an unfamiliar voice accompanying him.

           “Who’s he talking to?” Fernald muttered so as not to be heard by Olaf.

           “Dunno,” Bolton replied. “Should we check it out?”

           “It might be a new associate,” Emily theorized.

           “Or maybe an enemy he’s luring into our clutches,” Charlotte suggested quietly.

           “Or a critic who saw our latest show,” Bolton added.

           “Critics actually watch our shows?” Fernald said in disbelief.

           The cards were abandoned and all four villainous associates gathered in the wings to spy on Olaf and the stranger: a tall, auburn-headed person who seemed to be reacting to Olaf’s exposition with apathy.

           “Wow,” Fernald whispered. “She’s beautiful.”

           “She?” Bolton whispered back. “That’s a man.”

           “It’s rather hard to tell from this angle,” Charlotte commented.

           “ – And, of course, you’ll have to meet the rest of them,” Olaf was saying. “They’re all idiots, of course, but they get the job done. Which is really all I’m asking of you. OHHH, HENCHPEOPLE!” Olaf clapped loudly to summon his associates.

           Fernald, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily waited a moment before appearing so as not to give away how closely they’d been watching. “Yeah, boss?” Fernald spoke up, leading the group.

           “I would like to introduce you all to your new associate,” Olaf said dramatically, stepping out in front of the newcomer and gesturing toward them for the group’s benefit. “Avery Orson.”

           “Actually, it’s Ainsley Orlando,” the newcomer corrected in a rather monotone voice that made Bolton suddenly far more sure of his conclusion.

           “Whatever,” Olaf huffed, rolling his eyes. “Avery – “

           “Ainsley…”

           “Will be joining us for all our plots henceforth,” Olaf went on, “as a steadfast ally against those well-read do-gooders.”

           “V.F.D. looks pretty good on paper,” Ainsley stated, “but I’ve become pretty disillusioned with their exclusionary nature and literary elitism.”

           “So, basically, play nice,” Olaf commanded. “Also, Avery – “

           “Ainsley…”

           “ – is part of the theater side of the troupe as well, so hopefully, the Daily Punctilio should be a little nicer to us now that we have fresh talent,” Olaf concluded.

           “So, uh…” Bolton broke in, “you are a guy, right?”

           Fernald smacked one of his hooks against Bolton’s upper arm for that. Fernald, of course, was curious as well, but he wasn’t about to ask a new associate something that rudely.

           “Actually, neither of the binary genders accurately represents me,” Ainsley stated casually, “so if you could all use ‘they’ and ‘their’ pronouns when you refer to me, that’d be great.”

           It was a simple enough request, but one that Bolton would outright ignore over the next month, opting to still refer to Ainsley as “he” and “him.”

           “Well, Ainsley,” Fernald said, stepping forth, “welcome to the – “

           He had extended his right arm before he remembered. Withdrawing the hook, he just gave a shrug. “Team.”

           Ainsley’s eyes followed the hook, noticing the matching one on the other arm. They became incredibly curious, then, about what had happened to put Fernald in such a condition. But they, much like Fernald, weren’t about to simply put a new teammate on the spot.

           There are many things that can bring people closer together. Collaborative art projects, shared meals, fighting together against a greater evil, book clubs, classes in special interests, theatre, and assorted villainy, to name a few. Ainsley’s bonds with Fernald, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily were forged mostly through use of the latter two.

           Olaf remained ever the leader, and often times it was hard to tell whether he was proud of the team he’d assembled or whether they made him regret most life decisions that led up to his leadership of them.

           When the Baudelaires came into their lives, it gave them all almost a sense of renewed purpose. The parents of Violet, Klaus, and Sunny were quite hated among the troupe, either through reputation or personal experience, and their passing was not mourned. And now that Olaf had his sights set on obtaining their wealth, the others found themselves onboard a fast-moving train of plotting and scheming that was much more interesting than their pre-Baudelaire days.

           However, Olaf’s initial dealings with the children prompted several absences from the theatre, leaving the other five to their own devices and not much to do other than rehearse the “Al Funcoot” piece known as “The Handsomest Zookeeper.” This was extremely hard to do when the man who had insisted upon casting himself in the titular role was absent, but the others made do by propping up a broom and draping a suit over it, pretending it was Olaf.

           “So when do you think we get to meet the brats?” Bolton asked during a stretch of down time; the twins had taken a break to brew some tea that would become heavily sugared while Ainsley, as the rookie, was tasked with changing the set pieces for the next act. Bolton and Fernald reclined as best they could in the front row seats of the audience.

           “Whenever Olaf decides we can actually get involved again,” Fernald grumbled. “You think he was serious about splitting the fortune with us?”            “He better be” was Bolton’s only response.

           After a moment’s silence, Bolton asked, “What do you think of the new guy?”

           “You mean Ainsley?” Fernald replied. “First of all, they’re not a ‘guy.’ Second…they’re all right. They seem to fit in well around here. Good enough actor.”

           “He never shuts up about weird stuff,” Bolton commented.

           “They have a lot to say,” Fernald rephrased. “It’s interesting, sometimes.”

           “Yeah, sometimes.”

           Both were interrupted by a piercing scream. Ainsley, shrieking loudly, pealed onstage. The current set had been meant to emulate a dining room, with a large, crooked wooden table taking center stage. In one feat of unprecedented dexterity, Ainsley leapt on top of this table, positioning themselves at its center and frantically looking around at the stage below, cries petering out into whimpers.

           Bolton stifled a laugh. Fernald, on the other hand, immediately concerned by whatever had Ainsley so terrified, practically jumped up from his seat, rushing onstage at the same time that Charlotte and Emily skidded into the auditorium from the outside hall, nearly spilling their tea. “What’s wrong?” Fernald barked up at Ainsley.

           Ainsley required a few breaths in order to collect themselves before informing Fernald, “There’s a snake backstage…”

           “A snake?” Fernald repeated, and Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily all flinched. “What kind of snake?” Fernald hoped not to hear the response “The deadly kind.”

           “It’s just…it’s a snake,” Ainsley responded, visibly trembling and turning circles and circles on the table to be on guard for it. “And it’s RIGHT THERE!” They pointed at a spot on the stage floor where the perpetrator, a smaller-than-usual garter snake, was curiously making its way out from the wings.

           “That…is a very tiny snake,” Fernald pointed out.

           Ainsley had run out of words, shuffling toward the edge of the table that was furthest from the snake’s current position.

           “You’re not going to be okay until one of us kills it, are you?” Fernald sighed. He wasn’t a fan of snakes either. Had the garter snake been any larger, he would have been slightly nervous.

           Ainsley shook their head, their quivering becoming even more prominent.

           “One minute,” Fernald sighed, storming backstage (to the opposite wing from where the snake was) to root through the troupe’s collection of odd props that could conveniently double as weaponry. A snow shovel caught his eye. It took him a few tries to get his hooks in a grip on the handle, and it tilted at an awkward angle as he carried it back out onstage.

           By this point, Charlotte and Emily had joined Bolton in the front row of the audience. The scene was becoming far more entertaining to them than any Jacquelyn Seieszka film.

           Fernald didn’t just kill the snake with the snow shovel. He smashed it flat repeatedly, absolutely destroying its physical form so that it barely resembled a snake anymore. The WHAM, WHAM, WHAM of the shovel hitting the floor bounced around the acoustically excellent walls of the auditorium. After about a solid two minutes of making sure the garter snake was obliterated from existence, Fernald finally dropped the shovel. “The snake is gone,” he announced, turning back around to face Ainsley.

           Ainsley looked back at him with uncertainty.

           “You can get down off the table,” Fernald encouraged. “It’s dead.”

           Ainsley gingerly clambered down onto the stage as Fernald approached them, driven inexplicably by the desire to make sure Ainsley wasn’t permanently traumatized.

           It should not be necessary to point out that Ainsley was ophidiophobic, and didn’t have a good relationship with most other types of reptiles either. The garter snake’s sudden appearance had shaken them, and though the threat was now neutralized, they were still reeling from the scare. Instinctively, they sought a protective bastion until their heart rate had lowered, and so, without even thinking, they closed the distance between themselves and Fernald and wrapped the latter in a tight embrace, grateful that Fernald had stepped up to get rid of the offending reptile and now seeing Fernald as the safest thing in the entire auditorium.

           Fernald was stunned by this reaction, though he didn’t make any moves to shoo Ainsley away. Instead, after some thought, he gently wrapped his own arms around Ainsley, taking care not to jab them in the back with either hook. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “The snake is gone.”

           Ainsley realized what they were doing just then, letting go of Fernald and backing away in embarrassment. “Can we…pretend that never happened?” they asked sheepishly.

           Fernald nodded, a bit flustered himself. “Sure. That’s…a VERY good idea.”

           “Hey,” Bolton called up from the audience. “Somethin’ going on between you two?”

           “Something?” Fernald replied. “What do you mean SOMETHING? There’s NOTHING!”

           “I was just reacting out of ophidiophobia-driven instinct,” Ainsley added. “There really isn’t any deeper meaning behind what just happened.”

           “Of course there isn’t,” Charlotte said teasingly.

           “Why would we EVER think there was?” Emily added, equally teasingly, and the twins’ smirks were both far too gleeful.

           “The snake is dead,” Fernald growled. “End of discussion.”

           “You know what would happen if you two WERE a thing, right?” Bolton brought up.

           “By ‘thing,’ do you mean a couple?” Ainsley clarified. “Because if you mean that, we’re definitely not.”

           “Olaf would figure out some way to use it against you,” Bolton pointed out. “Get you to do what he wanted.”

           “Then it’s a good thing we’re NOT A COUPLE,” Fernald insisted. He knew quite well how ruthless Olaf could be about exploiting where one’s affections lay; that was why he’d been careful to the extreme about never letting Olaf know he had a sister.

           “Right,” Bolton jeered. “Mr. The-New-Guy-Sure-Is-Pretty.”

           Ainsley turned to Fernald in interest. “You said that?”            “NO!” Fernald yelled defensively. “Can we just get back to work already?”            Ainsley gave him a shrug that more or less meant “yes.”

           “And somebody clean up that dead snake!” Fernald barked as he stormed backstage. 

           Ainsley’s downtown apartment wasn’t overly lavish, nor was it representative of one living in destitution. It was small, but for one person living alone, that made sense, Fernald thought as he glanced around it. He felt incredibly out of place there, and wondered how he’d even gotten to that location. Of course, he knew how: it just struck him as a bit unbelievable.

           Olaf’s scheme to marry Violet Baudelaire had gone belly-up. Now the entire troupe was on the run from the law, though the law hardly had any idea where to start looking for them or what their names even were. All five had felt relatively safe hiding out in their own abodes, though when the phone had rung earlier that afternoon, Fernald had admittedly jumped, fearing the law had already tracked him down (and not realizing that the first thing they would do was knock on his door, not call him on the telephone to try to arrest him via audio). It had taken him, as usual, a few minutes to figure out how to answer the phone. No matter how many times he did it, he seemed to always mix up the receiver and the mouthpiece; it simply didn’t click as a natural pattern in his brain. When he finally did get it turned right way round, he practically yelled “HELLO?”            “Is this Fernald?” a familiar voice had asked.

           ��Who is this?” Fernald snapped in response. “Who’s calling me?”            “This is Ainsley,” the voice replied. “I kinda want your help with something.”

           And that had begun the conversation that led Fernald downtown to Ainsley’s living space.

           “So do you want any coffee or anything?” Ainsley offered.

           “No,” Fernald said brisky. “I’m good. Thank you.”            “You can totally sit on the couch if you want,” Ainsley continued.

           Fernald took them up on that one, settling in on the beige couch. “So what did you want my help with?” he asked.

           “I actually have an audition in a couple hours,” Ainsley informed him, “and I wanted a second opinion on if I was emoting properly in the soliloquy I prepared for it.”

           “You’re actually doing a show the boss didn’t write?” Fernald said incredulously. “Which one?”

           “Equus.”

           “Isn’t that the one where the kid gets turned on by horses?”            “It’s actually more complicated than that,” Ainsley explained. “It’s basically a critical analysis of spirituality in modern society.”

           “I’ll, uh…I’ll take your word for it.” Fernald settled back into the couch. “So, uh…did you invite the rest of the troupe over, or…?”            “Just you, actually,” Ainsley admitted. “I just think you’re probably the most appropriate person to judge my delivery and give me an honest opinion.” That wasn’t quite true, but Ainsley didn’t feel it quite appropriate to let on to Fernald that he was the person they felt the most comfortable around, between him using their correct pronouns and his actions during the day of the great garter snake invasion.

           “Well, let’s hear it,” Fernald encouraged.

           Ainsley momentarily wondered if inviting Fernald to review their audition was a mistake. Watching him watch them was giving them classic symptoms of stage fright, which Ainsley found odd, as they generally didn’t have such a condition, even in front of audiences of hundreds. Perhaps it was because of their amicability toward each other, the fact that Ainsley actually knew the lone member of their audience this time, that was causing Ainsley’s heart to beat faster and palms to sweat. They closed their eyes momentarily in order to find the beginning of what they’d memorized, then took a breath, opened their eyes, and began to recite.

           They didn’t get two lines in when the phone rang.

           “Sorry,” Ainsley sighed. “I have to get that.”

           “Go ahead,” Fernald replied.

           He watched Ainsley walk into the kitchen to answer the phone; the door offered a clear view of them the whole while. “Hello?” they greeted, picking up the receiver. “Yeah, this…you what? You totally couldn’t have called at a worse time. Okay, so I have this audition for Equus in a couple hours and…I don’t really…no, I…that’s not…can you at least let me talk? Okay, fine. I’ll be there. Yes, I’ll tell them. All of them. No, I won’t forget – his name is Bolton. And mine’s Ainsley. I said I’ll BE there.” They slammed the receiver back to the telephone base with a show of force Fernald had never seen before. Then, continuing to surprise Fernald, they picked the receiver up and slammed it angrily back into place several more times. Fernald had a pretty good idea of who had called.

           He got up from the couch, crossing tentatively into the kitchen. “That was the boss?”            “Yeah,” Ainsley confirmed, still staring daggers at the phone.

           “Let me guess. He needs us for a scheme. Right now.”

           “Yeah.”

           After an awkward silence, Ainsley turned to face Fernald, obviously trying to stuff their anger away. “Fernald?”

           “What?”

           “How do you spell ‘coroner’?” 

           Somehow, the entire troupe managed to shake off the authorities that were tailing their van, despite the van being emblazoned with a definitely misspelled “CORNER,” a testament to why Fernald should never be asked to help spell anything.

           Fernald, Ainsley, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily ended up holing up at a rundown motel, awaiting Olaf’s call and further instructions. They booked four rooms, with Charlotte and Emily sharing one. They then congregated in Fernald’s room, all five cramming onto the bed, in order to start up a new card game.

           There were only so many hours that can be killed playing cards. “Maybe he forgot about us this time,” Bolton theorized.

           “If only we were so lucky,” Charlotte griped.

           Emily elbowed her sister in the side. “Without Olaf, where are we?”

           “We’re here, is where we are,” Fernald grumbled, playing the absolute most wrong card he could have picked. “Playing cards in a dingy motel where I know I saw at least three spiders in the bathroom.” A thought occurred to him. “Ainsley…you aren’t afraid of spiders, are you?”            “Not as much as snakes,” Ainsley replied, intentionally picking a worse card than Fernald’s play. It hadn’t taken them long to catch onto the fact that Fernald usually lost at such games, and they felt somewhat piteous toward him for that, hence the beginning of an intentional losing streak on Ainsley’s end.

           “Well, if nothing else, we’ll at least get treated to another show of Fernald beating the spiders to death with a toothbrush,” Emily joked.

           The last card was played and the score tallied. “You know, Ainsley,” Bolton commented, “you’re really bad at this.”

           “I know,” Ainsley responded nonchalantly. “And totally not on purpose, either.”

           “Another hand?” Charlotte asked.

           This was met with four groans; everyone was sick of playing. “I’m going to bed,” Bolton announced as the group scrambled off Fernald’s bed.

           “I’m going to go find coffee,” Ainsley added. “I have seriously needed coffee for hours.”

           “It’s…” Fernald checked the clock. “Eleven at night. And you’re getting COFFEE?”

           “I’ll have decaf,” Ainsley said with a shrug.

           “It’s already eleven?” Charlotte remarked. “That’s far past bedtime, if you ask me. What do you think, Emi – “

           Emily collapsed onto Fernald’s bed face-first, snoring.

           Bolton had to scoop her up to carry her back to the room she shared with Charlotte. “If he calls at two in the morning,” he informed everyone, “I’m seriously going to think about punching him in the face when we see him again.”

           The group parted ways, and Fernald lay down in his solitary bed. At first, he considered simply going to sleep. It was, after all, very late. Yet he made no move to detach his hooks, as he usually would before lying down for the night. He wondered if it was reflection upon all the excitement of the Dr. Montgomery incident that kept him from dousing his mental light.

           Then he wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Ainsley had said they weren’t going to sleep just yet either.

           He found himself leaving his room to make his way to the lounge. A small, weathered coffee machine was situated in the middle of a counter, free for use by patrons of the motel. Fernald guessed Ainsley had been here in order to obtain the coffee, but they were long gone by that point. Perhaps they’d gone back to sleep.

           Crossing back through the lobby, Fernald stopped to ask the hostess, “Have…you seen a very tall person with reddish hair come through this way with a cup of coffee?”

           The hostess nodded. “She actually went out front of the building. There are a couple chairs set up out there.”

           “They’re not a…” Fernald shook his head. “Never mind.”

           He exited the motel into the dark night to see a patch of rickety-looking chairs set up on the lawn in a semblance of guest convenience. One of them was occupied. Fernald reconsidered joining the familiar silhouette for a moment; perhaps they just wanted to be alone. Then again, there was never any harm in asking, was there?

           “Mind if I sit?” he asked as he approached Ainsley.

           “Go ahead,” Ainsley replied, and Fernald took the chair next to him.

           There was silence for a moment as Ainsley sipped from their steaming, chipped cup and Fernald rummaged around his mind for conversation topics. “So,” he said at last. “Some day, huh?”

           “Yeah,” Ainsley replied, rather miffed as they recalled the events. “Because missing my potential break into serious acting in favor of walking into a plethora of snakes and other assorted reptiles was totally how I wanted to spend my day.”

           “Well, look at it this way,” Fernald pointed out. “You might have missed your audition, but you brought down the house as Nurse Lucafont.”

           It was hard to tell in the dark, but somehow Fernald was still able to detect the faint smile that replaced Ainsley’s disgruntled expression upon hearing that. “You weren’t bad either.”

           It was then that Fernald realized, for the first time in hours, that they were still wearing their disguises from earlier in the day. He couldn’t imagine what the hostess must have thought of the entire troupe walking in dressed as though they were the cast of a forensics-based TV program. “You look pretty good in that,” he said softly.

           “What?”

           “What?” Fernald feigned ignorance. “So…what were you thinking about out here?”

           “Lots of things.” Ainsley paused to take another long sip. “I was actually considering the nature of romantic love.”

           Fernald didn’t even think to wonder what could have put Ainsley on that train of thought, even though by that point, it would have been obvious to any outsider. “What about it?”

           “I was wondering if it’s even real,” Ainsley explained. “Sometimes I think it’s all just a societal construct designed to fool us into taking on cultural roles that are largely patriarchal. Sometimes I think it’s actually one of the greatest mysteries and most powerful forces in existence.”

           “You…ever been in love?”            “Not yet. But I think I’ve been pretty close a few times.” Another sip of coffee. “What’s your take on the subject?”            “I don’t even know,” Fernald admitted. “I guess I think it’s real. I’ve felt…things. About people. I don’t know as much about this kind of stuff as you do.”

           “I think you do,” Ainsley corrected. “You just word it differently.”

           It was then that Fernald failed to exhibit the self-control he knew he should have had. Listening to Ainsley speak had only reminded him of all the things he appreciated about his co-worker, and he suddenly felt compelled to demonstrate this. He leaned over in the dark, briefly kissing Ainsley on the cheek.

           The coffee cup hit the ground, its remaining contents spilling.

           Fernald was hit with the full realization of what he’d just done. Ainsley had turned to face him, and he could make out an expression of bewilderment on their face. “I don’t know why I just did that,” he sputtered, flummoxed. “Do you hear Bolton calling me? I think I hear Bolton calling me.” He rose from his seat and turned to scurry back to the motel. “I should go – “

           “Fernald.”

           A hand landed softly on his shoulder from behind; Ainsley had risen as well. Fernald had to work up the nerve to turn back around and look them in the eye.

           “It’s when I’m with you that I think the idea of romantic love isn’t a total fallacy,” Ainsley confessed.

           “Wait, really?” Fernald replied.

           “You’re the only one who really listens to me,” Ainsley told him. They leaned forward a stitch, and Fernald caught on, stepping closer to meet them so that Ainsley could gently press their lips to Fernald’s. Their hands sought out and caressed the sides of Fernald’s face, and Fernald found himself rather lamenting that he didn’t have hands to do the same; the best he could do was just wrap his arms around Ainsley’s waist as he returned the kiss more forcefully.

           “Olaf can’t know,” he said when they parted from the kiss.

           “Olaf won’t know,” Ainsley reassured him.

           “NONE OF THEM can know.”

           “They won’t.”

           They stepped back from each other. “It’s probably midnight,” Ainsley realized.

           “And nobody knows how long we have to get any sleep before the boss calls,” Fernald sighed. “Just…one more, first?”

           They kept the kiss brief, then walked back into the motel side by side.

           “Goodnight, Ainsley,” Fernald said earnestly.

           “Sweet dreams, Fernald.”

           They entered their respective rooms, across the hall from each other, and as each closed the door, each took a moment to lean back on it and reflect in disbelief on what had just taken place.

           To Olaf’s credit, he didn’t call at two in the morning. He called at three. 

           Shortly thereafter, the troupe found themselves ferrying Count Olaf across Lake Lachrymose. While Bolton, Ainsley, Fernald, Charlotte, and Emily crammed themselves into a small rowboat, Olaf fixed a slightly smaller rowboat behind them and decided immediately he wasn’t going to be doing any of the work whatsoever. Charlotte and Emily sat up front while Fernald was positioned in the rear of the boat between Bolton and Ainsley, the latter two of whom were rowing to propel the entire entourage forward. This was at the behest of Olaf, or, at the very least, he had wanted “Gordon and Avery” to do the rowing.

           “So the Montgomery thing was a bust,” Olaf rambled, as much to himself as to anyone else. “At least he’s dead, and if there’s one thing we didn’t need, it was Montgomery Montgomery figuring out our plan. I still can’t believe that idiot thought I was from the Herpetological Society. Given his reputation, I’m surprised he didn’t figure out who I was right away and make up some lie about thinking I was a spy from some cold-sore organization to throw me off the trail.” Then he paused. “…He didn’t just DO that to me, did he?”

           Olaf continued to rant, to the point where Fernald was basically tuning him out. He noticed when the boat seemed to take a sudden tilt to the side. Bolton’s rowing was still steadfast, but Ainsley was flagging. Fernald took one look at Ainsley and knew something was wrong; they were bent over the oar, face gone completely pale.

           “Are you okay?” Fernald whispered.

           “No,” Ainsley whispered back. “I’m trying really hard not to throw up over the side of the boat.”

           “What, you’re seasick?”

           “It’s a large lake, remember? I’m large-lakesick.”

           “I swear you’ve told us you’ve been on boats before!” Fernald hissed.

           “Bigger boats,” Ainsley corrected. “Boats where I can’t actually feel the water…rocking.”

           “You going to be able to row?”

           “No…”

           “Give it to me. Now.”

           Ainsley nodded, pursing their lips together to be sure that the next thing that came out of their mouth was words and not vomit. Both Fernald and Ainsley knew far better than to stand up in the boat, an action that would surely take the whole operation overboard and make the others not only soaked but very, very crabby. They did their best to shuffle past each other, switching places. Once Fernald was settled on the edge of the boat, it took him a couple tries to position his hooks in such a manner that he had a definite grip on the oar, but at last he found a comfortable hold and took up the job of boat propulsion.

           “What are you doing?” Bolton asked.

           “Switching,” Fernald answered sternly.

           “Yeah, but WHY?”

           “Because I want to row the boat,” Fernald insisted.

           “You’re just rowing because HE’S too lazy to,” Bolton accused, indicating Ainsley, who was at that point settling in to lie on the bottom of the boat between Bolton and Fernald.

           “They’re not a ‘he,’” Fernald growled.

           “I’m right here,” Ainsley reminded them both. “You can actually, you know, talk to me.”

           “Sorry,” Fernald muttered.

           “Will you all quit arguing and ROW THE BOAT?” Olaf yelled from his position behind.

           “That’s exactly what we’re doing, boss!” Fernald called back. He then looked down to Ainsley, asking softly, “Any better?”            “Yeah,” Ainsley replied, shutting their eyes tightly.

           “Just keep your eyes closed,” Fernald advised, “and try not to think about the waves rocking the boat back and forth, or the water rippling underneath us, or the – “

           “FERNALD.” Ainsley had opened one eye to glare up at him.

           “Probably not helping. Right. Sorry.” 

           The Captain Sham gambit was twice as convoluted as Plan Stephano. The troupe put on their best performances (which isn’t saying a lot) when it came to uniting Olaf and Josephine in a romantic relationship that was about as real as the second elevator shaft in 667 Dark Avenue.

           From there, it was a madcap rush between fencing the Baudelaires in at Josephine’s cliffside abode and making sure everything at the Anxious Clown restaurant went as wrong as it could.

           As Arthur Poe and Count Olaf, still in the guise of Captain Sham, sat in the main seating area of the small dining facility, the troupe had the run of the kitchen, making sure their captive waiter Larry didn’t give the game away by hiding messages in the food he was to bring to the Baudelaires. Larry, for his part, had either believed the quintet to be incredibly stupid or hadn’t counted on them being familiar with the secret V.F.D. methods of communication.

           “You’ll never defeat us,” Larry asserted. “You can surround us. You can throw us out of windows. You can threaten us and make us cook for you – “

           “Sorry to interrupt, but what’s the soup of the day?”

           Larry, Charlotte, Emily, and Bolton’s heads all whipped to look at Ainsley, stupefied that they’d made such a non sequitur request. Fernald, for his part, was unfazed.

           “Well?” Fernald barked. “Answer the question!”

           “It’s clam chowder,” Larry growled. “But I don’t see what that has to do with – “

           “You’re OUR hostage now,” Fernald insisted. “And that means you do what we say. And right now, I say you MAKE THE DAMN SOUP!”

           He stole a quick glance at Ainsley, whose face had lit up.

           “And while you’re at it,” Fernald ordered, “get me one of those Cheer-Up Cheeseburgers.”

           “Don’t put any secret messages in that one, either,” Ainsley added.

            This wasn’t to say that everything between Fernald and Ainsley was forged of complete accord. They had their share of arguments. For instance, one was had the night before, when Fernald, hoping to divert attention from the time the two spent together, had clearly assigned Ainsley the task of guarding Larry, and Ainsley, thinking the twins had it under control, had simply gotten into the car with the rest of the troupe. Then there was later that very same day at the Anxious Clown, when Fernald found Ainsley and Larry having a conversation about pasta puttanesca. Then again, it wasn’t so much a conversation as Larry bewilderedly listening to one of his captors describe a pasta recipe he already knew how to make to him and wondering how he’d gone from being the troupe’s dish-washing servant to this.

           “STOP BEING FRIENDLY TO HIM!” Fernald snapped at Ainsley, having flashbacks of when he’d been less than cruel to Sunny Baudelaire and how well that had turned out.

           Ainsley fell silent, looking away. They absolutely hated being snapped at by Fernald; it hit right in the heart.

           The telephone rang. Neither Ainsley, who was still dismayed from being shouted at by Fernald, nor Fernald, who was at that moment wondering if he’d been too curt with Ainsley, thought to actually stop Larry from answering it. “Anxious Clown Restaurant,” Larry greeted halfheartedly. “This is Larry, your waiter.”

           “Larry, I don’t have much time,” a muffled voice, likely disguised by a cloth placed over the mouthpiece of the connected phone, said over the line. “The Quagmires are alive.”

           “Alive?” Larry said in disbelief. “Where?”

           “The tunnel system should have taken them to the depths of Peru.”

           “Peru?”

           “We haven’t heard anything on the Quagmire children. Are they still safe?”            “Secure for the moment,” Larry hissed, “but you need to know – “

            “So are you gonna stop him?” Ainsley grunted.

           Fernald realized letting the hostage use the telephone may have been a fatal mistake. He rushed to overtake Larry, hooking the phone cord and yelling into the mouthpiece, “WHO IS THIS?” His usual telephone illiteracy overtook him, and he peered into, then listened at the mouthpiece, trying to remember how those cursed devices actually worked. He fumbled with the receiver for a moment before giving up on it completely. “Hello?” he yelled at the phone. “HELLO!” He then bashed the phone a couple times with one hook. “How does it WORK? HELLO!”

           Larry simply stared on in fear and disbelief.

           Fernald spun to face Ainsley. “HELP ME WITH THIS THING!”

           “No,” Ainsley replied, not making eye contact.

           “WHY NOT?”

           “Because you yelled at me.”

           “Listen.” Fernald dropped the receiver and stormed toward Ainsley. “We don’t have time for fooling around, making nice with the hostages!”

           “We don’t have time to waste trying to figure out how phones work, either.”

           “WHAT?”

           The argument that followed was lengthy, with Fernald’s volume steadily increasing while Ainsley put more and more creativity into the insults they hurled at Fernald in return.

           “YOU THINK THIS IS SOME KIND OF GAME?”

           “If it is, you’re a pawn with delusions of grandeur of being a dictatorial king.”

           “I BET YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PLAY CHESS!”

           Larry tried to use his captors’ distracted state to edge toward the door, but Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily all planted themselves in front of it so he couldn’t make an escape attempt.

           “The only reason,” Fernald huffed, finally running out of steam, “I didn’t want you to play nice with him is because that’s how you end up with tape on your mouth, giving the hostage a free ride all the way down to the theater. I know this from PERSONAL EXPERIENCE.” He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Sorry I yelled.”

           “Sorry I called you an ignorant example of the sheeple that are slowly poisoning our already toxic society. Among other things.”

           “You’re forgiven,” Fernald relented.

           “Are those two…?” Larry tried to whisper.

           “We’re not a couple,” Fernald and Ainsley said as one in a knee-jerk reaction.

           “Of course not,” Charlotte said smugly.

           “Whyever would we think you were?” Emily said even more smugly.

           Fernald and Ainsley exchanged a nervous glance, then looked away from each other, both wondering if they’d gotten a bit too obvious. 

           The Captain Sham sham sank like a rowboat that had just been pulverized by a cannonball. However, the entire troupe escaped once again, speaking to Mr. Poe’s ability to actually corner known villains.

           “Where are we going now, boss?” Fernald asked as they all loaded up into a getaway car.

           “WE aren’t going anywhere,” Olaf replied, briefly glancing into the rearview mirror, which was pointed down at his face rather than at the back window as is actually safe when driving in heavy traffic, so he could wink at himself. “I’m going to contact an old ally. You’re going to wait until I call you for further instructions.”

           While Olaf made haste toward a town calling itself “Paltryville,” the other five returned to the city. Bolton hid out in his usual apartment, and the twins found their house in the suburbs to be secure. When it came to Fernald and Ainsley, however, splitting up wasn’t in the cards.

           “I never saw your place,” Ainsley pointed out.

           “I don’t really think you want to,” Fernald replied.

           They ended up at Fernald’s apartment anyway, and Fernald found himself somewhat self-conscious of the mess it had been left in. Hardly anything was clean, and nothing was where it was supposed to be, with dishes on the bookshelf and socks in the silverware drawer. The entire apartment ran on a premise known to many as “organized chaos.” Fernald knew where everything was, and it was exactly where he needed it to be. He suspected Ainsley wouldn’t see eye-to-eye with him on this, however.

           “I know,” he sighed. “It’s a mess.”

           “It’s bigger than my place,” Ainsley pointed out.

           They spent the afternoon playing various card games. Fernald was astonished that Ainsley lost every single hand, thinking it miraculously that he’d somehow found the one person in the world who was worse at card games than he was – though again, this was an intentional act on Ainsley’s part. And Ainsley was more than happy to owe Fernald a back rub for a lost game.

           After some discussion, they decided it was still too soon to be sharing sleeping quarters, but at the same time, they did want to remain together for as much time as they had, knowing it wouldn’t be much before Olaf called them into action once more. Fernald decided to spend the night on the couch, letting Ainsley have the bed in the adjacent room.

           Thinking Ainsley was settling into the bed for the night, Fernald detached his hooks, huddling under a spare blanket on the couch, which was old but not uncomfortable. No sooner had he closed his eyes when he heard a voice asking, “Can I make a cup of coffee?”

           “It’s ten-thirty,” Fernald replied, opening his eyes and sitting up. “So I assume you want decaf.”

           He talked Ainsley through the locations of the coffee grounds and filters in the kitchen, as well as the mugs, which were kept in a cabinet under the television. As Ainsley watched the coffee drip into the pot, Fernald asked, “What are you thinking about?”, knowing Ainsley was always thinking about something and suspecting their mind was going into overdrive if they needed coffee that late at night.

           “I was just thinking about evil,” Ainsley admitted. “I always thought good and evil were another binary that people didn’t really belong to one or the other of. Morality isn’t black-and-white. It’s more like a grayish color. A lot of people do bad things for good reasons, and a lot of people do good things for bad reasons. Then there’s us. We do bad things for bad reasons, but really, so far, we’ve just been doing what we need to do in order to get ahead. We’re looking out for ourselves, and people like us need to do that.”

           “But?” Fernald encouraged, sensing doubt in Ainsley’s voice.

           “I’m starting to wonder if we’re taking it too far,” they admitted. “I was cool with Dr. Montgomery dying and all, but Josephine wasn’t really a threat to us. I also didn’t actually see Dr. Montgomery GET killed, which, all considered, shouldn’t really change things, but it still made me wonder if I’m actually becoming evil.” The coffee maker beeped; Ainsley removed the pot to pour a cup. “And I thought I’d be cool with it if I was, but maybe I’m not.” They paused, momentarily afraid to look Fernald in the eye. “You probably think that means I don’t belong with the rest of the team, then. Or you.”

           “I don’t think that,” Fernald assured them, lightly touching the end of his arm to their forearm. “Good and evil are complicated. I never thought people were one or the other either. I always thought people were more like…chef salads, with good and evil mixed up in them.”

           “Even Olaf?”            “Yes. He’s got some good in him SOMEwhere. Just not where any of us can see it. I know I have a lot of good and evil mixed up in me. I’m fine with it. And I think you’re the same way. I don’t know exactly HOW good or HOW evil you are. But I like you. I always love hearing you talk about stuff like this.”

           Ainsley turned to face Fernald, smiling unsurely. “And I totally love that you listen.”

           They kissed briefly. “I like you so much,” Ainsley continued, and they kissed again after that. “But what happens next time – “

           “Let’s not think about next time yet,” Fernald decided before a third kiss ensued.

           That seemed to bring Ainsley to a realization. “You always listen to me,” they reiterated, backing off a bit. “Maybe I don’t listen to you enough. I want to know more about you. How’d you get involved with Olaf, anyway?”            And in that moment, Fernald was tempted to tell Ainsley everything he could never have told Olaf. About Fiona. About the true nature of the V.F.D. schism and what led him to make his choice. He was ready to begin speaking of all such things, and very nearly poured all of his secrets out in a manner similar to how Ainsley had poured the contents of the coffee pot into a cup, when the phone rang, and they both knew who was calling.

           Fernald looked at the ends of his arms in a panic; answering the phone would be twice as difficult without his hooks, and it would take him a bit of time to reattach them, time during which Olaf would become grouchier and grouchier. Ainsley knew exactly what Fernald was thinking, asking, “Do you need me to hold the phone?”            “Yes…”

           In an instant, Fernald was set up in front of the telephone, with Ainsley holding the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” Fernald greeted.

           “Ferdinand?” Olaf said in disbelief. “Usually it takes you longer to answer a phone.”

           Fernald exchanged a quick and somewhat anxious look with Ainsley. “Had to get it right sometime,” he said sheepishly. “So, whaddaya need, boss?”

           “I’m at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill in Paltryville,” Olaf explained, “and they just so happen to be in need of a new foreman. One with HANDS, mind you. Being the brilliant casting director that I am, I know you’re perfect for the job. Though, like I said, bring hands. We need a little…ACCIDENT to happen here at the mill.”

           “I’ll be right there,” Fernald promised.

           “And hurry it up,” Olaf insisted.

           “I am literally headed out the door as we speak!” Fernald replied, following in his boss’ footsteps of confusing the definitions of “literally” and “figuratively.” He nodded to Ainsley, who took the cue to hang up the phone.

           “The boss needs me in Paltryville,” Fernald explained. “Now.”

           “You need me to come along?” Ainsley asked.

           Fernald didn’t just refuse because Olaf hadn’t specified for anyone else to accompany him. Olaf’s emphasis on the word “accident” rang in his ears, coupled with Ainsley’s uncertainty about murdering Josephine Anwhistle. “I’ll be fine,” he said simply. “This shouldn’t take long, hopefully.”

           “I’ll wait for you,” Ainsley promised. 

           Of course, villains, even villains with a fair amount of good and evil mixed together in them, are as subject to misery as those who are not villains. No matter how much sugar you put in your tea, you cannot escape the impending rocks that life places beneath your wheels.

           However, this also means that villains are just as apt as those who are not villains to come by events that are fortunate, though for those who are their victims, these events are usually seen from the opposite point of view entirely. Sometimes, however, they simply find something as significant as someone to talk to, or someone to listen to. And from a certain point of view, that isn’t so unfortunate after all.

[moonlightheretic]

WIP Wednesday The Heretic: Chapter Unknown

“Where are we?” I struggled to find my bearings in this dark tunnel. The ground seemed unstable, pebbles shifting underfoot. My hands reached out in a blind haste for something solid to guide me through the dark. The walls practically disintegrated at my touch and nearly caved inwards. I did not feel safe. This place was one wrong step away from total collapse. I stumbled, my feet slipping into the rock ridden path, his hand caught my arm.

“You do not need to know.” He answered simply, pulling me to my feet.

It was becoming his go-to reply for everything I asked. I wasn’t satisfied with it. He watched my struggle and called flame to his hand, the hollowed cave’s secrets scattered into the shadows cast by the wiggling ignition. “You have stripped me of my weapons and most of my dignity. Do you mean to strip me of basic information as well? Am I so scary to you, Dread Wolf?” I challenged. Bitterness chewing through my words.

“They elected you as Inquisitor, not for your skill in battle alone. You are formidable. In any case, there is no benefit in informing you, it will make little difference. You will activate this one, as done previously.” His voice dipped into the octaves of an order.

“Where are we?” I pressed. “I want to know what you will destroy.” I stood firm, shoulders squared, refusing to tread further. He turned to face me, the blaze in his hand distorting the shadows across the planes of his face.

“When has any truth of my plans comforted you? Or perhaps, any truth at all? You live, stuck in a halcyon that never existed and you yearn for its return.”

“And who painted that pretty picture for me? This impressive hiraeth? A lie built on lies, a tower, and then brick by brick, a rotunda, and finally, a castle! What a beautiful empire you raised. Such an artist as you perhaps, should have erected that on Skyhold’s walls.”

We dove into a thick silence, neither of us giving in. I could almost see him biting his tongue, any remark quelled by fledgling self-control. He took a breath and smiled.

“You evade blame almost as skillfully as you evaded me, ah, but then again, where are you know?” He tilted his head, his left brow raised. “I wonder, what more dances have you that I not discovered yet?”

“I believe it was you who taught me to dance, Solas. I cannot take credit for my skills, when I have the master in front of me.” I gestured to him.

A muscle in his neck twitched and the fire cradled in his fingers strengthened significantly, staining his skin red.

“There is work to be done. Enough.” Even though the fire was causing us both to sweat in this enclosed space, his words were of pure ice.

We advanced upon this hovel, a crumbling crooked crevice of rock and stalagmites, dripping with Maker knows what. His steps were full of confidence and prior knowledge, muscle attuned with memory. He maneuvered past the tight angles with experience. He had been here before, perhaps?

“Whose bright idea was to locate an artifact in this dreadful place?” I snapped, as I was compelled to duck when a bat screeched by my head. Ah, but if a bat made its home here, surely there was an additional entrance to this hollowed nightmare.

He answered me with a chuckle and then reassured, “It isn’t far. Have patience, Inquisitor.” Ah, so he was no longer angered by my words, or had he folded the displeasure up and saved it for later?

I grabbed his illuminated jaw and snapped his head towards me. “Patience? I waited for you! With each year passing no more than a decade of drought! I have been patient, Solas.”  I wasn’t expecting a simple comment to provoke such raw emotion into my words, but there I was, fingers digging into the flesh of his jaw.

Solas’s eyes crept over my face, tracing every detail with his heavy gaze. “And so you have me.” He remarked gruffly and shrugged me off. A small draft tingled against my skin, the blooming flame flickered and listed, perhaps a vein in this stone body led to freedom, after all. But, I could only see what his flaming palm afforded me.

I felt it before I saw it. The anchor reacted, fizzling, smoke-like, and churning the air around it a greenish hue. My first reaction was to recoil and hide it within my cloak. Solas’s armored arm slithered into the fold of my cloak, the fabric hissing against his metal arm guards. He held onto my throbbing hand, pulling it from its hiding place, cool fingers calming my shivering ones, he presented it to the artifact before us.  Mist entrapped light uncoiled around the artifact, as if we had woken it from a long slumber, its light stretched and billowed in flight, like a flag caught in the wind and it rippled and convulsed, as if it was rejoicing. A warm welcome, indeed. A statue loomed behind, a winged and headless figure of a woman. Mythal. She was immured in this foul place, a feeling of sorrow washed over me.

“We are within the Vimmark Mountains.” He informed, sullen and remorseful, his eyes lingering on the statue.

A mountain chain, opportunity screamed into my mind. Then we could be in the vicinity of Kirkwall or even Ostwick, or rather, it was also possible we were somewhere in between. What mattered the most was the very fact that we were under a mountain.

“Surely, this place has significance.” I argued, playing along, with my eyes following his.

“Indeed.” He whispered.

Solas closed his palm and in doing so, snuffed out his flame. We were bathed in a greenish and golden light, I stole a glance, his mouth set in a hard line, eyes devoid of emotion, and in doing so, he gave me nothing. Unreadable. He was skilled not only in magic, but also, in masking his intentions. He was undeniably powerful, but so was I.

My heart hammered in my chest, possibly my only chance at stopping the Dread Wolf lay within these simple and faulty rock walls, carved out by water. Maybe, I did not need my little dagger, for it, could not compare with a mountain.

The next set of actions were to be done without instruction, as they were no different than the times prior. But this time, everything would be different. Hesitation would no longer best me.

I neared the artifact, Solas stepped behind me and observed. I lifted my hand and waited, the artifact pulsated with green waves of light surging upwards, and revealing thousands of tiny eyes glaring back at us in this aphotic sanctuary. Fucking bats.

I felt my release and I moved closer to it, the lights brightened in response, and I wondered, could I not only activate the artifact with the anchor, but also destroy it? Hell, I could bring this entire cave down and trap him in, weaponize our very surroundings…and so I did. I had only used the anchor’s power as much as I required of it, in the past, I was too careful to abuse it. That some calamity might befall myself and others if I used it for anything but its intended purpose, but what I needed most was in fact, calamity, itself.

I opened a rift right into the very center of the artifact. In less than a blink of an eye, it exploded into a shower of glass and stone, its ancient powers reveling in the new found freedom. In an instant, the small pocket of this mountain, shuddered and began to collapse, as the rift twisted it into its own shape, pulling and knotting, then thrusting and flailing. The bats flew to an escape as dust, stalagmites and murky water rained down, then chunks of rock plummeted downwards until the very ceiling threatened to fold in like a deck of cards. I tried to avoid the falling debris as the area shook, thunderous and vengeful. I could hear the bats, screeching in terror and I made my way to follow them.

“Moon’Hwa!” Solas roared. Eyes lit, his hands invoked a barrier, though as the mountain piled high, he was struggling to hold it. He gritted his teeth and grunted under the weight, too preoccupied to stop me, for if he let go, we would surely be buried. So this was his limit. I crawled along the ground, my back was pelted with rocks and earth. I covered my head with one hand and dug through debris with the other. He fell to his knee behind me, his gaze burning a hole in my back. The consequences of my actions stopped ricocheting from my body, I peered upwards to realize that his barrier was stretching, enveloping me within its safety.-----------------

So I am not sure where this chapter is going to end up...as in numerically where it will sit. It is not done yet...but it is further along then what I posted. I fear it will be too long to post here in full. 

@followingthewolf | @noire-pandora | @kita-lavellan | @jarakrisafis @stratsome-jack | @musetta3 | @weird-in-thedas | @eccentriccoffeebird | @5lazarus | @shadowcrow @anavakarian | @mrstethras | @silvanils @sratsome-jack 

[itsnumerologist]

Karmic Lessons, Anyone?

Karmic Lessons (not to be mistaken for Karmic Debts) indicate shortcomings that should be managed in this lifetime. They are found by investigating your full name during childbirth and discovering which numbers are absent.

With a specific end goal to discover the Karmic Lessons, we don't have to include or do whatever other sort of math, we should simply discover which number or numbers are absent. In my name's numbers, the number 1 seems five circumstances, the 2 shows up twice, the 3 seems three circumstances, the number 4 shows up once, the 5 comes up five circumstances, the 6 shows up twice, the 7 shows up no circumstances by any stretch of the imagination, the number 8 is there twice and the number 9 comes up once.

Twenty-one letters in my name and the main number missing is the 7. This makes the number 7 my Karmic Lesson. You can locate your own Karmic Lessons by changing your full name during childbirth into numbers, and afterward searching for which numbers are not spoke to.

Here are the letters of the letters in order and their numerical qualities:

Numerology Alphabet Chart

The normal number of Karmic Lessons is two, yet four or even five is not that unprecedented, nor is it bizarre to have no Karmic Lessons by any stretch of the imagination - which doesn't let you free, however more about that later.

Before I discuss the impact Karmic Lessons have on your life, let me bring up a couple of things, including a few misguided judgments:

Misguided judgment #1: Life is simpler without Karmic Lessons

On the off chance that it were that straightforward, I would propose each parent simply ensure your child has each number spoke to in his or her full name and he or she will be okay.

Confusion #2: The less Karmic Lessons, the more established your spirit

I don't know why this would matter somehow. (Why would we like to be more youthful with regards to our physical bodies, and more established with regards to our souls? What's more, if souls have a predefined age, who brings forth them? Does that mean your spirit can bite the dust? Do a few souls develop and learn speedier than others? I can have a ton of fun with this jabber, so watch out for the subject of souls and timing in some future blog.)

Misguided judgment #3: Karmic Lessons are terrible!

Not genuine. Truth be told, Karmic Lessons can be an incredible resource.

Here are a few truths about Karmic Lessons that are valid:

Truth #1: Karmic Lessons provide guidance to your life (this will turn out to be clear later).

Reality #2: While Karmic Lessons indicate something "lacking," they really "include" to your life (the ideas of things lacking or adding to your life is amazingly relative).

I frequently utilize the accompanying similarity when I attempt to clarify the capacity of Karmic Lessons. Suppose that there are nine various types of apparatuses: Woodworking instruments, metalworking devices, devices to take a shot at hardware, devices for sewing and weaving, devices for cultivating, welding devices, et cetera.

Clearly, on the off chance that you would be in a circumstance where each one of these apparatus gatherings is available, you ought to have the capacity to handle any venture. Then again in the event that you would have entry to just eight sorts of apparatuses, missing for instance, all the carpentry devices, you can at present do a considerable measure, yet you would have enormous issues when solicited to manufacture something out from wood. Karmic Lessons are fairly comparative.

For my situation, the number 7 is absent. The 7 is an insightful, studious, otherworldly number and I need to concede, I had an effective abhorrence toward school. In any case, it isn't that basic, in light of the fact that there are different angles to be considered.

Suppose you have eight arrangements of devices however you do not have all carpentry instruments. Above all else, on the off chance that you don't have any ability with regards to building things out of wood, you don't generally require them, isn't that right? On the other hand, in the event that you are skilled however you are attracted to working with metal, lacking carpentry instruments isn't any huge issue.

It gets truly fascinating when you have an awesome ability and a coordinating longing to work with wood, however not a solitary carpentry apparatus in your workshop. This is the place my name is a decent illustration. I don't have a 7 in my name and in this manner I have a 7 Karmic Lesson. Be that as it may, I have a 7 Life Path (the most critical number in the outline) and a 7 Personality (likewise extremely noteworthy). Presently what happens?

Envision yourself as somebody who loves to work in wood and is exceptionally gifted in that field, yet doesn't have the vital apparatuses. What you do is you go out and get yourself a few devices. Whatever it takes, you will get the instruments you have to express your ability and take after your yearning.

The same is the situation with Karmic Lessons. This is the reason I said before that Karmic Lessons can give your life bearing. Not just does it work like a vacuum, something that should be filled, and in this way moves you to attempt to fill it, providing guidance to your life, it likewise duplicates your potential in the utilization of your gifts. Since in the event that you have an ability and a longing and the devices, you will most likely do fine and dandy. However, in the event that you have an ability and a yearning, and after that need to go out and set forth noteworthy push to get the important devices, I guarantee you, you will push your ability and your aspiration to as far as possible, and turn out to be more expert than you would have ever gotten to be if the instruments had been inside simple reach.

Yours really is an a valid example. I am not here to congratulatory gesture myself, but rather I can let you know that, as somebody conceived in a domain of critical, taught, and very wise guardians, kin, and companions - every one of whom were pretty much inadequate with regards to any association with the otherworldly side of life - I began off a similar way, however generally immediately transformed into the direct inverse.

The ability to investigate the profound world was there and the longing to do as such significantly more, since I was extremely youthful. I have now put in well more than forty years pushing the limits, including a hourly regimen of reflection (no train required in the event that you happen to appreciate it more than practically whatever else) and a propensity for taking a gander at everything in my life against a scenery of what it implies or shows me from an otherworldly point of view. This is my life. I live and relax for one reason just and that is to get nearer to the piece of me I call my "life." Which has nothing to do with my designated time traverse, other than that it takes into consideration my body to be alive amid that time. (I trust this is really befuddling with the goal that you may kick back and consider this announcement painstakingly.)

Be that as it may, how about we retreat to the subject of Karmic Lessons. On the off chance that I didn't have the otherworldly drive (my 7 Life Path) and the profound inclination (my 7 Personality) to fill the vacuum of my 7 Karmic Lesson, I can guarantee you that I would not have been remotely as glad and substance as I am. By a similar token, on the off chance that I didn't have this need to fill the vacuum of my 7 Karmic lesson, which brought about an awesome profound appetite I have felt since I was a little child, my 7 Life Path and 7 Personality would have conveyed what needs be most likely more in the region of academic reviews and other scholarly interests, rather than the kind otherworldly inquiry that has practically been the narrative of my life.

Approach me on the off chance that I am thankful for my 7 Karmic Lesson and I will let you know that I can't start to express my thankfulness for having had the "mishap" of being conceived without the 7 in my name. Nothing has brought me more noteworthy prizes, more prominent fulfillment, more prominent bliss. What's more, I am completely serious here.

Proceed, take a gander at your own particular name and let me know what you think. Do your Karmic Lessons bode well? I trust I will get notification from large portions of you that what was absent on your rundown of advantages really made you what you are today.

Interesting that in life, a missing resource can be a great deal more significant than every one of those that are available joined - a disagreement in the event that I ever observed one!

Obviously, there are special cases. Next time I will enlighten you concerning a man who had a genuinely long name, 22 letters, and just the 3, the 4 and the 5 were available. The numbers 1, 2, 6, 7, 8 and 9 were all absent.

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