#all of my gnomes have spent a lot of time out among other peoples but felix is the worst at adjusting his behavior in general

[blujayonthewing]

I'm inserting a crisp dollar into the Thoughts About Felix machine, wondering:

What are his sleeping habits like?

What are his coping mechanisms?

He's granted three wishes. What's the fourth thing he would wish for?

How would you describe him, using only emoji?

me @ this ask

Left to his own devices he's naturally inclined to be crepuscular; in his home village it was normal for most people to sleep both in the middle of the night and the middle of the day (though a little longer at night), and for the day to start well before dawn and end well after dark. Since he's kind of a loner and drifter at the moment he can usually still get away with this kind of sleeping schedule even after having left home; people get the impression that he never sleeps, or must sleep really poorly, because he appears to be out wandering around at all hours, but really he's just splitting up his sleep. After spending so much time in human/ mixed cities he has gotten better at being able to adjust to only sleeping at night when needs be, but he gets noticeably sleepy around lunchtime if he's not getting naps in.

He's a pretty light sleeper, partly because his hearing is so sensitive; he likes to be cozy, and preferably somewhere very quiet and dark, but he can fall asleep fairly easily almost anywhere. I feel like I have a lot of OCs who routinely stay up way too late/ refuse to sleep or, like, sleepwalk, or are otherwise Bad At Sleep, but actually his sleep habits are generally pretty good, unusual circadian rhythm notwithstanding, lol.

YELLS IT'S GETTING SO LONG SORRY I AM INCAPABLE OF BREVITY SDFKJHDFKGJ

Coping mechanisms! Small scale/ acute: he fidgets a lot, chews on things. He's mostly gotten himself out of the habit of biting his nails by redirecting to other stuff (he goes through pencils a lot faster than he actually wears them out with use). A big go-to is seeking space to be alone, particularly somewhere high up; as a kid he used to climb trees a lot, and now in aboveground cities he spends a lot of time sitting on roofs.

For bigger/ more ongoing things... it depends. On the one hand, it can feel comforting to surround himself with people by spending time in places that feel crowded without being intimate, like markets or popular taverns, but it stresses him out if people can tell he's Going Through Something, so he ends up isolating a lot instead, or just hanging out with animals and avoiding people (pigeons aren't usually good enough at humanoid body language to pick up on and ask about anything short of an actual breakdown, for one thing, but on the other hand breaking down fully in front of animals still feels significantly less stressful than in front of other people, somehow). He hates talking about himself, and he really hates trying to explain his feelings, especially when he's already having a bad time, so he doesn't really get a lot of support even when he really needs it. He mostly doesn't Journal His Feelings with his sketch/ travel journal, but I think he's more inclined to do so at least a little bit when he's trying to cope with something just because he's got no other good outlet, much less someone he can actually talk to.

In terms of coping beyond the immediate 'managing the feelings' sense, he always wants to understand things as much as possible, so a big part of coping with anything is to try to learn everything about it he can. Like, not that this has happened to him but he's very much primed to be the guy whose loved one disappears/ is killed under suspicious circumstances which sets off a chain of events leading to his single-handedly unraveling some deep convoluted conspiracy-- you know? Something extremely upsetting and Deeply Weird happened to him before the campaign started, and now he's obsessed with making sense of it. Honestly, now that I'm writing this all out, I imagine his interest in studying people and body language and social nuances and motivations came at least partly from a way to cope with not understanding those things intuitively like other people seem to, and being really bad at performing social skills correctly himself 🤔

Lacing my fingers in front of my lips pensively. The wishes question is so intriguing. ...... okay. I have his three wishes. The unwished fourth wish is 'I wish for [people who left him for dead] to forget that I exist.'

the lad in emojis: 🥺🤫🐈👁👁👂🔍🍂💬❔

[newsnigeria]

Must See: The story of Orí, the Bodiless Head.

“Iya Oyo!” I hailed. “Baba Oyo told me this story about Orí, and it doesn’t make any sense to me whatsoever.” “What story?” she asked. “Is it from his Bible? There are lots of incredulous stories in that book of his.” “No, it’s not from grandpa’s Bible,” I assured her. “He said it’s a story his mother told him.” “Beautiful woman, his mother was,” Iya Oyo said. “Tall, slim, and light like the milk-Fulani living on the other side of town. Between the two of us, she probably was one of them raised in an Oyo family. Such things were not uncommon when I was young. All the Alaafin (kings of Oyo), married from the milk Fulani and gave them land to settle in Oyo. They have no land of their own. They are peace-loving and humble people. How did Olodumare create a people and not provide them with the land? Anyway, what fable has your grandpa been telling you about Orí?” Baba Oyo entered, holding his Bible. He beamed with a smile. “I told him the story of Orí, the bodiless head. He was a forest dweller. Annually, he left the forest and visited the market to buy essential items.” “This was where it no longer made sense to me,” I jumped in. “First, he was a bodiless head. I have never seen such a person. Second, Baba Oyo says when Ori visited the market, Ori would go from one forest gnome to another to borrow human parts. An arm from one fellow, a leg from another, and he would carefully find the best body parts to wear with his head. And by the time he was done, he could look flawless, and saunter through the market as the most handsome gentleman for miles around. All the women admired him openly, but since he didn’t make any advances to women, he remained single. How is that possible!”

The story of Orí Iya Oyo smiled. “Everybody knows that story,” she said. “One day Ori went to the market looking handsome enough to eat raw. He went to the stall of a beautiful woman to get some vegetables. When she saw him, she was stunned. She had never seen any man so attractive. She told Ori, “I love you, gentleman, and wherever you are going, I’m following you. I will be your wife and there is nothing that can stop me.” To cut a long story short, the market woman told her that she was making a mistake. This was a total stranger who spoke to nobody, they warned her. Nobody knew where he was from. Her mother begged her to reconsider her decision. But she refused. “I’m madly in love with him," she told her parents. "Nobody can change my mind.” She abandoned her vegetable stall and followed the man as he walked out of town. After they had walked for a long time, they entered the forest, and to her astonishment, Ori went from one gnome to another, retuning the body parts that he borrowed from them. The last things he returned were the legs. He became a bodiless head again. The young woman was devastated. She wanted to return to the city, but Ori wouldn’t let her go because she knew his secret. “All these things make no sense to me,” I concluded. Baba Oyo explained, “It’s a story meant to teach people a lesson. The lesson here is to listen to the wisdom of others, especially your parents’ counsel. Had she listened, she would not have followed him to the forest.” Iya Oyo said, “There are other lessons. You may marry whomsoever you please, or do whatever you like, as long as you are prepared to pay the price.” “That is instructive,” I commented. Iya Oyo continued: “Beyond all this is the most important lesson: that we are all Ori, the bodiless head. All our bodily parts are on loan to us. One day, when the time comes for us to return home, we must return these parts to the owner, Olodumare. We live on borrowed time, and it is not limitless.” In a couple of hours, we will return the year 2022 to our maker, and borrow 2023 to begin another year. May the coming year be fruitful. At the end of 2023, when we return the spent year, we will rejoice and be counted among those privileged to receive the loan of 2024. See less Read the full article

[saphirered]

Keyleth x fem reader talking late at night til they doze off? 🥺

Thanks for requesting and I hope you enjoy 😊.

A night well spent in the tavern Scanlan would say. Everyone deep in their cups and scurrying to get back to their place of residence as he himself was too plastered to summon the mansion. Not the most sober but most well-composed and physically stable of Vox Machina you were designated to help Keyleth out as both Percy and Vax had already dropped her at least twice, Vex as already slumped over Grog’s shoulder and the gnomes were hardly an option, though you were sure Pike could manage. 

Keyleth rants and weeps into your shoulder how it’s unfair grass is being stepped upon and crushed beneath the feet of everyone and how it carries the weight of the world as you support her up the steps to the castle. 

“Keyleth, the grass is alright. It most often doesn’t even break under the boot of anyone and it protects the earth like a blanket from the other elements.” You reassure her at which point she missteps and stumbles. You manage to catch her just before the both of you fall but she does step on a small patch of grass. 

“No! I didn’t mean to hurt you!” She frees herself from your hold and falls to her knees weeping and hugging the grass. Behind you you hear laughter and quickly send a glare at Vax and Percy who try to stifle their giggles. You’ll get back at them later. Dropping to your knees as well the druid immediately throws herself in your embrace weeping even harder. You comfort her while you use one hand to fix the slightly bent and cracked grass with a quick spell. 

“Look. Look at the grass. It’s all fine you see?” She looks at the grass and cries out in joy getting on her hands and knees to press a kiss to the patch of grass. 

“I’m glad you’re alright and I’m sorry if I hurt you.” Keyleth mutters as you mentally facepalm sending yet another glare to the others for their giggles mouthing a ‘don’t make me hurt you’. They quickly move on as you coax Keyleth away from the patch of grass and get her back to her feet, a challenge on its own. Luckily you eventually make it into the castle and to Keyleth’s room. Setting her on her bed she refuses to let go clinging onto your neck and shoulders like a child. 

“No I don’t wanna go to sleep yet.” You manage to get her hands from around you as she pouts. 

“So what do you want to do then?” The pout and puppy dog eyes change into a victorious grin and cheer. 

“I wanna watch the stars.” 

“Fine but I’m sobering you up first.” You reach into your component pouch and begin casting lesser restoration. Within seconds she returns back to her sober self realising the stuff she had said prior.

“Shit… Grass? I cried about grass? That must be a new low even for me.” She cringes. 

“If we’re going to do this I definitely need more drink as I’ve yet to have nearly enough in the tavern.” You silently curse Grog for stealing your half finished drinks. You can’t help it you’re a slow drinker. You’d rather enjoy the taste than just chug it all one after the other. You come back with a bottle of wine stolen from a passed out Percy’s private collection. Payback indeed. You make your way to the balcony. Keyleth already there sat down back against one of the doors looking at the sky. You sit down next to her. 

“You alright?” You ask opening the bottle. 

“I’m fine.” You’re not convinced and give her a look. 

“You’re a terrible liar Keyleth. Drunk and sober.” 

“I’m sorry. I can’t help not being as charismatic as some of you.” She snaps and you’re taken aback quickly apologising for your statement. 

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out. It’s just…” She tries to find the right words.

“It’s alright. You know you can tell me anything right?” You wrap an arm around her and pull her into your side. She leans her head on your shoulder. 

“It’s just… difficult. Everything going on. I worry a lot about you guys and my future, with my Aramenté. I’m not as good of a talker as you. I don’t know how to people. I’m just me. I’m no grand leader or anything. I’m just me.” You offer her the bottle and she takes a heavy swig. Normally you wouldn’t encourage drinking sorrows away but Keyleth needed it and you’re no drinking alone when she’s upset. 

“Keyleth, we all worry about our friends, our family and our future but that doesn’t make your worries any less true or valid. It’s okay to be worried and know you’re not alone in that. We’re here for you whenever you need us. And while it may be true you’re not the most suave talker among us, you shouldn’t want to be, you shouldn’t try to be. Being a leader requires you to communicate with people but it doesn’t require you to be anything like Scanlan. I think you’d make a great leader because you’re honest and upfront. You’re strong and speak out when you notice wrongs and will do your best to right them. That’s what makes a good leader.” You tell her. It’s true. That’s something you admire about the relationship between the two of you. It’s always been based on honesty and being upfront with each other. 

“You know what? You’re right. I would make a good leader.” She speaks slightly unconvinced still. 

“Just keep saying that to yourself and one day you’ll see it too.” You smile. There’s a moment of silence, the both of you looking to the sky watching the stars whenever they popped through the clouds. Keyleth laughs and you raise an eyebrow.

“I can’t believe I was crying over grass and I kissed the ground. Oh gods I’m never living that one down. Percy will never let me forget that one.” She buries her face in her hands.

“That dear Keyleth would require Percy to remember it in the first place.” You give her a mischievous side glance as both of you burst in laughter passing the bottle back and forth again. Keyleth sighs.

“Grass…. Worse or on par with that time I got passionate about the stars being so far away they must be cold and lonely?” Keyleth laughs with a yawn.

“Worse.” You mutter. The two of you slide down a bit just watching the skies sharing a few more sips until you both fall asleep leaned against each other. Hopefully the dawn will wake you up before you’re at the mercy of Vax and Percy or worse; Scanlan’s comments. 

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 29 of 26

Title: The House in the Cerulean Sea (2020)

Author: TJ Klune

Genre/Tags: Fantasy, Comedy, Romance, Found Family, LGBT Protagonist, Third-Person 

Rating: 10/10

Date Began: 10/13/2020

Date Finished: 10/18/2020

Linus Baker, a forty-year-old caseworker for the Department in Charge of Magical Youth (DICOMY), lives a solitary and mundane life. But when he’s summoned by Extremely Upper Management and given a top-secret case, everything changes. Linus is sent to the classified Marsyas Island and tasked with investigating an orphanage housing six dangerous magical children-- including the Antichrist. He is to live among the residents for one month, record his observations, and report back to the organization. No more, no less. 

The master of the house, Arthur Parnassus, is a mysterious and enigmatic man. But Linus soon learns that Arthur will do anything to protect his wards. As Linus grows closer to Arthur and the children, a secret from the past and prejudice of the present threaten to destroy the orphanage and their way of life. Linus must decide if he can abandon the world he knows in order to help the ones that need it the most. 

"Fire and ash!” Lucy bellowed as he paced back and forth. “Death and destruction! I, the harbinger of calamity will bring pestilence and plague to the people of this world. The blood of the innocents will sustain me, and you will all fall to your knees in benediction as I am your god.” 

He bowed. 

The children and Mr. Parnassus clapped politely. Theodore chirped and spun in a circle. 

Linus gaped. 

“That was a lovely story, Lucy,” Mr. Parnassus said. “I especially liked your use of metaphors. Keep in mind that pestilence and plague are technically the same thing, so it did get a little repetitious at the end, but other than that, quite impressive. Well done.” 

Minor spoilers and content warning(s) under the cut. 

Content warnings for the book: Semi-detailed discussions of child abuse and trauma. Internalized fatphobia (challenged). Structural discrimination, and hatred/prejudice associated with that, some of it internalized. 

I'm going to have a hard time reviewing this book, because it was so goddamn good I don’t think I’ll do it justice in a few short paragraphs. So here’s the fast version: The House in the Cerulean Sea was a fucking delight to read from the first page. It’s full of genuine humor, magic, and charm, while being just this side of heart-wrenching. Though geared toward adults, it’s the first novel I’ve read in a long time that captures that childlike enthusiasm I used to have when reading a good fantasy book. It takes place in a world with magic (obviously), but it’s 98% character-driven. Both the main plot and the (queer!) romantic subplot are woven together so well that neither feel tacked on or lacking. The found family hit me in the emotions again and again and again. I read books out loud, and I spent the last third of this book struggling because I kept fucking crying and having to take regular breaks before continuing. And then I went through the whole book to find a good quote for this review and ended up fucking crying again. So yeah. 

Ok. Got that off my chest. Usually in these reviews I talk about what I liked and then what didn't work for me or confused me. The good news (?) is I have zero complaints or critiques on this one. So you just get to hear me gushing about it for a while.  

Since this is a character-driven book that’s where I’ll start. Linus Baker, the protagonist, is great. Let me just say I love speculative fiction books starring older characters. At forty, Linus isn’t old, but it feels like the majority of spec fic stars people under thirty. Linus is also a conspicuously ordinary guy; prim and proper to a fault, no magic, oblivious in many ways (including to his own loneliness), but with a hidden sense of justice and protectiveness for people that comes out more and more. His development over the course of the novel and how much he grows to love and care for the other characters is just so good. The writing draws attention to this through repeated phrases and jokes one doesn’t expect to make a comeback (more on that later). Seeing him come out of his shell and stand up for what’s right is cathartic as hell. As a side note, it’s also nice to have a fat protagonist who struggles with his self-image but gets warm affirmation and support from his family and love interest. 

Arthur Parnassus, the deuteragonist and said love interest, is more of an enigma. A lot of his motivation and behavior makes sense once you get his Tragic Backstory (TM), and I think this will be a fun book to reread based on that. I picked up on some of it before the reveal, but not everything. But without spoiling it, I do love seeing an older (mid-forties) father figure who would do literally anything to make sure the children on the island have the care and love they need. Seeing his patient love and acceptance of them tugs my heartstrings. Maybe I’m a bit of a sap. Linus and Arthur’s obvious mutual crush on each other is also really cute, okay. There’s something about older queer people finding love that makes me smile. 

And the children are great too, of course. I really liked each of them and thought they were all unique and interesting. My favorites are probably Lucy the six-year-old Antichrist, Sal the were-Pomeranian (his arc just really hit home for me), and Talia the gnome. They all have such distinct and fun personalities, and seeing them interact is great and often hilarious. I’m not very paternal, but I love seeing children with sad/abusive pasts blossom into their best selves with love, guidance, and support. It’s uh, a little personal. I’d be remiss not to mention Zoe, the resident island sprite, who brings a whole lot of personality and rounds off the group. 

When I say the story is character-driven, I mean it. While a fantasy novel, there’s not any significant violence or action in the story (except for maybe one scene if you squint). The House in the Cerulean Sea is carried by its characters, interactions, and worldbuilding. The humor and inherent charm helps too -- and manages to do so without ever feeling trite. I can’t help but admire that. I was never bored; I honestly enjoyed every page because I liked the characters so much. Not to say there isn’t an overarching conflict with the whole DICOMY thing, but most of the focus is Linus struggling and coming to terms with his discoveries-- about the others and himself, and how he can make a difference on a grand scale. To me that kind of stuff is captivating. And boy does seeing someone find the place they belong get me. As I said, found family is a big thing in this book. 

Aside from that, the writing is just super; it literally had me laughing from the first page. I can’t believe the fucking lemur joke came back at the end, too. But on that subject, I love that this book utilizes recurring jokes and phrases to show Linus’ character development. In particular, “see something, say something” and “don’t you wish you were here?” have VERY specific meanings to Linus at the beginning of the story, and over time transform into the polar opposite. I’m  holding myself back because I don’t want to spoil shit, but if you read it you’ll see what I mean. There’s also a lot of meaningful callbacks to certain dialogue earlier in the story and I eat that kind of stuff up. But even small details, like the early quip about Linus forgetting his umbrella, come back to deliver an emotional gutpunch near the end. So thanks for that, Mr. Klune. 

The book really takes a turn in the second half of the story, which is a tad darker. Avoiding the Actual Spoilers, this is where prejudice and hatred of the outside world become a bigger part of the story. We learn what’s really at stake, and that this wonderful found family in the first half is threatened by a world that hates and fears them. Boy does that shit get emotional REAL quick. Yes the allegory is obvious. No, that’s not a bad thing. Ultimately, The House in the Cerulean Sea becomes a story about love, hope, and change; and boy does that shit strike my gay little heart right where it hurts. 

If you’re looking for a (literal) magical pick-me-up (ignore my comment about crying a whole lot) with INTENSE found family vibes and a side helping of queer mlm romance, dear God read The House in the Cerulean Sea. I don’t think I did it justice in this review; just trust me, it’s real good. My only complaint is that it ends; I want more, damn it! 

[catflowerqueen]

I’ve decided that the protagonist for my hypothetical and as-yet-unnamed “born on the train” story would go by “Birdie,” and would be somewhere between 8-12 years old for the majority of the plot.

Her assumption is that she was named after a golf term, since her early life and the first caretakers she can remember were from the “gnomes who play mini golf” car. She is sort of right about this, as this is what her first denizen caretakers assumed when they initially came across her, but she and they are also tragically wrong as to its actual origins and what those caretakers actually thought her name was. Essentially, it boils down to denizen logic--with their obsession with golf--and either mishearing or misreading a particular word and assuming that the actual word was meant to be “Birdie.”

In any case, she didn’t get to stay with her loving gnome parents long, as when she was still a toddler the Apex attacked and trashed the car. Luckily, that was still when the Apex was small and in its early days, so many of the inhabitants did manage to escape to other cars. Unfortunately, her gnome parents were not among them. Or at least, not for long. They managed to smuggle Birdie out and reach a car belonging to their long-time allied cars, that of the “flamingos who are also excellent hairdressers,” but they perished shortly after. Birdie spent the rest of her formative years until the main story starts among the flamingos, learning the art of hair styling. Also attempting to “keep the art of her people alive” by learning how to play mini golf, going off of the recollections of other inhabitants of the flamingo car--their alliance with the gnomes was essentially that the flamingos would style the gnomes’ hair for free in return for free golf lessons/games in the golf car. Free concessions would have to be negotiated on a case by case basis, though, mostly through individual family treaties or via more elaborate hair styles--including dye jobs--offered by the flamingos. 

Due to her experiences, Birdie thinks she’s a gnome. She doesn’t realize that she’s taller than those gnomes are due to both her relative age and height at the time of their death. She was a child, and children are always going to remember adults as towering over them even though when they themselves reach adult height they realize that it wasn’t so much that the adults were all tall as it was that they were just short. But since Birdie hasn’t seen a gnome--or at least, the particular species of gnome that she assumes she is given that there are probably many different types of gnome o the train--since she was little, she never got to have that same sort of realization that the gnomes just seemed tall because she was a baby, or that she has actually far surpassed adult gnome height by this point. The flamingos, naturally being taller than gnomes--and also most human children--don’t really realize this either, since they didn’t really pay attention to average gnome size. The gnomes were smaller than them, and Birdie is still smaller than them (because these are not your average flamingo), so it never really occurs to them that she’s actually taller than they were. Also, the passage of time has probably dulled some things for them as far as recognition goes, and they may or may not realize she isn’t actually a denizen. It’s a little unclear whether all of the denizens just “know” who the passengers are, or if they depend on the numbers to tell, or even with that if they realize that the passengers are “special” and that they’re meant to help them rather than just doing so instinctively. Some obviously know, given what was going on in the Lucky Cat car, but I don’t know if, like, Randall or the baseball playing dinosaurs were aware. 

(And Hazel’s own case was special, since she didn’t realize that she was a denizen until she shifted for the first time, but its unclear whether that was because some denizens just don’t know or due to her status as a failed experiment by Amelia)

Anyways--as a result of her thinking she’s a gnome, she always wears a pointy hat/colorful clothes (likely scavenged at least in part from things that the passengers leave behind as they outgrow or otherwise ruin them). Due to her time with the flamingos, she also keeps her hair in ridiculous styles and a variety of wild and wacky dyed colors, so any other passenger she meets naturally assumes she’s a denizen because the combination is just so off-the wall to them and she doesn’t act like a passenger that they don’t realize she’s human like them. Or, at least, they don’t realize she isn’t just a human-shaped denizen.

Her natural hair color is probably either sandy--which would make it easier to dye--or a shade just a bit off from the red-headed Tulip. It’s also probably naturally frizzy/feathery-looking. I’m leaning more towards the red-head, since there are already a lot of plot-important blondes/sandy-haired people in the show, and I could just hand-waive away the issue with the dyes as it just being a property of the train itself and all the varying wacky and weird rules of the different cars, but I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking her eyes would also be green or blue, since those are particularly rare colors (especially if paired with red hair) in humans, or possibly even give her heterochromia or something, as it is technically possible for humans to have, but is also rare enough that they might chalk her having them up to being a denizen. I don’t want to make the combinations too off the wall, though, because I want there to be a pretty good balance between “could believably pass as a denizen” and “yeah she’s definitely a human, just with dyed hair and weird clothing.”

If she ever makes it to the human world, then she will probably get some paperwork or something indicating that her legal first/middle name is something like “Beatrice,” since Birdie is a common nickname for that. And even if/when she does figure out where the gnomes’ misunderstanding in naming her that came from, she’s just going to pull an Izuku and keep calling herself Birdie anyways, because at that point its what she’s used to, and the term is so full of love from her various foster parents that its origins don’t really matter any more.

[thelastarchangelaskblog]

Session 16

This is our most recent session! Our DM ( @the-grey-hunt) titled it “Oh Boy Guys” in her session notes after we were done, which goes to show just what...uh...happened.

A lot. An...unexpected amount. Including something our DM didn’t expect to happen for another three plot points but I don’t know what she was expecting with that curve ball she threw at us. (Her status on Discord is now back to RECALCULATING.)

Anyway, our entire party was present but for @imagine1117, which was a bit...unfortunate.

So what happened anyway?

**

(Read more.)

It’s still raining outside, and we’re no longer in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters and have never been in Ankh before but really do need somewhere to stay.

@heliocentricgeometric: I'm thinking about what this anxious weirdo would do.

Tony just asks a random gnome where an inn is that they can stay at, and they’re directed to a nice boarding house that has 3 rooms we split between the six of us. Once we’re dried off, we reconvene in one room to discuss S.H.I.E.L.D.

Zira is adamant that she’s joining but no one else has to. Rhodey ( @rebaobsessions) is just as adamant that she’s not going to join it alone and DJ (doxblogsstuff) agrees.

But what about Tony? He’s not a fan of joining a shady organization, although he doesn’t specifically list his reasons for why. He does state he’s willing to ally with them as an independent contractor.

Tony: I'm not going off by myself.

Rhodey: Good.

DJ has doubts about this plan, since he doesn’t think Fury will agree to an independent contractor role.

DJ: Cranky Pants made it sound like it was a black-and-white choice. I don't know if he's been paying attention, but there's a lot of grey out there.

Tony: Shady organizations that think in black-and-white aren’t organizations I want to join.

Bob ( @thechaoticwave​) hasn’t agreed to joining either! He states he needs more information and just left with more questions after talking to Fury and getting some answers.

There’s a meta joke among us about the fact that Bob occasionally also has the name Tony and he and Tony can make a detective club. Zira suggests Tony become a detective and the joke spirals from there.

DM: Tony & Tony Private Detectives

thechaoticwave: Tony-squared.

Dox: T-squared. Their calling card is a t-square nailed to the door.

Back in game, Tony is stating his own decision shouldn’t affect anyone else’s, but Rhodey doesn’t want to leave him alone.

Rhodey: You’re not going anywhere without me by your side.

Tony: I’m not asking you for that.

Rhodey: You don’t get to ask or not ask me that— It’s already given, Tony. It’s already given.

(MY HEART, GUYS)

The conversation doesn’t really have a resolution since Bob still needs more info and Tony is resolutely not joining S.H.I.E.L.D. We wait for the rain to stop before heading down and do some errands.

DJ wants to visit the store his relatives have here since it’s an Artificing store. He invites Tony since it’ll be cool for Tony to check out. Tony agrees to come along but will have to leave for his own errands.

DJ asks the head of the inn where his relatives’ store is, actually using their name. He tries being stealthy but it’s not quiet enough to get past our groups’ passive perception.

There are...reactions among the players.

DJ last name reveal.

inu: wait WHAT WAS THAT

Everyone else: JAMJAR

There are Jar Jar Binks gifs going around in the lurking chat, and Tony in-game is going what very, very quietly.

In the meantime, Zira is interested in why DJ is wanting to go shopping and what is this about holidays?

Zira: We need to jump back. We need to jump way back. What holiday?

An explanation later that involves the practice of gift giving.

Zira: Does this mean I should be getting gifts for you? I don't even know what you like! I mean...explosions?

Some other folks are like...I don’t know if I can find a good gift since I’m terrible in real life. (coughrebacough)

inu (in lurking chat): Now I have an idea for DJ's gift.

Everyone else in voice chat: Oh no.

We do eventually find our way to JamJar Jar Jar Artificers.

The proprietors: Welcome to Jamjar Artificers ...Have I met you before?

DJ, their relative: I'm Junior.

Madi and Mani are the twin proprietors of a store that sells absolutely nothing made by actual artificers. Tony is familiar with almost everything in the store and is an actual artificer. The stores’ contents are also super expensive and we don’t have the funds because our DM hasn’t provided us with a ton of loot drops...

Zira: Being hunted for sport actually doesn't pay very well.

DJ: I could have used a little more gold and a little less near death experiences.

Madi and Mani would really like DJ to buy this cat figurine that has been in their store for absolutely ages. (Please guess which cats this figurine is modeled after. Please.) It’s still 75 gp but they’re willing to knock down the price!

After some more exploring, Tony eventually gives DJ everyone else’s money bags and leaves on his own errands.

He manages to find his way back down to the first floor, upon which he...senses a little something...a little something familiar.

It’s Balthazar.

Balthazar is here.

Balthazar is physically here.

He’s here and painting a mural on the wall!!

Tony has absolutely no idea what to do, but he’s too curious for his own good to just leave without acknowledging his brother in some way. It’s been two years since he’s last seen him in person!

Tony says something nice about Balthazar’s painting, getting his attention. Balthazar turns to him, presumably about to say something nice, 

There’s a moment, and then Balthazar sees the signet ring Tony has.

Balthazar: What’s that ring you're wearing?

Tony looks down at this ring he has always worn and never even considered.

Tony (to himself): Oh shit.

Balthazar tries some kind of spell but Tony aces the wisdom save.

Balthazar keeps asking where Tony got the ring from. Tony is absolutely truthful that it’s his ring and he stole it off a table and not any fingers. Balthazar is incredibly doubtful and suspicious of this because his brother would never let go of that ring and why does Tony have it

I want it to be known that everyone in the lurking chat is losing their minds over Balthazar being physically present and ALL OF THEM IN A STORE AND NOT PRESENT.

Bob ends up leaving because he’s uninterested in what the rest of the party is doing. Zira follows after him.

thechaoticwave rolls a Nat 20 on perception.

DM: Bob, you go up to the balcony, look down, and see this dude about to throw hands with Tony.

Bob flies down, and Zira is right on his heels to see what’s up and is like HEY, WHAT’S GOING ON. This gets everyone else’s attention, and soon they’re all trying to find their way down to the first floor.

Bob interjects himself smack in the middle before Balthazar can throw any punches. His presence is enough for Balthazar to back off a little, but he’s still insistent on the ring being his brother’s (Gabriel) and why does Tony have it?

Bob makes the offhand suggestion that maybe Tony’s his brother! :D

The rest of the group sprints to Tony’s defense, and Balthazar is now faced down by a 6′6″ tall aasimar with sharp teeth, Rhodey who has a ton of weapons, a bird, JARVIS, and a halfling. (Luna is off to parts unknown.)

Rhodey asks Tony if he knows what’s going on here. Tony just nods because anything else would be a lie, wouldn’t it?

Balthazar is now amenable to moving this conversation somewhere more private because Tony isn’t having this discussion here.

They go into a side alley. Balthazar reiterates that the only reason his brother wouldn’t have this ring would be if he was dead.

Tony: He’s not dead.

Balthazar: And how do you know that?!

Tony: Because...he’s me.

There’s...a stunned pause. Helio is accidentally ejected from voice chat while Bob is trying to give Zira a high-five.

And then Balthazar is instantly in denial because how???

Zira: Well, is he your brother then?

Balthazar: NO!

Balthazar is insistent he’d know if Tony was his brother. He’s spent enough time with his siblings to know them! And Tony doesn’t look like any of them!!

This means...is Tony under a disguise??

Helio: 465 is now in the front y’all!

reba: Oh, NO

465 is mad. She is so mad, guys. She demands to know what Tony’s real name is. If that’s even his actual face!!

Tony doesn’t answer, just says they need to go somewhere private if he’s going to do this. Balthazar leads them to his place because he doesn’t want to be led somewhere unfamiliar.

Tony takes off the amulet, and it’s Gabriel.

Helio: Can we pause for a second

DM: Yeah, let loose.

(three to four simultaneous meltdowns)

Balthazar is having emotions. Gabriel is having emotions. Everyone else in the party is just probably in varying stages of wtf-ery and 465 is apparently startled enough and Zira startled enough that Zee is back in the driver’s seat because 465 and Zira are now fighting.

Zee: Mr. Tony... Gabriel. Mr. Tony-Gabriel.

Balthazar eventually tells everyone to make themselves comfortable. He’s found solace in a chair himself.

thechaoticwave: Bob just flops down as soon as he says make yourself comfortable.

DM: Like, on your stomach?

thechaoticwave: Yeah.

Zee is super talkative and introducing herself and the Zira collective to Balthazar. DJ puts a hand over her mouth. He’s wearing the gauntlets of ogre strength and I think Zee licks it?

DM: It tastes like metal and dead people. The dead person is mostly on the inside.

Balthazar swears a little as Gabriel talks; he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

Zee: That was a bad word. Also is your shirt broken?

Balthazar: No. I'm hot.

Zee: Why don't you take it off?

DJ: Zee, darling, Mr. Balthazar looks a little stressed out right now. Why don't we not critique his clothing choices right now?

Balthazar: If you’re going to call me Mister, use my last name Quill.

Gabriel keeps telling Balthazar about what happened back home. That he left because he if he hadn’t then he probably would have gotten himself killed. And he’s going after the ones who left to join the Horned Crown.

Balthazar looks like he doesn’t want to hear this and doesn’t know whether to believe this. He’s curled in on himself in the chair.

Gabriel eventually reaches out, but something he says upsets Balthazar and he withdraws. Gabriel doesn’t try again.

Gabriel tells Balthazar they’ll leave and are heading to their boarding house. Balthazar can find him there and bring Hannah if he wants.

Balthazar snidely asks if he’s going to skip town. Gabriel glances over to the group and Rhodey and DJ are very adamant on going LIKE HELL with their eyebrows.

Gabriel puts the amulet back on and leaves before anyone else does. Rhodey eventually follows after, leaving Zira, Bob, and DJ to follow.

Rhodey tries to touch Gabriel’s shoulder, but Gabriel actually flinches and puts space between them. Rhodey doesn’t try again.

They end up back in the boarding house. Rhodey and Gabriel are in the room they share. Rhodey lets him know he can take time to think and Rhodey’s here if Gabriel wants to talk. And that he still trusts him and loves him.

There isn’t a verbal response from Gabriel, but he does nod.

Rhodey rolls a Nat 1 on insight against Gabriel’s 19 (17?) for deception. It’s...uh...bad.

Rhodey leaves the room, closes the door, and starts crying against it because he thinks something really awful, guys.

I’m just going ahhhh in the voice chat because owwww

DM to inu: This is your bed that you made and you're going to lie in it.

Zee and DJ find Rhodey crying against the door. Zee is instantly jumping to comfort and gives Rhodey a hug.

reba: Helio, your characters are too perfect and you have three of them.

DJ shoves Rhodey aside while he’s hugging Zee. Zee and Rhodey head downstairs for some water while DJ goes to talk to Gabriel.

DJ: Oh my god, you are so fucking DUMB

Gabriel doesn’t respond to anything. DJ accidentally injures him on trying to pull his hands away from his face because he rolled a Nat 1 and so the gauntlets catch on Gabriel’s skin. He’s rubbing at the wounds angrily but still kindly and is telling Gabriel to go talk to Rhodey because he was crying.

Gabriel: You’re a good kid.

DJ: I’m an adult.

Gabriel: A good kid.

Gabriel goes downstairs, but Rhodey and Zee are sitting together and drinking some water. Zee has managed to cheer Rhodey up some, and Gabriel doesn’t want to bother them.

Zee catches sight of him and waves him over. Rhodey catches sight and raises a hand. Gabriel makes to go to a corner table and Rhodey droops.

Only DJ is there and keeps poking Gabriel in the back, but JARVIS headbutts him because that’s just rude and stop poking Gabriel! DJ hauls Gabriel off to Rhodey and Zee because he’s not leaving them to not talk about this!!

DJ: Zee, sweetheart, let's go over and talk to Neil and Luna, who is invisible. Because Rhodey and Tony need to have a conversation like two adults.

Gabriel sits down but has a chair of space between them. Neither of them speaks. 

inu: Two guys at a table sitting in awkward silence.

DM: Two bros sitting in a hot tub.

Rhodey gathers his thoughts and eventually tells Gabriel he’s still there for him.

Rhodey: I still trust you. I still love you

Gabriel: You don’t know me.

Rhodey: Are you going to say that, after all we've done? That it’s all a lie?

Gabriel: ...no.

Gabriel tells Rhodey it was a mask. Rhodey doesn’t like hearing this. He wants to know if everything about them was a lie. If anything was real.

Gabriel tells him a little about leaving and that none of this was intended. That he made attachments he never intended to make but he’s made them.

Gabriel: I don’t want to leave.

Rhodey: And I definitely don’t want you to go.

Gabriel: Then...I guess we can try.

(There is a part where Rhodey says he loves part of Gabriel already. Can’t he love the rest? my heart)

Rhodey reaches out a hand, and Gabriel gives it a look before grabbing hold of it. He’s holding it pretty tightly, and Rhodey’s squeezing back just as hard.

And that’s where we end the session!!!

see, so much happened

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

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QUEST 08: MARK OF ZEMOUREGAL

QUEST SUMMARY:

Because of Jahaan’s betrayal of Zamorak during their heist of the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal takes the matter of revenge into his own hands. When Jahaan looks to get even, he enlists the help of his Mahjarrat allies to take the fight to Zemouregal…

CHAPTER 2: EYE FOR AN EYE

Ahh, Prifddinas. The greatest city of the elves. Nay, the greatest settlement in all of Gielinor! Since hearing the tales of a crystal empire as a child, Jahaan had always wanted to visit. However, they didn’t let just anyone in, and their seclusion was part of why they’d survived since the First Age without external conflict. Throughout the God Wars the elves protected themselves by erecting massive granite walls across their eastern border, refusing to involve themselves in the conflicts of the other gods, as was their goddess’ intention. The aforementioned goddess? Seren, a name spoken in curiosity among the other races of Gielinor. Nobody really knew too much about the origins of the crystalline goddess, only that she brought the elves from their homeworld of Tarddiad. The legend goes that Seren became mesmerised by the elves and their way of living, and upon seeing one of them die of age, was overcome with such great sorrow that she tried to use her godly powers to extend their lifespan. However, in doing so, she accidentally tied them to her, causing them to grow ill and perish when out of her presence for too long. Thus, when Guthix’s Edicts required Seren to depart, she shattered herself into a million crystal fragments so that a part of her would always be with her elves. At some point towards the end of the Fifth Age, Seren had been reformed, and lived among her elves once more. At some point during its history, tales claim that Prifddinas had somehow, miraculously, reverted to the size of a single crystal seed. Yes, the largest settlement in all of Gielinor had shrunk to the size of an acorn, with the residents inside frozen in time. To top it all off, the legend claims that the elders of Prifddinas sung the city back to life.

Whether that was true or not, Jahaan was very skeptical. The saying goes that stranger things have happened, but, really, have they?

But when Jahaan emerged on a tall hilltop, surrounded by luscious forests and looking down over the crystal walls of the city, elven history was the furthest thing from his mind.

He’d never seen such shades of green before. Not murky likes the swamps of Morytania, not artificial like how greenery in Falador felt, not tainted like the plant life in Canifis and Draynor. Even the gnomes couldn’t lay claim to such a brilliant shade of nature’s favourite colour; this was what the elder gods had intended when they wove forests out of the anima. But the only thing more brilliant than the shades of nature were the crystals, shining like diamonds in the glow of the morning sun.

The entire city was constructed from these crystals, a substitute from the bulky wood and crude stone seen across most of Gielinor. The craftsmanship, the way the crystal bends to the will of the architect… Jahaan didn’t know enough about Prifddinas to know how the city was built from these crystals, or where they came from, and one day he hoped to find out, just as he hoped to walk through the city gates and up to the Tower of Voices, rumoured to be one of the tallest structures in all of Gielinor. Considering how it reached up into the heavens even from this distance, Jahaan could clearly see the rumours had some merit.

It was rare to see elves outside of Prifddinas. After all, why would they ever need to leave? Everything one could ever need was inside those crystal walls, from banks to bars, sawmills to staff shops, altars to anvils. It was a compact Gielinor. There were elves roaming the territory just outside of their walls; there had been a civil war among them not too long before Prifddinas’ supposed ‘restoration’ and smaller factions were still camped out south of the border. Alongside this, their were whisperings about elves in West Ardougne, and they were grave tales indeed. Talks of death guards, a fake plague, regicide and the intended mass killing of all of West Ardougne’s residents in order to summon a ‘dark lord’.

The thought of it made Jahaan’s head spin and his stomach churn.

So little is known about the elves, it’s hard to know what to believe. That’s why Jahaan wanted to go to Prifddinas, to search for information that his people in the Khandarin Desert had never concerned themselves with, being at opposite ends of the world and all.

This is the closest he’d ever come to the elven city, and after taking just a brief view from the hilltop, he never wanted to leave.

“Whoa…” was all he said, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Do you like it?” Sliske asked, but he knew it was a rhetorical question. Shifting his robe out of the way, he took a seat on the thick grass below. “This is about as close as, ah, someone like me can get without entering into the Shadow Realm, but it’s still quite a view.”

“Yeah, I do like it,” Jahaan’s eyes were transfixed on the crystal city as he took a seat beside the Mahjarrat. There was a peace inside him he hadn’t felt in hours, a respite from the anguish and worry. “I like it a lot.”

The two stared at the horizon for what felt like an eon, enjoying the serenity of the sunrise as it crept over the crystals in the distance.

Finally, it was Sliske who broke their content silence. Smiling without humour, he quietly whispered, more to himself than to Jahaan, “It must be nice, knowing there will always be a world after this one.”

“Huh?” Jahaan didn’t quite hear that.

“I said, it must be nice, living in a place like that,” he ‘repeated’, nodding his head towards Prifddinas with a wistful expression.

Jahaan didn’t completely believe that’s what he said, but he didn’t press it further. There was a peacefulness between the two of them, and Jahaan didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. Instead, he moved slightly closer to Sliske, and didn’t shy away when the Mahjarrat wrapped a warm, protective arm around him, pulling him softly against his chest.

It was the first time he’d felt at peace for a long while.

The two of them remained in quiet contemplation after that. Jahaan spent too much of it wondering what was going through the Mahjarrat’s mind. Sliske was an enigma, a puzzle to him, the quiet and the storm, but moreover, he was one thing Jahaan was becoming less and less reluctant to admit…

He’s not as bad as he seemed.

Jahaan began to struggle to remember why he hated the Mahjarrat in the first place. He didn’t particularly want to remember. He had enough enemies, enough Mahjarrat enemies at that, to actively want another one.

Suddenly, his throat began to sour and the calmness inside his mind began to cloud.

Zemouregal.

The storm in his head was brewing once more, manifesting as a knot in his stomach and a lump in his throat.

“I want him dead, Sliske,” Jahaan’s voice was grave; he didn’t need to say who he meant. “I want him dead, and I won't wait five hundred years for it to happen.”

The Mahjarrat kept looking towards Prifddinas as he said, “You're not the only one that wants him gone, you know. I can help you... but at a cost.”

Jahaan didn't blink. “Name your price.”

“I want your soul.”

Now Jahaan blinked. “E-Excuse me?”

“I want your soul,” Sliske repeated, returning his gaze to Jahaan.

“Why? Do you want to… to make me a wight?” Jahaan shook his head in unnerved disbelief.

Quickly, Sliske replied, “Asking questions isn't part of the deal. You accept unconditionally, or you don’t accept my help at all.”

Jahaan thought for a long, hard moment, challenging Sliske’s satisfied expression. Finally, he declared, “If you help me kill him, you can have whatever the hell you want.”

And so it was settled. They were going to kill Zemouregal. Not just the two of them, mind - Sliske stated that it wouldn’t be too hard to persuade Azzanadra and Wahisietel to eliminate the threat he poses once and for all. Just by being a Zamorakian, Azzanadra already had skin in the game. Wahisietel might take a little bit more convincing, and Jahaan offered to talk to him while Sliske went to Azzanadra. Knowing the strained relationship between the two brothers, Jahaan knew he stood a better chance than Sliske did at enlisting Wahisietel to their cause.

Firstly, however, Jahaan had to get Ozan somewhere more permanent to recuperate. The poor man was still sound asleep, comatose, but at least he was alive.

“Do you have anyone you trust he can stay with? Anyone that can protect him?” Sliske inquired.

“You mean, do I know anyone capable of fending of a Mahjarrat?” Jahaan shook his head. “No.”

“They shouldn’t have to fight off Zemmy,” Sliske assured. “He thinks you’re dead, remember? And one of the upsides of being dead is that no-one comes looking for you. So as long as you don’t parade him in Varrock Square, he should be safe.”

Considering this, Jahaan replied, “In that case, I know where he can go.”

Jahaan emerged just in front of the bridge connecting Draynor to the Wizards' Tower, dropping to his knees and sending Ozan tumbling to the ground upon landing. Sliske hadn’t stuck around long enough to ensure a smooth landing, it seemed. Groaning in pain, Jahaan quickly realised that once the adrenaline had worn off, he was in no fit shape. Wincing with a silent apology to Ozan, he tested out his legs again before picking up his friend and carrying him over the bridge.

It didn’t take long for the Wizards' to allow Jahaan inside, seeing the state of the poor man he was holding. The wizards were well acquainted with Ozan by this point, and Jahaan had met a fair few of them on his travels too.

Ushered into the medical bay, Ozan was set down on one of the cots as someone went to find Ariane. It didn’t take long for her to make it down, rushing to Ozan’s side with her heart in her throat. “What happened to him?”

Gulping, Jahaan stammered as he explained, “T-There was a fire… I w-was attacked, and he was d-drugged, and…”

Trailing off, Jahaan’s head was so foggy he honestly had no idea where to begin; he felt like he was trapped inside an awful dream, the edges of the world blurry and faded. Reality was far too much to handle.

“You were attacked? So it was arson...” when Ariane turned to Jahaan, the man noted her eyes were much more accusational than concerned, and he was taken aback, especially as she was quick to demand, “What have you got him mixed up in this time?”

Mouth hung agape, Jahaan took a few paces back, his wide eyes held captive by her glare. “W-What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jahaan,” Ariane snapped, the soothing hand she wrapped inside Ozan’s lifeless ones juxtaposed harshly with her seething tone, though she tried to keep her voice down to a quiet hiss. “You’re a picture of guilt. Let me guess, you ticked off the wrong people and they came back for revenge. Only this time, Ozan was collateral damage. Ozan told me about the company you’ve been keeping; was it the same Mahjarrat who killed Guthix that did this to him?”

“N-No… I mean, yes it was a Mahjarrat, but not the same one,” Jahaan stated, nervously rubbing the back of his head, injured from each of Ariane’s cutting words that felt as if they were closing in around his throat. “Yes, this is all my fault. But I’m going to make it right.”

“Make it right?” Ariane replied with incredulation. “You’re only liable to make things worse! Why Guthix ever chose you as-”

She cut herself off there, taking a long breath to calm herself. Even Ariane looked slightly regretful at where her words were leading her.

The sentiment, however, had already stung, and Jahaan had no words to say.

Despite mutually knowing each other for years through Ozan, Jahaan had always gotten the impression that Ariane had never taken to him. Occasionally he’d ask Ozan if this were the case, and he’d laugh and deny it, saying it was all in Jahaan’s head. But deep down, he always knew, and now he had confirmation.

Sighing heavily, Ariane continued, in a much lower and measured voice this time, “We’ll heal him as much as we can and keep him safe. When he’s awake, you can come and visit him. After that, I don’t want you seeing Ozan ever again.”

Jahaan used the invitation box to make his way back to the Empyrean Citadel. He needed time to deliberate his encounter with Ariane, but now wasn’t the moment. Work had to be done, and the more time he wasted, the more likely Zemouregal would find out he was alive, and thus the element of surprise would be lost.

Sliske had offered to teleport Jahaan to Nardah in order to avoid the magic carpet debacle again, something for which Jahaan was incredibly grateful. He didn’t think his head could take another round of motion sickness.

The dust settled, and Jahaan was back in Nardah. Well, about half a mile outside Nardah; Sliske didn’t think a Mahjarrat springing into their town centre would go down well for anyone, except for the pitchfork selling business.

Trudging through the sand, Jahaan was almost thankful his armour had been destroyed, but less thankful that he hadn’t refilled his waterskin, making a mental note to do that when he got to the town’s fountain.

When he reached Ali the Wise’s house, he barely had to knock before the door was thrown open, stern and suspicious eyes darting past Jahaan and into the distance. “Come inside,” he ushered, quickly, taking one last look behind him before he closed the door.

“What’s the matter?” Jahaan inquired, puzzled.

“Sliske was nearby,” Wahisietel stated. “I felt his presence. Thought you might be him at my door.”

“I think he’s got a few inches on me, can’t see how you could mistake us,” Jahaan chuckled.

Wahisietel furrowed his brow as Jahaan’s relaxed demeanour. “Are you not concerned? It was you who came here to escape him not that long ago.”

“Sliske brought me here,” Jahaan explained, smiling at the reaction it brought to the disguised Mahjarrat’s face. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything. You might wanna sit down for this one…”

While Jahaan conversed with Wahisietel, Sliske went to go convince Azzanadra to join their plight. He slipped off his disguise as soon as he entered the Temple at what used to be Senntisten. Azzanadra, having sensed his arrival, was pensively waiting at the other end of the chamber, nearest the altar.

“Sliske,” he gruffly greeted, folding his arms over his chest. “You have got quite the nerve to be showing your face around here after your excommunication.”

“Ah yes, well,” Sliske clapped his hands together. “I was hoping we might be able to sweep that one under the rug, for now at least. I have a proposition for you. One I think you'd rather enjoy...”

Wahisietel nearly spit the tea out from his mouth. “You’re going to kill Zemouregal?!”

Hushing him, Jahaan hissed, “Why don’t you shout a little louder, I don’t think the barber in Falador heard you.”

“My apologies, I just…” shaking his head, Wahisietel composed himself. “This is no small feat. Zemouregal is not to be brushed off lightly, as you know. While I do wish to see his head unattached from his shoulders, I-”

Looking down at Jahaan’s expression, Wahisietel winced. “Apologies for my turn of phrase. Sir Tiffy Cashien was a noble knight, and Thaerisk Cemphier seemed like a good man, in the brief time I spent with them. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“Their loss has to be avenged,” Jahaan resolved, gravely. “I know the risks, but I can’t let them be murdered in vain. What would you do in my shoes?”

From the change of expression on his face, it appeared as if this was a turning point for Wahisietel. “It would be hypocritical of me to say I would act any differently. They may call me ‘Ali the Wise’ in these human lands, but I am still of the Mahjarrat. One thing that still sticks in my craw, though, is Sliske’s involvement in it all. Why is he helping you?”

“He wants my soul,” Jahaan replied as nonchalantly as possible, amused by the look of surprise that elicited from his Mahjarrat companion. “Obviously I’m not going to let that happen. Your brother is-”

“Half-brother.”

“Your half-brother is… he’s not as bad as you say he is, but even I have limits.”

“I must ask, why do you defend him so?” Wahisietel inquired, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He murdered Guthix in front of you, tricked you, betrayed you, lied to you, stalked you, and from what I’ve heard from Azzanadra, he’s attacked you as well. I don’t understand your loyalty. You know, you remind me of Azzanadra, but at least I can understand that one. Well, somewhat.”

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you see - and this stays strictly between us, you hear? - back in the Zarosian Empire, and even on Freneskae, Azzanadra and Sliske went through a period of being… close.”

Jahaan blinked. “Close?”

“Close,” Wahisietel reiterated, his hands conducting an invisible orchestra in front of him as his mind danced for the right words. “You humans might refer to it as a relationship.”

Now it was Jahaan who nearly spit out his tea. “Sliske and Azzanadra were an item?!”

Jahaan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and it seemed Wahisietel was struggling with the same dilemma as he replied, “I know, it’s baffling why they’d waste their time on such things. But Azzanadra was the leader of the church, and Sliske was the leader of the secret police. No-one would dare speak out against them. On Freneskae, few were aware of their dynamic. Those that were kept silent, for they were outpowered. I understand Sliske’s charm and charisma, things he used to his advantage whenever he was bored in Senntisten. Such a trivial past-time. People fell under his spell, and it was always their downfall. Even Zaros’ most beloved pontifex could not escape.”

Wahisietel returned to his tea. “After all these years, it still baffles me why Azzanadra resolves to trust Sliske, and now you’re following his lead. Heh. As long as-”

Wahisietel froze, his cup glued to the tops of his lips, his eyes wide with realisation. Slowly, he raised his head and glared through Jahaan with a strange mix of confusion and abject horror. “Please, for Zaros’ sake, please tell me I’m wrong…”

Jahaan winced, breaking contact with Wahisietel’s eyes. It was all the confirmation he needed, yet the Mahjarrat pressed, “What did he do to you?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Jahaan assured, biting the inside of his lip. “He… he tried, but nothing happened. Believe me.”

Wahisietel’s unwavering glare bore holes through the man. “But you wanted to, didn’t you?”

Jahaan’s shameful inability to meet Wahisietel’s gaze said everything that needed to be said.

The Mahjarrat mumbled something in infernal, rising to his feet as he paced the room. “I warned you about him, Jahaan. But I never knew that… never could have DREAMED that… that you would…”

Stopping to face Jahaan, he stated with unwavering assurance, “He does not harbour feelings. He is incapable. He just uses people for his own amusement, then he discards them when they stop being entertaining, or when they are no longer useful. I don’t know what game he’s playing with you, but he’s playing a game, Jahaan!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jahaan shot up, ever so slightly taller than Wahisietel when he was in his Ali form. “I know what he’s like, Wahisietel - I’ve got first-hand fucking experience with that. But damnit, he’s inside my head, always inside my head, and I can’t take it!”

Suddenly, Jahaan whirled on the thing closest to him - a bookshelf - in order to expend the pent-up rage his outburst had summoned. Unfortunately, the books were a little less forgiving than Jahaan would have liked, and the thick novels put up a decent defence; Jahaan clutched his battered hand, the knuckles already forming a purple bruise, his fingers shaking and unable to move. “Gods, FUCK!” Jahaan cursed, turning back to Wahisietel with an indignant expression akin to, ‘do you see what they did to me?!’. Muttering lowly, though with the slightest hint of an amused smile, Wahisietel went to get a medical kit.

A few bandages and another cup of tea later, Jahaan had calmed down, feeling rather embarrassed about his childish flare-up. Miraculously, nothing had fractured; Jahaan deduced he was too exhausted to give the punch all he had. That, or he just had a pathetically weak right hook, which he’d rather not be the case.

The silence that followed was awkward, each man lost in their own contemplation of the preceding events. Eventually, it was Wahisietel who broke the quiet, carefully beginning, “I have said my piece in regards to you and my half-brother. I trust that you know what you are doing.”

“You shouldn’t, because I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Jahaan sniffed a humourless laugh.

“I just wish I knew why he wanted my soul. I thought he wanted to make me a wight, but when I asked him, he deflected. I don’t think that’s the case, but why else would he want my soul?”

Stroking the beard his human form had adopted, Wahisietel replied, “Sliske has always been fascinated in souls. He used to talk to me about a Teragardian magister by the name of ‘Oreb’, who experimented with the power of souls and hypothesised that souls can be transferred from one body to another. This is the same magister who took in Nomad as his pupil, much later in life. Sliske was particularly interested in his theories.”

“Why was that, do you reckon?”

“Well, for one, Mahjarrat don’t have souls. Therefore, we cannot pass onto an afterlife, for a soul is required to do such a thing. For all his blustering, there is one thing Sliske fears: death.”

Suddenly, it clicked into place, the phrase Jahaan thought he didn’t quite hear outside of Prifddinas: ‘It must be nice, knowing there will always be a world after this one’.

“So, he wants my soul so he can go to an afterlife?” Jahaan surmised. “But that would leave me with the inability to go to one myself.”

Frowning, Wahisietel grimly restated, “He uses people. He doesn’t take interest in them unless they have something to offer.”

“But…” Jahaan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But why my soul? Why not just anyone?”

Shrugging, Wahisietel confessed, “That I cannot be sure of, I’m afraid.”

“Is there anything I can do to protect myself, if he tries to take my soul by force?”

His frown deepening, Wahisietel replied, “There is no spell, prayer or curse that I’m aware of that can do such a thing. My advice is to not get into a situation where your soul in vulnerable. Though how you would go about that, I am not sure. I don’t even know how he would go about transferring your soul into himself.”

This uncertainty didn’t exactly fill Jahaan with much comfort. Then again, Sliske was uncertainty incarnate; sipping his tea, Jahaan continued on, “These random, bizarre acts of kindness from Sliske... I don't know what to make of them. I can't ever tell if he's being genuine, or if he's just messing with me. I know, I know, you say he only ever uses people, but… but maybe he can be nice - even a broken clock is right twice a day, right? I mean, he saved my life at the Ritual, he helped keep Ozan safe…”

Jahaan neglected to mention their recent excursion to the outskirts of Prifddinas. He didn't quite know why, but sharing that information so freely just didn't feel right. It was like a secret he promised not to tell, unspoken though it was.

Wahisietel did not look impressed. “You do not know him like I know him, Jahaan, and I hope you never meet the Sliske I once knew.”

A crooked smile broke into Jahaan’s features, one devoid of humour. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Stories do not do his actions justice, but that is a conversation for another time,” setting down his teacup, Wahisietel closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, like he was trying to shift Sliske’s ghost from his thoughts. “Now, about Zemouregal - are you serious about killing him?”

His resolve returned, Jahaan stated, “I am.”

“And you say that Azzanadra is aiding us in this?”

“Sliske’s gone to convince him.”

“Then perhaps it would pay us to join him,” Wahisietel declared, reverting to his Mahjarrat form. “We’re going to need to strategise, after all.”

Meanwhile...

“Hmm… well, we certainly have enough firepower on our side to outmatch him,” Azzanadra was pondering aloud, running through the idea in his head. Sliske wasn’t all that surprised he could talk Azzanadra into killing Zemouregal so easily; there was no love lost between the two, after all. “It would be one less opponent at the next Ritual. Out of all the Zamorakians, he certainly is the most insufferable.”

Turning towards Sliske, he declared, “If the World Guardian manages to get Wahisietel on our side, then you have my support too. Zaros can only be pleased at us for sending that traitor into the void.”

Knowing he’d succeeded, Sliske grinned. “Oh, the Empty Lord will be most pleased. The World Guardian is convincing my brother now. He agreed to meet us here if all was successful.”

Looking around at the renovated chamber, Sliske admired the attention to detail Azzanadra had put into the restoration. Whomever the carpenter was, Sliske made a mental note to ask for their information if he ever decided to renovate the Barrows. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Brings back memories.”

Sighing wistfully, Azzanadra replied, “It feels like home.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sliske countered, “You don’t feel like Freneskae is your home anymore?”

“I stopped feeling that way as soon as Zaros took us in,” Azzanadra gazed longingly at the symbol on the far wall. “There is no home without him.”

“Right…” Sliske awkwardly rocked on his heels. He’d never felt the devotion his Mahjarrat companion had to the Empty Lord. Oh, he’d been loyal. He’d even been a follower. One might have called him devout, at a pinch. But Azzanadra was on an entirely different level.

Then again, Sliske agreed it did feel nice being back in the temple. It reminded him of a time when he had a role in society, and while that inevitably grew boring, such times had a treasured place in his memories. Those were days that would never be seen again.

It was then he turned to study Azzanadra, who was repositioning the candles on the altar. His robes draped perfectly over him, like a royal coat, and while he did insist on wearing that ridiculous hat, he managed to pull it off with prowess and grace.

So to did Azzanadra bring back some welcomed memories.

Sliske saw an opportunity, and he decided to test the waters.

He slipped closer to Azzanadra, his shadow a sneering presence that towered over them both. With a coy smirk, he smoothly remarked, “You know, it’s been such a long time since you and I have been alone together.”

There was no way Azzanadra didn’t get the insinuation; he met Sliske with stern eyes. “There’s good reason for that.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Sliske gently brushed his hand over Azzanadra’s, who to their mutual surprise did not immediately flinch away.

“Don’t act so innocent,” Azzanadra snapped. “You know damn well what I mean.”

“The excommination?” sniffing a faint laugh, Sliske looked up at the taller Mahjarrat with half-lidded eyes and moved closer to him, so that their chests touched. “Since when has Zaros ever gotten between us before? I seem to remember a certain Pontifex Maximus regularly calling the Praefectus Praetorio into his office for more than just matters of state...”

Sliske let the words linger, hot breath on Azzanadra’s cheek.

At that moment, Wahisietel and Jahaan emerged inside the temple. Catching the scene, Jahaan forced himself to suppress a smirk as he remarked, “Are we interrupting something?”

Wahisietel just shook his head with disappointment.

Sighing with frustration, Sliske whirled around and commented, “Crackerjack timing, and here I thought Wahi would take longer to convince.”

Despite himself, Jahaan felt like giggling, and covered his mouth with his hand until he was certain he’d contained himself. During this, Wahisietel spoke up, “Jahaan has told me of your plan, Sliske. What say you, Azzanadra?”

“I am willing to partake,” Azzanadra declared. “We have three times his power. It is the perfect opportunity. And,” he turned to Jahaan, trying to muster what to a Mahjarrat would pass as ‘sympathy’. “We finally have the incentive to remove that stain from this world. I am sorry at the price you and your comrades had to pay, Jahaan.”

Jahaan nodded solemnly in way of thanks. “So, when do we go? Tonight?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sliske was the first one to cut in. “You are running on nothing but fumes. You need to rest if you are to be of any help to us.”

Jahaan opened his mouth to protest, but the action betrayed him, turning into a yawn. Smugly, Sliske grinned.

“Fine,” Jahaan conceded, admitting to himself that he was exhausted. “When then?”

“Five days,” Azzanadra stated. “While I admire your enthusiasm, Sliske’s right - you need to be of use to us, and you can’t do that unless you have armour and a weapon. Your previous set was destroyed in the fire, yes? I will provide you with another set, specially made.”

Gobsmacked, Jahaan had to shake his head to order his thoughts. “That… that is incredibly generous of you, Azzanadra. Thank you, deeply.”

Azzanadra managed the faintest of smiles. “It is the least I could do. After all, it was you who brought my lord back to me.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[themurphyzone]

Dooferella Ch 1

Summary: Heinz has to read to children at the local library as community service, but things go awry when Heinz uses a Fairy Tale-inator to spice up the story of Cinderella. Unfortunately, something malfunctions and Heinz is transported into a strange fairy tale world! Now Dooferella, he’s stuck with a long list of chores for his parents and goody two shoes brother until a summons from the kingdom’s headquarters arrives….

Ch 1: Once Upon a Time in the Danville Public Library

Musical cliptastic countdowns were not a viable way to knock out two hundred hours of community service. Monogram’s contract had been rewritten to include a Will Not Ever Co-Host with Heinz Doofenshmirtz clause, and Perry refused to cheat and add more hours onto the community service form, though he made a small concession and factored in the ten minutes of commercial breaks.

Heinz still had a grand total of 199 hours and 30 minutes of community service left.

Well, 198 hours and 30 minutes after this reading gig at the library.

Reading to children was something an upstanding citizen might do, but no evil scientist worth their salt would be doing something considered beneficial and good to society in such a public area.  

Heinz’s evil street cred was taking a nosedive, though he didn’t have much to begin with.

“CAN I PICK THE STORY, DAD?” Norm asked. “I’VE BEEN BRUSHING UP ON POPULAR CHILDREN’S BOOKS.”

“I’m not your dad,” Heinz snapped. “I really gotta fix whatever bug is causing you to say that. Besides, the story-picking privileges belong solely to the storyteller, which is me. Last I checked, the Mother Goose Corner isn’t a democracy. Not that it would matter, since kids can’t vote and stuff.”

Norm crashed through the library wall, leaving a giant gaping hole and massive amount of rubble where the entrance used to be. The head librarian made several furious shushing motions in Norm and Heinz’s direction, but didn’t look up from the thick tome she was reading.

“CAN WE READ THE LITTLE ENGINE THAT COULD?” Norm asked as they headed to the Mother Goose Corner. “I THINK IT’S A VERY INSPIRING STORY ABOUT OVERCOMING HARDSHIP AND-“

“Last time I read you that story, you repeated ‘I think I can’ ad nauseam and prevented Perry the Platypus from hearing my spiel on the Banana Peel-inator!” Heinz retorted. “I’ll be picking the books from here, because chances are you’ll wind up stealing a catchphrase or mantra and I’ll be the one dealing with the copyright issues that come out of that…actually, making copyrights could make a good evil scheme one day. Doof-patented self-destruct buttons, bratwurst brands, and evil! I should definitely copyright evil. And suing and forcing people to shoulder their own attorney fees is also evil, so that’s a bonus! And with that kind of monopoly, I can take over and rule the ENTIRE! TRI! STATE! AREA!”

He cackled evilly, though the moment was rudely cut off when a group of middle-aged women shushed him. Heinz scowled. Their shushing was at a way higher decibel level than his cackling. At least his brand of evil laughter didn’t threaten to destroy people’s eardrums. Besides, the drummer from Love Handel was always rhythmically stamping books at the check-in and nobody complained about that.

The Mother Goose Corner was mercifully secluded from the rest of the library. A blue curtain decorated with waterfowl separated the small room from any prying eyes.

“Perry the Platypus would love this curtain. Remind me to ask someone where I can buy one of these things. Probably wrap it up and make it this year’s Christmas present. Alongside another vase. He liked the last one I sent him,” Heinz said.

“HI, MY NAME IS NORM. I LIKE SQUIRRELS AND EVERYTHING ELSE LITTLE BOYS ENJOY,” Norm greeted a young boy with a green baseball cap. The other kids quickly flocked to the edges of the mat to avoid getting crushed by Norm’s titanium posterior.

“I’m Balthazar Horowitz, but I’m trying to legally change it to Ballpit Kid!” the boy exclaimed.

“MY DAD IS TODAY’S STORYTELLER,” Norm declared. “I’M VERY PARTIAL TO THE LITTLE ENGINE THAT COULD. HINT HINT.”

“Real subtle, Norm,” Heinz muttered. “And for the millionth time, I’m not your dad!”

Someone tugged on his lab coat, and Heinz glanced down. A little girl with puffy blonde pigtails stared back at him, rocking back and forth on her heels cutely. “Excuse me, but may I pick today’s story?” she giggled.

She was adorable, but it was the calculating sort of adorable.

When Vanessa was little, she pulled the innocent look if she wanted something. Heinz’s resolve crumbled every time.  

But since this girl was a total stranger to him, it was going to be way easier to resist.

“Nope, doesn’t matter how cute and innocent you make yourself,” Heinz said as he turned away from the girl and leafed through the stack of books by the storyteller’s chair. Thankfully, The Little Engine That Could wasn’t among their choices. “I already told Norm that I was picking today’s book and I’m not budging on the matter. Ugh, not that any of these options are any better. I don’t get how books on overeating caterpillars or uncreative ursine parents who can’t come up with better names for their kids than Brother and Sister can be engaging to kids nowadays.”

Heinz rejected five books before a tiny black shoe stomped on his hand. A pudgy hand grabbed the front of his turtleneck, and he found himself face to face with the cute little girl.

“Look, I’ll cut you some slack since you’re obviously new to the Mother Goose Corner,” the girl said casually. “But I’m going to warn you once and only once. This is my turf and I pick the stories. And don’t bother warning anyone else. The other kids won’t squeal on me. Nobody outside this room will ever believe you. Except for maybe Candace, but I have my own methods of discrediting her. Capiche?”

“Alright!” Heinz yelped, throwing up his hands in surrender. Pint-sized powerhouses were dangerous to push around, but at least Perry the Platypus was firmly on the good side. He was definitely not messing with a kid whose evil stare put the entirety of LOVEMUFFIN to shame. “You win! Just let a guy earn his community service hours in peace, kid!”

Satisfied, the girl shoved her preferred book into his face, then claimed a bean bag chair for herself. “Yay, Cinderella!” she exclaimed, as if she hadn’t just threatened him five seconds ago.

The other kids muttered among themselves, giving Suzy a wide berth as they settled on the far edge of the mat.

“Rule number one of the Mother Goose Corner,” Ballpit Kid murmured to Norm. “Little Suzy Johnson always gets her way.”

“WOW, DAD GOT FOILED AND THIS ISN’T EVEN PART OF AN EVIL SCHEME,” Norm replied.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s laugh at the soon-to-be dictator’s expense. Cause that’s gonna bode well for you in the future,” Heinz snapped as he sat down in the storyteller’s chair. “You like Cinderella, huh?”

In Heinz’s opinion, the book’s cover painted a really misleading picture of the protagonist. It contained the image of a smiling girl in a silvery ballgown, surrounded by smiling woodland critters with the Fairy Godmother and Prince Charming standing in the background.

The Drusselsteinian Cinderella was a lot bleaker, considering that the Fairy Godmother didn’t exist and Cinderella spent most of her time sobbing her eyes out over her mother’s grave. It wasn’t common knowledge that the Brothers Grimm version was adapted from the Drusselsteinian story, though they changed the ending so that the evil stepsisters were punished. The original ending stated that the evil stepsisters poisoned Cinderella at the banquet after her wedding to the prince.

In hindsight, Drusselstein fairy tales were usually designed to crush children’s dreams and traumatize them for life.

But these kids didn’t need to know that.

“She always picks Cinderella,” another girl mumbled. “We all know how it goes.”

By the time Heinz had finished the obligatory once upon a time introduction, most of the kids’ eyes glazed over. Only Norm and Suzy were paying attention.

Well, it was hard to tell if Norm was paying attention since he didn’t have facial expressions.

“Cinderella washed the dishes, fed the animals, tended the garden, swept the floor, dusted the furniture, and cooked for her stepmother and stepsisters every day and…well, you get the picture,” Heinz yawned and flipped the page, deciding to skip over the full list of chores since he was pretty sure the kids had a good understanding of Cinderella’s daily chores. “Honestly, her family isn’t even the good type of evil. They’re just jerks.”

While Heinz didn’t know of any versions of Cinderella where she was forced to pull lawn gnome duty on cold nights with only a balloon to keep her company, he didn’t think it was out of character for the stepmom.

“HER EVIL STEPSISTERS NAMED HER CINDERELLA BECAUSE SHE WAS FORCED TO SLEEP IN A FIREPLACE AMONG THE CINDERS,” Norm supplied.

“No, she doesn’t. She sleeps in a tower,” Ballpit Kid said.

“That’s too mean!” a girl wailed. “How come we call her Cinderella if it’s insulting?”

“COULD WE GET BACK TO THE STORY ALREADY?” Suzy roared, shutting up the other kids. She flopped against her beanbag chair. “Keep going, please!”  

But Heinz was already getting an idea. He put the book down and brought out the Parked Car Away-inator he kept in his lab coat. Since he’d finished this device yesterday, he hadn’t encountered a parking problem where it was needed yet. But with a few minor alterations, he could easily tweak it into something that would be more useful for this situation.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you might be onto something, Norm,” Heinz said as he switched the positions of a blue and orange wire.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT I SAID, BUT I’M GLAD I HELPED. IF I HAD A CARDIOVASCULAR AND INTEGUMENTARY SYSTEM, I WOULD BE BLUSHING.”

“We just need a more interesting medium. Cause happily ever afters get cliché once you’ve heard them a million times before. Granted, it usually ends up a happy ending for Cinderella, except in Drusselstein, but that place doesn’t lend itself well to happy endings anyway. Ah, there we go. Voila!” Heinz triumphantly held up his modified inator. “Behold! The Fairy Tale-inator!”

The Fairy Tale-inator was slightly slimmer than the Parked Car Away-inator and much easier to maneuver.

“This’ll give us a more engaging and realistic experience and make it way more interesting for all parties involved!” Heinz declared. “Besides, I forgot to bring a water bottle. I don’t want my throat to get dry while reading. I gotta keep it in good condition for my evil monologues.”

He blasted the book with his inator. A glowing blue residue clung to the cover as the beam died away. Heinz set the Fairy Tale-inator on his chair and picked up the book.

“Is that safe?” Ballpit Kid asked. “Television taught me that unnatural glows around objects aren’t a good sign.”

“Don’t worry. It shouldn’t be radioactive. You guys ready for an immersive experience?” Heinz grinned as he flipped to the first page. But instead of the moving illustrations he expected, he came face to face with a swirling blue portal. “You know, I don’t remember any portals in Cinderella. Kind of anachronistic for whatever ambiguous time period this story’s supposed to be in.”

A wind picked up from somewhere, and Heinz tucked his arms closer to his body as he shivered from the sudden chill.

“Hey, did it just get drafty in here or something? Does anyone know where the air conditioning unit is?” Heinz asked.

The wind grew stronger, sucking Heinz’s right arm into the portal like a vacuum. Heinz grabbed the edge of the book with his free hand and tried to yank it off, but only succeeded in getting his other arm stuck in the portal as well.

“Yeah, this looks and feels just about the same amount of awkward,” Heinz muttered, trying not to gasp as some unseen force tugged on his wrists insistently. “Norm, can you call Perry the Platypus for me and let him know I might be running late for the scheme tonight? Oh, and tell him there’s leftover shrimp pasta in the fridge if he’s feeling hungry. Thwarting’s not fun on an empty stomach.”

“SHOULD I SEND A DISTRESS ALERT TOO?”

Heinz scowled. “What do you mean distressed? I’m not distressed! Do I look like a damsel to you?”

Figures that the portal decided to suck Heinz’s legs and torso as well. Heinz had to crane his neck all the way back to see Norm.

His neck was gonna be really sore tomorrow.  

“Alright, so I’m a little distressed,” Heinz admitted. “Looks like storytime’s over now. Man, they better let this count as part of my community service.”

Then the world spun around him in a dizzying swirl of blue and green. Heinz screamed as the wind battered him around like a rag doll, pushing him in every direction imaginable. His surroundings blurred together, becoming an indistinguishable mess of colors with no shape or form

He was pushed, pulled, tugged, yanked, and all the other synonyms that Heinz couldn’t think of because his brain wasn’t registering things properly. The sensations couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, but it felt like an eternity.

To add insult to injury, the universe decided to plop him face-first into the leftover dust and ashes of a poorly maintained fireplace.

[shenanigumi]

Do you have DnD Headcanons for the bachelors? Though I don't personally see all of them being into the game, in a situation where they did play it what classes/races do you think they'd be interested in playing? Or if they'd rather be the DM than play. (+bonus points for potential backstories for their characters/ if they'd bother to come up with anything intricate or not. But you don't have to)

There are two things that always surprise people when I reveal them, and they are that despite my set of interests, I don’t watch [most] anime and I don’t play D&D. That said, one or two of my friends are DMs, so I’ve heard a lot through the grapevine (and happen to have some V3.5 core handbooks), so… my data’s a little outdated, but I’ll do my best. It’s not going to be as detailed as I’d like it to be, but here’s a super-basic rundown:

Hijikata the human fighter, true neutral, because he’s not sure which way he wants to play his character yet. He’s more invested in trying to herd the cats that are the rest of the group than in creating his character, so he doesn’t spend much time on the process.

Okita the half-elven rogue, chaotic neutral, because being good is no damn fun. Of course, as the others pointed out, he basically made a character who was no different from him. His defense was essentially that he was his own favorite character, so that works fine.

Saito the human monk, lawful neutral. He chose the class because he wanted to try his hand at playing a character with similar values, but without the sword.

Heisuke the human sorcerer, chaotic good. Nagakura jokes that he should’ve been a gnome or halfling or at least dwarf, but Heisuke flatly refused. He spent a long time trying to figure out what he wanted his character to be before finally saying fuck it, maybe magic could be fun.

Harada the human paladin, neutral good. He was a little skeptical about the whole “sponsored by a deity” idea at first, but he eventually decided that chivalry was Worth It™ and proceeded to get a little too in-character telling everyone else what godless heathens they were compared to him, just for… fun…?

Nagakura the half-orc barbarian, chaotic good. Harada joked that he was basically a half-orc already, so Nagakura took that as a challenge. Out of everyone, surprisingly, he poured the most effort into creating a living, breathing character, though Heisuke teases him that it’s because Sano-san was right and he’s already his character. (A common theme among this group.)

Sanan the elven wizard, true neutral. He’s one of those people who conspires with the DM about character arcs way, way in advance, and may or may not have plotted out an intricate plan involving his character temporarily turning evil, since that kind of thing seems to fascinate him. Hell, he might eventually take over the damn campaign and just become the DM when this one inevitably gets tired of this group’s shenanigans.

Yamazaki the halfling rogue, lawful neutral, for reasons that didn’t have to be quite so pragmatic (are we sure Yamazaki knows what a game is?). A rogue is basically the D&D version of his actual job, anyway, and being half the size of a human would certainly help on stealth missions.

Iba the human ranger, lawful good. He’s not especially acquainted with nature, but he’s always wanted to be, and he also likes the idea of being intimately acquainted with a certain brand of dangerous enemy and dedicating his life to eliminating them. It’s a bit of an allegory in his eyes.

Souma the dwarven fighter, neutral good. His rationale is mostly that dwarves are strong and have strong hearts too, and that’s what he aspires to be like someday.

Sakamoto the gnomish bard, chaotic neutral. Even in this life, he loves him some wine, women, and song, so he’ll be damned if any alter ego of his is any more stuffy, even if it’s just a game.

Kazama, that one lawful evil asshole who initially wants to play some non-playable, OP-as-fuck race. When the DM finally compromises and lets him play a dragonborn, he proceeds to make him basically a self-insert. He toyed with having him be a sorcerer, but the DM encouraged him to be a normal fighter in an attempt to nerf him at least a little.

[nilim]

First kiss! Scanlan or Nott idk, whichever one you wanna do more, though i might be too late to send prompts.

So, the concept of Scanlan’s first kiss was a premise that immediately intrigued me because I never really thought about it before. Because, well… he’s Scanlan. Sometimes it feels like he materialized into Exandria fully sexualized. But he didn’t, of course. So it was fun exploring that more innocent part of his history. A character study and coming of age story, if you will.

Also, this story was inspired by Sam’s throw-away line that ‘kissing a half-elf man’ was ‘teenage years, baby.’

Warning: This thing is LONG. 11k.

Enjoy.

—

A passing cart splashed through a large puddle, sloshing water across Scanlan’s boots as he ducked out of its way. The lasts remnants of a passing rainstorm were giving way to blue skies and the city’s streets were gleaming; mist steaming off the cobblestones as they warmed up in the sunlight. Scanlan ignored the new stains to his boots, his focus entirely on the balding, well-dressed gentleman walking on the opposite sidewalk.

Making his way through the crowds, the man seemed somewhat harried trying to hurry his wife along. Decked out in a long, green coat, the plump woman was entirely too wrapped up in her own little world to notice her husband’s frustration. She wore a soft, kind smile and had ooh-ed and ah-ed at every window display, market-stall and stray cat the couple had come across for at least half a block. Scanlan knew this, because they were the reason he was crossing the street in the first place.

As man and gnome approached each other, Scanlan ducked low and removed his frayed, purple beret with a practiced flourish.

“Spare a coin, mister?” He asked, his voice pitched slightly higher to help create the impression of youthful naivety. The man gave him a quick a look - an expression Scanlan was sure he only spared for things he normally found underneath his boots - and angrily pushed past him.

“Out of my way, boy.”

Scanlan quickly stepped aside, ducking even lower while clutching his beret to his chest. “Sorry, sir!”

His voice apologetic, he adopted a mournful expression. Like that of a kicked puppy.  He waited a beat and then - right on cue - looked up, locking eyes with the woman trailing behind her husband. Scanlan could feel actual tears brimming in the corners of his eyes.

He was pretty proud of himself.

“Oh, Harold. He looks hungry. Can we not spare a few coins?” The woman said, turning towards her husband with a worried look. The man looked back, flustered.

“Agnes…”

Scanlan could see they were about to get into an argument, so he interjected;

“That’s okay, miss! It’s entirely my fault, I can see you are in quite the hurry and I should never have b-bothered such nice people.” He wiped at the corners of his eyes with the long, dirty sleeve of his tunic. “I’m sure I don’t know what I was thinking…”

He made as if to leave, but before stepping off the pavement he turned back towards the woman.

“Please don’t worry about me, miss. I’m quite sure I will be able to find some leftover bread behind the bakery tomorrow. The baker sometimes throws away perfectly good loaves, you see, only partially moulded!”

A subtle expression of horror flickered across the woman’s face and she cast a look at her husband, who was staring daggers at Scanlan. The gnome’s expression of solemn sincerity didn’t waver under this scrutiny.

“Agnes, please-” The husband began, trying to get his wife moving again. The large woman could not be budged, letting go of her husband’s hand as she started digging for her purse.

“No. That’s it, Harold. I will not have this… child eat rotten foods and starve in a gutter somewhere!” She produced her purse and started counting out coins, her husband’s eyes boggling at the amount. A vein popped in his forehead.

Fidgeting with his beret, Scanlan stared down at his feet, afraid any look he might give the man might infuriate him further. Such things could tip the precarious situation into an entirely different direction.

“Here you go.” The woman said, her voice soft and caring as she held out her hand. Scanlan held up his beret, still avoiding eye-contact.

“You’re too kind, miss. Thank you very much-” As he felt the coins being deposited, he caught the flash of a golden sun on one of the woman’s rings. Without missing a beat, he added; “-Pelor’s blessing be upon you both!”

The man made a soft, disgusted noise. Maybe that last comment had been a bit much, Scanlan admitted. But he wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

Bowing, he stepped off the pavement and spun around to hurry back across the street. Clutching his beret to his chest, he weaved through the crowd of people on the other sidewalk. He walked past a couple of blacksmiths before ducking into a shaded alleyway. As the sounds of the city fell away, he found a hiding spot behind a couple of stacked beer barrels. Finally feeling secure, he opened his hands and looked at his prize.

There was gold in there. More than one coin.

Scanlan’s heart hammered inside his chest. There was enough here to pay for at least a week worth of lodging at the Silver Heron. It was a lot more than he had expected.

Eyeing his spoils in wonderment, his reverie was interrupted by a long, low whistle behind him. He froze.

“That’s a nice sum you got.” A girl’s voice whispered in his ear. Recognizing the voice, Scanlan felt relief wash over him. He quickly pocketed the money before turning around with a forced smile.

“I do my best.” He replied, eyeing the girl leaning over his shoulder. A human child, she was a couple of years younger than him, probably around 13-14 years old. She was crouching low on one of the barrels, wearing a ragged grey dress and green stockings. She had in all likelihood dropped down from one of the roofs above and snuck up on him, quiet as a mouse. Which was why it was her nickname.

“You know Aron is going to beat the shit out of you if he finds out you’ve been scamming on his turf.” She pointed out, dangling her legs off the large oak barrel, using a dirty fingernail to pick out something between her teeth.

“True…,” Scanlan eyed her briefly, then rummaged in his pockets and flipped her a silvered coin. Eyes sharp as a hawk, the girl snatched the coin from the air before it had got a chance to complete its arc. “Which is why… he’s not going to find out now, is he?”

“Hm.” She pocketed the coin and silently watched him as he fixed his beret. Scanlan wiped some dirt from his tunic and looked down at his feet. Not much to be done about his boots, for now.

“You off to that silly tavern of yours, then?” She asked as he started moving towards the street. He deemed the question not worthy of an answer, until she called after him; “I don’t know why you like that place so much.”

Scanlan stopped and let out a heavy sigh. “I like it, because there’s music.”

“Lots of places got music.”

Scanlan grit his teeth. “No… Many places have an idiot with a flute making some noise.”

He thought about the Silver Heron. The tall, leaded windows. The pipe-smoke filled hallways lit up with silver sconces. The shining, oak bannisters of the second-floor balcony, which looked out onto the crowded barroom below. The diverse cast of patrons - drinking, laughing - all listening to the single minstrell, alone up on the narrow crescent-shaped stage. He turned towards the girl, smiling:

“This place has got music, Mouse.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

—

The small barroom was rowdy, every inch of the tavern packed with people enjoying an evening of drinks and entertainment. Dodging between individuals thrice his size, Scanlan had to do his best not to get squashed or trampled by throngs of people trying to get another beer at the bar. His head was spinning with sounds and songs and, music.

Earlier in the evening he had found a tiny spot up on the balcony, his small frame making it easy to watch through the carved wooden posts supporting the balustrade. He had spent the better part of three hours watching assorted musicians take center stage down below. A beautiful black-haired woman had sang a mournful song of tragedy and lost love in the Dunrock Mountains while Scanlan observed young men weep; a young Half-elf man had played a long ballad of an old sailor lost on the Ozmit sea, weaving words so playfully Scanlan had felt like he was there among the waves; and three dwarven brothers had played joyful, traditional dwarven tunes which had gotten half the patrons up and dancing.

Thirsty, Scanlan had left his spot to acquire some drinks while down below a young lady with a fiddle had started up a cheerful melody. Halfway down the stairs he spotted his chance when a large tray carried by a sturdy barmaid bounced past him just within arm’s reach. Reaching past the bannisters, he swiped a large tankard of ale while throwing down a few coppers on her tray in payment. Shouldering his way back upstairs he protected his drink from the careless elbows and staggering legs of drunk patrons. As he was about to set down the tankard on the floor to retake his spot, a large meaty hand shot out and grabbed his right arm, jerking him backwards.

“Oi!” Scanlan shouted, splashing ale over half his tunic. A large, middle-aged man was standing over him, a scraggly ginger beard doing a poor job at hiding his double chin and red, bulging cheeks.

“What do you think you’re doing, street rat?” He bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth. Scanlan flinched, shrinking back towards the wall.

“I paid for it!” He replied immediately, his voice not so much defiant as tinged with panic. He winced at the sound and took a second to compose himself. Looking up, he met the man’s gaze with renewed confidence.  “I paid for it fair and square.”

“Hrmpf,” The man straightened up, eyeing Scanlan with a suspicious look on his face. But Scanlan’s now calm demeanour seemed to settle him down somewhat. The man crossed his arms.

“You’ve had your fun, boy. Time to go. We ain’t in the habit of entertaining every hoodlum wanting to spent an evening ogling young women.”

Scanlan put his hands on his hips, cocking his head. “But apparently this business is in the habit of throwing out paying customers willy-nilly? Seems like a bad investment.”

“Guests only.” The man rumbled, reaching out to grab Scanlan’s vest - but seeing the move coming the small gnome danced out of the way.

“Well, you’re in luck! I’m a guest,” He grinned, and quickly produced a handful of gold coins. “And I can pay.”

The man glared at the coins. “You a thieving scoundrel as well, then? We don’t take no stolen money.”

Scanlan felt a wave of annoyance flare up inside of him. “I’ve never stolen a damn thing in my entire life.” He spat back, glaring at the man.

“Oh, come on, Fabien, let the boy be. He appreciates the music, which is more than I can say for half the people here.”

Scanlan peered past the innkeeper to see who had spoken up, and noticed a youthful Half-elf leaning against the wall next to the stairs. The young man had short, curly brown hair and wore a simple blue tunic with a white vest. Scanlan recognized him by the well-worn intricately carved lute slung across his shoulder. It was one of the minstrels who had played earlier.

The young man pushed off against the wall and shrugged, giving the innkeeper with an amused look. “And he’s got a point, when are we in a habit of turning away paying guests?”

Locking his sharp green eyes with Scanlan’s, he added; “I’ll vouch for him.”

The taller man - Fabien - grunted and looked between the young Half-elf and Scanlan, conflict playing out on his face. After a long pause, he finally seemed to come to a decision and swiped Scanlan’s gold from his hands. As he turned, he gave the younger Half-elf a look. Mumbling something about it being ‘your funeral’, the man marched down the stairs.

Scanlan, surprised by the entire turn of events, leaned over the balustrade to follow where the innkeeper was going with his gold. Wading through a group of customers, the man approached the bar and had a brief conversation with a stocky, short-haired woman behind the counter. She ducked down and then offered the man a large, brass key. A room key. Scanlan grinned and turned back towards the young minstrell.

“Thanks.”

The Half-elf nodded, giving Scanlan a curious, inquisitive look. “I’ve seen you in here before, right?”

Scanlan fidgeted with his vest, giving the Half-elf an apologetic grin. “Oh no, you caught me.”

“Well, try not to enjoy yourself too hard, or you might get me in trouble.” The Half-elf said, eyes twinkling as he readjusted the lute hanging from his shoulder.

Scanlan put a hand over his heart, giving the young man a severe, solemn look. “I swear it upon my honour as a hoodlum.” He said, echoing the phrase the innkeeper had used.

The Half-elf chuckled, shaking his head as he ascended the stairs, leaving Scanlan behind to enjoy the rest of his evening.

–

Three days Scanlan spent inside a small, narrow room near the roof of the Silver Heron. Obviously a former servant’s quarters, it was right above the kitchen and smelled like a curious mixture of grease and ale at all hours. A small, round window opened up to the roof outside, limiting his view of the city - but Scanlan had discovered he could just see the top of the Market Street’s bell tower over the roof of the building across when he was lying down on his straw bed at night.

He didn’t mind the cramped quarters. There was a roof over his head, dry floorboards underneath his feet and hot food waiting for him every morning. During the day he roamed the city; singing at the corner of Garden Square for passersby, or carefully scouting out the affluent Temple district for better opportunities. At night he came back, found a seat up on the balcony, ate warm stew and drank amber ale while listening to a string of musicians play. Not all were of an equal skill level - but in Scanlan’s view all were good.

And although they had not spoken since that first night, every evening the Half-elf had played, strumming his instrument with deft fingers, weaving such finely crafted melodies. Studying him on stage, Scanlan had judged the young man to be not much older than himself. He wondered where the elf had learned to play like that at such a young age.

Counting his earnings of the day, feet dangling from the balcony, Scanlan knew he should be more careful with his spending. He could probably find much cheaper lodgings at one of the almshouses on the other side of town, squirreling away the money for a rainy day. But he never had such a windfall before… and living at the Silver Heron was nice. He wanted to stretch the days and not think about the future at all.

It was like living in a dream.

“I heard you sing today.” A familiar voice spoke up. Scanlan froze with his tankard halfway to his lips, looking up towards the source. The Half-elf, leaning next to him against the balcony, laughed when he saw Scanlan’s expression change. The gnome lowered his drink and scrambled to his feet, absentmindedly straightening out some creases in his dirty vest as he did so.

“You-” Scanlan’s voice pitched up, and he cleared his throat, “You eh, followed me?”

The young man nodded and raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

“Ehm. Thanks.” Scanlan was at a loss of words. Which is something that didn’t happen often. He gestured at the Half-elf’s lute, searching for something to say in reply. “You… play well.”

He winced.

The Half-elf seemed amused at his discomfort, folding his arms. “So, haven’t stolen anything yet then?”

Scanlan frowned. “I don’t steal things.”

“No, you sing for your supper. Like us.” The Half-elf nodded towards the stage and then, turning back, held out his hand in greeting. “I didn’t introduce myself before, it’s Edym. But most people around here just call me Ed.”

Scanlan took the offered hand and shook it. “Scanlan.”

Softening his grip, Edym clasped Scanlan’s hand with both of his and turned it palm upwards. He rubbed his thumb over the callouses on the younger man’s fingers. Taken aback, Scanlan studied Edym’s face for some insight into the young man’s thoughts. The Half-elf had a curious expression on his face.

“You play?”

Scanlan pulled back his hand, a soft pang of regret in his chest. Hesitating, he gave a sad smile. “I used to.”

“What happened?” Edym asked, frowning. Scanlan bent down to pick up his ale and took a long swig before answering. He could feel the cold liquid traveling down his throat, settling down deep down in the twisted pit of his stomach.

“Someone took my lute.” His voice only wavered slightly.

“That’s a grave offense.” Edym said, his voice sounding solemn. As Scanlan turned his head to meet the young man’s gaze, he saw understanding in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Scanlan shrugged, staring into the dark, amber liquid inside his tankard. “Not your fault. And I…” He hesitated. “I wasn’t much good anyway.”

He turned around, looking out over the room down below. An older man was playing a shawm up on the stage, but half his audience had gotten distracted. Conversations and laughs drifted up towards the balcony, mingling with the music.

“I mean, not like you.” Scanlan added.

“Well,” Edym turned to lean on the balustrade as well. “I was blessed with a good tutor.” Scanlan could feel the man’s eyes on him as a silence settled between them. Then, carefully, the young man prodded; “Who taught you?”

Scanlan bit his lip. It was not something he usually openly shared. But for some reason, here in this moment, he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “My mother used to play when I was young. I guess I picked it up from her.”

“Hm.” Edym answered, but didn’t pry any further and Scanlan felt thankful for that.

Their conversation was interrupted when their attention was drawn by muted applause from below, the man with the shawm bowing and leaving the stage. No sooner had he left when a red Tiefling woman in a long, flowy white dress appeared, slowly walking out onto the podium next. She carried with her a beautifully decorated lyre and sat down on a simple, wooden stool in the middle of the stage.

As she played her first few notes, a hush descended on the crowd.

Like magic, Scanlan thought.

—

Afterwards, lying on his bed staring up at the slanted wooden roof, Scanlan couldn’t even remember what the woman had sang about. His head was swimming with melodies and an inexplicable soulful yearning for a place beyond the city; divine nature untouched by humanoid hands.

He thought about Edym. And about their conversation.

After the performance, they had shared a drink and a few more words. Edym had let him play a few songs on his lute, although Scanlan had found it difficult to judge what the Half-elf thought of his skill level. After he had nervously returned the instrument, Edym had simply grown quiet, finished his drink and bid him goodnight.

He wondered what it was like, to live a life like his. To have people adore the stories you weave, to be able to enchant a room with the songs you spin with just the power of your words and the help of an instrument.

It seemed a far-off fantasy, at least for a street rat like him.

He fell asleep and dreamt about his mother.

–

The next day brought rain. Scanlan spent most of the morning outside, sloughing underneath the awnings of a butcher’s shop, waiting for a break in the weather so he could find a place with better foot traffic. By lunchtime, when the rain gave no signs of abating, he decided to simply call it quits and return to the inn.

Afternoons were cozy at the Silver Heron. There were two great fireplaces in the barroom below, and ample people coming and going, looking for rooms and lodging or a place to dry out their clothes while getting something warm and tasty to fill their bellies. There was even a shelf of books; all well-read and thumbed-through, some almost falling apart the seams. But they were free, and Scanlan didn’t get many chances to curl up by a fire and just read. He had learned that skill from his mother, and it was something he was thankful for every day out on the streets.

Fabien had given him some suspicious glances while cleaning the bar, perhaps half expecting him to run off with the entire collection of tomes. But all in all, the large innkeeper had eased off him somewhat, perhaps coming to accept Scanlan’s presence among his guests.

“So, now you read as well.” Edym spoke up behind him.

Scanlan looked up, surprised by the sudden appearance of the Half-elf. Catching the young man’s eyes, Scanlan found them to have an unreadable expression.

Edym leaned his lute against the large chair Scanlan had made his new home, and then shrugged off his coat, placing it on the chair beside him.

“Singing, lute playing, reading… Any other skills you are hiding?” Edym sat down opposite of him, holding a glass of mulled wine.

“Hmm, I’m a multi-layered onion of surprises.” Scanlan replied grinning, the words leaving his mouth before he could reel them in.

Edym didn’t reply, but just drank slowly from the wine. Scanlan felt fidgety under the young man’s scrutiny, remembering his reaction - or lack thereof - to his lute playing the night before. As the silence dragged on, he tried to focus on his book instead.

Edym put down his glass on the table and finally spoke up; “What’s a boy like you doing living on the streets?”

Scanlan tightened his grip on the book in his hands, nails digging into the soft leather. “I’m not a boy.” He frowned at Edym. “I’m not much younger than you.”

Edym sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not calling you a child, Scanlan. I’m asking why you’re singing on street corners for people who don’t appreciate it, spending money you don’t have on ale and lodgings at a second-rate inn in a city that doesn’t want you.”

Scanlan felt like he had been slapped in his face. Shame bubbled up inside him, making his throat itch. He sunk lower into his chair - an easy feat to accomplish as its massive form was already dwarfing him. Hiding his face in the book he was reading, his mind raced for a reply.

“Why do you care, Elf boy?”

“Hm… polite professional curiosity.” There was a slight cheeky tone to Edym’s reply, and Scanlan couldn’t help peeking over the top of his book to glower at the Half-elf. A stubborn sort of rebelliousness welled up inside of him.

“Not everyone can be so lucky to have a good paying job at a nice inn playing songs for drunks.” He scoffed, studying Edym for a reaction.

Edym frowned at him. “That’s not what I mean.”

Scanlan lowered his book, annoyed at the response. He crossed his arms and gave the musician a mirthless smile.  

“Then please enlighten me, oh wise one.” Glaring at Edym, he could hear a downdraft in the fireplace behind him, spitting up embers. He ignored it, but noticed the Half-elf’s eyes briefly travel towards the fire.

“Hm.” Edym looked back at Scanlan, carefully considering him. For a brief moment it appeared he was going to answer his question, but then thought better of it. He pushed himself up out of the chair, leaning forward to grab his lute.

“Come on, I want to show you something.” He said, and gave Scanlan a quick wink before turning around and leaving towards the kitchens.

Scanlan, still sitting in his chair with his arms crossed, waited stubbornly for Edym to cross the room. That guy thought he knew everything.

As the Half-elf was about to leave his field of vision, Scanlan rolled his eyes and jumped out of the chair with an annoyed sigh.

“This better be good.”

—

The ‘something’ Edym had wanted to show him was not so much a thing as multiple someones. In the space behind the kitchen was a corridor leading to a backstage area and a large dressing room. Or perhaps ‘secret bar’ was more apt.

In the middle of the chamber was a large round table. Sitting at it there were multiple people playing cards, some of which Scanlan recognized as musicians he had seen perform before. Lit up by wall sconces and a large hearth to the right of the door, the room was cast in a warm, dancing glow. There were costumes hanging from a web of clotheslines crisscrossing the ceiling, and instruments everywhere people were sitting; Lutes, viols, flutes.

In the corner, at the beer-stained counter, a half-orc was playing a playful diddy on a fiddle. Next to him, a stocky dwarf was shouting at a barmaid, who apparently had brought him the wrong drink. Weaving between the tables, a half-naked woman was running around asking whether anyone had seen her headdress.

An older gentleman - the shawm player Scanlan recognized suddenly - stood up triumphantly from the large table and shouted “Ah-ha! Pay up, ye bastards!”. He threw down a hand of cards. Various groans from the other people at the table announced their defeat.

Standing in the doorway, Scanlan felt a slender hand upon his shoulder. Turning, he saw the Tiefling lyre-player leaning down towards him, her breathe hot against his right ear.

“I see Ed has brought us some new meat.” Her voice was soft was playful, and Scanlan felt a tingling sensation in the back of his neck.

“Ehm…” He mumbled, trying to discern the meaning of her words as she pushed past him. She sat down at the table and padded the chair next to her.

“You play, love?”  

Edym stepped forward, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “Now, now. Be kind to him will you, Ariane?”

The Tiefling leaned her chin on her hand and pouted. “I’m always kind, Ed.” Sitting behind her, Scanlan could see a red-haired halfling woman catch his eye, slowly shaking her head in warning.

Edym stepped back around him and patted him on the shoulder. “Everyone, this is Scanlan! He wants to be a musician.”

Scanlan could feel his cheeks burning as everyone turned towards him. Various excited greetings flew his way, but he caught at least one cheeky; “Eh, your loss”.

In the hubbub of noise and activity, he frowned up at Edym.

“I never actually said I wanted to be a musician.” He hissed between gritted teeth, unsure about the situation.

“You didn’t have to.” Edym replied. Scanlan shook his head at him and looked around. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. He felt… vulnerable.

A large hand slapped him on his back, and one of the dwarves shoved a tall tankard of ale in his hands.

“A musician huh? You sure about that, laddie?” The dwarf grinned at him, his beard so wild and bushy some of its hairs pricked Scanlan in the side of his face. The gnome cast a helpless look at Edym as he felt himself get pulled away.

Edym just grinned at him.

—  

For three hours Scanlan was guided around the room in a whirlwind of introductions and conversations, getting to know some of Edym’s colleagues a little bit more personal than he had intended to. He had learned to play at least two card games he didn’t even know existed, and had heard some interesting stories about the tavern - although none he dared to repeat among politer company. He had also discovered why shawm players were apparently the world’s best lovers.

Musicians, he decided, were not a shy bunch.

When he finally managed to extract himself from a particularly rowdy conversation - ears still burning - he quickly scanned the room. He found Edym in a corner, sitting on a bench while carefully tuning his lute. In the soft flicker of the candlelight, he was hard to spot among the revelry of his fellow colleagues. Like a moon caught in a planet’s gravity, Scanlan felt himself pulled back towards the only person he felt could save him from all this insanity.  

“Are these people all playing tonight?” He asked, trying to steady his sloshing beer as he sat down next to the Half-elf. As Edym looked up from his lute, Scanlan noticed the room was spinning a little. He might have had more than a little to drink, but he couldn’t exactly remember how much since different people had kept putting new drinks in his hands before he had the chance to finish the previous one.

“Nah. Half of them come here just to hang out.” Edym replied, nodding towards an older lady applying makeup at the small table in the corner. “Some of them aren’t even musicians. Actors. Dancers.” Scanlan felt himself staring into the crowd, trying to pick out who was who. This place was ridiculous, like a secret society of artists no one knew about.

Edym played a few notes on the lute, listening and adjusting the strings. Noticing Scanlan’s puzzled look, he folded his arms and leaned on his instrument, grinning. “Fabien allows it because we bring in patrons when we play, and, well, back here we almost match his customers out there drink for drink.”

“So, you do this every night?” Scanlan said, looking at the Half-elf in astonishment. “This is… amazing.”

Edym shrugged, his grin fading. “I mean, if that’s what you want.” He turned his lute over, picking at the strings as if lost in thought. “It’s… not exactly the word I would use.”

Scanlan gave him a dumbfounded stare. “Are you kidding? You get to play your music every night for an audience who actually likes you. You get paid. You get food and a warm roof over your head.”

Edym frowned at him. “You make it sound like those are the only things in life worth pursuing.”

“Aren’t they?”

Edym leaned back against the wall, eyes narrowing as he considered the gnome next to him. “I’m not sure. But I didn’t expect you to be that easily taken in by the razzle-dazzle, Scanlan.” 

He paused, and then scanned the room. 

“All of this,” He gestured around, “It’s… superfluous.”

Taken aback by Edym’s attitude, Scanlan remembered the question he had asked that afternoon; what was a boy like him doing living on the streets?

Some of us don’t really have a choice, asshole.

“This might not be much to someone like you, Edym. But it is to me.” Scanlan bit back, downing the rest of his beer in one go.

“Yes, you’re having fun now. But… I don’t think this place is meant for you.” Edym said, looking at the gnome with a curious expression on his face. 

Scanlan stood up abruptly, the earlier shame and anger returning. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Did Edym think he wasn’t good enough?

Edym looked at him, hesitating, but didn’t reply. Scanlan bit his lip in annoyance and turned his back on the Half-elf.

Walking away, he felt a strong desire to enjoy the heck out of all the things Edym had ever deemed superfluous.

—

The morning after brought back only wisps of memories of the night before, in addition to a pounding headache which only partially cleared up after Scanlan managed to drag himself out of bed and get some breakfast down at the bar. He didn’t see Edym that morning, and instead spent the better part of the day trying out different busking spots in the city.

He had counted his funds after breakfast, and that had sobered him right up.

The afternoon brought a chill to the weather, but he found a nice spot between two high-end tailors that seemed it might provide him with a pretty penny. By that time, however, most of the day had already been spent scouting, and when the street lamps were getting lit, Scanlan reluctantly packed up. As he made his way back to the Silver Heron, he was able to count that day’s earnings on one hand.

That evening he found himself backstage again. Most of the musicians welcomed him back with equal enthusiasm as the night before. Scanlan eased up on the ale that night, not in the least because he found that this time around, he was expected to contribute towards his own drinks.

Late in the evening he briefly caught a glimpse of Edym as he entered the dressing room to change his outfit. But just as soon as he arrived, he was gone again. Having failed to catch the Half-elf’s eye, Scanlan just leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink and thinking.

“Edym doesn’t seem to spend as much time here as some of you.” He pointed out, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“Hm.” The older halfling woman - Ronda - replied, not looking up from her hand of cards. As no further comment seemed forthcoming, Scanlan pushed a little harder.

“So… what’s his story anyway?”

Ronda cast him a look, scratching her pointed chin. “Ed? He just shows up, he plays, he goes.”

Scanlan frowned at her. “And… where does he go?”

“Who cares!” Shouted the shawm-player - Bret - from the other side of the table, aggressively putting down a handful of cards and fixing him with an expectant look. Scanlan, distracted, had entirely forgotten which game they were playing. He picked a random card from his hand and put it down. Ronda started picking up his cards from the table, shaking her head at him.

“Nobody knows. That boy’s got a restless soul.” Ronda said and started counting out money for Bret, who had somehow won the round. As she counted, her sharp brown eyes fixed Scanlan’s with a piercing look. “There ain’t ever come anything good from ‘aving a restless soul. We have it good here, and you should remember that, boy.”

“… Okay.” Scanlan replied, slightly unsettled. A hush descended on the table, and Scanlan felt like he was missing something. But Ronda’s tone of voice had suggested that any further conversation would proof fruitless, so he just slowly took a sip from his drink instead.

A restless soul? What was that supposed to mean.

Frustrated that he had not gotten any wiser from the conversation, he spent the next few minutes impatiently finishing his hand before excusing himself from the table. He could feel Ronda’s eyes on his back as he dodged another encounter with the dwarven brothers who were calling out to him from another table. Instead, he made his way to the door and back out into the tavern proper.

Back among the normal patrons, he elbowed his way through the busy barroom, looking for a sign of Edym. Moving past a large Dragonborn, he thought he spotted the young Half-elf pass by on the other side, but when Scanlan turned around there was nobody.

A drunken young man stumbled into him, using Scanlan’s head to catch his balance. Scanlan cursed under his breath, pushing the man’s hands off him. Catching his beret from falling off his head, he sighed and gave up his search, shouldering through the crowd to make his way upstairs. When he found his usual hiding spot along the balcony still empty, he sat down for a better vantage point over the room.

If he was completely honest with himself, he knew that although the backstage area was interesting, the actual magic was out here. Even if he was being used as a elbow rest by some of the patrons. It was the atmosphere. Electric.

He spent a few moments soaking in the sights and sounds. Invisible. Alone. Like a rat among the rafters, waiting.

It wasn’t long before the current musician finished his set and, just as Scanlan had expected, Edym appeared to the side of the stage, quickly bouncing up the wooden steps of the platform to take over. His hair was a curly mess and he had on a different outfit this time; darker with more muted colours. Sitting down, it instantly made his lute stand out against the firelight, blazing red, while he himself almost blended in with the background.

Not waiting for the audience to settle down, Edym’s fingers danced across the strings of his lute, launching into a polyphonic fantasia. As the Half-elf slowly increased the tempo, he started singing, and it wasn’t long before Scanlan begrudgingly found himself lost in the young man’s voice.

To him it seemed like Edym applied verses to a song like paint to a canvas, conjuring up a tale about the cradle of creation and the founding of the Dawn City, Vasselheim. His poetry made the city sound like an unreal, divine place, far removed from the view of mere mortal men.

It might as well be, Scanlan thought, staring at his dirty boots dangling from the balcony. He was quite sure he’d never get the chance to see it.

Sitting on the ledge, he pondered the Half-elf down below. Edym had a commanding sort of presence on stage, like he had grown more mature before their very eyes. He was clearly one of the more talented musicians up on that stage every night - and the audience knew it, too, hanging onto his every word.

He had called this place a second-rate inn, Scanlan remembered. If life at the Silver Heron was such a burden to him, why was he still here? It seemed like a perfect fairy tale to Scanlan, but… something gnawed at him.

Superfluous.

Distracted, he almost didn’t notice when the Half-elf bowed and took his leave, Scanlan kept sitting at the ledge and observed the people down below. Like a spell broken, he noticed all the different, small sounds rushing back into the room. Interrupted conversation restarting, laughing, the sounds of glasses. A younger human girl with a dulcimer appeared on stage; the last musician of the night.

Her music proved a simple distraction as Scanlan remained, thoughts churning.

The hour eventually growing late, the crowd was thinning, with the majority of those staying behind either mostly drunk or preoccupied with pursuing more carnal interests. It was like watching a play, where none of the audience realized they were actually the actors.

Fabien loudly announced last call, and Scanlan finished his drink and got up to head to bed.

—

Trailing his hand along the wooden panelling of the corridor towards to his room, he wondered how long before he would have to spend a night out in the rain again, if he didn’t start saving money soon. A week?

A few days?

Turning the corner, he had come upon the narrow door to his room, and he started fumbling for his key.

There was a polite cough.

Turning to look, Scanlan found Edym standing behind him, holding a key out towards him. Scanlan froze with his hands in his pockets, before dropping them by his side and leaning back against his door, suspiciously eyeing the young man opposite him.

“So, I guess I’m not the thieving one around here after all.” He said, his voice careful.

Edym arched an eyebrow. “You dropped it.”

“Uh-huh.” Scanlan answered, not convinced. He stepped forward and snatched the key from Edym’s hand. The Half-elf crossed his arms, cocking his head in amusement.

“Look, Scanlan-” He started, but Scanlan interrupted;

“Here it comes.” He said, turning towards the door.

“- I just wanted to apologize.” Edym finished, and Scanlan halted, the key halfway in the lock.

“Oh.”

“I think I might have misspoken before.” Edym started, sounding slightly unsure of himself. “I didn’t mean to imply that this place wasn’t meant for someone like you, but that… you don’t really belong in a place like this.”

“If you’re trying to apologize, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.” Scanlan muttered.

Edym smiled regretfully, an expression that made him look suddenly young. “All I’m saying is… you can aim for more than just this tavern, Scanlan. There’s a whole world out there.”

“Oh, I’m well aware! ”Scanlan replied, still not budging. “But sometimes I wonder whether you are.”

A restless soul, he thought.

“You’ve been stuck here too long, you can only see the bad.”

“And you can only see the good.” Edym shot back, his voice rising slightly. “I want to show you how-”

“I don’t need your help, Edym.” Scanlan cut him off. Like hell he was going to get lectured to by a rich elf boy who didn’t understand the value of having a roof over your head. He unlocked his door and stepped inside. “But if you hate this place so bad, nothing is stopping you from leaving.”

Edym’s face fell. “You misunderstand.”

Scanlan shook his head, trying to gauge the other man. “I think I understand plenty.”

The Half-elf was silent, frowning at him. A moment passed.

Scanlan sighed and closed the door.

—

That night he dreamt of far off places. Dark ships sailing in the night, and a land filled with sun and sands.

—

The next day was dark and dreary, clouds blocking out the sunlight and casting the whole city in a semi-darkness. But the rain stayed away and - considering his low funds - Scanlan was eager to try out his newly discovered spot. The morning started off well, and he soon found his money pouch clinking with coins. During lunch hour he took a brief break to buy a hot sausage bun from a vendor down the street from him.

Holding the wrapped bun in both hands, the heat of it managed to warm his hands as he walked back towards his spot. Drawing near still chewing his lunch, he froze when he noticed two boys standing where he had set up shop. They wore ragged, green coats and chequered caps.

Aron’s boys.

He swallowed, eyes darting to the streets left and right of him. It didn’t seem like they had spotted him yet, so he decided a hasty retreat would serve in his best interest. He turned around and immediately bounced into a large boy standing directly behind him. Scanlan fell back, dropping his lunch as he tried to catch himself.

“Hey Scanlan.” The boy before him rumbled. He was tall, had a mess of black hair and wore the same chequered cap as the other two kids. Scanlan tried to scramble to his feet, but was instead pulled up by his vest. The kid was at least thrice his size.

“Word reached us you’ve been living in that fancy little tavern you like so much.” The boy said, grinning. He had at least two teeth missing. Scanlan clutched at the boy’s fingers, trying to release himself from the strong grip.

“Imagine our surprise, seeing as last time we ran into you, you didn’t have the money to pay us.”

Scanlan struggled with the boy’s grip, his vest choking him. “Yes, well. Sometimes people get unexpectedly lucky, Aron.” He offered, grimacing.

“Nahh,” Aron said, “You having that kind of money can only mean one of two things. Either you’ve been stealing, or…” He waved his left arm in a slow, wide arc, gesturing towards the buildings surrounding them. “You’ve been busking on my turf.”

Scanlan watched as the kid plucked his coin purse from his belt. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Aron held the gnome closer to his face and weighed the purse in his other hand, his grin widening. “That’s a lot of coin, my boy.”

A sudden wave of anger rolled over Scanlan. Being this close to the taller boy’s face, instinct overtook him. As he flashed Aron a vicious smile, he leaned back into the kid’s grip and kicked forward with both of his feet.

“I’m not your boy, dillweed!” He shouted.

To his satisfaction, he could feel something crunch underneath his boots. Aron cried out in anger, his grip on Scanlan’s vest lessening. Scanlan pried of the remaining fingers on his vest and managed to release himself. Falling back, the wind was knocked out of him when he made contact with the ground. His heart hammered in his chest, and he started crawling backwards. He briefly noticed the pedestrians around them giving them a wide berth, but before he had a chance to get up, a large hand reached out gripped his left arm like a vice. Scanlan was unceremoniously hoisted up in the air for a second time, but this time he could feel the bones in his arm being crushed.

“Last time I broke your stupid, little instrument. But this time I think I’ll break your pretty little face!” Aron bellowed. Before Scanlan could throw up his arms in protection, a large fist flew at him from the side and stars exploded inside his skull.

The world was spinning and pain radiated from the right side of Scanlan’s face. He barely registered rearing back for another hit. Panicked, Scanlan grabbed onto Aron’s left hand and bit down, hard. Hot blood welled up beneath his teeth. Howling in pain, Aron released him again, but this time Scanlan hit the ground running.

His right eye stinging like the nine hells, he stumbled away from his attacker half-blinded. There were throngs of people now, some having stopped to watch, and he ducked behind a couple of older women on the sidewalk. Head throbbing, his focus was on the alleyway he had spotted earlier, hoping he could at least use his size to an advantage and make his pursuers lose him among the crowd. Sprinting into the alley, his heart sank when he heard Aron’s shouting “Get him, you idiots!” not far behind. He might have miscalculated.

Vision swimming, heart pumping, Scanlan started a uncoordinated scramble up a pile of crates blocking the end of the alley. Perhaps if he got high enough, he could reach the roof of the building behind it, and then… well, he’d plan for his next move when he’d get there.

As he heaved himself up the final crate, he felt someone grab his leg from behind. Blind panic setting in, he started kicking back to prevent himself from getting dragged back down. Boot making contact, he heard someone grunt behind him and the hand released its grip.

Scanlan quickly got to his feet and turned around. Looking down he could see all three thugs below him now. Great, it’s a party.

Aron was looking at him with a furious look on his face; blood was streaming from a clearly broken nose, and his hand had a nasty bite mark. One of his lackies was already trying to climb back up the crates, having partially fallen down due to Scanlan’s struggle.

A slow, vicious grin appeared on Aron’s face as he watched Scanlan’s panicked look. “Give it up, gnome. If you make us come get you, things won’t be pretty.”

As he saw Aron’s shit-eating grin, a sudden hot rage filled Scanlan’s chest. He couldn’t stand the guy, or his stupid face. He heaved himself up tall, a surge of adrenaline spreading through his body. It was like a well of electricity building up inside of him, making his fingers tingle with nervous energy. He pointed down at the thugs below and took a deep breath.

“Listen up, assholes. Don’t even think of climbing up here. If any of you lay a finger on me, a broken nose will be the least of your problems. The city guard will need help scraping your ugly mugs of the street, because when I climb down these crates, I’m personally going to kill every last motherfucking one of you!” Scanlan yelled, his voice vibrating with pent up rage. As he heard his words bounce back to him, he scrunched his eyes shut, his head dizzying with pain and anger. His voice seemed impossibly loud to him in that moment, reverberating through the alleyway like a thousand shouts - but maybe that was just a concussion speaking.

When finally the echoes died down, he expected laughter. But silence followed.

He carefully opened up his left eye. Through a blurry haze, he could only just make out the retreating backs of all three thugs as they rounded the corner at the other end of the alley.

Hesitating, Scanlan just stood there. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do now. Slowly, his knees buckled underneath him and he sat down on the crate in a confused daze. Seconds passed.

“Wow.” Said a female voice above him, and he recognized it as Mouse. Somehow, he was not surprised. He realized she had just witnessed him cuss out Aron and his gang. An amused smile flickered across his face.

The young girl carefully emerged from behind a chimney up on the roof and looked down at the gnome from above. “I mean, wow!”

“…Yeah.” He replied slowly, staring down at his hands. Sitting there, his body felt tingly and heavy, like he expended all his energy on that one final, rage-fuelled tirade. Or maybe it was just all the adrenaline leaving him.

“You really sent them running.” Mouse said, crouching down near the gutter directly above him.  

“I guess so.” Scanlan said, rubbing his aching right eye, trying to clear his vision. He unsteadily got back to his feet.

“They’ll probably be back, though.”

He looked up the gutter above him, judging the distance. He was in no hurry to climb down and follow Aron and his goons out of the alley, so he had to think of alternative exits. He flexed his fingers, bent his knees, reached up and… jumped. His hands found purchase on the slimy edges of the gutter, but his feet scrambled uselessly against the rocky wall. A couple of seconds passed as he dangled.

He coughed politely.

“You want some help?” Mouse asked, watching him from the same spot, not having moved.

“That would be swell.”

—

It was late. Very late. Scanlan didn’t know how late, and he didn’t care. He stumbled from the backstage bar, almost collapsing into the corridor. Steadying himself against the opposite wall, he noticed a portrait of a stern looking lady looking down at him. He pushed himself upright and waved a finger in her face.

“At least you don’t have to, eh… pay rent.” He slurred. He wished he didn’t have to pay rent either. That would make his life a whole lot easier.

“Scanlan?”

He whipped around. It was Edym. He was wearing a long woollen coat, and had his lute slung over his shoulder, like he had just come from outside. Or was leaving. Scanlan noticed the Half-elf was frowning at him.

“Hey, Elf boy.” Scanlan grinned. Then he hesitated. “Wait, I’m still annoyed at you.”

“You’re drunk.” It wasn’t a question, but Edym’s voice wasn’t admonishing either.

Scanlan twirled around, waving at the door he had just come from. “Well, you would be too if you had shown up for my goodbye party!” He laughed. When Edym’s eyebrow arched up, the gnome sighed. “Tonight’s the last night.”

He clumsily turned out his empty pockets, to signify his lack of funds. “So, I guess you got your wish after all, no more Scanlan at the Silver Heron.”

Edym’s lips curled up in a half smile, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny, it turning out that way.”

Scanlan rolled his eyes at him. “I see you still can’t help being an asshole.”

He tried to push past the Half-elf, but Edym stepped out of the way unexpectedly, making Scanlan stumble. Edym shot out a hand to steady him, but Scanlan quickly brushed him off.

“I still don’t need your help.” He mumbled, feeling a weird mixture of annoyance and shame. But Edym wasn’t listening. He reached out again and Scanlan felt the Half-elf’s soft fingers on his face. He could see surprise flash in Edym’s eyes as he turned the gnome’s chin towards him. Scanlan realized the right side of his face must look a mess by now; he could feel the bruising underneath his eye, and the swollen, broken skin on his cheekbone.

“What happened?”

Scanlan slapped away Edym’s hand and turned his back towards him, staring down the corridor. He swayed in place, something preventing him from simply walking away.

“Like you said, Edym. There’s a whole world out there.” Scanlan laughed humourlessly. “But not everyone wants a hoodlum like me in it.”

Edym was quiet, but Scanlan felt the Half-elf’s hand settle on his shoulder. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t-”

“You don’t need my help, I know. But… humour me.” Edym interjected. “Please.”

When Scanlan turned to cast a glance at him, he caught a concerned, apologetic look on the Half-elf’s face. He didn’t seem so arrogant then. Maybe just somebody who had trouble finding the right words to say.

Which was ironic, for a poet.

For some reason it convinced Scanlan.

“Well, please has always been the magic word.” He replied. A smile flickered across Edym’s face.

–

Edym guided him up the stairs, no easy feat as Scanlan realized he had a little more to drink than he had intended. But it was his goodbye party, after all, and the other musicians had given him a proper farewell. They walked past his room, around a corner, and up another stairs Scanlan hadn’t explored before. This must be the attic, he thought. Edym left him standing in the narrow corridor as he opened a heavy, oak door at the end of the stairs.

The chamber beyond wasn’t large, although compared to Scanlan’s room everything seemed spacious. There were two long, leaded windows on the opposite wall, and a slanted roof on both sides of the room. There was a simple bed to the left of the door, with a large wooden chest at the end. A small, narrow desk was on the other side, with a shelf above it containing many different jars and pots. There were papers on the desk, and many kinds of maps and other drawings pinned to the wooden roof boards all around the room.

Scanlan stared at it all while he was guided to sit on the bed by Edym, who promptly turned around and lit a small oil lamp on the window sill. In the soft, orange glow, Scanlan could see the details of one of the drawings above the bed. A dragon, casting flames on a forest below. In the margins of the paper, there seemed to be a few lines of song verse scribbled in careful, black lettering;

In peril the knight did careful treadBold Ayla, her end in stone was setIt came upon her like a veil of dread With flaming tongues of gold and red

Edym closed the door and then started rummaging through the jars on the shelf, looking for something.

“Did you draw these?” Scanlan asked in awe.

“No.” Edym replied. Walking towards the foot of the bed, clutching one of the jars, he cast a look at the page Scanlan was studying. “Well, some… Most are from books.”

The Half-elf knelt down and opened the chest, searching through its contents. He pulled out a piece of cloth and tore it in half. Scanlan was distracted, taking in some of the maps and other drawings hanging above him. It wasn’t what he had expected to find in Edym’s room.

“Are they Inspiration? For songs?”

“Well, yes. But it’s… more than that.”

A restless soul, Scanlan thought. There was more to Edym than met the eye.

Edym removed a lid of one of the jars and used his fingers to smear some of the white, thick ointment on the cloth he had prepared. He looked up and carefully put a hand on Scanlan’s chin, moving the gnome’s face towards the light. Scanlan wrinkled his nose as the strong herb-like smell wafted over him.

“Hold still.” Edym said, and Scanlan closed his eyes. The Half-elf started applying the salve around his injured eye, obviously careful about not pressing the bruised skin too hard. The substance was cold and oily, but felt surprisingly soothing against his skin. Scanlan frowned.

“Your hands are soft.”

Edym let out a soft laugh while continuing his work. “Thanks?”

Scanlan opened his left eye. “It’s not a compliment. It’s just… I had expected different from a lute player.”

Edym’s smile lingered on his face, eyebrows raised. “Hmm. What can I say, I’m blessed by my Elven heritage.”

Scanlan closed his eyes again, snorting. “That sounds like horseshit.”

“Ah, well.” Edym finished his work, wiping off the excess. “Keep that on there for the next hour or so, it will dry up but help with the swelling and bruising.” He turned around and Scanlan peeked at him. Edym seemed different in his room. Like he had let his guard down. He watched the Half-elf return the jar to the shelf, and smirked when the young man almost knocked over a few books on the desk. Maybe he was not the only one who had something to drink.  

Edym wiped off his hands on his coat, and sat down next to Scanlan on the bed. He looked around, seemingly a little lost on what to say.

“So, singing, lute-playing, reading, drawing… healing. Any other skills you are hiding?” Scanlan asked amused, mirroring Edym’s words from a few days before.

Edym looked up sharply. Noticing Scanlan’s mischievous grin, a careful smile appeared on his face. “What can I say? I’m a multi-layered onion of surprises.”  

They both laughed, and Scanlan was glad he had gone with him up to his room. It seemed an intimate sort of place, and he would never have known about it if he had let his pride take over. He felt like he might have misjudged Edym. There were indeed layers there. The realization that the Half-elf wrote most of his poetry surrounded by drawings of dragons and the Feywild made him strangely endearing.

Scanlan leaned back against the bed, eyes on the ceiling. Edym watched him read some of the texts on the pictures above. A comfortable silence settled between them. Scanlan closed his eyes, thoughts wandering.

“So… Where will you go?” He asked, breaking the quiet.

There was a brief pause.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid, Edym. I know you’re leaving.”

He opened his eyes and looked at the Half-elf sitting next to him. “That’s what you meant right? Before? About it being funny it working out this way. You meant our goodbyes coinciding.”

Edym eyed him carefully. “Yes.”

“Look, contrary to what I let on I don’t actually blame you.” Scanlan sighed. “All those things you said? They’re true.” He sat up and wrung his hands, staring at the dirt underneath his fingernails.

“This city doesn’t want me. So, if I could get out of here like you, I would too. But I wouldn’t last two seconds out there.”

Edym let out un unexpected laugh, and Scanlan gave him a quick, curious look. It was not the reaction he had expected.

“You would do a whole lot better than me.” Edym said, giving him a strange look. His eyes were soft.

Scanlan frowned, leaned forward and gestured at the bruised side of his face. “Look at this, Edym. I can’t even protect myself out on these streets. How can I last out there on the road?”

“Scanlan, I don’t know how to convey this but…” Edym sounded uncertain, hesitating. He licked his lips, then seemed to focus on Scanlan’s black eye. “First, tell me what happened.”

“I told you what happened.” Scanlan replied, raising an eyebrow. He felt like he was missing something.

“No, I mean, what really happened.” Edym insisted. Scanlan hesitated, but then decided to humour him.

“I got in a fight with a bunch of assholes. There’s this kid… He’s got an attitude problem.” He began, and he saw Edym’s eyebrows twitch.

“Sounds familiar.”

Scanlan laughed. “Not like me, asshole. He’s the kind that likes to intimidate people.” He shifted his weight, sinking back in a memory.

“He’s laid claim to one of the more affluent neighbourhoods, and he doesn’t like it when people try to earn an honest living on what he views as ‘his’ streets. So… he doesn’t like me.”

Edym grew quiet, but then asked; “Is he the one that destroyed your lute?”

“Yeah, like I said, a real dick.” Scanlan replied.

Edym nodded. “So, you got in a fight again. What happened next?”

“He punched me in the eye. I kicked him in the face and then I ran for my life.”

“You got away?” Edym asked, confused, like that was not how he expected the story to go.

“No… he and his friends came after me, cornered me in an alley and I… eh,” Scanlan hesitated, “Well, I shouted at them. Threatened them, actually. And they left me alone.”

“You… shouted at them, and they left?” An odd expression appeared on Edym’s face, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“I think they might have just thought I was more trouble than I was worth.”

“These were humans, though, right?” Edym asked, smiling. “They don’t sound like the sort to just run away from one measly gnome.”

“Well, who knows why they left,” Scanlan replied, growing more suspicious at Edym’s tone of voice. Like he was not understanding a joke. “Maybe they thought it was more fun to let me stew in my panic- What are you grinning at?”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Edym said, and Scanlan felt a wave of annoyance flare up in him again. Or maybe it was all the alcohol.

“You’re being an asshole again.” He pointed out and stood up, frustrated. The room started spinning and he grabbed for Edym’s shoulder. The Half-elf reached out and helped steady him.

Edym shook his head. “Gods, Scanlan. I might be an asshole, but you’re a damn idiot.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” Scanlan said, releasing his grip from Edym’s shoulder, confused. “Very enlightening.”

Before he could move away, Edym held onto his shoulders, soft green eyes focusing intently on his. “Wait… I’m about to tell you something that’s going to change your life.”

There was a pause, and Scanlan could see a sudden hesitation appear on Edym’s face. The Half-elf looked away, frowning.

“Well, shit.”

“Wha-”

The next question was erased from Scanlan’s mind when Edym suddenly leaned forward and kissed him, hard. Scanlan blinked, the sudden move blindsiding him. He felt his cheeks flush with heat, his eye throbbing. His fingers pressed against Edym’s chest, he could feel the soft thrum of the Half-elf’s heart below the fabric of his shirt. Holding his breath, Scanlan closed his eyes, his world spinning to a single point. Soft lips. The taste of mulled wine.

When Edym finally pulled back, Scanlan slowly opened his eyes and just stared. The Half-elf gave him an embarrassed, soft smile.  

“Sorry, that’s not actually what I wanted to say. Although… I have been wanting to do that.”

“Uh…” Scanlan’s brain drew a blank. The kiss had been unexpected. But… nice.

Only inches from each other, Edym grinned at him, his hot breath on the Scanlan’s face. It smelled sweet. “The thing I wanted to say, Scanlan… is you’re magic.” Edym whispered excitedly. “Your music. Your words. They have power you don’t even understand.”

A confused daze settled on Scanlan as he carefully sat back down. A few moments passed, and Edym’s expression changed to one of worry.

“Scanlan? I hope I’ve not upset you.”

“You mean, like… metaphorically, right?” Scanlan said, staring at Edym. “I mean, with that kiss and all…”

Edym laughed at him. “No, you idiot! You’re magic! Literally!”

Scanlan just fell in a deeper confusion.

“Your music,” Edym began, searching Scanlan’s face for comprehension, “it casts spells on people. You didn’t just threaten those bullies, you scared the ever-living hell out of them by enchanting their minds.”

Edym’s voice had a soft awe to it, which would have sounded endearing at any other moment. But right now, Scanlan was just trying to find the logic in what Edym was telling him.

The Half-elf watched him closely. “You’ve been doing it for a while.”

Scanlan frowned. He probably had too much to drink for this. Hesitating, he finally only uttered a single word; “Spells?”

“Yes.” Edym smiled, “You must have an extraordinary strong magic ability if you’ve been casting them without a spell focus. For someone like you it’s usually a musical instrument. That’s how I first noticed it.” He had a mischievous look on his face. “I mean, granted, you’re charming when you sing. But when you played my lute, it was… something else.”

“When you mean someone like me…?” Scanlan said, coming to his senses.

Magic. Him? It seemed like a strange dream.

“A bard. And I don’t mean like those you see play down in the tavern either.” Edym gripped Scanlan’s hands. “A proper bard, like the books talk about.”

Holding hands, Scanlan could feel the heat radiating from Edym’s soft fingers. He watched the awe in the Half-elf’s eyes. A slow, wicked smile appeared on Scanlan’s face.

“It’s kinda cute how excited you get about all this book and magic stuff.”

Edym shook his head with a soft smile. “The point is, you don’t have to be afraid of anything out there, Scanlan.” He cast the gnome a fond look. “I mean, with some-”

Edym was cut off when Scanlan leaned forward and kissed him again. If felt like the right thing to do.

If only for tonight.

—

That night he dreamt of a great battle above the cradle of creation, a city full of shouting people, and a brave Half-elf boy going on a journey into the unexplored.

—

Scanlan awoke in his room. The bright sun shone through the small window above his footboard, light hitting his eyes. As consciousness crept up on him, the last remnants of a dream left a bittersweet memory. He stared up at the ceiling above, empty of any drawings. When he turned on his side, he noticed the well-worn, intricately carved lute leaning against the wall next to his door.

He closed his eyes, unexpectedly moved by the sight.

When he got up later, he found Edym gone. He had already known. Nobody could tell him where the Half-elf went. None of the musicians knew. He had a restless soul, they told him.

You couldn’t expect someone like that to stick around.

But he found a note inside the lute, later, while playing it for the first time in a field of celandines just outside the city gates.

When he opened it, it showed lines in carefully written ink, like a verse to a song:

Into the unknown the bard did careful treadBold Scanlan’s faith no longer setThough many words are left unsaid I know of him one day books be read

END

[mikecheathamfishing-topwatermoon]

Back home from the KBF/FLW event on Lake Oauchita….working on a formal recap, but this is my personal “I always dreamed of being here, there goes Hank Parker, this was AWESOME (except for only finishing 24th – but it was out of 72 anglers)” post.  To be honest, I don’t want to spend time talking about the fishing; though it is a beautiful lake, it was tough….I would rather just talk about the experience…from my viewpoint…from the perspective of a guy who believes in the kayak community, that this community does exist, and is real and full of great folks who care about each other; that KBF, Hobie and the hundreds of local kayak groups are all a part of…one family with a passion for being in plastic boats (I always hear Scott Beutjer’s voice when I say or type plastic boats!) – fishing, paddling, pedaling, motoring or just floating.

Let me get this out of the way first….

I made the biggest fan errors of my life at one of the biggest events of my life!  The backstory…my favorite bait for bass fishing (that isn’t a top water bait) is the spinner bait.  Not just any spinner bait…the Mann’s Classic spinnerbait marketed with Hank Parker’s name on it back in the day.  There was a show I watched that showed Hank talking about the St. James River, and his technique, that had me buy one…and keeps me buying them (when I can find them!) when I lose ‘em….and got me 7th in the 2018 KBF National Championship…

…and here he was, walking past me while I was not only attending, but being a part of an FLW event (a dream!)…and I chased him like some crazed stalker, introduced myself…talked about his time in Hobie’s….then said thank you for the time and walked away…without a picture!!!!  I had finally met one of the biggest influencers of my fishing, in my (limited) success as an angler…and I didn’t take a picture!  I had 2000 dollars or more in cameras and lenses hanging around my body, a cell phone….and not a picture!!!!   Fail!  I did capture a pic (or fifty) of him on stage.

So…back to the KBF/FLW event….we made it to Arkansas barely in time for the dinner with DeeZee, YakAttack and the folks from FLW.  Joy and I had just met Arlie Minton’s wife Crystal (I already knew Arlie), Darrell Cornelius and his wife Tanya, Jim Davis (fellow Tennessee dude whom I also knew), George Nemeth….and we talked as if we were life-long friends.  While none of us were strangers…we were all already Facebook kinda friends, not all real friends, the “I know you?  I think we are friends on Facebook” who share a common interest friends….I sat there thinking this is the kind of folks that kayak tournament fishing attracts. Good folks who enjoy sharing time with fellow humans, and while kayaking broke the ice, it was not long before we discussed occupations and families.  Joking and laughing with and about each other, we formed new bonds (now real friends as far as I am concerned!) that will be among my most cherished memories when I cannot pedal out any longer.

Darrell Cornelius and his wife Tanya talking with some of the KBF anglers

During the line to get our food, you could hear people talking and laughing…we were about to fish for a lot of money (a lot of recognition), but you didn’t hear any of that in the conversations.  There was a bit of pre-fishing talk, but for the most part it was old and new friends enjoying each other…strengthening the connections that pull this community together and make it strong.

The days I spent on the water, the area I chose was shared with George Nemeth.  We talked about what was and wasn’t working for us, where we were from, what brought us to Arkansas…smiled together about how bad our day was going…thinking about it, those days make me miss the interactions if I go a couple of weeks without a tournament.

George Nemeth doing “something” for the camera

Bogdan Korostetskyi winner of the first FLW tournament was posing

it was truly a family event…Mike Eady brought his own fan club!

wish Dishrag had been here!

Awesome…..

Joy and Crystal…waiting on us to get done with check-in

When Henry Veggian talked on the biggest stage of anyone’s fishing career after landing in 7th place…he thanked the folks at Albright’s Sunshine Store and Cafe.  I mean, the biggest event and he recognized a local place that had become a part of Dwayne Walley, Cory Dreyer, Shelly Efird, George Nemeth and his own stories during their time in Arkansas.  They had all been sharing a house together and found a local place that adopted them; and they appreciated each other.  Other than announcing Clint Henderson as the champion…and the two Arkansas guys Garret Morgan (3rd place) and Dwain Batey (2nd place)…and this were still very close in comparison…no other words elicited the response that Henry’s words did – the crowd cheered like the café had won….the next time I am in the area, rest assured that I will be finding the Sunshine Store and Cafe in Arkansas!

I bring this up because it too reminds me about the spirit of this group.  It reminds me that I am a part of something bigger than us all…again, whether you believe it or not….this community, this willingness to share the stage with people who just in passing touch your life…I am all in for life!  When you hear what else Henry was willing to share on tournament day (read official recap coming soon); you will truly feel the soul of this group…I love it!!!

Well, need to work on the official recap.  I just wanted to say how proud I am to have been a part of this KBF/FLW/DeeZee/YakAttack/TourneyX event on Lake Ouachita. Say what you will about Chad Hoover, KBF, the Hobie BOS and AJ Mcwhorter…me, my mama…my daddy… (not Joy, dishrag or sis; we might just throw down)…..this was an excellent event…this is an excellent group of folks…and I am grateful and so blessed to be part of all that the community is and has to offer.

peace

also:

Want to give a personal shout out to the folks at the Rose Retreat, the place where Joy and I stayed in Hot Springs Arkansas.  They have built a little space close to town (walking distance) with several little cottages – ours was the Monet’s Cottage.  It isn’t the kind of place you would take a group of guys to spend a week fishing, but it was a great place for Joy to spend the day knitting and reading while I was on the lake.  Cindy and Jim didn’t realize I was bringing a trailered kayak with me, but even with limited parking for all of the other guests, still found a way to make it work for us.  Each and every day, we talked about fishing and they always asked how I had done on the lake.  If you go back to the area and need a clean, quiet and well-appointed space for the trip….check them out on Evolve.  And don’t miss the tiny Elvis gnome….or the pirate out front…quirky cool kinda place!

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

Hank Parker…no pic…you kidding me! Back home from the KBF/FLW event on Lake Oauchita….working on a formal recap, but this is my personal “I always dreamed of being here, there goes…

[gizwick-silverline]

A Close Encounter.

As I write this entry, my heart pumps erratically and beads of sweat and blood occasionally drip onto the pages in front of me. I’m still attempting to recover from what I have just witnessed. My mind is fluttering with many questions, most I’d rather not know the answer to. I will attempt to start from the beginning and make it brief.

When you’ve traveled as long as I have, the way you perceive others based on their race becomes a thing of the past. There’s always good folks and bad people among all the civilized beings in society. This of course, is why I wasn’t the least bit skeptical about anchoring down in the Orcish town Orok. Located on the east coast, the beaches were rather mediocre, and not too many fish were biting. I decided testing my luck with local tavern gossip would be the best bet for entertainment during my brief stay.

The building was packed, and remained so the whole time. I stuck out rather easily, with most of the patrons being of orcish descent. I pushed ahead however, finding myself a seat at a table that has most certainly seen it’s fair share of brawls. Two mugs of troll’s blood grog later and I fancied myself inebriated enough to spark up some light hearted conversation. I made my rounds, offering an exchange of tales to anyone who was willing to lend an ear. The public’s response was...unsatisfactory. My attempts were shot down with vulgar, garish one liners and insults. Returning to my table with yet another grog I slumped, defeated by a handful orcs who just weren’t interested in a young gnomes stories.

Of course, until he arrived.

Grognar was an absolute monster of an Orc. His build was muscular and his stature was immense. He wore little armor, a standard among orcs, and came equipped with a bardiche that looked as if it could slice its way to the nine hells and back. His hair was a sleek black, consisting of rugged facial hair and a single braided ponytail atop his head, which extended down to his thighs. His only flaw, if I could call it one, would be the lack of a left arm. A predicament sure, but an easily solved one with the addition of a blade straight onto the stub. This was a man with stories, and I practically jumped from my seat upon his arrival. As he eyed the establishment, I raised my mugs and called for him. Moments later, all 6’5” of the orc was seated at the other end of this bloodstained table. I ordered the two of us various ales as we began to converse.

Surprisingly well spoken, he began to reveal himself to me. Grognar is a wandering warlord, who’s spent the past few months shacking up at Orok with what’s left of his battalion. Currently hunting worgs for their pelts and to use as mounts, he plans to regroup and rebuild his tribe, until further notice. His personality and mannerisms were bold, polite, and comforting while he spoke with me. As we talked, I inevitably asked Grognar about his tales of battle. His eyes lit up at the mere mention of the word.

Grognar’s wars were glorious. Stories of the destruction of gnoll war bands, slaying of giants, trolls, bugbears, ogres and the sorts. There was a plethora of worthy material among the words that slurred from his mouth. I took notice that the more we drank, however, the more graphic his depictions of battle became. Our discussions ranged from which humanoid skins made the best leather material in a pinch, to the different sounds of various creatures entrails hitting the dirt. It was plenty to take in, and I thankfully stomached the lot of it.

He also spoke of all the times he’s been wronged, and how he has dealt with it. Most of which either involved beheading, gutting, or hanging. Those I believed he referred to as “the lucky ones”. Naturally, I asked of “the unlucky ones”, to which he only chuckled and gave me a reassuring pat on the head, confirming I have nothing to worry about and that I’m not “one of them”. I should have dropped the topic here, yet I foolishly persisted. His hand lowered, grabbing the collar of my shirt and pulling me over the table.

His stare was enough to bring a grown man to his knees. The strong smell of alcohol flooded my sinuses as his iron grip tightened. Through gritted teeth, he stated “As long as you’re not one of them.” I could not speak. Although heavily intoxicated, I knew very well my choice of words in this moment could determine either life or death. The most I could manage was a quick, assuring nod. Noticing the setting sun, Grognar hastily stood up, dropping me back into my chair. The tavern died down and began to pay attention to the sudden movements.

“Thank you for the drinks. I hope not to see you as a foe on the battlefield, as your company is warming. It would be a shame to be splattered in your blood.” Taking notice of the attention he accumulated, Grognar scanned the room with his eyes briefly, before fixing his glare on a table in the back. He retrieved his bardiche and wiped some ale off of the blade. “If you’ll excuse me, small one, I have some unfinished business to attend to.”

His stride was powerful. As he passed tables, the orcs seated would lower their heads submissively. It wasn’t until he reached the back of the tavern that he grabbed an orc from his chair by the neck, with great force. Struggling, the unfortunate orc began to plead for his life, begging to be spared. Grognars bardiche sliced through his stomach’s skin and bones like a hot knife through butter. The orc sharply inhaled, following it with a blood-curdling scream as his intenstines spilt to the floor. Moments later, and the orc was dead. Grognar, satisfied with his kill, gathered up the remains the best he could and headed towards the tavern exit. On his way out, I received yet another pat on the forehead. This time from a bloody, filthy, sin-stained hand.

Once Grognar exited the tavern, all returned to normal. The patrons were bustling and talking and laughing once more. I wasn’t so much. “What just happened?”. “Why does no one seem to acknowledge this?”. “Who is “one of them?””, I found myself asking one too many times in my head. I’ve heard tales of many gruesome deaths, and have witnessed quite a few killings, but nothing as sporadic as this. I no longer found myself second guessing what I thought of Grognar. He wasn’t a monster of an orc. Grognar is a monster who appears as an orc. I don’t believe I’ll find myself repeating any of his tales to anyone in the near future, lest he discovers I’ve been speaking of him. However, there is one bit of information that I would consider useful from all of this.

In a pinch, lizardfolk hide makes the best leather.

Grognar: Level 8 Orc Warrior -By Anonymous

[katieskarlette]

Warcraft Chronicle Vol. III -- A Reaction Post

This is kind of late, but I finally was able to read Warcraft Chronicle, Volume III and wanted to share my thoughts/notes.  This is mostly about the black dragonflight, but I touch on a few other topics, too.

We learn that both Onyxia and Nefarian were in Lordaeron with “Daval Prestor,” helping him manipulate the humans.  It doesn’t say what name Nefarian was going by, or if his mortal guise was the same one we’re familiar with in-game. 

Onyxia used her “Katrana Prestor” identity then, which raises lots of questions/issues.

In Day of the Dragon “Daval” claims to be the only living member of House Prestor.  This is apparently retconned now.

What relation did “Katrana” claim to be to “Daval?”  She couldn’t have been his daughter, as “Daval” was described as a young man, so he couldn’t have had a daughter “Katrana’s” age.  And we know “Katrana” was an adult then because she was influential among the Lordaeron nobility, who wouldn’t have taken her seriously if she appeared to be a young girl.

Wasn’t it kind of risky to continue to use the Prestor name after “Daval” disappeared so suddenly and mysteriously?  I suppose “Katrana” could have feigned total ignorance and pretended to be grieving too hard to talk about it, but if there was any suspicion about “Daval’s” motives, it would make her work harder.  I guess it turned out to be a non-issue, but it strikes me as precarious.

Maintaining a mortal identity for that many years may have required her to alter her shapeshifting slightly to make “Katrana” age.

Regardless, there’s fanfic potential galore there, with Deathwing and his two most infamous children lurking around Lordaeron, getting up to mischief.

I wonder if Onyxia was sneaking off to maintain her lair in Dustwallow then, too, like she did during her time in Stormwind.  It’s tough being a working mom.

This also means Varian Wrynn would have known “Katrana Prestor,” at least in passing, from his time in Lordaeron--much earlier than we thought.  That may have made it easier for him to trust her.

Moving on to the Cataclysm era...

“Thousands” died in the Shattering (when Deathwing burst forth at the start of Cataclysm.)

“N’zoth stoked the fire in Deathwing’s veins, filling him with excruciating pain.”  :(  *puts on her fire resist gear and hugs the poor guy*

The Twilight Highlands were just called “The Highlands” before Cataclysm.  I prefer my headcanon “Modan Highlands,” but okay.

It was Twilight cultists who resurrected Nefarian and Sinestra, not Deathwing directly.  “The dragons retained a sliver of their former personalities, but they were now obedient servants of the Twilight’s Hammer.”  *also hugs them fiercely*  

After being raised as undead, Nefarian “forged a new generation of chromatic dragons.”  Uh...this isn’t hinted at in game anywhere, unless you figure that Experiment 12-B was an example of this chromatic flight 2.0.  (I wouldn’t know because it never drops for me despite regularly farming it for years asljk;jl;atbjatkl;jafjkl;a;jklga)

Nefarian doesn’t get an entry in the index, but Onyxia does.  Harumph.  There’s no Rheastrasza, either, though, so he’s in good company.  :P

The book implies that Deathwing burned Stormwind to make the people so terrified that it would be easier for Benedictus to lure them into the Twilight Cult’s influence.  No mention of retrieving Onyxia’s head.  Okaaaaaay...

Deathwing led a force of Twilight’s Hammer cultists in “a great ritual” to summon Ragnaros to Hyjal and open a rift to the Firelands.  (I guess I’ve always been too busy cringing at the green drake’s voice acting to notice the cultists there when I do the intro to Hyjal.)  ;)

There were “hundreds” of Twilight dragons in Sinestra’s brood.

“Hundreds” of Twilight cultists and Twilight dragons died at Wyrmrest in the Dragon Soul raid.  No word on the death tolls from the other flights.

Re: what Thrall and the Aspects did to Deathwing with the Dragon Soul:  “The explosive power annihilated his tormented mind and body.”  *resumes hugging him*  :(  Seriously, I was glad the book pointed out both Deathwing’s immense suffering, and the fact that the Old Gods were controlling him for their own purposes and would have discarded him when they had no more use for him, because that all jives with my headcanons and fanfics.

Other stuff, mostly non-dragon-related:

After Tortheldrin and Immol’thar’s deaths, the remaining highborne fled Eldre’thalas (Dire Maul) and “spent years wandering the wilds, trying to wean themselves off demonic power” to “feel whole again.”

I don’t remember if we knew this before or not, but it was the Aspects who put the vrykul into hibernation to keep them from conquering the world.  (Which worked fine until the darn Lich King started waking them up.)

The Dreadlords built Icecrown Citadel.  Later on the Lich King came to admire the Nerubian style and incorporated it into his ziggurats and other architecture.

The book says Arthas made landfall in Northrend in the Howling Fjord, but in-game the spot is in the Dragonblight--i.e. two zones over.

It was the Old Gods who told the naga to answer Illidan’s summons in WCIII, not Azshara directly.  They wanted to stir up chaos as a distraction for Cho’Gall and the Twilight’s Hammer, who were trying to awaken C’thun.  (I preferred Azshara pulling the strings and personally sending Vashj to protect her interests along the way, but okay.)

“Nearly 80%” of gnomes died in a matter of days when Thermaplugg irradiated Gnomeregan.  Damn.

[Trigger warning:  the next two paragraphs vaguely mention rape, or at least dubious consent.]

After over a decade of speculation about the exact nature of Dagran and Moira’s relationship, Chronicle III tells us that he did kidnap her to use for ransom (i.e. it wasn’t a case of her arranging a mock kidnapping to escape her father’s stifling influence) but he soon fell in love with her “sharp wit and strong will” and the way she wasn’t intimidated by her predicament.  He related to her chafing under her father’s restrictions, because he felt the Old Gods’ influence was similarly limiting the Dark Irons’ destiny.

Apparently Moira did genuinely fall in love with him, too, (and her actions in the years since bear that out), although one cannot help but be a bit uncomfortable about how much choice she really had in the matter to begin with...

Others have already compiled lists of the new canon about which faction gets credit for which dungeon in lore, but I jotted down a few so I might as well include my notes here.

Horde got credit for Murozond, and the Alliance did the War of the Ancients dungeon to retrieve the Dragon Soul.  Molten Core was considered a victory by the Hydraxian Waterlords, using mercenaries of whichever faction showed up.

Vanilla Naxxramas = Alliance

AQ20 = Horde

AQ40 / C’thun = Alliance

Vanilla Zul’Gurub = Horde

Dire Maul = Horde

Maraudon = Horde

Wailing Caverns = Horde

Sunken Temple = Alliance

[arsonforcharlie]

a very late fuck squad update: “i had a really good cliffhanger written but then you guys yelled a lot.”

sorry i’m late on this! i was finishing off some notes for tomorrow and realized i never actually posted a summary for last week. whoops

Started the recording just after Saida started saying ”that’s gonna be the name of my chick punk band.” Lost whatever gem that was to the ages.

Saida: “So I have a confession. [fills mouth with cake] Iunno how to play this game.”

“Stop being so fucking mirthful in my house.”

Saida: “I’m sorta resentful that I rolled so good.” ”Those stats represent, like, who you are as a fucking person.” Saida: “YOU’RE who you are as a fucking person!” “…. yes! Technically!”

Yoni: “I have an 18 in Wisdom!” Saida: “So what’s your excuse?”

We finally started playing a solid 9 minutes into the recording. Christ.

Saida: “Did the thing i said about all the pie I eat make it onto the recording?” “It’s on there now.”

First roll of the session is to determine how hungover Sergei and Saida are. This is how our game is going.

Saida’s first action having turned over a new moral leaf is to go through Enro Monsterblower’s pockets, shake him awake and kick him out of the hotel room.

Saida: “now that I know I’m good at everything I’m willing to try things.”

I made some truly fantastic snoring noises that convinced Rhonia and Sergei that there are werewolves in Chillwater.

“I’m gonna wake him up and make casual conversation about all the murder.”

Saida: “How did you get here?” “You… you invited me back here.” Saida: “That sounds like something I would do.” “It was, you did do that-” Saida: “I don’t need your backtalk.”

Saida: “I handcuff him.” “Do you have handcuffs?” “I 100 percent do, I’m Macgyver. Actual handcuffs, I stole them from Lord Acotar.” “Right… You’re not Macgyver at all, you’re a thief! That’s not what Macgyver did. Hey, I’ll make a grappling hook by stealing this grappling hook!”

Harde messages them to point out that maybe they shouldn’t be using official channels to plan drunk roller coaster adventures. Saida: “I write ‘Uh oh.’”

Harde and Narder have not made much progress on tracking down Cheeda, the maid who was fired. She didn’t show up at home and they haven’t found any records of her looking for a new job in town. Having discovered one fact about the case, we return to the Case Of Saida Invited Some Dude To Stay The Night And Then He Did That.

Rhonia: “I see if the snow is magical!” “Presumably you’re detecting magic and not just, like, tasting the snow to see if it gives you magic tingles.” Saida: “I wanna do that!”

Rhonia is wrapped up in a big hotel comforter and she goes to Saida’s room to get her out of having to deal with the dude she just slept with. Saida throws his pants at him and tells him to get out of her room. She also tells everyone about the magic snow.

“Oh, before breakfast I was gonna go help shovel the snow-” Saida: “IT’S MAGIC SNOW”

Saida: “I think I either have an apology letter to write or someone to avoid. One of the two.”

Maddela’s new sexual partner, Idina, who invented cigarettes, starts smoking, and when asked to stop, just puts it out on the back of her arm. “She’s my new favorite character, fuck all you guys.”

Saida: “I’m gonna try and look presentable just in case.” Rhonia: “I’m still in the blanket.”

“We need to know what your hairstyle is, Saida, it’s really important to the plot!”

Saida: “Any land deals? Developers? Do they exist?” “No, and no developers. We own most of this mountain.” “Smart business move.” “Owning a mountain? Yes.”

Yoni: “Alright I think i cracked it. It’s ecoterrorists.”

Rhonia eats the snow. A 9 perception reveals that it tastes like snow. And her mouth is cold now.

Saida: “It’s amazing how more together I look when I’m not drunk and you’re you.”

Saida: “Well as long as we can dig a pathway we’ll be alright.” “Oh, you’re going to help dig a pathway? “[scoff] of course not.”

Rhonia and Yoni get sent over to interrogate Tarand. He doesn’t know who cast the snow spells, and is kind of indignant at the assumption that he would.

Saida: “I’m judging him for the fact that he almost married me. Dumbass.”

“She’s making jokes about not knowing how to play Pathfinder.” Yoni: “I don’t need to joke. I’m living it.”

Rhonia: “There are… some things…. it would be handy to have a wizard for…. Do you know any necromancy?”He doesn’t know any real necromancy. Saida writes in the book that she’s been drunk for two days so now Harde and Narder know. Also a bunch of insults.

“Dates don’t exist, this is fantasy time!”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.” Saida: “Is that because she said gnomeface instead of his actual name?”

We renamed the himbo Garfunkel because I kept forgetting his name.

Tarand met both Shareena and Garfunkel in the hotel bar, didn’t have much contact with them outside that. Yoni goes back to the table and Rhonia continues the interrogation. She finds out that Tarand could potentially try to stop the snow, and that teleporting objects is possible.

“He has two plates. One has pancakes, one has waffles. He’s rich. That’s what being rich means.”

Rhonia then gets a 30 to intimidate Tarand, takes his waffles, and walks away eating them.

A very long discussion where we all try to do math trying to figure out how to burn their way through the snow.

Saida: “Did you people not hire a fake fantasy civil engineer?”

Rhonia: “Are you gonna Legolas it?”

Sergei casts Featherstep which lets Pashmina walk on snow, and Garfunkel is out there putting blankets on the horses, having waded through the snow.

Saida draws a dick in the notebook and tries to frame Yoni for it.

Sergei and Pashmina bound out over the snow to the equipment shed to get the plow and snowshoes for everyone. Saida sews herself a coat out of a blanket for herself, Yoni, and Rhonia.

Saida: “It’s almost like someone came prepared for this winter resort.” Maddela: “No, I just steal shit.”

Saida: “That sounds arbitrary. Like, Canada 1969 abortion laws arbitrary.”

It was established that Tarand is powerful enough to do all the magic they’ve seen so far.

Saida: “I don’t understand why he was in a snit about the fact that I was drunk for two days!”

Due to forgetting horse terms, Sergei gets “debriefing his horse” and chats with Garfunkel.

Saida: “It’s not a heavy petting zoo!”

Sergei tries to push off blame for the Saida situation despite being an instigator, tells Garfunkel that Saida didn’t kill Shareena.

“I remember she was causing a scene as she went out- I heard she was yelling, and throwing things. I think Tarand has a type.”

Sergei: “She was a…. professional.” “Professional? Professional what? I don’t think she was a lawyer.”

Yoni rolls to snap her fingers, rolls pretty low, and gets covered in leftover syrup from Rhonia’s pancakes.

“I’m gonna let you guys take 10 on snapping your fingers.”

Sprit doesn’t know of any gnomes in the area, and she didn��t know that Cheeda didn’t show up at home. She lets them see her teleportation charm, and reveals that there are more in Llydor’s office.

A request has been made to meet Scrote the Ogre but that’s gonna require one hell of a GM bribe. There was a break for Rhonia’s player to tell us the story of a GM who named his world Anustear by accident. Whoops.

Sprit says she didn’t see Laurelia before she died, but gets caught out and admits that she was paid to deliver a letter. She had been asked not to tell.

Yoni: “I’m lying that she can trust me!”

“It’s weird that you’re trying to ingratiate yourself to a woman you’ve had sex with by acting like a child.”

Saida uses her gauntlet to read one of Sprit’s memories. She doesn’t do a hit. Sprit has been asked to deliver notes to Scrom in the past from a mysterious person that she doesn’t know.

Yoni: “We’ve got it, Bobbie, Bobbie’s the murderer!” “You’ve solved it, you’ve found me out, I murdered my own characters and you’re next!” “What if I don’t believe in god?” “I’m gonna double murder you because you’re a cleric.”

They get Llydor to show them the extra teleportation charms, and it’s revealed that two are missing. He also agrees to bring up the guestbooks from the past month, and tells them that he doesn’t have contracts for all the employees. Saida brings up that Llydor is treating his employees badly. Then they all go to dinner. Everyone discusses the questions that they meant to ask and then forgot to do.

“On tumblr I just reblog posts at random, which honestly would explain a lot about my blog.”

Maddela breaks into Llydor’s office, and digs around for clues. Among many other things, they find letters from Llydor’s kid, which prompts a resounding “EWWWW” from around the table. Sorry Llydor Philkirk canonically fucks.

“Roll for it to make sure you don’t completely fuck it up. Oh. Oh, that was a facial expression you just made.”

Maddela “Actually…. I’m gonna go… and not steal the carpet.”

Under the carpet is a large brass key, and Maddela uses her key blank to copy it. Like a proFRESHional. She’s seen coming out of his office by an approaching servant, but otherwise it’s a flawless crime. Meanwhile, Llydor hasn’t yet shown up to drop off the books. They summon Sprit, who tells them that he left some books at the front desk for her to drop off because he had some other business.They send Sprit to go find Llydor but also to get a bottle of champagne and some snacks first. Saida reads through to see if she recognizes the handwriting in any of the books from the note she saw in Sprit’s memories, but she doesn’t.

“You need to learn to count to three to play Pathfinder.” Saida: “Well you need to learn to read to GM Pathfinder.”

RUDE

“You try to track down Llydor.” Sergei: “Yeah!” “What are you doing to try to track down Llydor?” “……..”

“He does have a distinctive cologne. Scent, for dudes.”

Sergei rolls really well and finds that Llydor went outside, but loses track of the trail because he took the well-shovelled path. Saida has spent time looking up AA quotes and plans to drop them whenever she feels it’s appropriate.There’s also a subplot where Yoni is convinced that Pashmina was pregnant and had an abortion. The less said about that the better.

“You guys, I’m in AA, not NA. There’s a whole world of drugs out there.”

Yoni, Saida, Maddela, and Sergei visit a bar called the Jeweled Bitch, which is explicitly there for rich people to feel like they’re slumming it. At the bar, people knew Shareena- she had a gig where she posed as a hotel guest to get into the hotel bar to find clients. They often had to kick her out of the hotel bar, though. Maddela also hit on the bartender.

“You found a book. A self-help book. The Fantasy-cret.”

They meet at the hotel bar, where Krash is drinking and they have a pretty awkward conversation.

“Who are the bartenders? How many are there? What are their names? What are their backstories?” My players are trying to kill me.

Saida: “Do we know what Sharona looks like?” “Do you know Shareena’s name?”

The bartender, Veldahar, reveals that he doesn’t know much that they didn’t already know, and then says some shit about orcs so Rhonia intimidates him.

None of my friends can snap their fingers and it’s very funny.

Suddenly, Sprit goes to find them to let them know that Llydor Philkirk has been murdered and abandoned in a garbage chute, and it looks like he has frostbite on his fingers and toes.

“I’m not comfortable being down here with the body. It’s creepy.” “This is a murder mystery!”

“You know, if you keep talking about the murders like they’re good things, people will keep suspecting you.”

They inform Harde and Narder that Llydor is dead and also immediately start planning to take over the resort and start a sex cult. “I think Bobbie is crying.”

[kingmaker-thac0hno]

The Kingdom of Thornvale: A Year’s End

The month of Kuthona, 4711 

By Kuthona, the cold winds of winter have settled across the lands, and most folk stay indoors by the warmth of the fire. The Lords of Thornvale announce their plans for the month, expanding the kingdom northwest along the Thorn River, and seeking to construct a horse ranch in the hills northwest of Haven. 

Evrin works with prominent members of the Haven militia to familiarize themselves with the newly constructed ballista, practicing the slaying of various tree stumps and old barrels. He speaks with Thefina about the construction of a swivel base for the weapon, which she promises to begin working on next month, as she is dedicated to building a school for Lord Stonewalker.

The halfling begins a series of drills at the nearby Stag Lord's fort, and though the weather is unfavorable, many of the militia dutifully trudge there for practice. A few comment on the halfling's desire to fish on the Tuskwater during middle of winter - in truth, Evrin was acting to sink the enchanted and fey-touched Thorny Crown to the bottom of the lake. 

Evrin speaks to Jubilost about the recent discovery of the Taldan burial site, and the little gnome is ecstatic. He immediately packs up his things and enlists the help of his gnomish companions to prepare for a journey to the site. Within a few days, the small group is able to reach the crypt and set up camp. Jubilost informs Evrin that he will likely stay here for some time to properly document and categorize his findings. At first glance, however, the gnome is able to explain some of the site.

Long ago, before the Golden Age of Taldor, the young country sent many explorations parties out to settle these lands. If my suspicions are correct, this site seems to be from that era. The markings on the walls and the arrangement of the burial site seem to indicate a person of some stature - perhaps a noble or warrior-knight. The sheer number of books here is astounding, which is indicative of a scholar. They are remarkably well-preserved, and the handful I dared to touch all appear to be written in old Taldan script. Some of these texts appear to be of a magical nature, and I have refrained from examining those in detail until I can be sure of their safety.

There are some interesting observations I can make, however. First, there appears to be a book missing from this crypt. Did one of your men take it? A surveyor perhaps? Something to look into, certainly: where it went, and why they took it?

Second, the deceased corpse from the sarcophagus, see it there? The crown on its head? It appears as though a gemstone once rested within it. Though I have not once seen a gemstone with such an odd, notch-shaped cut. It too, appears taken. At first I thought it may have simply fallen out in the battle, but no! Look there, and there - upon the gold, what do you see? Those little scrapes could only have been made by a knife or dagger.

Third, you are right. The shield here is indeed missing. You can tell by the depressions on the shield-arm here and here, where the shield straps were fastened. It would have been rounded, likely with a high or low grip as was commonplace at the time - not a center grip shield like we do now. Though I am confounded as to why someone would take the shield, and leave the sword. Or how it would have lasted all these ages, as the wood surely would have disintegrated by now.

Hopefully, these books will hold some answers, though I suspect the missing one is key. 

*** Karis speaks to Kimble the tailor and Quill the Blacksmith, setting them to crafting various outfits and wrist dagger-sheaths. They, along with Thefina and her hidden-compartment crates, set to working and by the end of Kuthona have suitable products for use. He directs Lathon to continue drills with the Aldori - now taking place at the nearby ruined fort. The sailor looks hale and much more resilient than earlier in the year, and his demeanor reflects it. 

Daily visits with his wyvern maintain the bond between the two, but the winter weather has made the creature lethargic and slow. It seems to sleep more and prefers the warmth of the fire.  Throughout the month Karis dedicates many nights to meditation, seeing to connect with his patron - but the Lady remains disturbingly quiet.

Much time is spent on training with the young boy Rhys in learning the elven language and the subterfuge tradecraft. Though a few grumpily shoo the boy, most commoners in Haven often laugh at the lad as he slinks about the town, playing at being a sneakthief. Karis sends the boy on several play-missions such as how many pints is Oleg consuming between breakfast and dinner, performing some infiltration exercises, such as lifting some of Saryn’s fancy boots and returning the footwear before he notices them missing.

Unfortunately, the lad stumbles, and is caught red-handed by the Lord Saryn With a wink, he offers a few unsettling words. Momma always told me taking things without asking was asking for trouble!  With that, sinewy elongated tongues jut forth from deep within each of the boots wrapping around the lad’s forearms as fangs tear through the fine leather cuffs and begin gnashing hungrily at his hands. Rhys, screaming in terror, yells, Lord Karis told me to do it! He told me to do it!

After a few moments, Saryn calmly explains, If you apologize to my mimic I am certain he will probably not devour you, but you should probably be far more careful in the future- especially when breaking into a house full of monsters!

Rhys, realizing he is unharmed, apologizes, and explains the exercise. He then sulks away sheepishly, returning to Lord Karis, who takes the opportunity to relay to the boy that failure and learning from these exercises within the confines of Thornvale is far more forgiving than far reaches of its enemies.

***

Upon returning to Blackstag from Haven, once well upon the waters of the Tuskwater, Odis says over his shoulder  Well, it’s getting better...but they still don’t think of us as equals.

After a moments pause, Arna responds, ‘Cause we are not equals. We’re yet to provide to the kingdom main  At this Odis actually stops paddling and turns to meet her  We now is it?

Arna ignores the jest, surprised herself at her choice of pronouns. We know their needs, needs they have been trying to fill, but have been unable...you’ve been trading with Mivon, tell me about them.

What, the eel eaters? Walled city built on a bog. Lots of folk, but short on resources, nasty bunch of gangs. Duels weekly right in the square, damned waste of good swordsmen if you ask me, came the reply. 

Let’s make a trip this month, take 3 or so of the fairest looking widows. See if we can convince some apprentice or journeymen to come to Blackstag in the spring. Men will come at the promise of getting their wicks wet or finding a bride along with the coin they’d make. 

And so Odis, Arna, and several other women from Blackstag head south to Mivon. The journey is cold and slow, as they paddle down the Little Sellen Rriver via canoe. There are remarkably few dwarves in Mivon, and the city smells vaguely of peat. Nearly everyone here seems to dress in the style of the Aldori duelists, and virtually everyone with a sword seems to have the colors of one house or another emblazoned upon his person. Finally, a warm tavern is a welcome sight, and within, Arna gets to know the folk around town.

Little do they realize that they have ended up in the lower quarter of Mivon, full of the un-desirables. Two near-fistfights and a bowl of spoilt gruel later, Odis and the dwarf end up in a quiet discussion with the waitress, a lass of maybe 15, curious as to why such foreigners would come to her town. After a brief discussion of their mission, the gal excuses herself, promising to return.

Later that evening, the small group is approached by a rough-looking gentleman, but one clearly respected ( perhaps feared?) by his companions. He's heard of Arna's story, and comes with a proposition:

I have, at times, a need to relocate people out of Mivon. Good people. People who shouldn't have to face bad things. It seems that you are looking for people with skills. These people, my people, often do. It seems we may be able to help each other.  Take your time, think it over. Have a meal on me - the good stuff, not that swill you’ve been eating. When you decide, let the lass know.

The man turns to leave, but as he does so, he speaks one final time, We never met, understood? 

*** 

Continuing their plans for a school in Haven, Thefina and Stonewalker enlist a number of idle folk to help with the work. The going is very slow, as the cold ground makes digging difficult, but by the end of the month, the school stands - doors open for new students in the new year.  

Regarding the position of instructor, Stonewalker speaks to many of the skilled folk in Haven, who all politely decline. Most - like Kimble Purling, Grutzner Brasse, Ardbeg, and Thefina herself ( among others) openly offer to take on younger apprentices to teach their trade, but most express that they have no time for classroom teaching ( and a few suggest that the classroom is no place to practice a trade).  As such, no full-time teacher is found to staff the school. One of the local mothers, Midge, volunteers as nanny. In addition, a missive is sent to Blackstag informing them of the opportunity for education for their youth.

Stonewalkers biweekly meetings of various tradesfolk in Haven have encouraged more and more residents to speak up regarding suggestions. Jubilost Nartropple, recently retuned to Haven, suggests that a library of sorts would be good for academics, and is willing to contribute the first book to it's collection: The Mysteries of Mivon: An Exploration of the Eastern River Kingdoms, by none other than himself. In addition, he would like someplace where he could buy some decent ink.  

Oleg mentions some warehouses to store surplus furs during hunting season, and one of the local farmers mentions that the cellar underneath Havenhall is getting rather full - suggesting that perhaps a granary is in order. A few of the fishermen in town suggest a establishing a curing house where they can salt excess fish for trade ( or a winter stockpile).

***

Saryn continues his tradition of aiding those in town, speaking words of inspiration to the departing surveying expedition and singing songs of rejuvenation to the workers at the ranch. By now, he has come to know the majority of the residents of Haven, and is able to quickly find and speak with the halfling seeking to create a gathering place for burrowing folk near the old sycamore. 

Furret Quickfoot explains that he would like to convert the hill under the sycamore to a home for all burrowing sorts - a haven ( near Haven!) for little folk, filled with amenities that suit their kind. Though not nearly as proficient as the battle-hardened lords, the little halfling seems skilled enough with the blade, and light of foot to boot.

Another brief visit to the giant finds him sitting next to a roaring fire made from uprooted trees and surrounded by empty barrels of ale. Munguk is cold and miserable, and very, very drunk.  Munguk walk see mommy, but she not home. Munguk wait. No come back. Mommy gone! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

After a bit, Saryn is able to calm down the sobbing giant, and Munguk agrees that sitting in the cold hills sucks, and would rather go someplace warmer - provided there's something to drink. 

Additional training with the owlbear and wyvern is difficult, as both creatures seem lethargic and slow. The young owlbear cub seems to just want to sleep all day, and the wyvern stubbornly refuses to leave the warm stone of the fireplace. As such, Saryn makes very little progress with any sort of 'training'.  

***

The end of the month brings the end of the year as well, and various small celebrations during Winter Week.  The Sootscale kobolds dedicate quiet moments to Aspu during their Time of Reminiscence.  Lady Garess is spotted during the Winter Solstice, performing the Ritual of Stardust by singing songs and dancing about a blazing bonfire.

during the last week of the month, with construction of the school complete and Arangin's Acerage finished, the surveyors from upriver return to Haven, happily chatting among themselves and declaring their job complete.  

Most Havenites stay indoors to mark the Final Day, waiting for spirits of the years' dead to pass by their doors on the Night of the Pale, and emerging the next morning to welcome in the new year: 4712 AR.

Turn 17; Abadius, 4712 AR

Petitions:

Cedrin reports that Jubilost has left Haven again, eastablishing a camp near the old Taldan burial site. 

Cedrin reports that the workers sent to construct the Graniteworks upon the quarry site still refuse to return to work, and are scared of the giant bird who attacked the site in the previous month. 

Cedrin reports that he has been able to process the many requests for land from the citizens of Haven. Virtually all of them are requests for small family farm plots in the outlying hills. 

Cedrin has collected the submissions for the name of the newly constructed road. A full listing ( sans duplicates) is as follows. 

The Kamelands Pass

Four Lord’s Road

Haven’s Trail 

Kesten’s Way

The Eastern Stolen Trail

Rue de Garess

The Stag’s Path

Handor’s Highway

Edicts:

You may issue two (2) edicts for the month of Abadius.

[horrendoushag]

Sappy

A Gravity Falls fanfiction.

This sure was fun to write! Hope I don’t lose motivation and never finish it. Also posted on FFN under Quiet Leaf.

Chapter 2

Summary:  AU. Eighteen-year-olds Dipper and Mabel Pines visit Gravity Falls to investigate paranormal sightings. Among other things, they find gnomes, dinosaurs, and an abandoned old tourist trap called the Murder Hut. But what happened to the owner? Maybe, just maybe, they'll find out.

Main characters: Dipper Pines, Mabel Pines, Stan Pines.

Word count: 4,827

"Arriving at Gravity Falls."

Dipper Pines was jolted from his stupor by the voice over the intercom. A glance out the window showed the bus was passing over a bridge overlooking a magnificent waterfall—one of many interesting things that he would hopefully be investigating over the summer.

It had all started six months ago, halfway through senior year; rumors had begun to spread about the strange happenings in a small town in the middle of Oregon. Mythical creature sightings, including live garden gnomes that were apparently spotted in the woods and some sort of Loch Ness Monster kinda thing swimming in the lake. Naturally he couldn't miss out on such an opportunity, and of course, his sister Mabel decided to tag along for the ride.

Currently Mabel was collecting her baggage—which was probably what he should be doing too. Right.

Mabel shot him a grin. "Ready to meet some unicorns?"

Dipper rolled his eyes and sighed. "For the last time, Mabel, there might be gnomes, but I doubt there'll be something like unicorns. They're just ancient, messed up interpretations of rhinos."

"Say what you will, but I still think there'll be unicorns."

"Whatever."

The bus came to a halt seconds later. Dipper shot to his feet, Mabel right behind him, and they disembarked on the side of a dusty road.

The bus pulled away. Without the sound of its rumbling engine, the woods were eerily quiet.

"So . . . into town?"

Dipper nodded. "Into town."

One hour later, after checking into a hotel, they found themselves wandering around the quiet streets of Gravity Falls. There weren't many people about—indeed, there weren't many people dwelling in the town at all, but the few they did see were a bit . . . odd. A very large, very red-haired man, for example, had stomped into a bar, and a short and extremely ugly man had tried to interview a old man with an excessively long beard on what it was like to be the local kook.

Nothing less than what Dipper had expected.

"Should we start with interviewing people, or should we check out the woods?" he wondered.

"We should talk to people!" Mabel exclaimed. "We could make a few new friends."

Dipper frowned. "I was kinda thinking of starting with the woods . . ."

But Mabel was already dashing off to the very obvious mall, punnily dubbed Gravity Malls.

This was going to be a long day.

As expected, there were more people in the mall than there were outdoors. However, Mabel's idea of talking to people was different than what Dipper had in mind. She was here to make friends; Dipper was here for information.

While Mabel chatted enthusiastically with a small Asian girl, Dipper went after a woman at a vending stall called Meat Cute. Her name tag said "Melody".

She looked up at his approach and smiled. "Hi, what can I get for you?"

He cleared his throat. "Um, actually, I was hoping you could answer some questions? I just got into town, you see, and I was wondering about a few things."

"Oh, ask away, then. You sure you don't want anything?"

Dipper pulled out his notebook and a pen. "Two corn dogs, please. I wanted to know if you've seen anything . . . weird around lately? Like, supernatural things."

She looked unsurprised. "Of course. There are gnomes, which you've probably heard about, and some teenagers were attacked by ghosts at an abandoned convenience store a few years back. There are fairies, but I'd avoid them if I were you—they just throw up on everything." She held out the corn dogs.

Dipper scribbled everything she'd said in the notebook before tucking it under his arm and taking them. He glanced over his shoulder to find that Mabel and the Asian girl had been joined by a large muscled girl with reddish hair. "Mabel!"

She looked over at him, then gestured to the two girls to follow her and bounced over. Dipper restrained a groan; he did not want to deal with this many new people at once.

"Hey Dipper! These are Candy—" She pointed at the small girl— "and Grenda." The large one. "Candy, Grenda, this is Dipper, my brother."

"Hello," Candy greeted cheerfully, her voice tinted with a Korean accent.

Grenda was a little more outspoken. "HI, DIPPER!" Her voice was loud and booming, drawing a few gazes their way.

Dipper winced. "Nice to meet you too." He turned back to the stall. Melody was looking between him and Mabel.

"So, are you two siblings?"

Mabel beamed. "Twins, actually! I'm Mabel." She took a corn dog from Dipper.

Melody returned the smile. "I'm Melody. And . . ." She turned to Dipper. "You never introduced yourself. Dipper, right?"

He nodded and pretended not to be ashamed of his bad manners. "Yep. Anyway, how much for the corn dogs?"

"Six bucks."

Dipper raised his eyebrows. "That's kind of expensive . . ." He reached for his wallet.

Melody shrugged. "Small town, high prices."

Dipper handed her the money, and she sorted it into the register. "So, any more questions you want to ask?"

Dipper nodded. "Where exactly can we find the gnomes?"

"In the woods, northwest. They're a bit hard to find. Careful, though—there are all kinds of things out there, and the gnomes themselves aren't always very nice."

"All right, thanks." He started turning. "Let's go, Mabel."

"Nice talking to you, Melody!"

They started off, Candy and Grenda falling into step beside them. And giving them weird looks. Dipper returned the sentiment. "What?"

"Well," Candy pushed up her glasses, "the gnomes are very . . . difficult. I do not think you want to go looking for them.

Dipper scoffed. "We can handle a bit of 'difficult', right Mabel?" He took a bite from his corn dog.

She nodded, slightly distracted by a dress in a store window.

"Still," Candy continued. "I'm not sure you are as prepared as you think you are."

". . . Okay?"

Grenda nodded. "At least take a leaf blower."

"A leaf . . . why?"

They had left the mall by now and were crossing the parking lot.

"It's one of their greatest weaknesses! We can use mine."

Dipper nodded slowly. "Thanks? Wait, what do you mean by 'we'?"

"You cannot expect us to let you go alone," Candy said. "The forest is very dangerous, especially to people who are inexperienced."

Mabel drew in a long, slow gasp. "I get to go monster hunting with my new friends! Today is gonna be awesome!"

Two hours later, shortly before sunset, it turned out the day had been decidedly not-awesome. The gnomes were even more vicious than originally thought, especially since they had wanted Mabel as their new queen . . . Ew. Just, ew.

But seeing the gnomes had been pretty awesome! True, bona fide evidence of the existence of the supernatural. Exactly what they'd come here for.

Currently they were on their way back to the hotel to clean up before getting a much-deserved and late dinner. And also to stop by Grenda's house to put back her leaf blower.

They broke through the trees into a clearing illuminated by orange sunlight. To their left, an overgrown road back to town. To their right . . . a dilapidated old house with a large worn sign hanging above the door that said Murder Hut.

What could be creepier?

Mabel let out a little gasp. "What is this place?"

"The Murder Hut," Grenda explained unhelpfully.

Dipper frowned. "So what, is it like a haunted house, or something?"

Candy shook her head. "No, it is . . . Grenda knows better."

"I do. It's an old museum kinda thing—I think it was a tourist trap. There were exhibits, weird machines and stuffed creatures. The guy who ran the place went missing when my parents were kids. From what they told me, I don't think the guy even knew how any of the machines wor—"

"Wait," Dipper interrupted. "The guy went missing? Was it some kind of magical creature?"

Candy shrugged. "No one knows. He disappeared without a trace."

For the moment, they decided against breaking into the old shack to see what was inside. They needed to rest and relax.

They showered to get rid of all the dust they'd collected before eating dinner at a diner with a rather suspicious name—"Greasy's Diner"? It sounded disgusting—which had even more eccentric townsfolk. Their orders were taken by a red-headed woman maybe a few years older than them whose name tag identified her as Wendy. The food was surprisingly good in spite of the diner's name, and once they had stuffed themselves they returned to the hotel.

Dipper plopped himself on his bed, hearing Mabel doing the same across the room. He spent a few moments just lying there, then rolled onto his stomach and pulled his notebook and pen from his vest. "All right," he groaned. "What are we doing tomorrow?"

Mabel remained on her back, craning her neck to look at him. "Anything as long as it doesn't involve gnomes or some other creature that wants to marry me."

Dipper tapped his pen on his notebook. "I was thinking we could check out that old shack in the woods, the 'Murder Hut'."

"Oh, yeah!" Mabel sat up. "That could be fun. Who knows what kind of old stuff is in there?"

Dipper scribbled down a note. "Okay, then. It might be a good idea to take Grenda and Candy along—they know way more about this supernatural stuff than we do."

Mabel grinned. "Took the words right outta my mouth."

The next morning they met with Candy and Grenda for breakfast at Greasy's Diner. Dipper had just opened his mouth to inform the two of his and Mabel's plans for the morning when the waitress from yesterday—Wendy—approached their table.

"Hi, what can I get you guys?"

"Pancakes, please!" Mabel said.

"I'll have pancakes too," Dipper agreed.

"Aaaand, let me guess—" She turned to their two companions. "Coffee omelette for Candy, double order of pancakes for Grenda."

"Yep!" they replied in unison.

"Ha, I knew it!" The waitress scribbled down their orders and turned back to the Pineses. "Hey, we didn't get to talk yesterday—you looked exhausted—but I don't think I've seen you around here before. Are you new?"

Mabel nodded. "We just got here yesterday. We're—what was it, Dipper?"

"Investigating paranormal activity."

"Yeah, that."

"Well, you're not the first. We've had a few other 'paranormal investigators' around lately, but they didn't find anything. Didn't look hard enough, if you ask me." She switched her pen to her left hand with her notepad and held out her right. "I'm Wendy, nice to meet you."

Dipper shook it and smiled. "Dipper Pines. And this is my sister, Mabel." He gestured to Mabel, who grinned and waved.

"Huh. Are you guys siblings?"

"Twins," Dipper answered shortly. Hadn't Melody asked that question yesterday?

"Cool. I'll be back with your orders sometime soon." She sauntered off to the kitchen, red hair swishing behind her.

Dipper turned back to the table. "Anyway, Mabel and I were planning to take a look at the Murder Hut."

Grenda shrugged. "Okay. Not like there's much to see, anyway."

Dipper and Mabel exchanged a glance. Seeing their confusion, Grenda continued.

"Most of the stuff in there disappeared about nine years ago. No one knows what happened to it."

Dipper frowned. He pulled out a pen and started clicking it. "Okay . . . do you think there's something supernatural going on there? First the owner disappears, then all the stuff. Maybe it's cursed."

Candy laughed. "Many people have gone inside, and no one has disappeared. Well, except Gorney, but I think he disappeared on the way, not when he was inside."

Mabel and Dipper exchanged a glance, but decided not to comment.

"Well, do you want to come?" Dipper asked.

Grenda rubbed the back of her head. "My lizard has a vet appointment today, sorry. You should be safe there anyway."

"I have nothing today," Candy piped up. "I can come."

Mabel smiled. "Perfect."

"All right, Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes, and coffee omelet." Wendy came down the aisle, miraculously balancing four plates of food. She slid them off onto the table and gave a small sigh of relief. "Didn't spill them this time."

Dipper raised his eyebrows. "Do you do that a lot?"

"Yep. It's a wonder I haven't been fired yet. Enjoy your meal!"

After breakfast, they headed off to the forest. They managed to find the road leading up to the Murder Hut and followed it, breaking a lot of foliage in the process, and half an hour later they arrived.

Action ti—

Gurl you got me ackin' so cray cray, you tell me that you want me my baby!

Candy pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked at the screen. "Oh, it's Grenda." She pressed the answer button. "Hello. . . . What happened? . . . Oh, I'm so sorry. I will be there soon. Goodbye." She hung up and turned to them. "Grenda's lizard died. I must comfort her in her time of need."

Mabel's face looked downtrodden. "Oh, poor Grenda . . . I'm coming too."

Candy shook her head. "No. You continue with the mystery hunt. Come meet us at Grenda's house after."

Mabel sighed. "Okay . . . Bye."

Candy was already pushing her way back through the bushes.

Dipper frowned. "This seems like an awful lot of fuss for a lizard."

Mabel let out a scandalized gasp. "Dipper, how could you be so insensitive? She's had this lizard for years!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! Can we just—can we continue the investigation now?"

"Yeah, all right."

The wooden steps creaked and groaned horribly under their weight. Dipper winced and gingerly made his way to the door. "It's probably locked, so we might have to break in." He tried the doorknob. It turned. "Huh, what do you know." He pushed the door open. The hinges sounded worse than the steps.

Mabel darted in ahead of him. "Coool! It's . . ."

Dipper stepped in after her and glanced around. "Empty. Like they said."

They were standing in what had once been a gift shop. Most of the souvenirs were gone, replaced with layers of dust. A cash register sat on the counter with its drawer open and bare.

It was strangely quiet.

An old vending machine stood at the back of the room, only a single bag of expired chips left inside. Next to it was a door hung with a sign with Employees Only scrawled across it in large letters.

Dipper strode across the room and pushed it open. It made the same horrific squeaking noise the other door had, so he resigned himself to having to hear the noise with every door.

Mabel followed him through into what seemed to be a tv room slash dining room. There was a table and chairs on the left. A plate with the decomposed, fly-bitten remains of a very old meal was still there. An old television set was up against the wall on the right, and a large recliner sat across from it, next to a side table that looked suspiciously like a real dinosaur skull. It had a doily on top of it. Dust flew into the air with every step across the shag carpet. Mabel coughed behind him, and he pretended he didn't need to do the same.

They stepped out of the room into a hallway. There were stairs leading up on the left, a hallway lined with doors on the right, and in front of them a door to the backyard. They peered out briefly.

All the rooms down the hall and upstairs were empty. The only interesting thing Dipper had noticed was the amount of triangles in the windows.

They clomped back down the creaky stairs after exploring the attic and, to the relief of their dust-filled lungs, exited through the back door.

He and Mabel stood there for a moment, taking in deep breaths of clear air.

Dipper straightened up, disappointed. "Well, looks like that was a huge waste of time."

Mabel shrugged. "At least it was fun! Let's explore the woods." She bounced off to the edge of the clearing. With the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something, Dipper followed.

Mabel hummed a happy tune ahead of him. He peered up between the trees, hoping not to see any gnomes preparing to attack. He was looking up one particular tree when he noticed something . . . off about the texture. He stopped, glanced at Mabel, who was oblivious, and ran a finger across the bark.

It wasn't bark.

"Mabel!"

She spun around and dashed over. "What is it? Gnomes? Please say no."

Dipper grinned, unable to contain himself. "It's not gnomes—check this out!" He knocked on the tree. It let out a resounding metallic clang.

Mabel raised her eyebrows. "A metal tree?"

"Yep. And if I'm right . . ." Dipper ran his hand along the "bark". "Aha!" He dug his fingers into a newly discovered crack and pulled the door open. There was a rusty box inside, covered in all manner of switches and buttons. Mabel poked one, and Dipper flipped a switch. There was a quiet scraping noise behind them.

They jumped, spinning around in preparation to fight whatever it was that had made that noise . . . and found a square hole in the ground.

Dipper approached cautiously and peered inside. It wasn't actually that deep, but that wasn't what drew his attention—there was a book.

What.

He grabbed it, shaking a spider web off his hand as he pulled it out. The cover was embossed with a gold six-fingered hand with a large black 3 on it. It was old and worn, and the cover made a small crackling noise as he peeled it open.

It's hard to believe it's been six years since I began researching the strange and wondrous secrets of Gravity Falls, Oregon.

The next few pages detailed a number of weird creatures, including the gnomes. Everything they needed to know . . .

What a find.

Later, when they had left the woods, it was remembered that Grenda's lizard had died. Mabel dashed off with a, "See you later!" and Dipper made his way back to the hotel.

This journal proved that someone else had been here before, someone who had actually succeeded in doing what he was trying to accomplish. So much information, all in one book . . . amazing.

Dipper kicked off his shoes the moment he closed his room door behind him and scrambled onto his bed. With that, he began to read.

Mabel returned a couple hours later looking slightly saddened. "Grendo—that's Grenda's lizard— died of old age. Apparently it's been coming on for a while now, but it's still sad."

Dipper couldn't quite sympathize, but he closed the journal and offered condolences anyway. After all was said and done, he glanced at his watch. It read 12:42. "Hey, wanna go get lunch?"

Mabel sighed. "Sure."

They headed out to the diner—Dipper swore they would try somewhere else for dinner—and ordered sandwiches. Wendy, who Dipper determined was about to get off her shift, looked them over.

"Any creatures in particular you're looking for?" she asked.

"Recommendations would be good," Dipper answered, pulling out his notebook.

"Well, my dad's always going on about the Hide Behind. He's a lumberjack, so he's out in the forest a lot. Apparently the Hide Behind hides behind you and makes rattling noises, but when you turn around you can never spot it. Sound good?"

Dipper nodded, writing notes. "Yep. Should just take a few mirrors and we'll have him—I think."

Wendy smiled a lovely smile. "Great. I can't wait till Dad stops going on about how many times it rattled . . ." She walked off to serve another customer then, and Mabel and Dipper left with their sandwiches.

Mabel swallowed a bite. "So, wanna check out the Hide Behind?"

"Of course! We'd better get some mirrors first, though."

Two hours later, they were setting off into the trees with . . . a LOT of mirrors.

It took them fifteen minutes before they heard any sort of rattle, and then it turned out to be a couple branches.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Dipper sighed. "This is getting nowhere. How did we expect to find something that's never been spotted?" They broke through the foliage and into a clearing.

Mabel gave a confused noise. "Why is there a church in the middle of the forest?"

It was a valid question—honestly, who put a church where only the occasional hiker went? "Might as well check it out."

The floorboards of this building creaked even more terribly than those of the Murder Hut. One of them even cracked under Dipper's weight. Oh dear.

The interior was about what you would expect from an old abandoned church; dusty, decrepit, faded stained glass windows. There was a banjo leaning against the wall for some reason.

Mabel, who was ahead of Dipper, took a cautious step onto the altar. The wood crumbled under her foot, and she let out a squeak of fear. Dipper lurched forward and grabbed his sister's arm just before she fell into the abyss. Speaking of . . .

From as about as far back as they could without breaking more of the altar, they peered into the hole Mabel had made. All that could be seen was blackness, though there was a vague hint of green when Dipper shone his flashlight down.

He straightened up. "Do you think the hole could be bigger? Say, big enough for a human to fit down?"

Mabel nodded. "Probably. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"You bet!"

Apparently he had not been thinking what she had been thinking. Dipper's idea was, "Go into town, get some rope and an ax, chop the floor, and climb into the hole." Mabel's idea had been, "Grab the banjo, smash the floor in, and climb down without any rope."

They went with Dipper's idea.

They headed back into town, dropped the mirror suit of at the hotel for later use, and started looking for a hardware store.

Dipper frowned. "I know I saw one somewhere . . ." He glanced around and spotted a plump Hispanic man outside a shop labeled Soos Mechanics. "Hey, excuse me!" They jogged over.

The man looked up. "'Sup?"

Well, that wasn't quite the response he'd been expecting.

"Could you tell us where the hardware store it?"

"Oh, sure." He nodded. "It's just around the corner on the right."

"Okay, thanks!" Dipper was about to take off again, but Mabel didn't quite seem ready to follow. She was talking to the guy.

"I'm Mabel! What's your name?"

"I'm Soos, nice to meetcha! Is that your brother?" He gestured to Dipper.

"Yep, that's Dipper. We're twins." Mabel smiled.

Soos grinned back, show off buck teeth. "That's pretty cool—y'know, if I was a twin, and the older one, I'd always be telling my twin, 'When I was your age . . .' and saying what I did five minutes ago or two minutes ago or however long after me my twin was born."

"Great idea! I should start doing that."

"Mabel," Dipper ground out, "we really should get going."

"Oh, right. Bye Soos!" They started off.

"Bye Maple!"

". . . Did he just call you 'Maple'?"

She shrugged. "Easy mistake."

It took a while to find the church again. When they did, it was an simple matter of smashing the floor to bits with their newly acquired ax and securing the rope to something that would hold them on the way down.

They stared into the widened hole. Dipper drew in a deep breath, then let it out. "Okay. Who's going first?"

"I will!" Mabel volunteered cheerfully. She lowered herself into the hole without any further warning, clinging to the rope. Once she was about ten feet down, Dipper followed.

He was starting to get a horrible feeling about this, but it was too late to turn back now.

After a minute or two, he heard a small oof, and looked down. Below was the green they'd kind of been able to see from the top with this flashlight. It was grass, and not just grass, but many exotic, maybe even jurassic plants. Mabel was lying in the grass, staring up at him, and looking out of breath. There was a little bit of a fall between the end of the rope and the ground—she'd probably had the breath knocked out of her.

Ten seconds later he found himself in the same position as she. He took a moment to reorient himself and slowly got to his feet after Mabel.

They were in a large cavern, with all the plants he'd noticed before and some mining shafts in the wall.

"Wow," Mabel breathed.

Dipper nodded. "Yeah . . . how long has this been here?" He walked up to a plant and picked off a large leaf before realizing it could be poisonous and dropping it on the ground. He looked up to see Mabel heading toward the mine shafts and hurried to catch up.

"So," she said brightly, "which one should we go down?"

"Um . . ."

She closed her eyes and pointed at random before opening them again. "Middle it is."

"Middle it is," Dipper agreed.

They traveled down the shaft for a few minutes, glaring suspiciously at a few sets of human-looking bones, and soon emerged into another cavern . . . except this one was much more interesting.

While the previous cave had held all kinds of unheard of plants, this one had a lot of sticky honey-colored sap with perfectly preserved dinosaurs inside.

Best. Day. Ever.

They gaped up at the looming and some not-so-looming creatures, completely entranced. Dipper was broken from his by movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see the claw of one of the dinosaurs wiggling, trying to free itself from its cage.

"Mabel," he said slowly. "I . . . I think they're still alive."

"Wow, reall—OH MY GOSH!"

Dipper jumped and spun to face whatever had caused his sister to shout. "What? What is—oh. Oh my gosh."

There, encased in the sap in front of them was a man with a look of desperation on his face. For a moment Dipper thought he was staring at them, but then he realized the man wasn't moving at all, or staring directly at them. He wore a worn-out jacket which Dipper assumed was red, though it was hard to see through the sap, which had also slicked down his brown hair.

"We . . . we have to get him out! What do we have?" Mabel demanded.

"Well, we didn't exactly bring the ax down with us." Dipper hurried up to the sap and poked at it. "It's melting—because the summer heat—we might be able to get him out without any tools, but we'd get pretty sticky."

"Doesn't matter," Mabel snapped. She pulled out a hair tie, put her hair up, and popped her knuckles. "Let's do this."

Digging through the sap was grueling business. Dipper felt like a gross mess only halfway through, but he had to be thankful this man wasn't buried as deeply as the dinosaurs.

After about ten minutes of scooping, pulling, and sometimes even pushing, they finally managed to pull the man out. He somehow stood steady for a moment, staring off nowhere in particular, then promptly collapsed. Both Pines twins jumped.

"He's not dead, is he?" Mabel squeaked.

Dipper bent down shakily to check the pulse. He didn't feel it for a moment, but after he managed to get his hand to stop trembling, he could feel it there. He plopped onto the floor with a sigh of relief. "He's fine. Well, I don't know if he's fine fine, he's been trapped in weird sap for who knows how long, but he's not dead."

Mabel stood only a moment longer before sitting next to him. "Great. Great!" She leaned on her shoulder. "When I said I was coming with you, I had no idea I was signing up for this."

Dipper shook his head. "Me neither."

The man gave a small groan and shifted slightly. Mabel and Dipper were immediately alert.

"Is he waking up?"

"Wait a sec, Mabes." Dipper put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Hey, are you oka—"

The man sat up abruptly. "That's ten bucks, not 9.99!" He looked around. ". . . Wait, what? Where am I? What—? Oh." He looked up at the dinosaurs. "Sap."

"Um, yeah . . ."

The man seemed to notice them for the first time. "Oh, hey there." He took in the sap-coated state of them, and then himself. "Did you get me out?"

They nodded wordlessly.

"Uh . . . thanks." He avoided their eyes and stood up, almost falling over before he managed to balance on the sap. He pushed off the moment he realized what he was leaning on. "How long have I been down here?"

Dipper looked around at the various dinos. If they could be trapped here for years, theoretically it was possible that this man had been too. "What year is it?"

The man gave him a weird look. "What, you don't know what the year is? It's 1982."

Mabel's expression was pained. "It's not 1982 anymore . . . it's 2017."