#To her the interaction barely warrants a note in her journal but he feels like he's had an entire monastery dropped on his head.

[ihaveaskeleton]

Astarion was fairly certain he could trust Karlach not to kill him, less so Wyll. The Blade of Frontiers was a wildcard — but he had been willing to see reason before.

The cleric was friendlier towards him than she used to be, but given her profession he doubted their half-truce would survive the revelation that he was undead. That little, itty-bitty secret of hers — the little fact only he knew — could be his saving grace. People do not spend decades pretending to be someone they are not without a reason. If he leveraged that, she might let him stay without a fight.

If it did come to blows, however, that could work in his favor. Her little tumble into the Underdark had left her in no state to fight. Killing her would be easy, and once she was dead? Well, that little illusion of hers would break and her secret exposed. If he played his cards right, he might be able to convince the others to follow him instead — or at least let him live.

^ Astarion's thought-process moments before discovering that his least-favorite travelling companion is an active supporter of vampire rights.

[wingedfabray]

Merry Go ‘Round || Self-Para

Tagging: Quinn Fabray with mentions of others When: September-October 2017 Where: New York, Connecticut, Italy, Switzerland, & Poland What: In which Quinn finds her number. Warnings: None.

She was sitting at her desk, when the package arrived. The soft knock on her door was enough to make her jump. Her focus was far away, drifing over campus, drifting up. Too much had happened, since Harper had slipped a note into her hand and walked away. There was too much to do, too much chaos, too much noise. The note had been slipped into a bedside drawer, and she had settled into casual research. But the knock at the door brought everything right back.

The package was obviously a book, wrapped in brown paper and tied with pale string. Her grandmother's looped handwriting was scrawled in one corner, "This should be everything you need." She opened it slowly, carefully, peeling each corner back with shaking hands. It was an old journal, the edges soft and worn. Her hands shook as she layed it upon her desk. This was important. This was something from her grandmother's past, something that she'd held close for so long. Quinn could tell. It was in the way the leather gave easily when she opened it, how the pages were bent and frayed at the edges. It was important, she felt like she was holding history.

Quinn hadn't expected much, when she'd asked for help. She'd expected silence, a nod, or perhaps another string of numbers that would take her months to decode. That would take Sam Evans giving her a nudge in the right direction. This was so much more than a nudge. This was so much more than a nod, or silence. Her grandmother had handed her a journal. She was almost afraid to turn the first page. What if it was empty? What if it was just another mystery?

Finally pushing past the initial hesitation, Quinn turned the first page. It was full. Her eyes widened as they trailed over the looped handwriting, the first entry was signed and dated Harper Fabray, but the second entry caught her eye. It wasn't her grandmother's handwriting at all. It was dated and signed Regina Isolde Anderson, the handwriting sharper, more succinct. It wasn't just a journal. It was a correspondence.

She had her own. It was bound in black leather, with the imprint of two angel wings imprinted in the bottom right corner. Harper had given it to her when she was very little, just after her Godfather had left, when things seemed to hurt the most, and there was no way up. Their interactions were sparse, but years had filled the ledger almost to the end. Quinn was familiar with how the worked, with the magic soaked into the pages. While she’d never heard it, Quinn felt like her grandmother’s voice was hidden in the looped scrawl of her ledgers.

Quickly flipping through, she found that some sections were blurred out, as though the writing was there, but hidden behind a filter. The pages felt warm, hinting at worse if she tried to lift whatever spell kept them from her sight. Resolving herself against knowing all of Harper Fabray’s secrets, Quinn turned to the beginning once more. A small flame of excitement flickered to life somewhere in her chest, and a grin spread across her face. Jenna’s tail twitched in interest, paws shifting against the carpets in response to Quinn’s mood.

September 23rd, 2017

“October 3rd, 1967: Yale is a storybook in Autumn. The leaves have turned contrasting shades of orange, yellow, and red. Sidewalks are adorned in bright colors, shiny with rain. I wish I could take you, my dear Russell. I do hope you’re doing well with your uncle. They’ve taken quite an interest in you. They’ll have you running numbers from dusk ‘til dawn, but my son, do not forget the sun, your swing set and the little wooden sword you made from birch, do not forget me. I’ll bring you a book back from Yale: something 'with pictures’ you said, yes?”

Yale wasn’t quite the way her grandmother had described it. The leaves were just beginning to turn, but they had not yet fallen, and a bright sun beat cool light onto dry sidewalks. Quinn wonders if her grandmother had walked those paths. If she’d taken the same route to the library, cutting through old brick buildings, past well-manicured lawns, dodging students absorbed in their texts. It was so long ago, she wonders how much it had changed.

The library itself was grand, sweeping views leading the eye down floors and floors of books. Somewhere deep inside the rare books section was buried, and Quinn barely paused as she made her way through, a pass clenched tightly in her hands. Her grandmothers decimal number was burning a hole through the pocket in her sundress, and she wondered why she’d even brought it. The number was emblazoned in her mind, she’d likely never forget it again, even long after she’d discovered exactly what it meant. Her footsteps only faltered through the literature section, her eyes catching on ‘Austen.’

Everything smelled like old books, dusty paper, and ink. Beinecke was quiet and still, her footsteps echoing off of the protective glass. It was clean, techs handling books and manuscripts with gloves, holding them out as though they were bombs, ready to burst with a simple draft. A tech shook his head gently, when Quinn asked about outdated listing systems. “Manuscripts are brought in and transferred out all the time. Sorry, can’t help ya there. Is there anything else you need?”

October 4th, 2017

“December 12th, 1968: Dearest Regina Isolde Anderson, I have finally arrived in Venice. It’s colder here, and the cobblestone is dusted in frost. St. Mark’s has proven to be an excellent suggestion, but I expected no less of someone as savvy as you. I’ll be spending a few days here, the corner cafes are exceptional, and I’d rather I never had to leave. I’ll be brief, as I’ve said this many a time in the past year, but thank you for your support. In light of recent events, this trip has been something of a necessity for me, one that has been made possible through the care and support of friends and family. I shall be back before too long, do keep me up to date on the happenings with the UMC.”

It looked like a church. Quinn’s heels click clicked against the stone floors, and her wide eyes caught on every arch, every contrast in the stone, every globe, railing, and leather bound book. Light filtered in through windowed walls, and she had to resist the urge to run her hands along the spines of each book as she walked by. If Quinn had ever dreamt of traveling, if she’d ever sat down and thought about where she would go, what she would do, this library would feature every single time.

Too many days were spent in Venice, even after she’d rifled through every possible answer it had to offer. She wore her hair in curled up-dos, gloved hands wrapping silken scarves around her neck, sunglasses shading out the bright but cool sunlight. Days were spent in corner cafes, just as Harper had done so many years before. When she left, she was no closer to an answer, but she felt lighter, and closer to her grandmother than she ever had before.

October 12th, 2017

“June 26th, 1974: Daniel Fabray, I’ve found myself lost. Please, do not be alarmed. There’s no need to send for me, it is in..

I am in St. Galen, Switzerland. It’s so different here, than it is in New York. It’s different in ways that feel more like home than New York ever has. You see, Daniel, I’m lost of mind. I’ve found myself surrounded by books, so full on information that I should be content. But there’s no way for me to voice it. What good is knowing what I know, if I can’t use it? You know better than anyone, dearest brother. You know what this means. We’re capable of so much, you and I. What we can do is beautiful, grand. I remember how it felt, how wonderful and quiet and peaceful it could be. Now I’ve seen so much more, inked into ancient pages. The words sound so beautiful in my  head, Daniel. But I’ll never know what they feel like, will I?

My apologies, I’m simply missing home.”

There was something darker about the cobblestone streets of St. Galen. The ground was uneven beneath her feet, stones wet from a recent rain were painted in the golden light of the streetlights. It was just cold enough to warrant a coat, which was drawn close against her chin, a scarf covering her mouth and nose. Most people passed by her with their heads turned down, unconcerned with another lost tourist.

She’d spent hours in St. Galen, most of which running over Harper’s words over and again. It hurt, somehow, even years later. She wondered if her grandmother had ever learned what those words felt like. There was a difference, she knew, between reading a spell, and saying it. Enochian felt different. It wasn’t just conveying a point, it wasn’t just another way to say ‘hello.’ She knew that, even before Harper’s cryptic note, even before her journey around the world.

She knew that, when she stood outside St. Patricks, asking the doors to open and feeling empty instead.

There was a book, tucked away in Abbey Library of St. Gall. It was old, the pages dusty. It wasn’t it, Quinn knew, but it was more than she’d had before she began her journey. She’d pulled out an empty notebook, whispering a quiet << Transfer >> and stepping back. The words inked themselves into the empty pages, her circle hovering above them, spinning slowly.

She’d tucked the book back where she found it with a sigh, fingers lingering over the spine.

“June 27th, 1974: Dearest Sister, Please come home.

I’ll be back soon; I’ve only one more stop. Please give Russell my love.”

October 25th, 2017

“September 19th, 1974: Daniel Fabray, I have found it! Daniel, I do believe Father was expecting me. I asked for their records, and he simply smiled. This text is beautiful, but it is old. You wouldn’t believe the kind of magic it proposes. It’s everything that I’ve ever wanted. It’s what I would have made of myself, had I still...

There is no use dwelling. I will record what I can, and return home as soon as I’ve had my fill of Poland. Father has expressed interest in visiting New York, perhaps I’ll bring a visitor. I’ll see you before too long, dear brother.”

Quinn traced the words over and again. Poland. She couldn’t help but wonder what she was truly looking for, when she stepped through an obscure portal in Kraków. There was still a number in her pocket, but...Quinn knew who her grandmother was talking about, she was sure of it. She knew he had bushy grey eyebrows, and a kind smile. His accent was strong, but his voice was gentle. He spoke with a slow patience that settled her, even when all she wanted to do was scream and cry. She could still hear his quiet “You are loved, Lucy.”

When she walked through the doors of the Parish of St. John, she was looking for him.

But the pastor was young, and he spoke very little english. Quinn quelled her disappointment with a sharp breath, fists clenched at her side. She offered a smile and inquired about their records. He smiled, as though he’d been waiting for her.

They made their way down a set of stone steps, leaving the grand architecture behind, replaced by plain cement walls. The air was dry, and it smelled of paper. Flickering lights illuminated rows of books, each with a number written in crooked ink at the bottom of the spine.

When she found hers, it had two angel wings imprinted into the bottom right corner.