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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 3 years

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The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

The timing of this whole thing with the campaign is pretty amazing, as it turns out. In the middle of absolute work hell and attempts to sort out my general apartment/living situation, a little while ago I entered a fic into the /r/CurseOfStrahd second annual fanfic contest. It was one of my attempts to kind of write out and process the way our own run through the module went, stretch out some poor, suffering, unused writing muscles, and it was also super duper self-indulgent. So I'm very, very proud to say it won first place amidst some really great competition, and super happy to rep my best girl Ez.

Summary: In the aftermath of Strahd's destruction and the not-quite-loss of her mentor, Ezmerelda d'Avenir sets out to tie up loose ends and lay some ghosts to rest, and continues carving out a path for herself in the Domains of Dread.

Word count: 9999, as there was a 10k limit. I had fun.

Rating/Warnings: T, with canon-typical violence, and dealing with death and loss in a general gothic horror setting. Spoilers for the Curse of Strahd module.

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The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

Being a compendium of successes, failures, tricks, and warnings relating to detecting, tracking, fighting, and ultimately destroying undead, fiends, lycanthropes, and assorted monstrosities.

1.1. Introductory remarks

Their ride back to town is a quiet one. The silence is broken only once they are sitting, their hunting and travelling gear half-unpacked and strewn about, in the library just above van Richten's herbalist shop.

"Were we in any other profession, this would be a cause for celebration," van Richten's lips twist into a bittersweet wisp of a smile, and he pushes a warm cup of tea into her hands. "A demonstration of pride in an apprentice's first job well done, for all to see and revel in."

Ezmerelda tries to look up at him and meet his gaze properly, but her shoulders, her head, her eyes all feel too heavy. A leaden weight seems to have settled on every bit of her. She is tired, bone-deep, but the very thought of lying down and closing her eyes to attempt to sleep fills her with disgust and no small amount of dread. She knows exactly what she will see. The man, just on the cusp of middle age, entirely unremarkable at first... features quickly twisting into a mask of monstrous hunger, then to wide-eyed horror, and, finally, resorting to desperate pleas for mercy as the stake hits home and his screeching form dissolves to ash.

It feels like the ash still coats the back of her mouth. The tea smells of strong herbs, with just a whiff of something even stronger that van Richten must have snuck in from the liquor cabinet. Her hands clench around the cup, and a burning need to justify and defend herself drives her to finally speak up.

"I was ready," she insists. "I am ready."

"I know," van Richten replies, softly, sadly.

The tea scalds her tongue, but she drinks it anyway.

---

Getting up from the damp, cold floor of the tomb again feels like an impossibility. She can barely keep her head above the ground, eyes stinging with a mixture of blood and sweat and the glare of pure, magical sunlight. The clawed gashes on her ribcage burn with every weak, hard-won breath, and a metallic taste coats the back of her tongue.

But she is not done yet. She has one last lightning bolt left in her, and Strahd and his dusk elf lackey are so beautifully, perfectly aligned. Ezmerelda can't keep her lips from curling up into a smirk as she raises an arm and mutters her incantation, feeling that familiar tickle of static rising all around her.

She holds on, builds it up as much as she can, teeth grinding together, ears buzzing - until she can hold on no longer, and the energy flies from her, the flash near-blinding, the roar of accompanying thunder ringing in her ears.

She sees it hit home, the first traces of foggy vapour swirling around Strahd's convulsing form, and a beautiful satisfaction fills her.

Then, she lets herself go.

An instant or an eternity later someone is shaking her into jarring and painful wakefulness, jostling her head against the rough floor. Her mouth is filled with the bitter aftertaste of a potion, and she grimaces as she feels the familiar residue on her lips and chin.

"Fine, fine, old man, relax, I'm up," she manages, slurring the words, struggling to blink her eyes open and into focus. "I'm awake. Stop it."

But it's not him.

It is Ireena, wide-eyed gaze somehow growing wider still at her words. The reason for this becomes abundantly and agonisingly clear as she points to somewhere behind Ezmerelda... to where Rudolph van Richten lies, very pale and very still, a greater and more profound calm upon him than she has ever witnessed.

"No."

She didn't even see him fall.

"Why didn't you help him?" Ezmerelda knocks the empty potion bottle away, and it clatters loudly against the stone, finally finding rest near a streak of dark ashes. "What are you waiting for, what--"

"I tried. It was... it's too late," Ireena whispers, "I'm sorry."

Ezmerelda feels shame flood her immediately at the misaimed anger. "No. No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I'm sorry. I just-- wait." Awareness of just where they are and what they were in the middle of doing suddenly overwhelms her, and she feels panic crawl up her spine. "Is it over? Did you stake that bastard once and for all?"

Ireena nods, mouth curling in visible distaste. "I did, just like you said to. Your last hit - it was enough to force him to turn into mist, and then, when... when he reformed in the coffin, I did it."

The relief Ezmerelda feels at that is so bitter it burns. "I missed it, then," she murmurs, and feels ridiculous immediately afterwards. Ireena shakes her head, and helps her sit up.

She allows herself a few precious moments of rest against the cold, damp wall of the crypt, eyes painfully locked on van Richten's still, still form. As soon as she feels half-capable of moving, she all but drags herself to his side. Feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything at all to help her disbelieve what is plainly before her eyes.

She finds no such thing. He's dead, and it feels like a stake through her own heart. After all her efforts, after getting into Barovia just to get the damned foolish old man off his self-destructive warpath and out, only to lose him now, to fail right at the end...

A pale shimmer falls over the scene before her, like a curtain right before her eyes. Ezmerelda blinks and shakes her head, but can't make it go away. She reaches up, and--

Erasmus all but swoops down to be face to face with her.

It takes her a moment to properly grasp what she is seeing. Erasmus. Somehow still there, his ghostly form hovering over his father's body. Gesturing at her wildly, pointing down at something, and, finally, using his ectoplasmic paint to draw... a circle within a circle, hanging in mid-air.

She follows his wordless instructions to the best of her current ability and, with some painfully suppressed reluctance, looks down at van Richten. And there on his finger is a ring that was certainly not there before.

Erasmus seems insistent and quite unusually agitated, so Ezmerelda takes the ring, trying not to register the coldness of the hand it was on, and puts it on numbly, feeling utterly beyond thought.

Suddenly, cutting through the fog that seems to have descended upon her mind, bubbling up like an idea from her own consciousness, a thought - a voice. A familiar voice.

'Ezmerelda? Ah. I see. Well, that could have gone decidedly better.'

She feels tears welling up in her eyes, an unstoppable burning in her chest. She wants to laugh until she can't breathe, or sob her lungs raw.

Instead, she sits back against the cool stone wall. As the adrenaline wears off, she becomes more aware of the extent of her injuries: the sting where foul claws raked across her midsection and upwards; the burns of magical fire on her palms. She fishes out the last potion from her pocket, and downs it in one greedy gulp. The relief is near-instant.

Her faculties at least somewhat returned to her, she opts for a laugh as she recognises the ring for what it is. Ireena looks at her with some concern, but Ezmerelda waves it away.

"A ring of mind shielding. Protect the mind, and store the soul, should the worst happen. Of course you of all people would come so prepared."

Ezmerelda twists the ring on her finger, marvels at the detailed engraving.

"Should I... we could... there's ways. To get you back. I mean..."

She trails off, and there is a brief pause before the voice in her mind pipes up again. 'No. No, I think, at long last, it is time for me to stop. And rest.'

Even though her entire being wishes to rail against this, to insist on the need for Rudolph van Richten to exist, and protest the injustice (just when she'd gotten him back!), Ezmerelda manages, barely, a soft, "I understand."

'There is still some work to do before that, though, no? Loose ends for us to take care of before, well...'

That, she feels far more comfortable with. It almost comes as a relief. "Yes, of course. First order of business, we will sit down, and we will work out a plan. And we will stick to that plan."

There is a soft chuckle in her mind.

"What's so funny? You love plans."

She imagines, in better, happier days, the old man - only slightly less old - shaking his head at her with a long-suffering smile.

'Thank you for humoring me, is all I'll say. Now, go handle things here properly and finish up, while I think of a list of priorities for us. Miss Kolyana is waiting for you.'

1.2. A brief reflection on personal experience

Ezmerelda is pulled into a room, hand clamped over her mouth. The door slams shut, and she almost stumbles as she is suddenly released.

"What in all the realms are you doing here?" The colourful half-elf carnival master hisses at her in a voice decidedly unlike the one he was just using in the downstairs taproom. Now that they are close, she can see the magical disguise of the Great Rictavio is utterly impeccable, but the eyes... the eyes are unmistakable.

They are also flooded with the closest thing to panic Ezmerelda has ever seen in them.

"I'm here to help you. You don't stand a chance on your own."

"How did you find me?"

Ezmerelda shrugs noncommittally, and doesn't look behind him. "I have my ways."

He shakes his head. "That isn't good enough. If his agents - and there are many, I assure you! - catch even a whiff--"

She finally glances at the ghostly form of Erasmus, just barely visible over Rictavio's shoulder, unable to be perceived by the one man he wishes he could reach out to and reassure. He meets her eyes and holds his finger up to his lips.

"I recognised your horse," she says, at long last.

"Dear Drusilla? Oh..." Rictavio seems to almost deflate at that, though his nervous pacing doesn't slow.

Erasmus' visage shows what has to be gratitude, or relief, or both. Then he closes his eyes, seemingly tired, and the shimmering remnants of him disappear from view.

"Damned stubborn, foolish girl..." Rictavio moves deftly around the small room, securing the shutters on its single window, locking the door from the inside, gaze darting around wildly. Then he reaches up and removes his hat, and Rudolph van Richten, looking more old and more worn than Ezmerelda was perhaps ever prepared to see, stands in his place.

"I had a plan, you know," he sighs, tossing the hat onto the bed. "One that I can now no doubt forget about entirely."

"There's no time for your endless preparation and planning. Any waiting game we try to play is a losing one. There's a young woman who desperately needs our help, a legendary weapon to be found, and there's a monster to hunt, feeding on an entire land. I've been to the castle, scouted out--"

"You've done what?"

Ezmerelda doesn't look at him and chooses to pace a small circle around the room herself. "The castle. Ravenloft. Getting in was a breeze - getting out was the hard part." She suppresses a brief shudder at the memory of her invisibility spell running out and Strahd's eyes boring directly into hers, as if he'd known she was there all along. "But, well, I managed. And more importantly, I found a way into his crypt."

Van Richten sits down on the bed, rubbing circles into his forehead.

"Ezmerelda, you can't be here." His voice sounds pained, almost. "You know you are not safe near me. My curse--"

"Sincerely, fuck your curse," Ezmerelda spits. "After all these years, it can wait a few days before striking. Can't be worse than what will happen to both of us and anyone involved if we can't manage to work together on this. We have to. I tried, by myself, but..."

She tries not to dwell on the terribly brief confrontation, the bite of the cold, cold grasp that seemed to steal the very life out of her, and her rather desperate escape.

"Ezmerelda," van Richten starts again, then pauses, and just looks at her - a long, heavy look. "Why?"

"There are still people who care about your well-being," she replies simply and softly, "no matter what you may believe."

Then she straightens her shoulders and allows the steel back into her voice. "So listen to me. We are going to stake that devil in his lair, and we are going to get out of this cursed land. Together."

For once, he doesn't argue.

---

Their lord and master may be gone, but there are plenty of foul things still crawling around Castle Ravenloft - and occasionally crawling out of it as well.

How lucky for the Village of Barovia, then, to have a monster hunter visiting.

"...so I think that should do it for that particular area of the barracks," Ezmerelda flicks a stray bit of zombie gunk off of her bracer, then casts an apologetic look at Ireena. "But who knows what else he has buried under there."

Ireena Kolyana, the girl haunted, hunted, and tormented by the vampire, deciding she's had enough of running, turning on him and wielding a sword of pure sunlight against him. Poetic justice, if Ezmerelda fancied herself a poet.

Ireena Kolyana, looking exhausted in a very different way, now caught up in burgomaster duties, barely finding time in her overstuffed schedule to hear about the results of Ezmerelda's latest expedition to the castle.

"You know," Ezmerelda begins, eyeing the stacks of papers and growing chaos on the desk between them, "if you ever get really tired of this, and miss life on the road..." she nods towards the window, and the wagon just outside it. "I have room for one more. And could always use a deft hand with a sword."

Ireena smiles, but the sadness underpinning it is palpable. "I can't, not now at least. There is too much to take care of here. And without Ismark..." a shadow falls briefly over her face, then she visibly forces it back. "Some day, maybe. I would honestly love to."

Ezmerelda nods, then moves to stand up, and holds out a hand expectantly. "Come on, you have time for a walk. A minute to escort me out and say goodbye, at least."

Ireena chuckles quietly and shakes her head, but pushes away from the desk and takes the proffered arm.

The sunlight is bright, tempered only by a wisp of white cloud here and there. Ezmerelda feels a light pull on her arm as Ireena stops on the threshold of the house for just a fraction of a moment. The hesitation is brief, barely noticeable, but the pause as if needing to catch her breath and the subsequent dawning joy - pure, almost radiant by itself - as the sunlight hits her skin--

Ezmerelda realises she's staring, blinks, and makes herself look away.

Their stroll is indeed brief, and as soon as they turn the corner and reach the parked wagon, Ireena sighs and stands half-ready to hurry back to her office and her duties.

"Hey," Ezmerelda puts what she hopes is a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know you can handle all of this. Never doubt that."

This wins her a sincere smile. "Thank you."

Knowing there's no more point in delaying, Ezmerelda pulls away, moves to arrange her things around the wagon and prepare to leave.

"The offer stands," she says as she climbs into the driver's seat. "Keep it in mind."

"Maybe next time," Ireena replies with another sad smile. But then she pauses for a moment, almost as if thinking something over. Then she darts in quickly, and kisses Ezmerelda's cheek.

"Don't stay away too long," she says, quietly, then draws away again. Ezmerelda nods her agreement, and takes up the reins of her conjured horses.

Ireena waves her goodbye, and stands, looking on, bathed in sunlight.

And then the road turns, and she disappears from Ezmerelda's view.

'Well.'

"Shut up." Ezmerelda can feel her face burning. "Absolutely no need to read into things."

'You know I mean no offense. I only want the best for you.'

"I am perfectly fine," Ezmerelda grumbles. "Besides, this is the last thing she needs right now."

'You don't know that. Ask her sometime, perhaps, to tell you herself. Too many people have assumed too much about that young lady, I think. Myself included.'

"Oh, what do you know..."

There is a distinct sensation of stinging grief, never quite healed, as the voice comes again. 'You seem to forget I was young once. In love once. More... than once. And though it never ended well, like few things in my life did, the only thing I have ever regretted was not acting sooner. And regret is...'

"... the enemy of progress. I know." Ezmerelda sighs, the old man's oft-repeated saying rattling around in her mind as she snaps the reins and takes them down the road westward. "Maybe next time."

1.3. Materials and methods, an overview

Her balance is off still, but the past few weeks have brought incredible improvement. She flicks her rapier upwards, then lunges - back, forth, back, forth, fully and properly bearing weight on her right side in the training yard for the first time in months. The new prosthetic is truly a work of art and a masterful display of craftsmanship. Ezmerelda feels almost giddy at the sensation of ducking and weaving under the wooden limbs of the training dummy, feinting deftly, ignoring the burn in her arm and shoulder. The maneuvers are not yet close to her peak speed and fluidity and elegance, not after the long, arduous recovery she is only now reaching the end of. But it is all so very, very promising.

It also brings to mind - because how could it not, when for the better part of the past half-year she has had more time to think, and remember, and reflect than in her entire life? - van Richten's drills. He was always far more of a theoretician than practitioner of swordfighting, but he was certainly no slouch with a blade. The precision and perfection of form he insisted on instilling in her initially seemed to clash with her more free, improvisational, off-the-cuff approach, but ended up blending with it to great effect in ways that occasionally surprised them both.

She goes through attack patterns he's drilled into her and realises she misses him, the cantankerous old man and all his frustrating ways, and suddenly finds herself fervently wishing she wasn't doing this alone. She spares a moment to imagine the amount of fussing over her he would likely have insisted on, with his overprotective bedside manner that she used to chafe and scoff at whenever one of their hunts went badly for her. She thinks of all the lovely, fleeting drawings Erasmus would have made for her.

Her next step is careless, thoughtless, distracted, and as a result only a little off. The lunge is misaimed, unbalanced, and her knee twists unpleasantly. For the briefest flash of a moment she could swear she can feel the teeth sinking in again, and the horrible tearing.

Ezmerelda winces, fingers clenched around the rapier's handle, knuckles white. Her teeth grit as the wave of pain subsides so very, very slowly, but doesn't quite go away. She remembers, belatedly, that she has an audience.

"Ah, almost there," she calls back to the artisan eagerly awaiting her feedback, voice forcefully kept steady, without turning to face them, and taps her rapier on the metal plating running up from the heel. "We'll need to make another slight adjustment to the ankle joint, I think. But this is definitely and by far the best one yet. Let me get some more practice first, and we can go over the details in the afternoon."

Ezmerelda doesn't wait to see if her words are acknowledged. She hefts the rapier back up.

---

Before she reaches the first crossroads west of Vallaki, she turns the wagon south and into the woods.

"I have some unfinished business of my own to settle first," Ezmerelda states very matter-of-factly, preempting any interrogation from the ring's general direction.

The wagon trail to the top of the hill is easier to navigate than ever, and the camp is abuzz with activity, as it usually is. But this time the feel of it all is a bit different.

Ezmerelda knows it well; the air of a caravan packing up to leave.

Arabelle sees her weaving through the horses, strolling towards the large central tent, and darts towards her immediately, then freezes not three feet away. Ezmerelda can tell plain as the new Barovian day that she is torn between looking dignified and throwing herself at her in a hug.

So she crouches down and opens her arms first, and is almost knocked over when Arabelle rushes in.

"I want to show you something I've been practicing," Arabelle whispers conspiratorially, "but you'll need to lend me a dagger."

Ezmerelda's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she obliges the girl after only a moment's contemplation, still crouched down and one arm around her narrow shoulders.

The dagger is one of the smaller ones she usually keeps concealed, but even so it seems far too large in Arabelle's hands. Nevertheless, in a few surprisingly dextrous motions with only a couple of moments of hesitation, she seems to make it disappear - then produces it again as if out of thin air.

"Huh. Impressive. Did your uncle teach you that little trick?"

Arabelle nods, but her pride is palpable. "Papa was so mad! He says that both him and you are a bad influence and I am far too young to be handling blades."

"There's no such thing," Ezmerelda scoffs, but motions for her dagger back and tucks it away safely. "Where is your father? I wanted to speak with him."

"Luvash is busy," another voice cuts in cooly, and Arrigal steps out of the fading, scarce shadows, somehow slipping under her notice even with the bright streams of sunlight all around. "But you can speak with me."

Ezmerelda stands up slowly, and can see him sizing her up.

"Run along now, Arabelle," Arrigal says in a much warmer tone of voice, but without taking his eyes off Ezmerelda for even a moment.

Arabelle gives her one last look as she turns to leave, and Ezmerelda tries to give her a reassuring smile - but then she realises Arabelle doesn't seem concerned or reluctant or... anything at all. She seems supremely calm, and not seven years old at all.

Arrigal steps forward and, even as uncannily quiet as he always is, it startles her back into the moment. Then, he reaches out a hand.

Ezmerelda meets his gaze, steps forward, and takes it. The handshake is firm, and she smirks. "Looks like you backed the losing side, cousin."

The term of address rolls off her tongue with some bite of irony in it. Arrigal inclines his head in acknowledgement. "You can't say it wasn't a fairly sure bet. A matter of survival, of course. We do what we must to keep our people safe. But," and he draws a bit closer, as if letting her in on a secret. "I'm glad he didn't send me after you."

Ezmerelda nods, and decides she isn't in the mood for a debate. "You know, so am I. I would have hated having to kill you. Instead, here you are, in an excellent position for a little introspection, changing your ways... much better this way, isn't it?"

He shakes his head with a grin, and finally lets go of her hand. "You are a menace. But we follow the traditions, and you have a place here. Where are you going?"

"Borca," she says, and pointedly doesn't elaborate further.

Arrigal laughs. "Off to more of your grim business right away! Well, one has to admire your tenacity. You can stay, of course, and leave with us tomorrow. We will share the road at least part of the way."

So Ezmerelda stays, and exchanges news of recent caravan routes and planned Mist-traversal with Luvash. The fire roars to life as the sun sets. Tales are told, and she contributes some of her own.

"Regale us, cousin," Arrigal says, grinning wolf-sharp, arms open wide as if to encompass the entire camp, "with the story of the fall of the devil Strahd."

Arabelle is a delight, as always. The truce with Arrigal, if it can be called that, is uneasy, but holds. The ring is quiet.

Arabelle insists on riding with her in the morning ("You did fish her out of that lake... brought her back to us," Luvash grumbles. "I suppose there's no harm... I'll have none of that monster-hunting nonsense, though!"). Her delight at the summoned magical horses is palpable, even as she tries to hide it. Ezmerelda gives her the reins until they need to enter the Mists, and is only slightly surprised to see her managing well, with just a few pointers here and there.

The whole way, Arabelle demands stories of her and van Richten's exploits very matter-of-factly - interrogates, almost, at times. Her eyes are large, intent, focused, as Ezmerelda obliges, for hours.

"I knew you would win," Arabelle says at one point, breaking a rare longer stretch of silence between them. "Uncle didn't want to listen to me, but I knew."

Ezmerelda looks at her, matches her seriousness. "I hope he will learn to listen, one day soon."

1.4. Common pitfalls

Ezmerelda inches back to consciousness more than wakes, and hisses as she almost reflexively tries and fails to sit up. She recognises her own bed in the former guest room above the herbalist shop, but the details of how she got there are fuzzy at best, completely absent at worst. She is, however, very aware of a merciless pounding in her head and that she has most certainly just pulled some fresh stitches.

A swirl of colourful ectoplasm greets her when she next opens her eyes, Erasmus' fleeting but always lovely and cheerful greetings hovering above her.

Well. Ezmerelda forces a pained smile at him, knowing that if he is here, his father cannot be far, and--

Ah. Familiar footsteps on the stairs, and the distinct creak of the second one from the top, as Rudolph van Richten enters the room with uncanny timing.

He doesn't seem to be surprised to see her awake as he gives her a quick look-over, even as concern and frustration clearly war on his face.

"I thought we had reached an agreement," he begins at last, very deliberately calmly.

Ezmerelda doesn't reply.

"I thought," he continues with that same calm tone, "that we had made a plan. That was my distinct impression of our last conversation."

Ezmerelda clenches her teeth, then grinds out, "I couldn't just stand by and let that beast--"

"You could have voiced your disagreements with the plan and brought your concerns to me, instead of running off on your own in the middle of the night," van Richten is clearly struggling to keep his voice level. "You almost died."

"Fine, I am voicing my disagreements. We know it's a wereboar. Just go at it with our silvered weapons, set up an ambush where we found its lair... why wait? Why give it more chances to hurt people?"

"To be absolutely certain we have all the information. That we have looked at it from every angle, that we have not overlooked a crucial detail. Minimise its chances to hurt us."

"But by then it might have mauled half the village to death, or worse!"

Van Richten's gaze on her is sharp. "And if we get ourselves pointlessly killed, are the villagers any safer for our hasty, brash, ill-thought sacrifice?"

"Hasty, brash, and ill-thought. Fine, if that’s how it is, how you think of me," Ezmerelda throws her hands up, and wishes she could march off, slamming a door shut behind her for good measure, as childish as the thought makes her feel.

Van Richten sighs deeply, and pulls up a chair to sit next to her bed. Ezmerelda recognises it as one from downstairs, and feels a small stab of guilt at the thought of him setting up a vigil at her bedside.

"We can't go rushing in on half-checked information," van Richten begins, after a brief silence, looking down at his hands. "We can't, because... because I have done that, in the past. And people - good, brave, dedicated people who chose to stand against evil, people who trusted me - died as a result."

"I have been wrong," he continues, still not looking up. "I have followed faulty sources without the due diligence of thorough enough vetting. I have overlooked things, and I have lost many. I will not and cannot allow that to happen again. We have to be careful, patient, and vigilant, always."

"I'm not advocating for blindly rushing in," Ezmerelda protests, "I'm merely--"

"I won't have you on my soul as well. I have far too many already."

"And I won't have any more innocents on mine! We had all the relevant information two days ago. Four people could have been alive today if we had acted on time. We were right."

"And what about when you aren't, Ezmerelda? What about when you aren't?"

Ezmerelda looks him right in the eyes, steely. "Then I will make sure I am the one who pays the price for my own mistakes."

"Oh," van Richten smiles sadly, "If only that were possible."

---

The letter arrives just as she is preparing, to her great relief, to leave Port-à-Lucine for good. It is hand-delivered by an ostentatiously dressed man in a stylised fox mask, entirely - and Ezmerelda feels her lips curl in annoyance - unassuming and usual for the land of outrageous pretense that is Dementlieu. The way he seems to disappear in the moment it takes for her to glance down at what he has thrust into her hands is also something Ezmerelda finds hard to marvel at anymore.

Overjoyed to be able to return to the relative privacy and safety of her wagon, she tosses away her old harlequin mask in the sincere hopes of never having to put the damn thing on again. Then she throws herself on the bed and focuses on tearing into the sealed envelope, absorbing its mysterious contents.

After she reaches the end of the letter's brief text, she stays very still for a long while.

'Not a name I thought I would see again, if I am to be honest,' van Richten's voice comes slowly, sounding very wary.

Ezmerelda breathes out a frustrated sigh, an unidentifiable jumble of feelings warring in her chest and burning up her throat. She tries to reply several times, then stops, and closes her eyes. Collects herself, at least somewhat, and decides to focus on the practical. "How do we even know this isn't a forgery, or some sort of trap?"

'We don't. But it is a loose end I, for one, am not prepared to simply overlook.'

"She's tried before, but I never... I don't have time for this right now, I--," she throws the letter and the shredded envelope onto the chest at her bedside, and runs an annoyed hand through her hair, again, and again, and again. Thinking, or at least trying to.

'We have time. You and I both know it's not time that is the problem.'

They are nearing the end of their planned journey, finishing up their business with Alanik Ray and Arthur Sedgwick's latest investigations and bidding farewell to Dementlieu. And then it was supposed to be on to Mordent, to call in at the Mordentshire shop briefly, and afterwards to Darkon - to Rivalis, and the villages surrounding the old Richten estate. Some ghouls to fight off, wraiths to purge, ghosts to lay to rest, to help the villagers out, before... well. They'll come to that when they do.

Ezmerelda can't deny the detour would only be a brief one.

"A 'loose end'," she huffs. "Really."

'I am just trying to help you. Don't waste years of your life like I have, either bitter or wondering or fleeing. Confront your - our - past, at least this part. Lay it to rest, if you can.'

"The past does not lie behind us. It is part of what we are, and part of what we always will be," Ezmerelda recites, then sighs again. "Old Vistani saying."

A moment of silence. 'Make sure it is a good part, then.'

Ezmerelda's memory of her mother feels... not fuzzy, but perhaps a bit tweaked and twisted over the years, more by feelings overtaking it than by any fault of recall. The images of what she remembers and what now stands before her don't match, but have a strange, dissonant overlap, leaving visible in the centre a woman Ezmerelda could almost, almost imagine seeing in the mirror. One she hoped to never see again after that night of wordless parting, many years ago.

Years of imprisonment seem to have been surprisingly kind to Madame Irena Radanavich. She has wormed her way into some kind of favour with someone powerful here, no doubt, as has always been her utterly unscrupulous way. The cell is clearly a formality, more of an office than anything, a parlour for receiving agents and lackeys, as well as bosses. There is even a chair - a worn, old wooden frame with faded red upholstery - placed a little ways away from the bars, facing them. Ezmerelda also gets a distinct impression that the guard standing in the corner is not there for any visitor's safety or protection.

The woman in the cell seems to light up the moment she sets eyes on Ezmerelda strolling into the cell space with a pretense of casualness.

"My, how you've grown! My, and yet-- oh, darling," concern seems to flood her face and voice, and - there, a subtle, wry twist - Ezmerelda thinks she catches a false, even mocking undertone to it. A flash, and it’s gone, and perhaps she merely imagined it, or even wanted it to be there, an ache for some semblance of simplicity to box this woman in. "There's both more and less of you than last time I saw you."

"Really?" Ezmerelda scoffs, and almost wants to laugh. "All those tales I've heard of your vicious, clever, insidious scheming, and that's the best you can come up with?" She crosses her arms, and clicks her metal heel against the floor loudly. "Not an angle you can use against me, I'm afraid. Try again."

"You wound me!" A dramatic hand placed over her chest. "Treating your own mother like that, who has never had anything but your best interests at heart. Who you've never even come to visit."

Ezmerelda slips the opened letter through the bars, letting it land on the hewn stone on the other side. Then she moves to sit down on the solitary chair.

"I'm only here because I got your letter."

"Oh! Good. My dearest Ezmerelda, I was--"

"I am here to tell you I want you to leave me alone," Ezmerelda continues, acting as if she hasn't heard a word. "For good. Forget I exist, preferably. I want nothing to do with you, and I never will. And the only thing I might want to do with your plotting and scheming is foiling it, so it is in your best interest to leave me out of it all. And van Richten..."

The saccharine smile dips down, almost into a scowl. "And here I'd heard you'd finally seen sense and parted ways with that old fool."

"You hear much, I see," Ezmerelda replies, cooly.

"I have my ways. My sources. People loyal to me, who have yet to abandon me."

Ezmerelda feels the swipe like an airy almost-cut of a dagger that just barely misses. "Well, here's something new for you, then. Something your little web-weaving spiders seem to have missed. You'll be happy to hear he's dead."

"And right away you come back to me! Time to end your silly games, eh, Ezme? Good, good. A start--"

"You have no right to call me that," Ezmerelda cuts her off, rapidly losing her will to restrain herself.

"Come now, dear. That's no way to talk to your mother, your own flesh and blood. It's about time we set all this nonsense aside, don't you think? Your family--"

"You're no family of mine."

"Please," she scoffs loudly. "You sound like an angry child. And... oh, really, what kind of name is 'd'Avenir' even?"

"My name," Ezmerelda replies, perfectly matter-of-fact, and refuses to even entertain further discussion of the matter.

"I wonder how you'll do," Madame Radanavich smiles, but this time the threatening edge is obvious, pretense briefly abandoned, "all alone. Playing your little games of pretend with your make-believe name. You'll come crawling back to me yet."

Ezmerelda finds herself thinking of Erasmus, and almost believes she can see him, out of the corner of her eye. Tries not to think of what this confrontation might be bringing back for him. Thinks of the Martikovs welcoming her with open arms and offering shelter even in the darkest and dourest and most dangerous of days; thinks of Ireena with the sunsword and an entire wealth of feeling tangled in a tired, relieved smile somehow brighter than the blazing sunlight itself. Of nights around the fire in the camp outside Vallaki, and little Arabelle pulling on her coat, extorting promises of lessons in both swordfighting and divining. Of Arthur Sedgwick and his honest, caring eyes, and his patient instruction in properly using a flintlock, as his husband gleefully offers detailed scientific explanations of the weapon's workings from the side. She twists the ring on her finger.

"I'm not alone," Ezmerelda says simply, and feels resolute steel pouring back. She stops to consider her next words more carefully.

"I watched your actions and your curse destroy a good man's life. But I want you to know that you wanted to take from him, and in the end you took from me, the daughter you profess to care about so much. And now you crow at me about flesh and blood and expect me to, what? Beg you to let me come back? Back to what? A mouldy cell and as short a leash as the current master feels like giving you?"

"Bold words for one given to following an old wretch around like a sad pup, even as he keeps trying to kick you away," Radanavich sneers, then shifts back to sad pity in the blink of an eye. "Oh, yes, my dear, it's so very tragic... I've heard it all. Look at you - you're wasted on him."

"Oh?" Ezmerelda raises an eyebrow cooly, clamps down on the sting to her pride and the deliberate scrape against old wounds, and almost wanting to scream you are the reason he feared that daring to care about someone would be a death sentence for them. "And what would you prefer to be using me for?"

"How dare you! After all I've done for our family, while you throw your lot in with the man who killed your brother and imprisoned your mother!"

Ezmerelda feels suddenly tired, more than anything. "You know he did no such thing. And I've done very well for myself, despite you."

"Have you, now? What price have you paid for your... profession? What has it cost you already?"

"Nothing I wouldn't be ready to pay ten times over if it meant ensuring the safety of an innocent, or beating back those such as you. You still don't understand," Ezmerelda just smiles sadly, allowing only the slightest undercurrent of danger. "I'm neither lost, nor settling for anything, nor desperately grasping at a chance, nor tragically misguided. This is what I want. This-- this cause, this fight, this is exactly what I was meant to do. And I am very, very good at it."

"Oh, Ezmerelda, if excitement and adventure and glory is what you are after, I know of much that you could do! So many causes that your... talents... would be an excellent match for. You do have a certain reputation, and I know several highly influential actors who'd know exactly where to put your skills to use, no matter how they were acquired. You could do so well for yourself! Rise right to the top of the ranks in the blink of an eye, become truly great."

Ezmerelda shakes her head, and sighs, and moves to get up from the sad, solitary seat.

"Ezmerelda--"

She quickly turns towards the bars and leans in, baring her teeth and grinning widely. "I killed the devil Strahd," Ezmerelda smirks at the look of shock she gets in response. "I think your petty schemes are a little below me, don't you?"

She turns to leave, not waiting for a response. The guard leans back in his corner as she moves away from the bars, waving him off.

"Oh, do feel free to let your masters know," she tosses over her shoulder nonchalantly as she makes her way out. "Though I have to say I haven't really looked into whose lapdog you are nowadays."

Ezmerelda hears a frustrated growl behind her as the sickeningly sweet, pleasant mask falls for good. As the door slams shut behind her, she doesn't look back.

She lets the noise of the city drown out her thoughts as she slowly makes her way back to her wagon, more than ready to be on her way elsewhere. Until, after a while, a familiar voice comes swimming up through her mind.

'How do you feel?'

"I don't know," Ezmerelda murmurs, after a long silence. "Ask me tomorrow."

1.5. Notes on useful classification and categorisation

As she finishes rattling off the information she's gathered on a series of apparent annis hag encounters that van Richten asked her for, he looks-- well, 'impressed' is the only word Ezmerelda can think of to describe it.

In the ensuing moment of quiet, he takes off his spectacles, fidgets with them briefly, polishes off a smudge with his handkerchief. Then, he looks her right in the eye. "You, girl, are a veritable sponge."

Ezmerelda flashes him a smug smile, then remembers the other matter she wanted to bring to his attention. She clears her throat, and begins, with uncharacteristic hesitance. "I've also been looking into some... other things. Another way I can contribute, I think."

The only reply is a raised eyebrow, so Ezmerelda steels herself and decides to go forward with her planned demonstration. She quells the nervous fluttering in her stomach, and instead focuses on the points of her own fingers as they trace well-practiced patterns in the air. With a final flick and a quick mutter of the incantation she's quietly recited so, so many nights in her room when she was supposed to be asleep, the very air around her right hand shimmers with heat. A few tense moments later, a small mote of flame appears in her palm.

Ezmerelda bites back an exclamation of joy at the success, tries to keep her expression fairly neutral, and looks to van Richten expectantly.

His eyebrows are, very amusingly, trying to climb into his hairline. "Where in the world did you learn to do that?"

She lets the little flame dance between her hands, casually skip from one to the other, flickering giddily, and feels an odd sense of relief wash over her.

"I saw it in one of your books. Almost by accident, and it... it just made a lot of sense to me, even just skimming over it. So I thought, why not? If I could get a handle on a few of the spells, I could complement your arsenal quite well. Bring more to the fight."

Van Richten nods, but there is a wary undertone to his words. "As long as you aren't making any ill-advised deals and pacts - which, I'll remind you--"

"-- are all of them. I know. Don't worry. I'm only interested in things I can glean by myself."

"Well, I'm not much of an arcane practitioner, though I am quite familiar with a lot of theory. I'm afraid I won't be able to provide any elaborate training or instruction--"

"That's fine," Ezmerelda rushes to say. "I can continue like this. The research, the books - it's..."

She trails off, not quite knowing how and what to explain. Arcane magic is fascinating, surprisingly enjoyable, and strikes a deeply satisfying balance between being hard-won and feeling like it comes naturally to her.

It also feels... hers.

"It's very engaging material," she finishes after a little while. She moves to close her fist and extinguish the tiny fire, but something stops her at the very last moment.

"Indeed," van Richten replies simply, and gets up from his seat. "Well, I do need to go tend to the shop, but rest assured we will discuss the tactical applications of this later today."

Just as he is out the study door and about to start down the stairs, he pauses, and turns back to look at her, a bright and sincere smile on his face. "Very well done, Ezmerelda."

The flame flickers, ready to fly from her fingers, bursting with potential.

"Thank you," she murmurs long after he is gone.

---

It is deep nighttime when Ezmerelda shakes off the last tendrils of the Mists and sets eyes on the cliffs of Mordentshire. The wagon's wheels clatter over rain-slick cobblestones as she navigates the still-familiar streets of the seemingly unchanging harbour town. The cold sea wind makes her tighten her coat around herself, to very little avail.

She can't say she's missed the weather.

By the time she spies the sign neatly painted with the words Herbalist - Dr. Rudolph van Richten, she feels soaked through and entirely miserable, and spends only a moment giving the place a quick look-over.

The shop is in fine shape - if she didn't know better, Ezmerelda could easily believe its owner closed it up for the night and left just yesterday. The wolfsbane and garlic in the planters underneath each window are flourishing. She makes a mental note to make her first order of business in the morning calling in on the neighbors and discussing further arrangements with Mrs. Polk, in whose capable hands van Richten has been leaving things for years.

In the meantime, she fervently hopes for dry clothes and a workable fireplace.

A quick rummage between two bushy wolfsbane plants - the second and third one on the right - produces a spare key, and Ezmerelda remembers with mild amusement her shock at this mundane weakness in van Richten's usually impeccable and overthought defenses, years ago.

"Keys," he'd looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, "are hardly a problem for things that truly want to harm me."

The little bell chimes as she opens the door. Catching a glimpse of herself in the very precisely placed full-length mirror just opposite the entrance, she wastes no time before going upstairs. The second stair from the top creaks its old, familiar reassurance.

Ezmerelda enters the room that used to be hers, in between harrowing hunting trips and trying adventures, during her years training with van Richten. It doesn't seem to have changed much - nor does it seem to be in use as anything but spare storage space.

She does her best not to think about how empty and quiet the house is, or how she's never truly been alone in it. Instead, she hangs up her coat, rolls up her shirt sleeves, unpacks some of her things, and, by the time she gets a proper fire going, realises sleep is the very last thing she feels like doing. Her eyes alight on the small desk in the corner, and she instead decides to do something she hasn't in a while.

She sits down to write.

First, Ezmerelda takes off the ring and sets it aside, muttering a quick good night, Doctor under her breath. Then she takes out some of her collection, observations accumulated over the years - jotted down on everything from thick parchment to old wrapping paper. Combining it with the wealth of van Richten's remaining material and into something eventually coherent will no doubt be a challenge, but a challenge is not something Ezmerelda d'Avenir has ever shied away from.

It is just haphazard, quick notes on anything of consequence that comes to mind at first, carried by an odd nervous energy. A more systematic approach will have to come at some later point.

While knowledge is a key weapon in any hunter's arsenal, honing one's body as well as mind is absolutely necessary, she writes, tapping her foot on the wooden floor in a way that often drove van Richten to distraction. Many of the creatures of the night become, in their cursed states, inhumanly strong, and in such instances one must be particularly careful of engaging them in close quarters, for even the greatest strongman would be at a disadvantage.

However, not all of these encounters need be solved by violence. Many ghosts

She pauses, pen slowly dripping ink onto the half-filled page before her, and sees Erasmus out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head to face him, and for once in their long and unusual life-and-afterlife-spanning acquaintance, she finds she can't quite read him.

Many ghosts are held in their in-between existence due to unfinished business. Tethered to some regret or incomplete task from their mortal lives, they seek resolution and closure. Many hauntings can thus be resolved by investigation, and what I must term a primarily sympathetic approach. Of course, one must also always be wary and on the lookout for deliberately misguiding spectres who seek to play upon one's pity.

The first signs of dawn creep into the room by the time she has moved on from ghosts to wraiths to trying to sort out her notes about creatures that lurk underwater - old notes that have been, to her chagrin, very appropriately and unsalvageably waterlogged.

Ezmerelda manages to light another candle just before her current one sputters out, and rubs at her tired eyes. Then she pauses, gazing idly at the ink stains on her fingers.

She reaches over for a new page, setting her current work aside. There is something else she wants and needs to write, something other than dry facts or hopefully helpful guidelines. The first few sentences come in fits and starts, but soon enough she finds them flowing out of her pen almost of their own accord.

What I would like to make clear is that this is not an inherently bad place. The lands themselves can be beautiful - wondrous, even. Worth living in, and worth fighting for. And the people who live in them do not deserve to live in fear. I, and many others, could simply leave for some better, tamer prospects, yes - but then what? Nothing is gained if we merely surrender an entire world, a collection of lands so fantastically varied and so full of promise, to a cruel, merciless, hungry night. It can't all be abandoned as collateral damage in a great punishment intended for a horrible few. I can't, and won't, allow this to happen.

Maybe the foes are overwhelming, and the fight endless. But a life saved is a life saved. A victory is a victory. One innocent snatched away from a grim fate, one tendril of darkness beaten back - that is enough. But only if we persist at it, day after day after day. And evil may be impossible to ever completely destroy, but it is far weaker and less widespread than it could and doubtlessly wants to be, in at least some small part thanks to our continued efforts.

A dour prospect? Perhaps, for some. Ezmerelda smirks to herself, and gazes down at her veritable manifesto, and thinks back to that cell in Il Aluk.

What better life is there to lead? None, for her.

I, for one, don't intend to give up anytime soon. I hope that in you, dear reader, I can find one of like mind. And perhaps one day we shall find ourselves standing together.

She lights another candle, and continues.

1.6. Conclusions and remarks on future work

She clenches her hands as she steps into the sitting room that morning, decisions made after a long, sleepless night of contemplation. As if fate is conspiring against her, the first thing she sees is Erasmus, hovering over his father's shoulder. He turns to face her as soon as he notices her, a bright smile he saves just for her on his pale, ghostly face. She knows what a struggle it is for him to manifest this way, how much it takes out of him. The thought of his precious few minutes today being this...

It takes immense effort to speak up, interrupting van Richten's apparent focus on the post strewn about the table in front of him.

"I think... I think it's time for me to go."

"Go? Where?" He blinks, looking up from his papers.

Ezmerelda swallows, but hesitates only for a moment. "I don't know," she answers, chin tilted up, almost proud. "But I know we can't go on like this. I don't want to go on like this."

They butt heads and scrape against each other constantly. Chafe and grate and, and, and. She can't remember the last time they agreed on even the most cursory thing. It has reached a level where she fears his presence will become intolerable, and anything binding the two of them together become irreparably soured and tainted.

She refuses to allow this to happen.

Erasmus has drawn a coin. Two sides. He indulges in a small, semi-teasing pantomime, pointing at the two of them as his shimmering, ectoplasmic drawings hover briefly before vanishing like so much smoke, and Ezmerelda shakes her head sadly.

"I don't want to come to resent you, that is all. I don't think I could bear it if I did."

"If you think it for the best, by all means," van Richten says simply, and leaves it at that. He never turns to fully look at her. There is an undercurrent to his voice Ezmerelda can't quite place - something deeply tired, and far more complicated than plain sadness.

It rains heavily that morning as she sets off, as if the world itself wants her to rethink this. The muddy road squelches almost threateningly under her horse's hooves as she leads him forward.

Van Richten doesn't come out to see her off.

"I'll miss you," she breathes to herself, and half-hopes it somehow reaches both of the companions she is leaving behind. But she has only the rain and her horse's steady trot on the trail for company.

It is quiet.

---

Finally, the familiar mists of Darkon, and the countryside of Rivalis, lie before them. The inevitable, at a familiar estate fallen into quite a state of disrepair.

'No, leave it be,' van Richten said, at her hesitantly presented idea of including returning Richten House to at least some of its former glory on their list of unfinished business and loose ends.

Still, this is where he wanted to come. At the end.

Ezmerelda never saw it in its prime. She was a mere child then, kept well away from her family's machinations. Until she was (inevitably, irrevocably) drawn in, her fate forever entangled with that of the van Richten family. But even now, in all its disrepair, rich traces of what the gardens, the orchard, and the house itself used to be permeate the atmosphere, like ghosts themselves.

She walks across the hills of the grounds, all the way around the mansion to the family cemetery. She slows as she moves up to the two most recent graves, so easy to find, and thinks, briefly, of the body van Richten insisted on being burned before they left Barovia, just in case.

Just in case, she agreed, knowing all he knew about what foul magic and foul intentions could do to physical remains in the wrong hands, and built him a pyre.

The headstones before her are simple but elegant, as is the tidily engraved lettering on them.

Ingrid van Richten

Erasmus van Richten

'Well, here we are.' For a disembodied voice softly projecting into her mind, almost as through a mild haze or over some great distance, it is one of the heaviest things Ezmerelda has ever heard.

'A few words, if I may,' van Richten's request comes, gentle, and she nods, finding herself oddly wordless.

'I am so proud of you,' he begins, and the ferocity of it almost startles her. 'I hope you know this, always. If I have ever made you doubt this, as I pushed you away - I am sorry. I regret many things in my life, as one does, no matter what I like to say - but most of all I regret that I didn't tell you this sooner.

You are the best of my life. But more than that, you have grown far beyond me, into a finer person than most could dream of being. And I am sorry I wasn't there for you, that you had to do so much of it on your own. But know that when I see you... I couldn't be happier, or more in awe.'

There is a very brief pause, and then the voice softens again.

'I love you as my own, and am deeply honoured you would consider me, and that I get to consider you, family.'

Ezmerelda swallows once, twice, struggles, then finally lets her tears fall freely.

'Look at you. You don't need me anymore. And I can only hope your legend will far surpass anything I have ever done - there is so much ahead of you! Your light stands so very bright against the darkness. But I am glad, so very glad - selfishly, perhaps - that we were there together, at the end.'

"So am I," she manages a whisper. "Love you too, old man."

'Now I suppose it is time for me to go.'

Erasmus looks at her, bittersweet pouring from him in waves, and he gives a small nod. His form flickers, and then disappears, and Ezmerelda knows she will never see him again.

She knows how the ring works, too. The soul within it can choose to depart whenever it wants to. She knows she doesn't need to do anything - that she couldn't, even if she wanted to. It brings with it a strange sort of peace.

Ezmerelda inclines her head. "I hope you see them soon." Tell Erasmus I'll miss him, she wishes she could say.

She spins the now-inert ring around on her finger, a habit she will need to break. She wants to tear it off, and throw it as far away from herself as she can. She wants to never take it off as long as she lives.

A soft rain starts up, and Ezmerelda feels oddly grateful for the feel of it on her face, even as she knows there is no one here but her.

It is quiet.

---

With gratitude to the notes and tutelage of the esteemed Dr. Rudolph van Richten, whose guidance and wealth of knowledge have proved invaluable on countless occasions, and whose friendship changed the course of my life more than once.

#ezmerelda d'avenir #rudolph van richten #curse of strahd #dnd #dungeons and dragons #fanfiction #my fic #oathkeeper writes things #erasmus van richten #ravenloft #gonna take my horse to the old svalich road #tabletop

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wolfflock · 3 years

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Reactions to Superman and Lois S02E01

OMG here we go again. I am SO LATE watching this but I’m just super glad it’s out and I can do this again.

“Lois, you have to say something”. And Lois walks off. Aaaah, am I gonna have trouble with the way they write Lois this season too

Clark knowing Lana’s favourite drink aww

And the cologne thing lol SO TEEN! And wow she's been gone a month. That's so long! (Laughs in 7 years of long-distance)

Clark trying to help, Lois once again jumping at his throat, 3 months later. WRITERS, UGH.

The Cushings aww (Where was Sarah again? Ah, camp, okay) — [speaking Spanish] wow, okay, don't hurt yourself, CW

Chrissy and Lois have not only had the money to run the paper in a small town but they want to hire too! Okay, I guess that could maybe somehow potentially work

So the campaign is not Kyle's thing but he'll wear the t-shirt for Lana, that's nice 🥺 Support your boo!

Well Sarah was a lot less enthused than I would have assumed. Is she okay??

Is this now the new school year? If Sarah was off for a month bejng a councelor at a camp. Does that mean that Jon and Jordan, plus Clark, had football for the remainder of the previous school year? And now they're back?

...who is this Candice and when did that happen??? What happened to Tegan? And LOVE HOW REAL it is that Jon would take her advice but not his dad's lol

Jonathan broke his arm TWICE? When was the second time, I only recall Jordan breaking it 😳

Fucking hell, not even 10 minutes in and Superman once again saves people from a non-English speaking (non-White...) country. I wish the writers did actual representation instead of only sending Supes in to save them (OKAY WAIT IT WAS NORTH KOREANS JUST TO MAKE IT POLITICALLY bold ALRIGHT)

The VFX on this, holy smokes! So well done! When he was flying over the water the the sonic boom, damn.

YESSS GIVE ME ALL THE CLARK STRUGGLES

Why would Nat want to go to her old school? That's unnecessarily complicating things. I know, I know. 🌟drama 🌟

I'm sorry but Ian is so not authentic in this role 😅

Ah so Clark should be America's own superhero, gotcha.

Is this demi Clark confirmed here? Right???

Well that was a great conversation, Lois and Clark. And I still very much don't like the Lois they are writing 😌 Her coping with strong emotions is lashing at anyone who's close. Definitely not the Lois I like.

Jordan with the candles, aww. That was so cute of him.

I like that Coach went all in with the candidate. Yes, Coach, do it, talk about teachers needing appreciation.

“The couple that never argued”. Yeah because Lois lets it all out and Clark has to shut up... Could they write “strong Lois” without making Clark the doormat????

Uh-oh. Kyle feeling ignored. That's not gonna end well, knowing his track record XD

Ah fuck, poor Natalie 😭😭 Tayler is really bringing her A game, damn! 🥰

Jordan asked the owners if he could put the candles in the pond HOW SWEET IS HE. And it didn't work all that great 😬

Lana and Clark bonding over relationship issues, aww.

FEEL WHAT. W H A T 😱

“You're the alpha in this relationship” 😬 I appreciate the sentiment but the wording, nope 🙈 BUT KYLE AND SARAH BONDING, YES PLEASE, MORE

Okay where the frick did Lois’ mum's feelings come into this? Maybe I'm not as up to speed as the writers but in my head Lois, seeing a girl called Natalie calling her Mum, would immediately think about her own child named Natalie. Not how her mother felt leaving Lois and Lucy, and pretty much saying that her mum didn't love them at all. So while I know the intent here was drama, I think it wasn't the best way of doing it. Lois isn't expected to feel anything towards Nat, and Nat's situation isn't comparable to kid Lois’. That’s why this whole thing was a bit off for me; not the idea of it, but just this in this situation. But at least Lois opened up to Clark.

Earthquake. This isn't going to be natural, is it.

Anderson and his new recruits from the special school. Can we hey more info on them? On the superkids and the school itself?

I really like Natalie, okay? Protect her at all cost!

SARAH INTERRUPTING LANA AND KYLE I'M DEAD 🤣🤣 Yeah. Parents, not in the kitchen.

JORDAN'S FACE WHEN CLARK SAYS “intimate” 🤣 I love it! But yeah, it's nice we see this little moment, guys talking about emotions and relationships. Refreshing that it's not “mum's responsibility”

And the Irons once again crash at the Kents’ 😅 I need more Clark and John Henry friendship.

Oyyyyy that cliffhanger! Who is that???

(little plug for the server we have: join us here to talk about S&L)

#superman and lois #cw s&l #cw s&l liveblog #s02e01 #I'm in this picture and I like it

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ray-ray-writings · 4 years

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Hey Ray! Could you write some soft Schlatt stuff? Soft or angsty really both are good!!! There’s just not enough schlatt content out there for me to spam my friend with. (I’d say go for soft things but my friend is an angst queen) thank you!!!!!

-🌻

I love Schaltt so much and am kind of sad that I don’t get the opportunity to write for him more lol. And how about a compromise? How about something angsty with a happy ending??? Did not mean for this to be as long as it is but it happens lol. Hope everyone has a great night, this is the last drabble for the night! More to come tomorrow!!

TW: Schlatt throws a glass bottle at you and a few curse words

So we’re going to say that you and Schlatt are engaged okay? So you and Schlatt have been together for a really long time server hopping. You kind of let Schlatt pick the places you go because you never really cared as long as you were with Schlatt you were happy. So when you moved to the DreamSMP you were honestly just kind of vibing. You quickly met Quackity and he very quickly became your best friend. You almost had a stroke when Schlatt announced he was running for president. (Joke intended lol). But Schlatt was a failed businessman who never showed any interest in politics so when he told you he was running for president of L’Manberg, you were super shocked. But nonetheless you helped him campaign and supported him 100%. And when Quackity told you that he was going to give all of the votes that Swag2020 got to Schlatt you actually began believing that he could win this thing. And to your absolute surprise, he did just that. He won. JSchlatt won. Your failed businessman of a fiancé actually won the presidential election of L’Manberg. You didn’t necessarily agree with his first decree, but you being the loving and supporting person you are, you stood behind your lover 100%, even when Wilbur stared at you with pleading eyes to do something. You forced yourself to look away and turn your attention to your fiance who was now celebrating with Quackity… Everything was good. Everything was happy….

But after the election, things started to get… bumpy. The presidency began to take a toll on Schlatt and instead of turning to you with his problems, he turned to the bottom of a liquor bottle. It really hurt. It hurt that he felt he couldn’t lean on you and come to you for support on these things. He would come home really late and leave really early so you didn’t see him at home. So you tried really hard to be there for him. You would swing by his office and try to get him to talk to you, but he would only shoe you out, or have Tubbo escort you out, claiming he had a lot of work to do. You’d try to convince him to go on walks or dates with you, but he would again just brush you off and tell you to go away. Finally you’ve had enough and so one night you stay up. You don’t fall asleep when you usually would and you wait for Schlatt to come home. He comes home at like 1:30 am, stumbling in through the door, barely able to stand on his feet with an almost empty glass whiskey bottle in his hand. “Welcome home,” You greet coldly, standing up from the couch with your arms crossed over your chest. Schlatt’s head snaps to you in surprise and he rolls his eyes before he takes a swig from his bottle, “What are you doing here?” He grumbles, wiping his lips after he drinks. You can’t help but let out a scoff and move around the room toward the wall farthest away from him. “Really? You come home drunk off you ass, barely able to stand up, and the first thing out of your mouth is ‘What are you doing here?’ Unbelievable” you spit out, rolling your eyes and leaning up against the wall. Schlatt grumbles something under his breath, slams the door shut and glares at you, “Hi!” he cheers in the fakest peppiest voice you’ve ever heard, “How was your day? Is that what you wanted to hear?” “Yes actually. I would have loved to hear my fiance ask me how my day was! But no, instead I get a bitter fiance who only cares about himself greeting me” you seethe, extremely pissed off at how he’s acting. Schlatt lets out another scoff, “Oh really? Only thinking of myself? You’re the one who wanted me to ask you how your day was, seems pretty selfish to me” he slurs, tipping the bottle back and taking another drink. You cannot believe the words you’re hearing. He really thinks you’re selfish for wanting him to ask you how your day was. “It’s selfish of me to want to talk to my fiance? It’s selfish to want him to look at me for more than three seconds? To talk about our days like we used to? To fall asleep in the same bed again and wake up just the same? That’s selfish?” “Yes! It is!” He blurts out, “I’m the president now and this country needs me and-” “Your the president but it doesn’t mean that you have to ignore me!” You finally shout, sick and tired of him not listening to you. But the raise of your tone sparked fire in Schlatt’s eyes and his voice booms right back, “I never wanted to be president, but you made me! This is all your fault! Being president does mean that I have to ignore you because I have to do the things that come with this goddamn job I didn’t even want!” “If you didn’t want to be president why did you even run?!?” You scream back at him. “Because you made me! I hate you!” He screams before hurtling the now empty bottle at you. It’s like slow motion. You watch the bottle fly from his hand and slowly fly in the air toward your face. You can hear yourself scream in terror as you're able to just barely duck in time for the bottle to shoot over your head and smash against the wall, thousands of glass shards falling to the ground.

It’s silent. As you stand back up, tears are filling your eyes, but you’re able to see the horrified expression on Schlatt’s face. It’s obvious his actions have sobered him up and he now has a clear mind. “Y/N” he chokes out the whisper of your name, such a stark contrast from the volume level just a moment earlier. “Get out” you whisper back, a single tear falling down your cheek. “Y/N” he tries again, taking a single step forward, but you flinch back, your slipper stepping on the broken glass behind you, “Get out” you repeat a little louder. When he makes no move, you begin screaming again, “GET OUT! GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!!” You scream as you sob. Again, Schlatt remains frozen in place, the whiplash of him being so drunk he can barely walk to him being sober due to him hurling a bottle at his lover has his head hurting and unable to move. When he doesn’t move, you do. “Fine, I’ll get out” You then quickly walk past him toward the front door. Schlatt catches your wrist, “Y/N, wait please” he begs, tears starting to form in his eyes. You rip your wrist from his hand, “Don’t fucking touch me Schlatt” you spit hatefully at him, “I’ve done nothing but wait for you for these past few months and now I’ve finished waiting. You’ve missed your chance” and then you’re gone.

You run, and I mean run, to the nearest house, which just so happens to be Quackity’s. To your surprise, the light is still on. Before you can even knock, the door swings open and Quackity has pulled you into a warm hug. “I heard” he simply whispers in your ear. And it occurs to you that the two of you were in fact screaming at the top of your lungs at each other. “I’m sorry” you whimper in his shoulder, truly feeling bad for waking him and probably a few others. “Shhhh. It’s okay. I’ve got you now, let’s get you inside”. Quackity takes you in for the night, offering you a cup of your favorite hot liquid before tucking you in his own bed. When he tries to leave, you grab his wrist, “Stay… Please” you beg. Quackity hesitates for a moment before climbing in bed beside you. You snuggle yourself into him and put his arms around you so he was holding you. It felt really nice to fall asleep in someone’s arms again, especially your best friend’s arms.

The night goes a lot rougher for Schlatt. He’s the most sober he’s been since he won the election. He has a raging headache and his heart aches, but he knows he deserves it. Schlatt stands there staring at the door for a long time. “Any minute now,” he thinks to himself, “any minute they’ll walk through the door and hug me and tell me they forgive me” but he knows that he’s just kidding himself. When the clock hits 3am he finally looks away from the door. Schlatt lets his eyes roam the living room and they freeze on the glass pile where you stood just a while ago. His heart thumps heavily in his chest and he has to swallow harshly to get the lump out of his throat. He did that. He threw that. Not only did he throw that, he threw that at you. His love. The best thing that had ever happened in his life. He had screamed that he hated you. Quickly, Schlatt rushes forward, drops to his knees and stupidly begins picking up pieces of the shattered glass. He thinks that if he can clean it up, if he can put it back together again, you’ll come back. You’ll come back to him and forgive him and everything will be alright. A sharp pain shoots through his hand causing him to drop all of the glass he’s collected. Deep maroon liquid pours from his finger causing Schlatt to let out soft curses. He quickly uses his other hand and wraps it around the bleeding finger, rises and walks to the bathroom. He holds the bleeding finger under running water while he struggles to pull a band aid out of the cabinet. “God. Y/N would be laughing at me so hard right now. Then they would just float in here and take care of me themselves…” he thinks out loud, “Fuck!” He curses harshly as he thinks about how bad he’s fucked up with you. He manages to get himself bandaged up before he takes a few painkillers, even though he really knows he deserves to hurt. He stumbles his way into the bedroom and flings himself down on your side of the bed, he really just wants to be comforted by you, even though he’s been so shitty. But Schlatt quickly becomes confused when it’s rather cold and does not smell like you at all. He lets out a sigh and rolls over onto his normal side of the bed and is immediately overwhelmed with the powerful scent of you on his side of the bed. The tears return to his eyes as he realizes that you spend every night on his side of the bed in hopes of getting even just a little piece of him. He sobs himself to sleep, face buried in his pillow that smells just like you.

You wake that morning very confused because you wake up in someone’s arms. As you peel your eyes open, you take in messy black hair and the peaceful face of your sleeping best friend and the events of last night wash over you in one big memory wave. Hurt and sadness fall over your feelings again because you think you lost your fiance last night. You don’t get much time to ponder over it because Quackity’s eyes peel open and connect with yours. “You were watching me sleep. You fucking creep” He teases before letting out a huge yawn, moving his arm off of you and stretching. “I was not watching you sleep. I was simply staring at you while I was lost in my own thoughts you dork” you tease right back, also throwing your arm up to stretch. Quackity laughs and rolls his eyes, “Whatever creep” You roll your eyes at him in return, “Whatever’s right dork.” You two lay there for a moment before breaking out in giggles and pushing each other’s shoulder. It felt nice to laugh with someone while laying around in bed again. It felt nice to be happy. After a moment, you two climb out of bed. Quackity gives you some clothes of his to change into so you didn’t have to walk around in your pajamas. You change in the bathroom and do what you need to do before you Quackity in the kitchen for breakfast. You have a nice breakfast together, but as you eat there’s a knock on the door. Quackity gets up and opens it, “Tubbo! What can I do for you?” “Have you seen Y/N? Schlatt wants to see them so he sent me to find them. So have you seen them?” You can hear the young boy ask from the front door. You hear Quackity hesitate at the door, not sure if he should tell Tubbo where you are. So you stand up and walk into view. “Hello Tubbo” you greet the small boy kindly. His eyes light up at you, “Hello Y/N! Schlatt is looking for you! He’s in his office at the office! Shall I escort you to him?” He asks. It’s obvious he has no idea what’s going on. You give a little head shake and take a deep breath before you answer, “No it’s okay. Tell him that I’m having breakfast with my best friend and that I’ll… I’ll meet him afterwards. But also tell him that if he shows up here, I won’t talk to him ever again” Tubbo’s eyes widen slightly, but he gives you a small nod and a smile, “Okay. I’ll let him know Y/N” Tubbo then turns on his heel and runs off toward the office. Quackity shuts the door and turns to you with a concerned look on his face as he rests a comforting hand on your shoulder, “Are you sure you want to do that?” “No” you admit, “But I really should. It’s the adult thing to do” Quackity lets out a small laugh, “Then you’re more adult than I’ll ever be… Come on, let’s go finish breakfast”

The two of you have a lovely breakfast together, but the whole time you’re thinking about what it is you’re going to say to Schlatt once you are in his office. Quackity gives you a tight hug before you leave. You metally prepare yourself on the short walk over to the office building. What you’re going to say, how you’re going to react, you know typical mental argument planning things. You take a deep breath once you’re in front of the door before you raise your fist and knock. “Come in” his deep voice calls from the other side of the door. You slowly open the door, step inside, and close the door behind you before you look up and meet Schlatt’s eyes. You feel your breath catch in your throat. He looks terrible. His eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot, his hair is a mess, the bags under his eyes were extremely dark… It was obvious he had gotten very little sleep last night. ‘Good’ a voice whispers in the back of your mind. Schlatt scrambles to stand when you enter. You two stare at each other for a moment before Schlatt clears his throat and sticks out his arms. “Please. Have a seat… If you want” he stutters out. You cautiously move to one of the chairs and slowly lower yourself into the chair behind you and he quickly follows suit. There’s a little more staring before Schlatt speaks again, “So… Um. How was your breakfast?” he’s nervous, very nervous. “It was good… I know you didn’t ask me here to talk about breakfast Schlatt so let’s just get right to it shall we?” you cut straight through wanting to get this over with. Schlatt flinches slightly at the sharp tone but nods, “I’m so sorry for last night… No for the last few months. I have been an extremely shitty fiance and that hasn’t been fair to you. My behavior, especially these last few months, and especially last night was unacceptable. I’m so sorry and I really hope you’ll forgive me” You wait just a moment to make sure he was finished before you speak. And boy do you speak, “You’re right. You’ve been really shitty and it hasn’t been fair to me… But if you think a single apology is going to fix all of it. You’re dead wrong Schlatt. Dead wrong… These past few months have been hell for me. I’ve tried so hard to be supportive to try and have your back but you just kept pushing me away. I went to bed alone, I woke up alone, I had to take care of myself all while I was also trying to take care of you…. Schlatt last night you yelled at me, you screamed at me. You blamed me for the riff in our relationship. Blamed me for you having a job you claim you never wanted. I never forced you to run for president. I never forced Quackity to give you his votes. I never forced you to do anything you didn’t want to do. I simply stood behind you and supported you…. Last night you threw a glass bottle at my head. Had I not ducked it would have hit me straight in the face. I would have been severely hurt and it would have been your fault. But the thing that hurts the most, the thing that tears me up inside. Schlatt. You told me you hated me. You said you hate me.”

Schlatt is in tears by the time you’ve finished and you’re nearly there too. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry baby. So sorry. I know I’ve been so bad. So horrible. I’m so sorry. It’s not your fault, it was never your fault. It’s mine and I know that. I take complete and utter responsibility. When I ran it was a joke, it was for a joke. I never expected to win, but you supported me anyway. You’ve always supported me and I know I don’t deserve you. I really don’t. Last night, when we were talking, well yelling, I was so drunk out of my mind. I thought you were me. I thought you were me and I was talking to a version of myself, a hallucination. That’s why I screamed at you. That’s why I told you it’s your fault. That I threw the bottle, and why I said I hated you. But when I heard you scream, everything became clear. I finally saw it was you and I knew I had fucked up. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s my explanation. I understand if you never want to see me again. I wouldn’t want to see me again.” Schlatt explains before breaking down into sobs. It all makes sense, the way he acted last night. Why he did and said those horrible things to you. You could tell he wasn’t lying. You know you still have a lot to talk about and work through, but for now, you quickly rise from your chair, move around the desk, before sitting yourself down in his lap and burying your face in his neck, pulling yourself close to him. His arms immediately shoot out and wrap around you and tug you to him so tightly, as if he’s scared if he let’s go, he’ll lose you. You cry in each other’s arms for a few moments, just letting out all of your emotions. The missing of one another, the sadness, and longing. You manage to get yourself under control first, pulling back to look him in the eyes “We still have a lot to talk about and you still have a lot of making up to do, but I’m going to forgive you. Not right now, but I will eventually. We’re going to make this work lover.” You promise your fiance, leaning forward and pressing a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I swear to you I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. You’re my everything my love and I swear that I’ll make this right” he whispers before leaning forward and capturing your lips into a real and proper kiss. The kind you haven’t had in months. And you can’t help but absolutely melt in Schlatt’s lap. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. You two are going to be alright. Schlatt will make sure of it.

#mcyt #mcyt imagine #mcyt drabble #schlatt #schlatt imagine #schlatt drabble #c!schlatt #ray responds #drabble #🌻 anon #anon #asks

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keplercryptids · 3 years

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[image description: "my tumblr year in review" banner. end description.]

I posted 7,605 times in 2021

1469 posts created (19%)

6136 posts reblogged (81%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 4.2 posts.

I added 5,872 tags in 2021

#artist described - 1122 posts

#reforged campaign - 1076 posts

#jd&d - 679 posts

#fantasy high - 554 posts

#jd.txt - 518 posts

#taz balance - 482 posts

#accessible art - 450 posts

#x me a q - 442 posts

#accessible fanart - 336 posts

#dnd art - 213 posts

Longest Tag: 113 characters

#i was gonna tag the book im talking about but truthfully i think this about most books written by cis people lmao

My Top Posts in 2021

i wish people could be less “all or nothing” when it comes to accessibility efforts. by that i mean, of course it’s important that everything be made accessible. but i feel like some people get caught up in that mentality and decide “well, i can’t possibly make everything around me accessible, so i’ll do nothing instead.”

writing one image description is better than writing none. writing a very brief image description is better than writing none. providing transcripts for new episodes of your podcast moving forward is better than never providing any at all. making something slightly more accessible according to your own ability and resources is so, so much better than doing nothing!

4736 notes • Posted 2021-03-08 02:41:39 GMT

PSA: please do not take out a personal loan even if your favorite podcast family says you should

i don't listen to mcelroy podcasts these days so i didn't know about this before now, but i am... rather alarmed they are advertising for Upstart, a predatory loan company, targeted at their young, parasocial-leaning fanbase during a global pandemic that has taken a huge financial toll on people.

19874 notes • Posted 2021-04-18 09:41:12 GMT

no no no. shh and listen. lesbians and bisexuals are friends. bisexual and pan people are friends. gay and ace people are friends. trans binary and nonbinary people are friends. you’re wrong, we’re all friends, shut up

27650 notes • Posted 2021-03-04 00:19:29 GMT

tumblr staff just intrigues me. remember when they designed a guy fieri banner that linked to his wiki or whatever for his birthday? and now they have a whole themed world sleep day promo. someone sat in an office somewhere and said, "you know what our userbase wants? to celebrate guy fieri's birthday. you know what we should encourage our users to do? log off and go to sleep." i am fascinated by these decisions. i would love to be a fly on the wall in a staff meeting, just once. who are these people and how do their minds work.

52529 notes • Posted 2021-03-19 20:07:22 GMT

"wow you blocked me just cuz i disagreed with you???"

yes. yes, exactly. this is a social media site. i come here to look at pictures of birds and shitpost with my friends. this is not a town hall meeting; i am not your elected official. i do not owe you my energy, my space, or my time. you and i are strangers that use the same website. i can block you for literally any reason and that's okay. take a deep breath. block me too. you'll feel better.

99618 notes • Posted 2021-03-08 19:57:09 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#these posts haunt me lmao #also this is proof im only here to talk about my dnd game tbh #and also accessibility and giving artists credit who describe their own shit #tumblr year in review

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theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin · 4 years

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Yeah, so I read your HP headcanons/analysis and I found it really well put. I was wondering about your thoughts on Dumbledore and who he really was as a person. (It’s okay if you don’t really want to reply :> )

We’re just getting all up into The Carnivorous Muffin headcanon land, aren’t we?

Well, this one’s probably obvious to anyone who reads my work.

I fall on the manipulative Dumbledore side of things and then some. Dumbledore is not only a bastard man but is a raging misogynist and extremely classist (which is funny because I don’t see too many people calling him out for those last two when to me canon all but shouts it at you).

Basically, what it comes down to, is even taken in very good faith I simply cannot read Dumbledore’s actions as benign in pretty much every single goddamn decision he makes ever.

God, where do I even start here? I guess we can go chronologically.

Well, there was Dumbledore’s Wizard Nazi youth with an oddly Dorian Gray flare to it with Gellert. I think it’s fairly obvious why Dumbledore’s not exactly... good there so I’m going to skip past it. Suffice to say, it took his sister’s death (and maybe murdering his own invalid sister) for Dumbledore to stop planning world domination. Even then it wasn’t so much that world domination was wrong, but because his sister died and he was an asshole.

I’m going to go ahead and include CoG and Fantastic Beasts because I can (CoG, while a terrible movie, actually does entertain me in many ways). Anyways, before the films came out I always considered the younger Dumbledore far more stoic and brooding. He doesn’t get his eccentric persona until after the defeat of Grindelwald and was before then angsty mcangsts and an academic at heart.

Well, per CoG, apparently he was a budding spy master long before defeating Gellert/Voldemort popped up. We see him manipulating Newt, sending him to Paris as his own agent, WHEN NEWT DOESN’T WANT TO GO AND HAS ACKNOWLEDGED THAT DUMBLEDORE USED HIM INTHE LAST FILM. Dumbledore writes off having used Newt for his own agenda with a charming smile but none the less it paints a pretty grim picture that Albus has always been... Albus. There has always been a greater good out there somewhere and the man is always using someone as a pawn.

Cut to canon and his treatment of Tom Riddle. Frankly, Dumbledore’s treatment of the young Tom Riddle, and even Tom Riddle just before he came Voldemort, is insane. The thought experiment I like to run is “replace Tom in those scenes with Harry Potter”.

Harry was a poor orphan, whose guardians would more than match what Mrs. Cole said about Tom Riddle, who had spurts of accidental magic now and then and enjoyed when his bully cousin was discomfitted. Now, imagine Dumbledore giving Harry his letter, and then pretending to light all of Harry’s possessions on fire to “teach him a lesson”. What the fuck?

Now, am I saying Tom Riddle wasn’t creepy here and that killing a rabbit was terrible. No. But I am saying Dumbledore had a horrible reaction to it and is proud of it years later. (Also, the fact that he uses this memory to convince Harry of how evil Tom is, is hilarious to me. Dumbledore, you were the shit that lit people’s wardrobes on fire. If I was Tom, I’d be upset too).

Dumbledore is always like this with Tom Riddle. He thinks the worst of Tom even in points where Tom hasn’t done anything. I’m not talking about later when, yes, Tom did live up to Dumbledore’s fears but when Dumbledore treats him like garbage and actively sabotaged Tom’s career.

Anyways, cut to later when the Marauders are in school. One of the big things is that Dumbledore puts up a guerilla resistance gang OF SCHOOL CHILDREN. While most members are older, James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, and Peter are all only just out of Hogwarts. “Well,” you say, “It’s their choice and they did graduate. Surely Dumbledore wasn’t actually recruiting school children.” I point you towards canon, where Dumbledore convinces three actual school children that the fate of the nation rests on their shoulders and to go fight the good fight. So yes, Dumbledore canonically uses child soldiers and has no regret for doing so.

The other is letting James and Sirius off the hook for the Lupin incident. While Dumbledore talks the talk this showed that he was not willing to walk the walk. True, while getting them into major trouble would have involved outing Lupin (who was innocent in all of this) at the same time they were nearly responsible for the murder of another student. It’s very convenient that Dumbledore lets off the rich son of a lord, two individuals who later end up in the resistance movement (Potter likely funding part of it), and tells the impoverished half blood to sit down and shut up.

And in canon, yes, I believe that Dumbledore absolutely knew what Harry’s home condition was like. While the blood wards are an excuse they aren’t a particularly good one as for most of Harry’s childhood the Death Eaters were all accounted for. Harry was in no extreme danger from them. To not have had an inkling of Harry’s home life (when Harry even hints at it when wanting to stay over the summer, Harry runs away from home in third year, Fred and George see the bars on the window, and he even visits Harry’s home in sixth year) would be such laughable incompetence and stupidity it’s right out.

With that, I absolutely do believe what Snape showed us in the memory, the Dumbledore behind the scenes as it were. That Dumbledore knew fairly early that Harry Potter was a horcrux and began grooming Harry for suicide. Specifically, that’s what sixth year really is. All those memories of Tom Riddle, the pretext to get some memory from Slughorn, it’s an excuse for a smear campaign designed to convince Harry that Tom Riddle is inherently evil and must die at all costs, even Harry’s own life.

Dumbledore didn’t need that Slughorn memory. Sure, it was useful to know Tom intended to make seven but think about it. How did Dumbledore know there’d be anything remotely useful in there? He doesn’t know that Tom actually drops a number on Slughorn. Even then, he doesn’t know whether Tom actually goes and does it. All of it felt like, “Harry, I have a super secret important mission that only YOU can do. Can you handle it, Harry? Because without this the country is surely doomed” And in that I mean it was an effort to win back Harry’s favor after the previous year meltdown, keep him busy, and start in on the excuse to show Harry some pretty damn innocuous memories of Tom Riddle and go, “See, HE IS EVIL!”

Due to this, I frankly think that the train scene was a hallucination on Harry’s part. Wishful thinking for some gentle explanation of how Dumbledore had not cruelly used him for years and intended his death.

Well, that and it never made much sense that Dumbledore could predict Harry’s a) becoming the master of death b) miraculous second resurrection.

In the first case, Harry becomes master of death because of wand lore bullshit and happenstance where Harry happens to save Draco’s life. Dumbledore had no idea such a thing would happen. Dumbledore’s plan was for there to be no master of death, as the wand would default to having no owner when Snape defeated Dumbledore on Dumbledore’s orders. That Draco got the wand is a sort of Deus ex Machina. Sorry guys, Dumbledore intended Harry to die.

More, even then, while Dumbledore was very into the occult of these things we leave canon without any idea if these things are even responsible for his resurrection. They’re just relatively nifty objects with a legend behind them. There was nothing concrete to suggest that, should Harry happen to get all of them, he would be able to rise from the dead.

Otherwise onto the misogyny and classism parts.

In terms of misogyny this is from every time Dumbledore talks about Lily Evans or Merope Gaunt. In the case of Lily, she’s this weird Madonna figure whose love for Harry was so powerful it saved his life. That she also happened to make these blood wards Dumbledore cannot reproduce and extended her protection to Harry wherever he went is irrelevant. It’s her love that counts. That feminine, maternal, love purer than all others.

Basically, Dumbledore seems to be of the belief that women are flowers. The best of women are these demure, selfless, brave women who sacrifice themselves for their children. Yikes, Dumbledore.

Merope’s the really bad one though. Merope’s tale is how she drugged and raped a defenseless muggle for months and then he escaped. Dumbledore spins it into this Victorian tale of woe where Tom Riddle Sr. THE KIDNAPPED RAPE VICTIM is the asshole here who abandoned Merope to the merciless cold world. How dare he.

It’s very clear that Dumbledore doesn’t see Merope, or women in general, as people. Instead these weird Victorian ideals who can be tragic victims of circumstance.

As for the classism.

While Dumbledore’s very against the pureblood culture we see in the Malfoys a lot of his treatment of Tom Riddle feels very... classist. The big one, which is a little tangential but I say it counts, is Dumbledore’s theory that children of rape are incapable of love. Granted, he’s saying this while convincing Harry to kill himself for the good of the cause and there is a real world parallel in that alcohol/drugs while pregnant is a very bad idea that can lead to extreme mental and physical health disorders. That said, we’re talking love potions at conception, and it always read more as “rape babies” vs. specific drugs. And that is... just yikes on so many levels.

Now, do I agree with manipulative Dumbledore we see in many fics? No, because Dumbledore’s not that stupid.

He doesn’t need to borrow money from Harry’s vault, he doesn’t need to pay off Hermione and Ron to be Harry’s friends, he doesn’t need to choose Harry’s friends for him, he doesn’t need to manipulate Harry’s memories directly. He doesn’t need to do any of this because he got what he wanted just fine in canon.

Dumbledore is one of the smartest characters in canon, far smarter than Harry, and he doesn’t have to stoop to such outrageous schemes to get what he wants. Poorly concealed smear campaigns convincing Harry to commit suicide are more than enough.

#ask #anon #headcanons #albus dumbledore #manipulative dumbledore #dumbledore is pretty damn evil guys #as in there is pretty much not a single action you can point to where i'll say it was reasonable and not in some way underhanded #except maybe his choice in wardrobe #the man has some elton john style

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disregardcanon · 4 years

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rwby julie and the phantoms au featuring dead girl band rwby and jaune as the conduit. but like, jaune who just half-way cheated his way into music school

the year is 1995 and the girl band RWBY is a rising power in the indie music world. composed of four talented, each with a rich and interesting backstory for the public to latch onto, they’re well on their way to becoming LGBT icons- if not actual stars. weiss, blake, and yang are twenty and ruby is eighteen.

weiss schnee is the daughter of silicone valley tycoon jacques schnee, who made headlines when she cut off all her hair and ran away from home to join a queer girl band. she’s the second schnee daughter to leave home, winter having joined the military back in 1992. she’s the band’s lead vocalist, though she occasionally plays violin in tracks that they write it into.

blake belladonna is already a famous singer. she sprung onto the scene in 1992 in a duo known as “bellataurus”. acting as the full sonny and cher package, adam taurus served as both older boyfriend and older manager until blake broke from him and helped to form RWBY in 1994. she took her vocals, her piano skills, GUITAR skills, and her songwriting skills with her.

yang xiao long and ruby rose are legacies of the highest order. summer, raven, qrow, and tai formed a band when they were kids and they became some of the biggest rockstars of the seventies and eighties- and later some of the biggest scandals. raven and tai’s messy, public breakup after the birth of their daughter signaled the band’s death- but then the birth of tai and SUMMER’S child signaled an even bigger scandal. the tabloids had an absolute field day over the new baby.

yang learned lots of instruments, but mainly took up the drums from her dad. the same went for ruby, but she mainly stole qrow’s guitar and made him teach her to shred.

unfortunately, the media never stopped following the two kids around, even through ruby’s transition. in a mixed bag for the remnants of STRQ and their children, the media circus that followed ruby rose coming out as a girl in NINETEEN NINETY TWO. the remaining members of STRQ still had a lot of clout and fully put their support behind her, but transmisognyny’s a bitch and it still followed them everywhere. yang coming out publicly as a lesbian neither helped nor hindered the situation, but it did make ruby feel a bit less alone.

the girls formed their band about a year before their- uh, UNTIMELY deaths in 1995. this came 3 days after a confrontation between blake and adam, where she promised that she would never, EVER date him again. she wouldn’t even work with him again. she and her band were going to become stars and actually help make social changes, instead of them just bullying her into going along with whatever THEY want from her and keeping her mouth shut because politics kills careers.

they’re playing the ORPHEUM! the theater where so many bands have gotten their big break! she doesn’t need him now and she didn’t need him then.

eating bad street hot dogs after the warm up for a performance that blake promised adam 3 days ago would be the best that she ever gave- well. that’s just a weird coincidence, right?

cue 2020.

jaune arc has recently gotten into his first semester at a prestigious music college in the LA area, close to his family’s home where he still lives. the garage/studio out back remains largely untouched. half of that’s because cleaning the place out would be a lot of work, but half of it’s because his parents feel bad about the idea of cleaning out all of STRQ’s old recording equipment that both summer and tai promised they “didn’t want anymore” while selling the house in the wake of their daughters’ deaths.

it’s not like the area is really suitable as a garage, and the arcs can spare a little room just in case those people ever change their minds.. even though they haven’t in twenty five years.

jaune’s house isn’t completely empty because he still has one of his older sisters going to college in LA at the same time, but it’s preeetttyy empty. his parents are hands off at this point and don’t even wonder how their baby who never even took any music lessons has gotten into a school like this.

it’s not like he doesn’t sing and sing pretty well, but they’re not even certain he can read music. spoiler alert: he can’t.

jaune is actually VERY good at working by ear and performing, but his music education growing up was lacking. on all levels. his parents encouraged him to do sports as his primary activity and he had no time for anything else and his public school music ed did not get him what he needed to go to music school.

frankly, he doesn’t even know what a treble clef is called. so. he’s a bit behind when going into his college classes. he was only able to fake the paperwork to get into music theory II, but considering that he’s. uh, completely unaware of what those notes mean he’s a bit fucked.

he’s always just been able to pull the song out of his ass because he listened to enough music to learn stuff by ear, but now he’s supposed to work through all this stuff with notation and he MIGHT BE DYING

he’s assigned to a group project with ren and nora and pyrrha and, well, thank god pyrrha notices and is kind enough to try to fill in the cracks.

but there’s a lot of cracks, you know? he’s barely pulling the grades that he needs to not get kicked out of the program at the moment, and he’s not entirely sure how to go about getting an accompanist for his end of semester showcase and ren and nora are already working together (they both play guitar and sing together) and pyrrha’s a soloist and -

oh god, he’s going to get kicked out of this program, isn’t he?

pyrrha keeps talking him down out of the anxiety because she is very kind and has a very big crush because jaune still has noticed that she’s a pop star that wanted to (but is failing to) have a normal college experience.

she lets him borrow her copy of RWBY’s first and only album and lets him take it home to listen to it. he decides to listen to it in the studio because he knows that’s where music, at one point, happened.

and it of course summons the souls of all four girls. they have ghostly mischief as they try to figure out how to make things work, and realize that while people who aren’t jaune can’t see them- people can HEAR THEM. and then when they play along with jaune for his end of semester show case- they realize that people can SEE THEM when they play with him.

pyrrha is confused about why jaune’s hologram band looks so much like RWBY, and she’s a little jealous and hurt that he’s been keeping this from her while letting HER bear the brunt of helping him with his struggles. jaune doesn’t know how to say that yeah, those are the actual ghosts of RWBY.

petty drama, petty drama, the girls are feeling suffocated by the fact that they’re actually dead and can’t interact with anyone who’s alive. ruby decides to go clear her head and meets another, very sweet and enthusiastic ghost named penny who likes to skateboard.

penny is very sweet and ruby has what is known in show biz as a CRUSH. ruby learns a bit about how this ghost stuff works from her (some powers, about the unfinished business being what’s tying them to the land of the living, that she is VERY GAY) and she comes back to her friends to say hello yes i know things now and am also gay. wasn’t positive about that before but it’s a fact now

here’s where i lose my thread and am too tired to find it again but other things

1. ironwood is the villain of this. if you’re familiar with jatp, he serves the same function as caleb covington if not the exact same motives. he seals souls to him by a contract but with the express purpose of building a safe afterlife for ghosts... by making sure that all of them are under his control. winter, who died in one of the united state’s middle eastern campaigns is his right hand ghost.

weiss is majorly conflicted by this because. it’s winter, you know? it’s winter. and it seems like this guy is trying to make things better for ghosts, right? he’s got a homebase and he can make them visible sometimes and make it so they can eat food and lots of stuff. but it comes with a heavy level of control.

he doesn’t go after the girls until later because he thinks that they’ll come back, but when he DOES... the fact that he owns penny’s soul and doesn’t see her or any of the souls under his control as full people comes up in an ugly way.

2. adam taurus is the trevor wilson of this, but waaaayyy worse. he did in fact kill the girls and pillaged what he could of blake’s songs to record and put out under his own name. he‘s a big star, but a fading one, and he has a few vengeful ghost coming for him.

3. winter is a ghost, but whitley is a ghost of himself. at this point he’s forty and still doesn’t even know what he wants because he’s molded himself into what his dad wants so thoroughly. getting him to realize that he wants more and wants things for himself definitely comes up. winter also helps take down ironwood and free the souls. eventually

4. jaune IS a necromancer. he’s going to be able to see penny and others and eventually can give ghosts the power they need to be seen whenever they want. RWBYJNPR eventually becomes a big band that plays together sometimes

5. raven only came back for a few days for yang and ruby’s funeral before disappearing. qrow fell from grace quite dramatically when he accused adam taurus of murder with no evidence and became the laughing stock of america. he kept trying to find something that would fill the holes in his life, but he hasn’t lucked out with that yet... except the alcoholism, maybe.

tai and summer are still together, but they’re pretty miserable and they moved far away from LA to get out of the spotlight.

RWBY gets summer, tai, and qrow back together on purpose... and raven shows up when she sees her dead daughter singing on national television. the STRQ reunion is awkward and stilted, but things get better from there.

strq instruments

summer: vocalist with some piano

raven and qrow: bass and standard guitar respectively with some vocals

tai: drummer with some vocals

6. pyrrha and jaune eventually actually become the great duo that adam tried to market himself and blake as. sorry not sorry

7. not sure how they do it but they DO prove that adam murdered them and all of them including qrow get Vindication TM

8. the bumbleby isn’t a big plot point but they were dancing around getting together when they died and it happens slowly once they’re back <3

#rwby aus #jaune arc #team rwby #team strq #arkos #nuts and dolts #bumbleby #ruby rose #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #schneeblings

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ravnicaforgoblins · 4 years

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Ravnica for Goblins

One-Shots and Story Hooks

One thing Ravnica campaigns are rarely without is conflict. On a good day, somewhere between nine and ten of the Guilds will be having an issue with one another in some way, shape, or form. This is good for adventuring parties because it means there’s always something to do. While coming up with a session can literally be as simple as picking two Guilds and building off their general reasons for not liking each other (which is as easy as picking a fight on the internet), sometimes you need help. You need something to kickstart those creative ideas again.

Fortunately, the artists over at Wizards of the Coast have had over a dozen sets/releases to craft not just the main storyline of Ravnica, but unique little one-offs as well. They come with absolutely stellar artwork to help build the atmosphere of the City of Guilds, and wonderful bits of flavor text that are prime jumping-off points for your story ideas.

So here are four story hooks taken straight from Ravnica cards to incorporate into your campaign. You don’t have to follow these prompts exactly, but if they spark some ideas of your own, run with them.

Watchwolf

Ravnica can be lonely & intimidating for a Druid. With so much of the world made up of pavement and skyline, one’s connection with nature can feel like a long-distance relationship. You’d be hard-pressed to find a tree outside the Conclave without venturing into Rubblebelt territory. Furthermore, what animals do inhabit the big city have been almost unilaterally conscripted into service by one Guild or another. Azorius hawks, Boros hounds, Gruul boars, Selesnya cattle; to say nothing of the terrifying creations churned out from Guilds like the Simic, Orzhov, or Rakdos.

Even the rats seem to have loyalties.

I was browsing a Tin Street stall for watermelon seeds when I saw it. A wolf, staring right at me from a bridge nearby. I looked around but didn’t see anyone it seemed to belong to. Boros dogs wear armor, Ledev dire wolves are never without their rider, and if it was Gruul it would almost certainly have some sort of clan markings. Could it be a wild one?

Noticing my gaze, the wolf made its way over to me. It avoided the crowd with a comfort you don’t see in wild animals. This wolf definitely belonged to someone in the city.

A few of the merchants were staring at us. Even if it was trained, it was definitely making them nervous. The wolf nipped & tugged at my tunic with its mouth. Not with aggression, but with urgency. Spend enough time with animals, you learn to spot the difference. I bought my seeds, tipped the shopkeep generously, and brought the wolf to a quieter part of the city to speak with it.

Who are you?

Watcher

A watcher? Curious.

What do you need, Watcher?

Help

What help do you need?

Lost

You’re lost?

Watcher shook his muzzle.

Where’s your owner, Watcher?

Taken

Taken? Taken by whom?

Watcher told me.

A what?

Role Reversal

This was definitely one for the books. Even for the Senate, seeing a Sphinx up close is extremely rare. Seeing one at your desk filing a complaint about another Sphinx is unheard of.

“They are Uthlon the Wise. A model among their peers for stoicism, moderation, and sound judgement.”

“And you’re filing a complaint against Uthlon for....”

I checked my notebook.

“....Getting drunk and painting rude words on the temple of Azor.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll look into it.”

I expected a response. There’s always a response when people get angry enough to file a complaint. However, instead of shouting or threats, the Sphinx Agammemnos stepped back from my desk and perched down a few feet away. They were really going to wait there until I looked into this. My lunch was sitting an arm’s reach away. I sighed deeply. I hated this job sometimes.

Then, another Sphinx came in and approached my desk.

“I am here to file a complaint regarding Uthlon the Wise.”

I took my notebook back out.

“For the crime of shouting out ‘River’.”

I had to ask for that one again. Apparently, they were asking someone a riddle, as Sphinxes do, when Uthlon the Wise popped up and shouted the riddle’s answer. For that, I might seek out this Uthlon the Wise for the sole purpose of giving them a medal. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind when another Sphinx, this one rubbing their head and moving as though drunk, wandered in.

“I....am here to....file a complaint.”

“Regarding Uthlon the Wise?”

The Sphinx looked pleased. They do love when someone can guess what they’re thinking.

“Uthlon the Wise hit me over the head with a club.”

I’d just finished writing that down when more Sphinxes came strolling in. I’d never seen this many in one place, not even in Isperia’s court. Then I saw the strangest thing of all. A goblin came in, calmly walked up to my desk, and told me in the best Common I’ve ever heard from a goblin:

"My name is Uthlon the Wise.”

For the love of the Guildpact, what is going on here?

Mass Manipulation

There they are. I thought I made my instructions clear to dress the part. One way you can always spot a Dimir is by their shabby taste. They’re so concerned with being able to keep things hidden in their clothes that they can never wear anything that fits them properly. Orzhov assassins, by contrast, always dress to kill. We turn the art of killing into an actual art. And here this tit comes showing up at the finest diner in the Precinct wearing that awful trenchcoat. Ghosts, I should have hired that Ochran. At least they know not to be seen.

The only reason I’m resorting to this alley skulker is because I need the job done quickly and on the cheap. If this imbecile ruins my appetite, I’m docking the price of the meal from their pay. Then again, if I do that, I wouldn’t be paying them at all.

Seems fair to me.

“Dreadfully sorry I’m late.”

“If this is how you run your business, I may just take mine elsewhere.”

“Now, now, let’s not get hasty.”

The server came over to take our orders, but because of this idiot’s tardiness, my main course would have to wait while they ordered drinks.

“Would you like to see our wine list?”

“Water is fine, thank you.”

Ghosts, I should have hired the Rakdos. This whole day is already a loss and it’s only breakfast. Why did I ever think these fools could be trusted with something important?

The server poured water from the pitcher while I waited.

“So, what’s the job?”

“What’s the job? The job is everything! How you present yourself! How you treat your clients! How you behave in high society! How am I supposed to trust you with a contract when you can’t even show up on time for a breakfast?”

They just sat there, drinking their water. Not even the decency to look ashamed. I’m going to put a word in to the Judge for another purge, this is unacceptable. We shouldn’t have to put up with these dredges.

Finishing their water, they clinked their glass on the table.

The whole diner was suddenly quiet. Not the awkward, shocked quiet of society types pausing to listen. I’ve lived in this city for almost 70 years and I’ve never heard anything like this kind of silence. Every single person froze in their place, some halfway in the motion of eating or talking. Then, every single head turned in our direction at once.

“I was afraid it might come to this. I know you have things to do, so I’ll be brief. When I ask you for the job, I don’t need your background or history and especially not your personal take. I know how uptight you Syndicate types are about contracts & paperwork & details and all that nonsense. I just need the deed and the name of the person it’s being done to. That’s all.”

Every face stares at me with blank captivation. Not a single eye blinks. Not a single mouth draws breath. Including mine.

“But first, let’s talk about the pay. For starters, since the target is probably wealthy enough to afford protection, the rate will double. Second, since you clearly have trouble keeping your mouth shut, you’ll need to be kept under supervision until the job is done, so the rate will double again. Lastly, since the reason I was late was because I was debating whether or not to poison your drink, let’s double it again and call it a deal.”

I swallow hard. I should have never gotten involved with House Dimir.

“Seems fair to me.”

“Excellent. Now, what’s the job?”

Debtors’ Transport

This one will not be easy. This isn’t your standard smash & grab in the Bulwark where the Wojek are too busy busting Gruul skulls to chase after a gang of thieves. Everyone in the city has thought of it at least once; rob the Orzhov. The problem is, everyone knows what happens to anyone who tries; best case execution, worst case servitude. The air surrounding the Orzhov Guildhall is saturated with the ghosts of poor souls still paying off their debts to the Syndicate centuries after death. It’s not a fate you wish unto anyone, least of all yourself.

But still....the temptation is right there. An Orzhov transport, one of those big bloated ones that look like someone took a person, removed their bones, and then blew them up like a balloon. Walking right through the plaza. Every week, same time, same route, same cargo. An enormous sarcophagus filled with more coin than your average Ravnican citizen will see in a lifetime, and the moans of the latest poor soul who fell too far behind on their payments.

From the street separating the haves & have-nots of Precinct Two, around the Hall of the Guildpact in Precinct One, then a straight shot along Plaza Avenue to the Orzhova Church. Roughly one hour to walk five miles of city and deliver the cargo into the greedy hands of the Ghost Council.

They aren’t subtle about their business, but they aren’t subtle about security, either. At least four Advokists and Knights for a light haul, double that for a bigger one, and if they’re really hauling a score you can expect a trio of their fully-plated Giants as well. Not to mention the gargoyles they have perched on roofs for every single street along the route. And the transports themselves aren’t exactly known for being well-tempered when something agitates them.

But you rip off a score like that and your entire crew can afford to buy a mansion on a floating mountain.

Assuming you get away, of course. That’s always the rub. There are few things the Syndicate take more personally than being robbed. You rob a score like that, they don’t just send the Order of Sorrows after you, they send the Angels. The executors of Orzhov justice who don’t sleep, don’t stop for lunch, don’t stop for anything until they find you. At least when the Firemane kill someone it’s an exciting way to go. Better death by immolation than spending every night listening for the sound of feathered wings dropping a scythe down on you.

But if you did it right, made sure no one saw you, made sure no one could trace it back to you, it could be done. It can be done.

But who would be willing to take the risk?

#Ravnica for Goblins #Ravnica #goblins #mtg #d&d 5e #DnD #dungeons & dragons #dungeons and dragons #roleplay #story hooks #D&D #one shot #campaign

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eury--dice · 4 years

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history, huh?

chapter 3: propius

(check the rb for chapters 1 + 2 on tumblr + ao3 links!)

Adam was woken at 5 o’clock on the dot with a series of sharp knocks on his door. “Up and Adam,” Gansey’s voice called, making the one stupid dad joke that always set Adam’s blood to a boil. He was too tired to react, however.

“Kindly leave until a later time,” he called, his voice heavy with sleep. “I don’t have class for another three hours.”

Gansey opened the door anyway, striding in with more pep than anyone should have in the morning.

“You’ve made the tabloids, my friend. Your weekend with Ronan finally hit.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Nope,” Gansey said cheerfully. “‘From America, With Love: Ronan and Adam flaunt friendship.’” He turned on his heel once he’d crossed the length of the room, which Adam could never forget was formerly Malia Obama’s, and seated himself in Adam’s desk chair.

Adam had never been closer to considering strangulation. He elected to shove his hearing ear into his pillow instead.

Unfortunately, the muffled sounds of Gansey speaking still made their way in. “‘Photos: Adam’s Weekend in England,’ oh, that’s boring…ah-hah: ‘New Bromance Alert? Pics of FSOTUS and Prince Ronan.’”

Adam resigned himself to his fate and mentally promised himself a giant cup of coffee. “As long as I’m getting fewer death threats on Twitter, I’m happy,” he mumbled into his blankets.

Gansey ignored him. “Why are you so tired? It’s the hour of kings, time to be awake and alive.”

“I’d settle for dead if it meant I could sleep at this point, to be frank.”

“Please don’t be frank. Be Adam.”

Adam sat up, eyeing Gansey in his wire-framed glasses with disdain. “Any more puns and I suffocate myself with this pillow.”

“Please don’t,” Gansey said, but his eyes had already returned to his screen. While he read through the articles, he continued his line of questioning. “Working on the campaign late last night?”

“Not really,” Adam admitted. “I had a Press and the Presidency paper to write.”

“Just write ‘I’m Adam Parrish’ on a piece of loose-leaf paper to turn it in and you’ll probably get an A. You live it every day, for Christ’s sake.”

“And yet I still need to cite sources in Chicago Advanced.”

“You’d think nepotism would work out more in your favor.” He flicked to a fresh article, a gesture Adam only recognized from all the other times Gansey had done it. “Luckily, I think the press is eating this one up.”

Adam grimaced. “Fantastic.”

“Not-campaign-ruining, you mean.”

“That too, I suppose.” He wanted nothing more than to flop back against his pillows and get the sleep his body so desperately craved after being jet lagged for a week, but he fought the urge.

“That _ People _exclusive takes the cake, I think. I didn’t realize how much you cherished your relationship with Ronan.”

“Fuck off, please. Or end my misery.”

“No to both. Why are you even taking that press course?”

Adam slid out from under his blankets, rolling his shoulders to try and wake up more. “Curiosity, I guess. It never hurts to learn more of what not to do.”

Gansey looked up from his phone to level a glance at Adam. “And what have you learned so far?”

“…Don’t have a sex scandal?”

“You _ would _need someone to tell you that.”

_ “Hey,” _Adam said, affecting outrage.

Gansey lifted his thumb to run over his lower lip, tilting his head consideringly. “One of us three will probably have a scandal before your mother’s second term is up.”

“If there is a second.”

“Chin up, young padawan. With you working on it we’re guaranteed.”

“I don’t know, Gansey,” Adam replied. “I don’t think I’m the good luck charm you believe in.”

“Of course you are,” Gansey said. “We won the first time, no?”

Adam glanced exaggeratedly around the room and to the phone in Gansey’s hand. “I’d say so. That or we’re about to get questioned very thoroughly about the the events of last three years.”

“Don’t make me cut you off on the true-crime videos.”

His eyes narrowed, focusing on Gansey. “Don’t you dare.”

“Blue agrees, anyway,” Gansey said, successfully deflecting topics. “Said there’s a ninety-four percent chance you’ll get into a sex scandal before the general.”

“Both of you date more than I do, why am I the one who’s supposedly having a sex scandal?” Once his initial outrage passed, disbelief crept in at the time of day. “Did you just text Blue at five AM and get a response? How the hell did you manage that?”

“She’s been up,” Gansey dismissed. Adam stared at him for a moment, and then Gansey seemed to feel the weight of his stare. His eyes widened almost comically. “Oh, Christ, no, not that. Nate Silver asked for another set of eyes on the Superbowl predictions, and she’s trying to get a shoo-in with them before the primaries begin. I just brought her some coffee.”

“And you didn’t bring me any?”

“You’re the only one of us who hasn’t been up all night. You need coffee the least of all of us.”

“Don’t blame me for your bad decisions.” Adam squinted at Gansey. “Were you working on an article all night or something?”

He snorted. “Hardly. They’ve been blocking all of my pieces. Too far from my mother’s politics, too far from your mother’s, too controversial, too critical, all in that order.”

“Thought you were liking the _ Post _gig?”

“On paper,” Gansey dismissed. “I’ve defaulted to writing about Welsh history.”

“Sounds like it’s right up your alley, then.”

“Once again, on paper.”

“How do you even connect the Welsh to the hellscape of American politics?”

Gansey waved a hand. “‘Eternal spirit,’ ‘fighting for honor,’ ‘remembering Glendower and others who set a pristine model,’ et cetera, et cetera.”

“People read that? That just sounds like you in high school spouting off again.”

“Yes, Adam. People read it.” Gansey squinted at his phone again. “Twitter _ really _likes you and Ronan together.”

“We’re exciting,” Adam said dryly, reaching for his laptop. He scanned over his most recent paper while Gansey dramatically narrated replies to the gif of them on _ This Morning. _

“‘Either of them could stab me and give me one of those smiles and I’d thank them,’ Jesus Christ,” Gansey read, “They really love your fake smiles… ‘name a more iconic duo, I’ll wait,’ hm, maybe any other duo? ‘Oh my God, just _ kiss already.’” _

Adam choked out a laugh as Gansey punctuated the last one with a dramatic and uncharacteristic hand wave. “At least it’s working,” he allowed, shutting his laptop once he felt secure about his essay. “Now get out. _ Some _of us have places to be.”

Adam’s phone buzzed on his way out of his cursed Presidency and the Press course.

Somehow, the interest of those around him seemed to pique even higher when he looked at his phone instead of in front of him. It wasn’t a new sensation by any means; ever since starting at Georgetown, he’d felt eyes on him constantly, but the intensity increased tenfold each time his classmates thought he was too occupied to see them staring. He noticed every time, but of course nothing could be done about it.

The name _ HRH shitty bird boy _ popped across his screen. How strange - in only a week, he’d almost entirely forgotten that the name he had (quite maturely) given Ronan in his phone was… _ that. _As he swiped the notification open, he felt a certain amount of trepidation as to what a technology-averse prince would ever text him about.

His harassment and emergency fears flew out the window with the body of the text, simply a screenshot of their tabloid appearance with the added caption of _ youre the nerd and I’m the cool jock. _

_ Competitive yachting? _Adam asked in response, nearly tripping over his own feet while typing.

_ ffs i told them to stop writing that as my preferred sport. _

Adam felt his lips twist against his will.

_ I’m sorry, this is a common problem? _

_ you can’t even imagine. _

_ I appreciate that they consider competitive yachting a regal sport. _

_ status symbols and faux athleticism are the core of the monarchy. _

Adam blinked down at his phone, stopping short abruptly. Persephone, from behind him, adjusted accordingly.

He…hadn’t been expecting this. Any of it. The text, the almost-joking response, the casual statement about the monarchy being ridiculous despite him being in it. Their conversation ended there, and it was probably for the better. He resumed his pace, trying to get to his next class. He almost forgot about the texts, too; save for a rogue screenshot Adam sent him of speculation on Ronan’s presence in Majorca, nothing else went between them.

Sometimes, Adam could _ just barely _ get away with being on his phone during briefings with Maura. He hated to be distracted during them - they were _ important, _he knew that, but all the same occasionally she spent a particularly long time covering an obscure dignitary’s comments and he’d gotten too few hours of sleep to truly focus and someone or other was blowing up his phone.

Maura’s topic of conversation this week appeared to be a series of Buzzfeed articles run on the lack of pets in the First Family, complete with a power point dissecting their points

The glamorous side of politics, truly. Discussing a clickbait series in the West Wing briefing room.

_ iMessage chat to _ ** HRH shitty bird boy **

_ Resumed 30 October, 2019, 1:47 pm _

_ if you want a pet chainsaw dragged in a mouse the other day _

_ Ah yes, the mouse. A pet eternally beloved by constituents. _

_ we can’t all have a raven, that would be unfair _

_ Your heights of cool and goth are truly dizzying. _

_ im glad you agree _

_ Modest, too. _

_ it comes with the wealth and fame _

_ As long as you’re being straight with me, feel free to be as ‘modest’ as you like. _

_ i’m the prince of bloody england. i’m straight all the damn time _

_ That’s the biggest lhxemxlp_

His phone slipped from between his fingers, landing with a dull _ thud _onto the wooden floor. Adam stared helplessly at it, a sleek black rectangle hiding between types of oak. But Maura repeated his name, and he suddenly remembered what had made him drop his phone in the first place. He dragged his eyes up, staring at a spot on the sterile white wall just beyond Maura’s head.

“Adam,” she said a third time, but he refused to look her in the eyes. She conceded immediately. “What the hell?”

He felt his cheeks darken as blood found its way up. “I’m sorry.”

Her lips thinned just like Blue’s did, turning into a dark line on her brown face. “Do you even remember what I was saying?”

“Er…” he scrambled. “Don’t mention animals in any public setting?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then picked up a mug of coffee and took a controlled sip.

“Get out?” she said once she’d swallowed her sip.

“I-”

She pointed to the door. “I am impossibly busy. Take your phone and go laugh in private.”

He nodded once, finally, ducking under the table with his spine pressed against the bottom to grab his phone. His fingers closed around it, grip the edge of the wood, and he was up in a second.

He couldn’t regret it.

Because - well, here was the weird thing.

He wanted another text from Ronan.

_ iMessage chat to _ ** HRH shitty bird boy **

_ Resumed 31 October, 2019, 12:03 am _

_ it’s finally spooky day in your hell country _

_ Isn’t it 5 am in England? _

_ Do you ever sleep? _

_ bold of you to ask that question _

_ halloween, bitch _

_ it waits for no one _

_ I’m really going to have to advocate better habits. _

_ I understand, you’re enthused for Halloween. _

_ do you even care at all _

_ I enjoy halloween like everyone else. _

_ Though your level of excitement feels a little pagan? _

when the skeleton army rises Jesus will forgive me

_ appreciate this glorious day parrish _

_ I have enough fear in my daily life, thanks. _

_ I filed my own taxes all throughout highschool. _

_ And payed rent. _

_ The horrors of early adulthood. _

_terrifying _

_ terrible i’ll never deal with that shit _

_ You’re the prince, we know. _

_ Do you also not have enough horror in your life? _

of course i do

_ but parrish. listen. _

_ this is the one day a year all the monarchy and parliament dress as they are in life _

_ hideous monsters _

He laughed a little harder at that than he should have.

_ You’re telling me the monarchy plays dress up. _

_ ronan_frankensteins_monser_costume.jpg _

_ matthew insisted. did this on me an hour ago _

_ oh my god _

The makeup _ was _really good, and the monstrous look suited him, but hell if Adam ever said that to him.

He may have saved it to his phone, though, to glimpse Ronan’s green-paint covered skin and crooked, drawn-on stitch smile on his perfectly blank face.

Although Adam certainly didn’t intend to make a habit of texting the Prince of England, when he saw a funny bird or a stupid article or an obscure meme his first thought became _I should send that to Ronan. _And Ronan, clearly, was thinking along the same lines. The sheer number of sole emojis that seemed to tell a Ronan-centric story he received at all hours only affirmed that. And somehow, between all the pictogramme and jokes, he started to learn snatches of information. Declan was a better storyteller than Ronan, Matthew was the only person who could make Ronan attend family dinners ever since their father died, and his mother - the Queen of England, Adam had to remind himself sometimes - drew further away every day.

The problem became that he always wanted to know _ more, _and Adam didn’t know if that was due to his rampant curiosity or something else buried deep inside of him, and he was too afraid of what he might uncover by digging to look.

Adam had very few friends.

Most of that came with the territory of being part of the First Family; nothing made casual acquaintances drift away quite like being constantly surveilled by Secret Service agents and trailed by NDAs. Adam didn’t have time for small talk and coffee, a fact which he sometimes lamented and often loved. Part of this came from the type of friendship he became accustomed to with Gansey and Blue, the all-encompassing type of friendship that took over their minds in spare moments and forged ties stronger than steel between them. He’d probably forgotten how to have normal, casual friends, not friends an outsider would think he was completely in love with. And, perhaps more than anything else, it came back down to Robert Parrish and his heavy hands and ringing words. Adam’s memories of his first few years were scattered and inconsistent, but they filled up a too-large corner of his brain all the same. Blue, who entered his life at the tender age of 5, had won his trust with greater ease than their other peers, and Gansey had done the same in high school. They knew him and what he’d been through, and so they could (platonically) love him for all that he was. When campaigning and political office came into the mix, that full truth of Adam Parrish became a secret to guard like any else.

But, oddly enough, Adam had a third friend: Noah Czerny, the thirty-three-year-old baby of the Senate.

Noah and Adam met through an Aglionby networking event while Adam was a student and Noah a recently-elected congressperson, both green as grass in different ways. Adam, thrown neck-deep into a Presidential campaign, had questions, and most of the time Noah had answers. Although all of the professors had warned Adam to proceed cautiously with Czerny, Adam found nothing to fear. Noah had mellowed out quite a bit from his high school days, becoming a familiar face at political events and a surprisingly-wise piece of advice always at the ready. Despite Adam’s near hero-worship of this brand-new politician, half-Mexican just like him and just as frequent to lose sleep rewriting policies that unjustly taxed communities of color or defunded children’s education, they’d formed an improbable bond. The summer before his sophomore year, Noah let Adam closer to the politics process than even his mother had as he ran for the Senate, and Adam took to it almost at once. A politician twelve years his senior was perhaps not a conventional choice of friend, but Adam seldom remained conventional.

It wasn’t too out of the ordinary for Adam to arrive at Noah’s congressional office unannounced, either with business or without, and so when Adam rounded on Noah’s stark, bright, white office, he wasn’t at all surprised to see him ducked over an obscene number of papers.

“It’s Friday night,” Noah said without looking up, barely before Adam had even crossed into the office. As always, the tiny burst of color in the Pride flag deposited in a tourist mug drew Adam’s eye for a long moment before Noah himself did. All Adam could see of him was his brown curls, resolutely held in place even as bent over a desk. “Go party or something.”

“Damn, I didn’t _ think _ this looked like a frat. I knew something was off.” Adam slid into one of the seats across the desk. He had several inches on Noah, but he always felt smaller in those chairs across from the most important legislators in the country. “What’s got you here at eight PM?” Off of Noah’s brief, incredulous look, he amended to _ “this _particular time, I know. You’re salaried. Shouldn’t you…ever go home?”

“I’m trying to get something done so that there’s at least a hope of banning fracking in our lifetimes.”

Adam scoffed quietly, though not for lack of faith in Noah. “Let me know when you’ve cracked the code.”

_ “If, _but sure, I’ll be in contact. Now, why are you here?”

“You didn’t answer my leaving-the-building question.”

Noah’s eyes flickered shut briefly. “Jesus, Adam, I am salaried by the taxpayers of millions of Americans. I’m not going to slack on them.”

“Fine, but don’t make me drag Gansey in here to make you take a long nap and drink some hot soup.”

Adam’s phone buzzed, but he ignored it; despite it being almost 1 am in England, Ronan could presumably take the blame. Noah asked, “Did you catch the Fox town hall last night?”

Adam grimaced. He’d seen part of it, trying to multitask with his macroeconomics homework at the same time, but instead he’d fallen asleep with his head on the laptop screen. “Part of it. It was a shitshow.”

“You can say that again.”

“I honestly thought that Whelk would pull more support from the extremists. He just seemed desperate last night.”

“Oh, he definitely was.” Noah leaned away from his desk, appraising Adam as though considering his words carefully. “We went to school together.”

“Aglionby?” Adam asked. He knit his eyebrows together. “How did I not realize he went there?”

“The school doesn’t exactly love toting him.”

“He’s older than you, though, right?”

“Yes, Adam,” Noah said slowly. “I’m thirty-three. He’s already announced a bid for President. How old do you have to be to run for executive office?”

Adam scowled. “I just came from class, I can’t use my brain. He was a senior when you were a freshman?”

“Yep,” Noah replied. “We were paired in upperclassmen-lowerclassmen bonding.” His lip curled a little. “He outed me.”

“Wait, _ what?” _

“He outed me to the school,” Noah repeated. He looked back down to the papers on his desk, his voice softening to a barely audible level. “I trusted him, which was a dumb thing to do, but I was a really stupid freshman. Scared, too. He was a friendly personality.”

_ “Fuck,” _Adam said, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, that’s…”

“Terrible?” A bit of Noah’s life returned to him. “Don’t worry about it, kid. It was years ago.”

“But then…Whelk, he was the reason you…?”

“He didn’t make my parents react the way they did. They did that on their own. But no, they wouldn’t have known without him.”

Adam shook his head. “I thought it wasn’t possible to like the guy less, if only because of his politics, but he’s done it.”

“Done what? Received the full wrath of Adam Parrish?”

“He very well may.”

“Don’t worry about him. Whelk will be out soon, believe me. I know him. He may have his parent’s money, but he’s barely old enough to hold office and he’s running on fumes.”

“If he’s not, I’ll convince Blue to skew stats until he is.” Noah knew just as well as Adam that that wouldn’t change anything, but it lightened the air anyway. “It seems kind of pointless to entertain any of them. Greenmantle is probably going to win no matter what.”

Colin Greenmantle: former antique collector, congressperson from Massachusetts, and millionaire with the funds to take over the Republican primary, and very possibly the whole election, before any papers were even filed.

“It’s early,” Noah said. “Too early to worry about it. Too early to even be _ talking _ about it.”

Adam slanted a half-smile at him. “Never too early to worry about an election.”

Noah looked back to his papers before broaching the next topic. “I hear you’ve got a job on your mother’s re-election campaign.”

“Once I graduate, and maybe a little earlier, yeah.”

Noah cast a glance around the office. “Are you sure this is the life you want?”

Adam knew he was referring to the constant bustle, the fear of disappointing and harming instead of helping, and the ever-evolving media scrutiny. He knew it was the closest Noah would give to a warning. “I’m sure.”

Noah sighed. “Fine.” He pointed to the door. “But I won’t let you throw your youth away, not this early. After you graduate, Parrish. Go get drunk and make out with someone.”

Adam stood, his frame unfolding and standing tall. “You are a terrible role model.”

“Can’t hear you over the loud music.”

“You and Blue and Gansey - if I die of alcohol poisoning, it’s all your fault.”

“Feel free to blame, so long as you’re out there and not here.”

“Alright, alright, Jesus. You’ve made your point.��

“Finally,” Noah called after Adam’s retreating form. But Adam could hear the amusement in his voice all the same.

For someone so allergic and averse to technology, Ronan sure seemed to share a lot with Adam.

_ iMessage chat to _ ** HRH shitty bird boy **

_ Resumed 13 Novemeber, 2019, 8:38 pm _

_ bird.m4a _

_ she wont stop nuzzling my head?? _

_ Picking for lice, probably. _

_ God knows you have so many. _

_ my scalp is perfectly clean _

_ Forgive me for abstaining from running my hands over it all the same. _

_ I’ll leave that to her. _

He didn’t always respond, though.

Adam tried not to read into it.

(He mostly succeeded.)

Adam never tired of stepping into the Oval Office. On the Wednesday right before Thanksgiving, he stepped in with the same amount of awe he always had, allowing himself a single moment to glance around at the wide windows and perfectly upholstered furniture. He sat on one of the couches without preamble.

His mother looked up from what was in front of her on the desk and smiled, albeit a tired one that frayed a bit at the corners; Adam had seen a few particularly troublesome foreign dignitaries be escorted away not long before, so he didn’t have to guess at the reason. Ana looked like she belonged to sit right there amongst all the history at that desk, from the sun dipping just beneath her halo of hair straightened within an inch of its life and her stick-straight posture. It might have been a lot at times, but seeing her was a reminder of all the good that came from her position.

She rose and walked to join him, her heels clacking lightly at the ground before she sank onto the cushion beside him and pulled him into a loose hug. Adam had overtaken Ana in height some years before, but there had been a long gap in there as he grew - like one day he was three and a half feet tall and wrapped tightly in her arms and the next he was off to Georgetown and several heads taller. She pulled away after a minute, slowly and bit-by-bit as though savoring her moments as a mother rather than a president. Her hand reached to muss his hair a moment later, and Adam ducked away instinctively before exchanging an identical grin with her.

“God, I forgot how light your hair looks in here,” she said, leaning back a little. “Almost golden.” She tilted her head as though examining him. “Nah. Still brown. But much lighter.”

“How could you forget? The photo here was in _ GQ, _the same article that first declared me the family golden boy.” At the corner of their conversation was the knowledge of where he’d inherited that hair color, as it sure as hell wasn’t from Ana. But he let the thought stay buried, patting the dirt back down with the shovel himself. Their relationship always had an absence in it, and he didn’t particularly feel like deepening it in the Oval Office.

“Ah, so that’s the one I have to blame for your big head,” she responded, reaching for a piece of fruit from the little coffee table. It was a familiar half-jest, borne from Adam’s constant contradicting confidence and imposter syndrome. Idiosyncrasies were just Adam’s style, never one to make things easy for himself. He sometimes wondered if so much of himself conflicted because he tried to walk the middle road so often, balancing his weight over all sides to minimize the damage if the rug was yanked from beneath him, like lying down on a bed of nails: a thousand tiny, dull pains over one sharp, potentially fatal puncture. She smiled again. “Is Noah doing well?”

“For Noah he is. He would barely look up from some new reports on fracking, seems hopeful he’ll be able to garner enough support.”

Ana snorted. “Good luck with that. I’ll be shocked if it reaches the floor for debate.”

“That makes three of us, then.” He nodded towards the desk. “Bad meeting?”

The frown lines on her face deepened. “Don’t get me started,” she drawled, falling back fully against the cushions. After only a moment, she _ did _ get started regardless of what Adam did or didn’t do. “We received the memo a few days ago that a delegation from Sweden wanted to be in contact, right? Fairly standard stuff, Maura gets back to them quickly because they worded it like it was an urgent matter, and there’s a back and forth for a while about scheduling and accommodations. We’re of the belief they won’t be out here until Monday at the earliest.”

Adam knit his eyebrows together. “It’s not Monday.”

“You fuckin’ tell me. Anyway, I’m halfway through a meeting with a few UN representatives when Maura has to interrupt. They arrived at the White House, claimed they had a meeting, and just…didn’t leave. Evan Maura couldn’t get through to them, which is the thing that scared me a little.”

“You should have put Calla on it.”

“Believe me, if she were here, I would’ve. But as it was, I had to hurry out the UN members to deal with decidedly more antagonistic foreign relations.”

“Why were they even here?”

“They wanted to discuss the military relationship between our countries-”

“What the hell?”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” she said, waving one hand in dismissal. “Any points they were trying to make went straight out the window when they started pulling out cue cards, to be honest. I might have to call Löfven to smooth things over.”

“Well, there’s never a dull moment,” Adam said fairly. His mother snorted.

“Sure isn’t. Anyway,” she said, glancing at her watch, “it’s now Thanksgiving, so no more meetings for twenty-four hours.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

She pulled a face in dismissal. “We take our patriotism seriously, darlin’. Don’t want our home state gettin’ too mad.”

“Of course.”

Ana checked her watch again. “The turkeys will be on their way to the Willard by now, so we’re not ruining any American traditions today.”

“Wait,” Adam said. “Where?”

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “The Willard. They stay there every year.”

“What? No. _ No. _You cannot give the turkeys five-star accommodations with taxpayer dollars. You’ve been doing this every year?!”

“It’s public knowledge, sugar. Every news outlet mentions it.”

“How did I not-” Adam cut off. “There is no way you can do that! They’re turkeys! It’s a waste!”

“It’s precedent, Adam. I’m not sure if there’s anything to be done at this point.”

Adam stood quickly, pacing back and forth, and his mother stood behind him. “It’s a _ blatant _waste of money, I’m shocked we haven’t already been-”

“Hon, every president so far has done the same-”

“Imagine the story if we broke the tradition! Even conservatives would have to applaud your frugality-”

“We can’t play games with tradition, you know they already call us disrespectful-”

“-we can’t be using _ taxpayer money-” _

“-by all means, if you have the time to find lodging for two forty-pound turkeys-”

“Put them in my room!” Adam blurted. His mother stopped short.

“You’re not serious,” she said. “We’re not putting the turkeys for me to pardon in your bedroom.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Adam-”

He shifted his feet, coming to a stop. He lifted himself up to his full height. Debate Captain Adam, six-time Best Delegate Adam, and First Son Adam converged into one. His mother barely looked phased.

“Oh, God,” his mother said. “I can’t listen to another sales pitch.”

“Madame President,” Adam began, “I’d like to echo the sentiments of the forebears before me-”

“Nope,” she said, making double-time back to her desk. “You’re not going to filibuster me.”

“In 2018 alone, at least forty-three articles in the Wall Street Journal accused the sitting administration of wasting tax dollars. This came on the heels of a tax increase for Americans making more than ten million dollars per year and the subsequent pushback from a more conservative electorate in Congress.”

“Fine!” Ana said, her hand falling to the desk with a thump. She brought it back up to her head to massage her temple a moment later. “I’m too tired to hear my own history read back at me. You win.”

He sat back down on the couch, crossing his legs primly. “Perfect,” he said, allowing himself to smile once again.

23 notes · View notes

ranboounlabeled · 4 years

Text

Incorrect Quotes

So I had the bright idea one day to make incorrect quotes based on a DnD campaign and the players. Why not post them here? If any of them find this and request this to be deleted, I won’t mind. Blu - DM, any other character you don’t see listed here Tuck - Alzora Autumn/Me - Aria Maria - Yeet Bard - Tad Whipple - Niyana ~ Aria at 3AM: Alzora wake up Alzora, annoyed: What is it? Aria: If butterflies fall in love, do they feel humans/mobians in their stomach? Alzora: The rest of Team Supernova: Niyana: aria what the fuck Yeet: No no, wait. She has a point. Yeet: What if they’re mobian butterflies? Snipe: What if they just feel really tiny butterflies in their stomachs? Niyana: That’s morbid. ~ Aria: is pink panther a lion Alzora: say that again but slower Aria: i don't get it? Alzora: he's the pink PANTHER Aria: okay? but is he a lion? Alzora: Aria. he's a panther Aria: is that a kind of lion??? Alzora: no it's a fucking panther Aria: I just googled it. Are they not pink? Alzora: AND LIONS ARE??? ~ Yeet: *gets shot* Shit. Alzora: Language! ~ Niyana: Is 4 alot? Aria/Alzora: Depends on the context. Aria/Alzora: Money? No. Aria/Alzora: Murders? Yes. ~ Yeet: Just a reminder that I'm non-binary so if you've got a crush on me, u gay bro ~

Alzora: if one of you says that stupid thing again I will not hesitate to give you frost bite Aria: aw that's so sad alexa play despacito Alzora: starting with you Alt idea from our DM (context, Alzora is an ice dragon and I compare her to Elsa alot): Aria: thats so sad, alexa play Let it Go. Alzora: you will die in 3 days ~ Niyana: THE FLOOR IS LAVA Yeet: *helps Snipe onto a chair* Alzora: *throws Aria off the table* revenge Niyana: There are two types of people ~ Alzora: If anyone says ‘mood’ ‘same’ or 'me’ in response to something I say ever again, I will throw you out the nearest window Yeet: Mood Aria: Same Niyana: Me Alzora calling tad: hello? Tad can you come here quickly? Tad: why what happened? Alzora: well lets just say there’s a gun in my hand, 3 dead bodies on the floor, blood on the walls floor and ceiling, and police on the way Tad: Tad: what Tad: The police are going to be there? Yeah, you're on your own ~ Aria: Mobius is a hot, molten core with a solid crust. Therefore, its a ravioli Alzora: Please stop Yeet, taking notes: No no let her finish ~ Aria: Comparing me and Alzora is like comparing apples to oranges. Aria: I mean, I like apples, and I really don't like oranges. Aria: Oranges are annoying. ~ nesta: fuck your cake! aria:

~ Niyana: I’ve been working on my evil laugh! ‘Cause everybody’s got an evil laugh, you know, like... Ha ha ha ha HA! Like that. Alzora: Okay, here’s the thing. You’re not ready... for the evil laugh, okay, you can do a chuckle? Like a mildly upset chuckle? After MY evil laugh. ~ Snipe: You're smiling. Did something good happen? Aria: Can't I smile just because I feel like it? Niyana: Alzora tripped and fell down the stairs. ~ Yeet: So, why is Aria mad at you? Alzora: They sneezed and I accidentally said "shut the fuck up" instead of "bless you". Yeet: Alzora: Yeet: How do you accidentally say "shut the fuck up"?! ~ Alzora: Anyone who says 'uwu' or 'owo' again is being arrested for crimes against humanity! Aria: Cwimes against huwumanity. Alzora: I'm going to break your fingers. ~ Yeet, while crying: LOVE IS DEAD AND NEVER EXISTED! ALL YOU DID WAS BETRAY ME AS I LAY SICK AND FESTERING! YOU ARE THE DEFINITION OF DREAD! Snipe: Are you ok??? Yeet, crying even more: NIYANA STOLE MY FUCKIGN WEAPONS! [This breakdown is immediately followed by Yeet trying to beat the shit out of a 15 year-old] ~ Alzora: Good Morning! Aria: Good Morning everyone Snipe: Good Morning. [ half of everyone else says their good mornings] Yeet: My god you all sound like robots! “good morning” this “good morning” that. Yeet: Spice it up!!! Niyana: HEY MOTHERFUCKERS ~ Alzora: *falls* Alzora: Alzora: I suppose I’ll have to add the force of gravity to my list of enemies. ~ Aria: Tall people are the enemy! Alzora: I'm sorry, I can't hear you from up here. Aria: I will tie your fucking shoelaces together and you won't even know it! ~ Niyana: But rules were made to be broken! Tad: They were made to be followed. Nothing is made to be broken. Nesta: Uh, pinatas. Alzora: Glow sticks. Yeet: Karate boards. Aria: Spaghetti when you have a small pot. Niyana: And rules! Snipe: Don’t forget bones. Yeet: Ye-Wait no- ~ Aria: Onion rings are just vegetable doughnuts. Alzora, used to Aria: Sure they are, Aria. Aria: Your stomach thinks all potatoes are mashed. Alzora: Okay. Aria: Lasagna is just spaghetti-flavored cake. Alzora: … Aria, oblivious: Lobsters are mermaids to scorpions. Alzora, crying: Aria, please stop. Yeet, fascinated: No, continue. ~ Yeet: Hey, Snipe, what are you doing here? Snipe: This is where I come to cry. Yeet: What. Snipe: I said this is where I come to be a cool guy. ~ [loud crashing comes from Team Supernova's room, Tad runs in to find the room completely trashed] Tad: What happened in here!? [The rest of the Team are on an elevated surface] Aria, on top of the bookshelf, shaking: We saw a spider... ~ Yeet: Isn’t it amazing what friends learn from each other? Aria: I learn a lot from Phin because he makes so many mistakes. ~ Aria: AVJDJAHDHSHS Tad: what is that? Aria: a keyboard smash Tad: how do I do it? Aria: just press anything Tad: 7 ~ Alzora: Bitch. Aria: Blocked. Alzora: Wait, unblock me, I need to tell you something. Aria: Unblocked. Alzora: Bitch. ~ Alzora: Don’t say a word. Aria: Aria: Fergalicious. Alzora: I said no words. Aria: Oh, I see. Two weeks ago playing Scrabble, it’s not a word. Now suddenly it is a word because it’s convenient for you. ~ Aria: Olli? Why are you outside? It's pouring! Olli, drenched: The aesthetic, Miss Aria. Aria: Olli, please. Olli: ThE aEsThEtIc, MiSs ArIa! ~ Niyana: There’s no “i” in happyness. Aria: There is if you fuckin’ spell it right. ~ Niyana: Do you care if I take the skin off the Furby? Niyana: I want to make him a God. Once he is free of his sinful flesh he can begin the path towards enlightenment. He will take care of Us. Niyana: Also I want to softhack his circuits. Yeet: I literally could not care less but never say anything as frightening as that sentence ever again. Tad, not looking up from his sketch book: I could design some long furby designs if you need me to. ~ Stella: I have a mafia! Yeet: We have a Niyana. ~ Yeet: Bro. Snipe: What bro? Yeet: Tell the whole world we’re bros. Snipe: *whispers* We’re bros. Yeet: Why’d you whisper bro? Snipe: Because you’re my whole world bro. Yeet: B R O. ~ Yeet: Your house is burning down! You can only save one thing. What do you save? Aria: My house?? ~ Aria: Yeet, do you ever want to talk about your emotions? Yeet: No. Alzora: I do. Aria: I know, Alzora. Alzora: I’m sad. Aria: I know, Alzora. ~ Stella: *looking around in closet* What should I change into? Snipe: A better person. ~ Whatever characters Yeet writes into fanfiction: *hugging and vibing* Yeet: Who would ever want to harm such a loving relationship? Yeet, brandishing a pen: I WOOOOULD! ~ Yeet: Chillax~ Alzora: That’s not a word. Yeet: Sometimes the ones who deny “chillax” are the ones who need to chillax the most. ~ Aria: 13 year old me would be both terrified and in awe at who I am now. Niyana: 13 year old me wouldn't think I'd get this far. Yeet: I would fight a 13 year old me. ~ Snipe: Yeet came into my room in the middle of the night, I pretended to be asleep, and they stroked my hair for a minute then left. Are they planning to kill me??? Aria: No they just care about you, idiot. ~ Yeet: Well, I guess you could say I’ve fallen for you. Snipe: You just fell down seven flights of stairs, how are you even alive? ~ Yeet: I wish I could block people in real life. Alzora: A restraining order. Niyana: Murder. ~ Alzora: What the frick is wrong with you? Snipe: Please be more specific and resubmit with the proper paperwork. ~ [on a city bus] Stranger: Are you traveling for business or pleasure? Alzora, in full armor: Combat. ~ Aria: Who ate my fries? Yeet? Yeet: I don’t like fries. Aria: Snipe? Snipe: I don’t need food. Aria: Niyana? Niyana: …It was Alzora. Alzora: Yeah it was. Aria: wh ~ Alzora: They are completely literal people. Metaphors go over their heads. Yeet: Nothing goes over my head... my reflexes are too fast! I would catch it. ~ Yeet: Live by the ass, die by the ass. Tad: S t o p ~ Niyana: Is there a word that is a mix between sad and mad? Tad: Malcontented, disgruntled, miserable, desolate. Yeet: Smad. ~ Tad: If someone is trying to rob a civilian, what is the correct course of action? Yeet: T-pose to assert dominance Tad: No. Niyana: Say "Thank you Chaos, for this meal I'm about to have" and then- Tad, interrupting: even worse Yeet, taking notes: Wait, let her finish ~ Aria: Hey Alzora, do you think Snipe feels regret? Because i just saw him choke down one of Tad’s pancakes in half a second. Alzora: Snipe has only one emotion and that’s hubris. ~ Yeet: *peeling a banana* May I take your jacket lol Snipe: Do you think other people can't hear you? ~ Aria: You have to pick your battles, Alzora. Alzora: I’m full of rage and I’m picking all of them. ~ Nesta, T-posing in the hallway: Good morning, parental figure. Tad, not looking up from his coffee: Hello, problem child. ~ Yeet, throwing his head in Snipe’s lap: Tell me I’m pretty. Snipe, lovingly stroking their hair: You’re pretty fucking annoying, that’s what you are. ~ Yeet, hoarsely: I think I'm losing my voice. Niyana: Ha! That means you can't yell at me anymore! [later that day] Niyana: Turns out, Yeet is scarier when they’re quiet. ~ Snipe: WE'RE SINKING IN DEEP WATER. Yeet: Don't worry. I learned this from a survival TV show. Yeet: OH TOOOOODLES-- ~ Niyana: Who else uses can openers to drink soft drinks? Yeet: This is extremely unhinged I must try it immediately. ~ Snipe: Boil up some mountain dew. It’s gonna be a long night. Aria: You could have said anything else. Yeet: fire burn and cauldron bubble, baja blast to fuel my trouble. ~ Aria: What do you want for dinner? Niyana: How about Sonic? Aria: *whispers* He's so fast how would we catch him-

#I can assure you there's much more but im tired #I'll reblog with more later #incorrect quotes #sonic incorrect quotes #sonic forces #dnd 5e #tad the duck #yeet #aria the jackal #alzora frost #niyana the cat #dnd incorrect quotes

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yusuke-of-valla · 4 years

Text

like rats fleeing a sinking ship, pt. 7

intermission iii

<-Previous Next->

AO3

After parting ways with the others at the train station, Ann and Shiho ride up to Ryuji’s house. Despite everything, it’s almost nostalgic. They haven’t taken the train to Ryuji’s together since middle school, and Ann can’t help but smile at the memory of them getting set up to play games in Ryuji’s room or the way she’d always trail behind Shiho and Ryuji when they decided to race to the front door.

They just walk up to the door this time, and Shiho keeps glancing around them as they approach Ryuji’s apartment. No one stops to take note of them, however, and eventually they can hear footsteps approaching the door.

“Look, I already told you I haven’t- Oh!” Ms. Sakamoto’s eyes widen when she sees the two of them. “Ann, Shiho. Come in, quickly.”

She ushers them inside and sits them down at the kitchen table. “Can I get you girls something to drink?”

“No we’re fine. We’re not going to stay long,” Ann says.

“Ah, alright.” Ms. Sakamoto takes her own mug and sits down across from them, tapping her fingers against the mug. “So, how is Ryuji?”

Ann and Shiho share a quick look.

“That’s what we came to ask you, actually,” Shiho says. “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

Ms. Sakamoto’s shoulders slump. “No. He thought it would be safer if I didn’t know.”

“Did he tell you anything, anything at all?”

“I mean, you know Ryuji. He got an idea of a place he could go and practically ran out the front door, before I told him to at least sneak out the fire escape. All he said was that you’d meet up with him. I assumed that meant you had a safe house or something.”

Ann shakes her head. “No, we don’t.”

“But don’t worry,” Shiho adds quickly, “we know he hasn’t been arrested. And Ryuji’s always been tough, he’s fine.”

Ms. Sakamoto takes a deep breath. “Yes, you’re right.”

After that, Ms. Sakamoto insists that Ann and Shiho take a bag of cookies with them and they say their goodbyes. They slip into a nearby alleyway and Shiho groans as she slumps against a building.

“Well this is just great. We’re back to square one.”

Ann hums. “I mean, not completely. We know it’s somewhere Ryuji thinks we’ll know he’ll be so he probably decided to hide in a place that was very… Ryuji.”

Shiho bites her lip and tries to think. “I mean, I can think of a ton of places that are very ‘Ryuji’ but not exactly ‘hide out from the cops appropriate’.”

“Well, i mean our first couple of meeting places were the school rooftop and the accessway tunnel in Shibuya.”

“Wait, like, in public?” Shiho asks.

“Yeah. I think at some point Yusuke or Makoto called it a ‘refuge in audacity,’ like it’s so insane a place to hold secret meetings that no one would bother to look there.”

“Huh.” Shiho crosses her arms. “Was that your intention when you picked it out?”

“No,” Ann says, pouting, “and don’t give me that look. We didn’t exactly get caught because we were meeting in the accessway.”

“Isn’t that how Niijima-senpai found out about you?”

“No, she found out about us because we were talking at school and didn’t know she was eavesdropping. And Akechi found out about us because he saw us in the Metaverse so that doesn’t even count. The accessway was a super convenient meeting spot and it worked, so shut up.” Ann gives Shiho a playful shove, and Shiho laughs.

“Alright, so we can’t rule out Ryuji’s hiding spot just because it seems too obvious. So should we just check around every place he’d hang out?”

Ann nods. “So the beef bowl shop, the sports store, the gym…

“The arcade?”

“Ooh yeah, we should check the one in Akihabara too since we need to go there anyway.”

“Alright then, let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”

-_-_-_-

Haru gets off the train in Kanda and gawks at the church. She’s heard Yusuke and Akira describe it, but she hasn’t been able to go herself before. It’s a gorgeous building.

She spots a girl in a Kosei uniform staring at a shogi board.

“Um, excuse me, are you Hifumi Togo?” Haru asks after quietly approaching her. There are only a few elderly patrons there as well as the priest at the front of the building.

Hifumi looks up at her. “Yes, is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, my friend Akira said you’re a good Shogi teacher and I’ve been meaning to learn.”

Hifumi’s eyes widen. “Yes, I am. Would you like to join me for a game?”

Haru nods and takes the seat next to her.

Hifumi arranges the pieces. “So, is there anything i can do to help?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard about Yusuke Kitagawa?”

Hifumi furrows her brow and moves one of her pieces. “Well, the rumor goes, he disappeared into thin air.”

“What does that mean?”

“He tends to stay after school in the art room very late so when the notice went out, a bunch of officers showed up at the school building proper and his dorm. He was in the art room, and the police shooed everyone else still in the school away from the building before going to collect him. But apparently someone heard from their brother who overheard the janitor talking about how Kitagawa was nowhere to be seen when the police opened the door to the art room. They tore the building apart, apparently, but he’d disappeared into thin air.”

“And no one’s heard anything since?”

“No.”

Haru closes her eyes and counts her breaths. When she opens them again, Hifumi is watching her with concern.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m just concerned,” Haru says. Tears are starting to well up in her eyes. “It’s just, I don’t know where half of my friends are, and they’ve done so much for me when I was practically a stranger, and what did that get them? They were led into a complete trap by going after my father, and now Shido wants to finish the job.” Haru’s nails bite into her palms. “I keep trying to stay calm and telling myself it’ll be fine, but then I think of all the reasons it isn’t and-”

Hifumi slams a piece down on the board. “Enough of that. You have to stay strong. If you accept defeat, then you’re sure to lose. You have to keep your chin up, no matter what. You can still win this. I know it’s not obvious but I’ve heard people in school talking. They may not be numerous, but there are people who still believe in the Phantom Thieves, including myself. You can’t wallow in despair while there’s still something you can do.”

Haru blinks. “Oh.” She wipes her eyes. “Yes, of course. You’re right. I’m sorry to unload that on you, I was just-”

“You’re fine. I know we’ve just met under less than ideal circumstances, but like I said I believe in your cause. If you need someone to talk to, I’ll be here.”

“Thank you, Togo-san.”

“Well you can call me Hifumi for one thing. And for another, I want to help in any way that I can. Any friend of Akira’s is my friend.”

“Thank you, Hifumi.” Haru stretches out her hand. “By the way, I’m Haru Okumura.”

They finish up their games and Hifumi writes down her number for Haru for when Haru can safely use a phone again, and they part ways.

Haru feels better on the train ride back, so much so that she doesn’t notice the boy in a Shujin uniform staring at her, at first.

But, when she gets off the train in Shibuya, she catches the boy following her. Instead of making the connection back to Yogen-Jaya, she walks around the Underground Mall to try and lose him. Eventually she does, but it’s only a moment of respite before she sees a police officer heading towards her.

Haru moves quickly, sprinting up the stairs into Station Square, and tries to get lost in the crowd. She slips down another set of stairs and tries to calm down, in case someone passes by.

She hears some commotion and pokes her head out to see more officers walking by and coming closer.

“Listen to me! I saw who you’re looking for. The Phantom Thief-”

Haru holds her breath and starts looking for a way out.

“-just went towards Central Street.”

Haru stops and turns towards the man who was talking. He’s clearly a politician who was campaigning in front of her hiding spot. The cops nod to him and run off, followed by a crowd of onlookers.

Haru waits for a few minutes, when the man says, much softer, “Are you alright dear?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. I take it you’re Mr. Yoshida?” Haru asks. “A friend of Akira’s

The man gives a sheepish smile. “Well, yes. How is Kurusu doing?”

“We’re all holding it together the best we can,” Haru replies.

“I’m so sorry all of this is happening to you, to think people would actually believe the Phantom Thieves would kill someone, and be so quick to turn against a group of children. It’s shameful.”

“Well, not everyone’s turned against us. Thanks, you really saved me there.”

“Happy, to help. Now hurry along, before you get caught again.”

Haru waves to Yoshida and walks back to the train station, where she bumps into Ann and Shiho.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Haru asks.

“We’re still looking for Ryuji,” Shiho says. “We’re about to check Akihabara.”

“I’ll go with you, but we’ve gotta be quick. I was just recognized.”

Ann and Shiho nod, and they head onto the train. On the ride over they fill Haru in on what happened with Ryuji’s mother.

In the arcade, a boy with a red hat and blue letterman jacket spots them, his eyes widening instantly.

“Crap, I think we just got recognized,” Ann mutters.

Before they can leave, the boy sprints over to them. “Hey. You’re the Phantom Thieves, right?”

“No,” Shiho says, blocking his view of Ann, “I think you’ve gotten us mistaken for someone else.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure you’re them. Listen, I think I saw your friend walk by here a little while ago.”

“Are you sure?” Haru asks.

“Almost positive.”

“Can you show us where?” The boy nods, and leads them out of the arcade. “I just saw them pass by a little while ago.”

“Let’s split up,” Ann says, and they split down the middle, checking the nearby alleyways.

“Ryuji, are you here?” Ann whisper-shouts. Ryuji doesn’t poke his head out, but someone else does.

“Makoto?” Ann, gasps.

“Shh, there were cops prowling around here earlier.” Makoto pulls her into the alleyway, then a giant hug. “I’ve been so worried about you guys.”

“Us too, but hold on.” Ann goes back to the mouth of the alleyway and waves Haru, Shiho, and the kid over.

“Ann what is it- Makoto?” Haru doesn’t waste a second wrapping Makoto in a hug.

“Suzui?” Mishima steps out from behind Makoto.

Shiho grins. “Helping out too, huh Mishima?”

“Yeah.”

“How are the others?” Makoto asks.

“Well we’ve met up with Akira, Akechi, and Morgana, and they’re getting help. Luckily Akira has a lot of friends in different places,” Haru says.

“We’re planning on securing the route to Shido’s Treasure tomorrow,” Ann says.

“Cutting it close on Sae and Sojiro’s trial date, but when haven’t we?” Makoto says with a smile. “Alright, we meeting the others?”

Shiho nods. “We should be getting back to Yogen-Jaya soon, actually.”

“So, the Phantom Thieves are gonna go after Shido next?” Mishima asks.

“Awesome,” the kid says.

“Oh, I’m sorry, we never got your name,” Ann realizes.

“Shinya Oda. I’m a friend of Akira’s. He totally you guys were the Phantom Thieves before anyone else.”

“I’m pretty sure I knew first,” Mishima says. “I mean I am the Admin of the PhanSite.”

“Really? That’s cool so you’re like Mission Control?”

“Yeah, sorta.”

“We have to go,” Ann says. “Mishima, Shinya. Are you going to be ok?”

“Yeah, totally,” Shinya says.

Mishima nods, “Don’t worry, we won’t say anything to anyone.”

“Thank you,” Haru says, “we seriously couldn’t have gotten by without you guys.”

“If you wanna thank us, then kick Shido’s butt for us.” Shinya says.

“Yeah, what he said.”

They say goodbye to Shinya and Mishima, then rendezvous with the others back at Takemi’s office, the sun having set.

Akira and Akechi introduce them to Kasumi properly, and the two groups fill each other in on what everyone else found.

“He just said ‘we’d know where he is’?” Morgana asks once Shiho and Ann finish explaining what happened with Ryuji’s mom.

“Apparently,” Shiho says.

Ann twists one of her pigtails around her finger. “We’ve been trying to figure out what’s a Ryuji place to go but we haven’t had any luck.”

“Maybe it’s less a matter of us trying to think of where Ryuji would go,” Makoto suggests, “and more Ryuji going someplace he thinks we would go.”

“And where would that be?” Akechi asks.

Akira closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. Then it hits him.

“I think I know where he is,” Akira says. “If I’m right, then we can all meet at the Diet Building tomorrow,” he shouts as he’s running off.

“Akira, where are we going?” Morgana asks from the bag.

The train isn’t going nearly fast enough, and Akira sprints down Central Street to the familiar sign of Untouchable. When he gets inside, Iwai is the only person there.

“Iwai, has my friend been here at all?” Akira asks, slamming his hands on the counter.

Iwai frowns. “Geez kid, calm down, you’ll draw way too much attention.” He tilts his head behind him. “Back room.”

Akira practically leaps over the counter, causing Morgana to yelp, and rushes towards the back room.

In the hallway, he practically runs face first into Ryuji.

“Akira!”

“Ryuji!” Akira gives him a massive hug.

Ryuji laughs. “Took you long enough dude.”

Morgana pokes his head out of Akira’s bag. “You’ve just been at Untouchable this whole time?”

“Yeah. Figured we’d be going after Shido at some point, and that meant getting weapons, plus I knew Iwai hates cops so it seemed like the perfect place.”

“This kids been eating all of my ration bars,” Iwai calls from the front.

“Heh, sorry,” Ryuji calls back. “But seriously, Iwai’s been super cool. Especially since I kinda showed up like a crazy person. Kaoru’s cool too, he’s been playing cards with me to help me not go insane coped up back here. Oh, also I’ve been learning about guns and shit while I’m here.”

“Glad to hear you’re doing well, then.” Morgana says. “We were all starting to get worried about you.”

“Aww, miss me Mona?”

“Not more than anyone else.” Morgana snaps.

Ryuji laughs again and Akira feels so much better hearing it. Ryuji’s confidence has always been infectious.

“So, wanna fill us in on what happened to you?” Morgana asks.

“Sure.”

#alto writes #on the run au #ann takamaki #shiho suzui #haru okumura #hifumi togo #toranosuke yoshida #shinya oda #makoto niijima #mishima yuuki #wordcount: 2000-2500 #queuety and vice

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ftcoye · 4 years

Note

congrats on 200 followers!! I'd like to request Wen Qing/YanLi ,, u know just some soft lesbians. To be more specific lmao, could you write a soft reunion of sorts? Thank youuuu

[Ao3 Link.]

“Um… excuse me?” Jiang Yanli turns, and there is one of the youngest disciples. Recruits have been coming in and she hasn’t been able to acquaint herself with every single new member of the Jiang sect, but she’s met this one before. The second youngest shidi of the current boy, a quiet little boy that turns a furious red every time she so much as looks at him.

(It makes her think of other young shidis, lost to the Wens and their slaughter, and her heart aches.)

“Yes?” she asks, smiling and trying to seem welcoming, and right on cue his cheeks burn. “How can I help you, shidi?”

She’s still coaxing them to call her shijie – A-Xian remains the only one to call her such, even though she wishes he would call her jiejie. Her shidi doesn’t look at her, his hands curling uncertainly in his purple robes, staring at the water from the corner of his eye. “Um…” he says quietly, “There’s… someone asking for you…”

That’s a surprise. She frowns, just a little. “Do you know who?”

He shakes his head. “A lady… she said she was your friend.”

Ah. Such a thing explains why he hadn’t alerted her brothers, if it was a woman. But… who…? Yanli tends to make friends wherever she goes, but she typically remains primarily surface-level. Not because she does not care about them, nor that she has not desired to make true friends, but…

It is an unfortunate habit, and family has always come first.

“Thank you for telling me,” she tells her shidi sweetly, giving him a smile. “I will greet them.”

He bounces lightly from foot to foot, anxious. “Should… should I escort you…?”

Yanli wishes that she knew him well enough to draw him into her arms – were he one of the shidis from before, one of the members of her sect from before all were slaughtered, she would have, but… it is best to not think of that. Instead, she shakes her head. “No, I will be fine,” she says, seeing him relax a little. “But…” Yanli taps her finger on her chin. “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing archery right now?”

He pales and then his face blotches red, clearly having not expected her to stay on top of the training schedules. “I- I- I’ll go do that right now!” He stammers, bowing and sprinting off as she does her best not to giggle.

She doesn’t quite succeed, but at least she manages to hold it in until he’s out of earshot.

Now, to see her visitor. Yanli ponders over it as she heads to the front, wondering who it could be. If it were someone from one of the larger sects, whom she had known at Gusu, perhaps, there is no reason they wouldn’t announce their name and be properly escorted in. But someone who did not declare herself as such, and was waiting for Yanli alone…?

Yanli is not unintelligent, and given those she would have counted among friends, and those who could have reason to keep quiet about and yet come seek her out regardless….

“Wen Qing,” Yanli greets her as she approaches, and the hooded woman looks up. She looks… absolutely awful. Her cheeks are hollow from hunger, her hair a mess from what Yanli can see, her robes and cloak dirty and torn in several places.

“Jiang Yanli,” she says, and then her eyes widen and she fumbles. “Or… forgive me, I-“ They are not equals anymore, Yanli realizes, but it matters little to her.

She steps forward quickly and takes the other woman’s hands in her own, giving them a gentle squeeze even as Wen Qing jerks and swallows, but lets them stay. “Jiang Yanli is fine,” she tells her gently. “I am glad to see you.”

And in fact, she is – she would say it is glad to see Wen Qing doing well, but she is clearly not, so Yanli will have to be content with the simple matter that she is glad the other woman is alive. There were so many deaths in the Sunshot Campaign, on both sides, and she is achingly glad that Wen Qing is not among the fallen.

Wen Qing swallows sharply again and then she is gripping Yanli’s hands right back, a fierce determination in her eyes. “I am here to beg for your help,” she says. “It is my family.”

Oh, no. Yanli can’t help the concern that swells up in her, even more than before. “What happened?” she asks, and she gently tugs on Wen Qing’s hands, taking a step back and intending to pull the woman with her – but she remains rooted to the spot, gaze steady.

“They’re disappearing,” she says, intent and unwavering. “Murdered or taken – I don’t know which. My cousin’s son and his caretaker, our grandmother, were the most recent.”

Yanli’s brow furrows very slightly. “But… Lanling Jin said they were just going to contain the cultivators,” she says. In hindsight, she realizes with a lurch of guilt, they were very, very vague and that would most certainly contain the woman before her. She should have spoken up, then – should have asked for Wen Qing and Wen Ning to be put underneath Jiang protection, as well as anyone they needed to bring with them.

Wen Qing pushes forward. “Lanling Jin lied,” she says. “It isn’t just cultivators – it’s every Wen, no matter how young and no matter how old.” Her lip curls slightly. “Nor do I think they are simply containing them.”

It is a blow – it is a terrifying blow, a terrifying thought. If Lanling Jin has lied about only cultivators… Between Jin Guangshan and Wen Qing, Yanli knows who she will trust more. It is not even slightly in question. She squeezes Wen Qing’s hands and nods fiercely. “Yes,” she says, even though Wen Qing had never actually asked a question. “Of course I will help.” Surely, even if Lanling Jin is lying, the other sects do not know…!

A horrifying thought strikes her, then. “Your brother?” Because they are a pair, and yet he is not here!

Fortunately, Wen Qing relaxes just a little bit at that and shakes her head. “Don’t worry,” she says. “He’s fine. We thought…” She grimaces a little. “If he approached with me, we would have been directed to your brother, instead.”

In truth, it makes sense – Yanli is unwed, and for a strange man to be requesting an audience with her, even if he is accompanied by a woman, when that woman will not in turn identify herself either… no, they likely would have been directed to Jiang Cheng.

Yanli wishes she could say that Jiang Cheng would have heard them out, would have listened to them, but she knows her stubborn little brother and he may not have.

He will listen, though, to her.

“Is he in town?” she asks. “Should we get him?” Yanli cannot imagine they are far apart – were this the situation, she doubts she could leave her brothers, even if it was what made sense.

“Actually…” Wen Qing glances down, and then she pushes forward, holding Yanli’s hands and being gentle as she does so, moving them a few steps. Yanli does as she is directed, taking a few steps back even as she is confused. “A-Ning, you can come out.”

There’s a splashing noise from under the dock, and then Yanli’s mouth drops open as Wen Qionglin steps out from underneath it, the water shallow enough that it comes up to his shoulders when he draws himself up fully. He reaches out, grabbing hold of the dock, and hauls himself up, arms trembling slightly but managing it. He’s completely soaked through, his robes and hair completely sodden as he drips all over the pier, but that doesn’t stop him from giving a bow. “Lady Jiang,” he greets, voice soft, and Yanli is completely flabbergasted.

“How- How long were you under there?” she asks. “Why?”

Wen Qing looks at her, relaxed enough to give her a slightly unimpressed look. “I wasn’t going to leave him behind, not when this is going on,” she says, which is exactly what Yanli had been thinking but moments earlier so she’s not going to argue with that. “But it’s not like there’s anywhere else to hide here.”

She is, again, not wrong, but Yanli is an older sister too and so she instinctively goes to fretting. “Oh, you must be so cold! I’m sure some of A-Xian’s robes will fit you – and some of mine will fit you as well, Wen Qing. Please, come with me.”

“Thank you,” says Wen Qionglin softly. Wen Qing lets go of one of Yanli’s hands to offer the other to her brother and he takes it.

They make an interesting trio, as they walk through Lotus Pier. Yanli, holding hands with the exhausted, hollow-cheeked and dirty Wen Qing, who holds hands with the dripping wet Wen Qionglin. It is both fortunate and unfortunate that not all of her shidis are at practice. Unfortunate, because it means they witness this event – it cannot stay quiet, and it will spread quickly.

Fortunate, though, because Yanli stops the first disciple she sees. “Gather up a few other disciples,” she tells him. “I need two baths drawn up in my room, and someone to fetch some of the pork buns from the kitchens, please.”

“Lady Jiang,” Wen Qionglin says, in a polite-but-protesting manner, and Yanli throws her best ‘I am your older sister and you WILL listen to me’ look his way, which she typically has very little need to practice. Fortunately, practiced or not, it is enough to make him stop, and Wen Qing snorts.

“Thank you,” she says instead, and Yanli turns a smile upon her, squeezing her hand.

“Of course,” she says, because there is no question about her doing such.

They stop by A-Xian’s room before they reach her own, and Yanli leaves the door open as she steps inside the messiness. It is a little worrisome, in that while A-Xian has always been messy he has never been… like this, and she worries greatly for both her brothers every day. Still, he has clean robes put away, and she plucks some out for Wen Qionglin to wear. Her brother is maybe just a little taller, so they should fit him well.

Without even thinking about it, she takes Wen Qing’s hand again when she shuts the door behind her, and leads on.

Her shidis are good – they work fast, probably scampering as fast as they can, and the three of them are slow. Yanli has never been a fast walker, and Wen Qing and Wen Qionglin do not seem to have the ability to move quickly. She wonders how long it has been since they properly ate or rested, and the thought sends a pang through her.

Either way, it means by the time she has led them to her rooms, her shidi are just finishing up. They bow quickly. “Is- Is there anything else you need, Lady Jiang?” the older one asks, eyes wide as he glances at her two companions.

“Could you tell Sect Leader Jiang to meet me here?” she requests, and he nods, both of the children off like two arrows, hurrying as fast as they can without running.

Yanli smiles at their backs, but Wen Qing is the one who speaks up. “You have rebuilt this place well,” she says, her voice soft.

Ah. Yes. “Thank you,” she says. She sets A-Xian’s clothes on her bed, going to her wardrobe to pull out some clothes for Wen Qing as well, and then ensures that both the towels and her privacy screen are at hand, should they need the latter. She moves quickly – the baths are steaming, and they should get in while they are warm.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” she says, as she shows them where her shidi have set up tea and pork buns on the table.

Wen Qing shakes her head. “Thank you,” she says, and she seems to struggle with her words. “I… You’re doing a lot for us. Thank you.”

Yanli abandons decorum and draws her into a tight hug. Wen Qing is surprised, but then hugs her right back, just as fiercely. “You have done a lot for me as well,” she says simply, quietly, her mouth right by the other’s ear. “What are friends for?”

When Wen Qing pulls back, she is perhaps a little misty-eyed – Yanli allows her her pride and does not comment. “Friends,” Wen Qing agrees as well.

“Thank you, Lady Jiang,” says Wen Qionglin, watching the two with a smile on his face, and he bows again. Yanli would hug him, but he is very, very wet right now.

“Jiang Yanli is fine,” she tells him, and though he nods, she doubts he will call her such immediately. It will likely take more persuasion. “I will be right outside. Let me know when you are finished.”

And with that, she leaves them to it, shutting the door behind her and then leaning against the wall next to it with a slight sigh. This will be… difficult, she thinks. Quite hard, and yet… can she do anything else?

A-Cheng rounds the corner. “Jiejie,” he says, and his eyes are narrowed, angry with concern as he reaches out for her hands to hold them. “Are you alright? Who did you bring here, what’s going on?”

She loves her brother, in his angry care, his fierce comfort, and when she wraps her arms around him he doesn’t hesitate to hold her back. “It is Lanling Jin,” she says, because it is probably the best place to start. “They have lied to use, they…”

A-Cheng squeezes her, careful but firm. “Tell me everything,” he says, and Yanli does.

#wen qing #jiang yanli #yanqing #qingyan #wen ning #wen qionglin #mdzs #nessarinthegay

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mystery-deer · 4 years

Note

Hi I hope you are fine! I've read most of your b99 fics and I love them so much!!!

I have to say I really like how you write Kevin and Holt it's just so interesting and well written I'm speechless!

I hope you'll post new fics with them!

Have a nice day!

(I hope my English isn't too bad, tbh I'm a French native speaker and always feel nervous when I have to write in English haha)

I’m fine, I’m just in school and all my classes are writing based due to my major which leaves little time for recreational writing at the moment~!! Please don’t worry!! What a lovely ask, it makes me so happy whenever people compliment my writing! Sometimes I think ‘You’re making this way too deep Arthur’ but then I think....hey....I love to swim. I definitely have a few wips and to show you I’m good for it here’s an excerpt from one!;

“Would you like for me to make a run to the store?” Kevin asked.

“No thank you, Deborah’s already…” She trailed off, distracted. Everything was distracted. She wondered who had more of a right to be upset, her or Kevin? Kevin she guessed. “...It’s being taken care of.”

“Of course, would you like to sit down? I can make coffee for all of us.”

“Including me?” Marcus asked, poking his head out from the hall with a grin.

“Excluding you.”

“I don’t wanna be ex-cluded.” Marcus said, pronouncing it slowly as he went to the front door and rummaged through his bag. “Uncle Ray said he’d help me with my homework but only history because I’m great at everything else!”

“Yes, I heard you got straight A’s this semester.” Marcus took out a glossy notebook and hesitated, looking at the ground and flipping through the pages idly.

“I got a C in history though. No one else did.” He said, suddenly moping. He had the tone of someone bringing up an old grievance and Laverne could picture Debbie trying to cheer him up in the car on the drive home from school as he frowned at the single C.

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration. When I was younger I often struggled in math.” Kevin offered.

Marcus perked up. “Really? But math is easy!”

“Perhaps to you because you’re quite gifted in that sphere. However, I had trouble keeping the numbers straight and one day I got a D.” Marcus gasped softly and shook his head. Laverne smiled and looked out the window. Debbie’s car was coming down the street so she rose to greet her.

“Indeed,” Kevin remarked at Marcus’ shock. “I told all my friends that I had gotten a B and threw the report card out the window of the boy’s bathroom.”

“Did your mom get mad?”

“Oh yes.” Kevin said, tone aggressively neutral.

“My mom didn’t get mad at me, she said- she said that’s okay and I can try again!” Marcus exclaimed, proud.

Kevin’s eyes drifted to Laverne’s, then to the door. “She’s a very kind woman. And she’s right.”

The door opened at that moment and Laverne was glad she’d unlocked it in preparation as her daughter was nearly invisible underneath all the bags she was carrying.

“Little help?” She called and Kevin rushed over to take a few of the heavier ones. Marcus tugged a bag out of her hands and dragged it to the kitchen, refusing anyone else’s help. Laverne reached for a bag but Debbie angled herself away, stumbling to the kitchen and telling her to rest.

“I don’t need to rest.” Laverne said, slightly annoyed at being treated as so fragile. She remembered when Debbie had fit on her hip, bah.

“I don’t mean it like that ma, I just...we’re all kinda weird right now.” Kevin and Laverne both flinched at the acknowledgment as to why they were all here. Marcus rooted through the plastic bags in search of snacks. The coffee machine beeped and Kevin poured the liquid into four mugs.

“Mom, can I have coffee?” Marcus asked again, popping up from the floor to grab her leg. Debbie scratched lightly as his hair.

“You wouldn’t like it, here, I got you some apple juice instead.” She handed the small container of juice to the boy and he grinned, running off down the hall where he’d come from. “Ah ah ah, Marcus!”

There was a pause and then a reversal as he ran back, out of breath. “Yeah?”

“What do we say?” His mother prompted.

“...Thank you!” He ran to give her a hug before bouncing back down the hall. Debbie rolled her eyes good-naturedly as Kevin let out a soft exhale of laughter.

“He’s a handful that one.” Debbie said.

Laverne hummed. “I believe all children are handfuls, be thankful you only have one.”

“Every day!” Debbie exclaimed, preparing to cook something. “Every day, I am!”

“I’m going to go check on them.” Kevin said, walking down the hall. Laverne and Debbie exchanged a look.

“Do you think he’s going to be ok?”

“Why wouldn’t he be? I hardly think anything will happen to him between here and Raymond’s room” Debbie shook her head, ignoring her mother’s joke.

“I mean will Ray be ok.”

She didn’t know. She wished she knew. She wished she knew how to deal with this. “I’m certain he’ll be fine.” She said, standing to help her daughter prepare the sandwiches.

Raymond had always been a bit shy around his father. Laverne didn’t know why but whenever he was around he froze up. Raymond would talk endlessly about what he was doing for school, his friends, his campaign for class president and how he was debating whether or not to ask for help with the speech.

“Why not ask your dad? He’s a very skilled orator.” She’d suggested and Raymond had hesitated before nodding the same way he did when he was offered anything he really wanted. He always paused before accepting, as if he expected the other person to snatch it away.

That night Raymond was quiet at the dinner table. Debbie was happily babbling in her own toddler language about imaginary adventures she’d been on that day and Clifton was humoring her beautifully, giving Laverne a chance to relax. Though she wasn’t relaxing, she was looking at her son who was playing with his dinner nervously. The hour dragged on until finally as she was clearing the plates she said mildly; “Clifton, Raymond would like to ask you something.” Raymond startled as if a spotlight had suddenly been shined on him and avoided eye contact with his father, who turned to him as he wiped Debbie’s face with a napkin.

“Hm? What is it?”

“I- um…it’s nothing. I can do it myself.”

“Are you sure? I’d be glad to help if you-”

“No thank you, I can do it myself.”

Raymond had rushed to leave the table after that, running to his room and shutting the door. She and Clifton had exchanged a look and her husband had shrugged good-naturedly.

“He’ll come when he’s ready.” He’d said but Laverne had the strong sense he wouldn’t, that he wanted to be chased and cajoled and coddled.

“Did Kevin tell you how much?” Debbie asked, slicing cucumbers into perfect, thin slices. She was always skilled at chopping and dicing and Laverne would always let her cut the onions and garlic because she liked the smell and she liked carrying on about how it hurt her eyes.

“Not yet.”

“Twenty thousand dollars.” The number shook her. So many zeroes. So much wasted. Debbie seemed to feel the same way, repeating it under her breath. Laverne pictured her son throwing twenty thousand dollars up into the air, watching it scatter on the wind. Throwing it into a fireplace, shredding it in front of her.

No, don’t blame him.

She wanted to.

Her gut reaction was to shake him when she’d first gotten the call. To drive to his apartment and shake him and scream and ask him why the hell he would do this, how could he so stupid?

She composed herself. That would get her nowhere.

#Q&A #my writing #Some dialogue feels a bit bare bc I haven't filled in the color yet! But I hope this uhhhhhh wets the...whistle?#God what a phrase.#WIP

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sodrippy · 4 years

Note

can we know about kyra [eye emoji]? or is it Top Secret from your dnd crew (if this sent twice i am sorry, my browser went kinda bananas when i first tried to send it)

oh my god dude i am manifesting to kiss u tenderly on the forehead for asking this!!!

kyras not actually from our campaign at all shes just an oc i pulled from this art of a knight and death last night fdhcjn but yes please ive been talking nonstop about her all day (even though i keep being like ‘i should shut up so if i ever want to actually use her in a campaign her story will be Fresh’ but whatever! i love her!!)-

kyra’s a half-orc w 2 dads (her papa and her baba) and 1 brother, who becomes an oath of the grave paladin after her baba is killed by [enter campaign relevant bad guys here]. relatedly or not, after her father’s death someone tries to resurrect him, and she ofc stands in the way, bc baba taught her (when her pa died) that ‘death is nothing to fear, even if it is painful, its as natural as sunset, you see, and just as necessary’ so No, she doesn’t want to see her father brought back to her bc he never left and whatever this guy is trying to do will desecrate her papa’s memory. eventually, some grave paladins step in and take care of the necromancer, and kyra joins their order.

her brother left them a couple of years prior to become an adventurer, as is the norm in their community (and is in fact how her parents met, intersecting on their own different quests) and while he writes them periodically when he can, they can never really send reliable replies bc he’s always on the move, and so he has. no idea his father’s been killed, and kyra had to do the last rites without him there and stuff. she stayed instead of also seeking her own destiny in the wider world, even though she ofc wanted to follow those footsteps, bc she didn’t want to leave her father alone just yet and she wanted to stay and help him with his work and such. but since there’s nothing left for her in this place now, she heads out with the grave paladins to help them fulfil their tenets and keep the world in balance, and to seek out her brother so they can lay baba to rest together.

(oath of the grave is a homebrew subclass afaik and theres a couple of different versions floating around i think, but the basic tenets are like, undead are unpermissable, death is not the enemy, life is to be protected, basically to keep balance between life and death, keep people alive as best you can unless death is the kinder option (dont let people suffer slow deaths but dont kill enemies without cause and so on) and lay the dead to rest respectfully)

i think thats the general gist of her story, shes just a sweet baby sister with a good heart and a warm home, and she just wants to find her brother and keep the world turning as it should be, and honour her father’s memory and values as she does so, yknow,,,

#dnd #kyra tag #bro i love her so much already fedchbxn #ik i said shes a half orc but culturally shes indian just accept it okay #i feel like theres so much more to say but thats just bc ive been yelling w ellian about her in relation to our current campaign in some ki #anonymous #ask

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blackaquokat · 4 years

Text

The Song You Might Have Been (Chapter 2)

Link to Chapter 1

A/N: Fun fact, Legal Eagle used to be slang for “lawyer,” hence the DA’s nickname.

You will also notice, this chapter, that I am taking blatant inspiration for a subplot from Shawshank Redemption. Because it is absolutely something my DA would do. And also, there is a scene here that I once wrote in response to a prompt.

Anyway, thanks for the feedback so far, everyone! I appreciate it so much!

Enjoy!

Apparently Yancy has set up a guard rotation for you at mealtimes in collaboration with his nightly watch.

Today, instead of Jimmy the Pickle, a slim bearded man who introduces himself as Sparkles McGee (you’re curious about the story behind that nickname) joins you at your table. He’s a little more chatty than Jimmy was, constantly going on about the local prison gossip. Who is sleeping with who, which jobs are preferable, upcoming birthdays of inmates and guards. He doesn’t seem to expect any kind of response from you, which works out just fine, because you have nothing to contribute. This might be handy information to have in the future anyway.

When it’s yard time again, however, Sparkles splits off to his group of inmates at the corner. Just as you’re about to go spend another hour lost in thought or maybe doing some exercises, Sparkles comes back and drags you to his posse.

He introduces them one by one: a young woman who looks simultaneously bored and ready to kill, “Tiny”; a younger man with a hisp of a goatee and mustache, “Bam-Bam”; a pale, lanky man with gears tattooed to his temple, “Heap-Ass”; and a larger bald man, “Shithole Hank.” The last one is apparently the man to go to for hooch wine, and every time you’re offered a sip, you make a hard pass. Your excuse is a preference for whiskey or lime and gin. In reality, you just haven’t gotten desperate enough for alcohol to drink it out of a toilet.

Once the introductions are made, you once again just sit back and listen as the crew converses amongst one another. With the amount of gossip you catch during that time, you manage to construct imaginary cases in your head where this evidence is used in support of various litigation lawsuits.

It’s a real eye-opener for you, how little of a life you had outside of work that this is the most you can come up with to occupy yourself outside of reading a book.

Speaking of…

“Is there a library here?” you ask during a short lull in the conversation.

The group blinks at you in sync.

“Um.” Bam-Bam shakes his head. “There’s a book cart with a small selection, and a room about the size of a closet, but that’s about it.”

Your brow furrows. “Is this another case of Warden Murder-Slaughter’s ‘rehabilitation over punishment’ slogan falling flat on its face?”

Tiny snorts. Sparkles shrugs. An idea forms in your mind.

“Um…” Shithole Hank leans towards Sparkles. “Should we be worried about that look in their eye?”

“Only if it gets us in trouble.”

You decide to ignore that exchange. “Would you guys like to have a proper library?”

This draws some intrigue from your companions. Tiny in particular looks interested in this proposal.

“How the hell would you manage that?” Sparkles demands.

You cross your arms and try for a confident smile. “You don’t go through years of law school without learning how to figure out contracts and loopholes. If I can talk with the warden, I’d like to at least see what I can do.”

You cut off when you see the group staring behind you with wide eyes. You turn heel to see one of the guards looking you up and down. Rex, your mind supplies. This is Rex.

“If you want the Warden,” Rex growls, “I can take you to him. But you gotta do something for me first.”

Shit.

----

“What do you mean youse done talked with the Warden?” Yancy demands when you stroll into the cell that evening.

“I wanted to ask him what steps I needed to take to get a bigger library implemented here,” you respond with absolutely no shame whatsoever.

The meeting went surprisingly well. You’ve got a rough idea of how to go about this, now that you know what the problems are. Even better, you actually did find a copy of Murder on the Orient Express on the cart, so a double-win for the day. You crawl on top of the bedsheets and crack the novel open.

Yancy leaps down from the bunk and glares down at you. “And youse didn’t think to inform me of this plan of youse’s?”

You lift your brow without looking away from the book. “I didn’t think you’d be opposed to the idea of making your home a little more homey by having a more updated collection of books.”

“Of course not--”

“Then what’s the problem?”

There’s a huff and a growl before Yancy climbs back into his bunk and falls into it more aggressively than necessary. You think that’s the end of it until his head pops down. “What makes you think youse can just waltz into here and demand youse’s luxuries?!”

Ah. Okay, you see where he’s coming from.

You shut your book and set it down. “Look, I know I’m a prosecution lawyer, but I’m not completely heartless. Yes, I would like a larger collection of books, but don’t the rest of you want more to read too? You look like you’ve been here long enough to read all of those three times. I mean, Rex brought me to the warden in the first place just because he wants a better poetry collection to pick from. He asked for specific authors and poets.”

Yancy does not deny this.

You continue, “Besides, just because you’re in prison doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to expand your horizons, literature-wise that is. I know books helped me growing up, imagine what they’ll mean to everyone in here.”

Yancy continues to stare at you, utterly baffled. “Youse quite the enigma, Eagle.”

“For...what? Caring?”

He shrugs. A weird sight to watch from someone who’s upside down. “Not for caring, per se. But more...the ‘doing’ part.” He disappears into his bunk again. “Here’s hopin’ it won’t be for nothin’.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think youse the first person to ask for more books, Eagle? There’s a reason that collection hasna been updated since the war. Nobody’s seen it through to the end. They gets discouraged.”

You purse your lips, fingers tapping against your book. “I would think you’d have realized from my reputation. I don’t quit.”

There’s a chuckle above you. A genuine one. “That’s what I’m countin’ on, Eagle.”

---

Yancy is right. There’s a reason the collection has barely grown since the prison opened up.

No one on the outside wants to fund the damn thing.

That doesn’t stop you. You start writing letter after letter after letter to the state legislature asking (demanding and borderline threatening, really) for the funds needed to make a bigger library. Thanks to your work in the government, and after a quick phone call to Damien to confirm (while he also updates you on the progress on your case), you know exactly who to contact. It gives you something to do. Something really meaningful. It helps to pass the time and helps to keep from feeling helpless about your own situation.

It also gets you a whole different kind of attention from the inmates.

After Week Two of your letter campaign, Tiny speaks up. You’ve started sitting with Yancy’s posse since they adopted you into their group outside of protection detail. “You really think you can get a library here?”

Seeing as Tiny has barely made a sound in your presence before, this takes you completely by surprise. As well as the rest of the table. You recover quickly. “That’s...what I’m hoping for.”

Tiny’s head ducks, her fingers tapping against one another. “Um...if you do…”

“Yeah?”

“Can we make requests?” she eventually blurts out. “For books we’d like? I mean, do you think we could get children’s books?”

You put down your fork and offer her your full attention. “Did you have a specific one in mind?”

“The Velveteen Rabbit.” Tiny tugs at her braid. “My grandmother used to read it to me.”

You’re overwhelmed with the sudden urge to protect Tiny with your life. Even if you’re pretty sure Tiny has killed at least three people since she was imprisoned and could absolutely kill you if she wanted to. “If that book isn’t included in any delivery we’re given, I will annoy the legislature until they do. Sound good?”

Tiny smiles at you. A small, genuine one. It renews your motivation and you end up writing two letters that evening, in preparation for the next time mail comes along. Next thing you know, other inmates (and even a few guards aside from Rex, much to your surprise) have requests for books they would like available.

Oddly enough, it’s the letter writing and the book requests that finally drive you to ask Yancy how you go about ordering contraband.

“What the hell do youse need contraband for?” He’s sitting cross-legged in the top bunk while you’re trying to draft your next letter on the slab sticking out from the opposite wall.

You hold up the golf pencil you’re using with frustration. “Because these are driving me up the wall. They are terrible. And the quality of the paper here is a nightmare too, it smudges way too easily.”

“So what? Youse want pen and paper?”

Your brow lifts. “That not a lethal enough order?”

Yancy’s smile is borderline feral in its delight. “Youse a lot more interesting than I thought you’d be, Eagle. The guy to go to is Heap-Ass. He’ll get you anything you want. For a price.”

You really don’t like that tone of his. “And? What’s the price?”

“Depends.”

“I don’t do sex favors. Or assassinations.”

“Nah, he’s not that twisted. It’ll either be a chore switch or cigarette packs, somethings in that nature, you know?”

You twirl your terrible pencil between your fingers, feeling a little more hopeful. “That I can definitely handle.”

---

You’ve always known, on an intellectual, common sense level, that prison brutality is absolutely a problem. It’s something you learned in law school from the professors who cared about teaching the kind of scenes law students would actually have to address in their lines of work.

It’s an entirely other experience to watch a rookie guard get too into his job and beat the shit out of a prisoner whose only crime was walking a little too close to the bastard.

Your gut instinct is to run forward and help, somehow. A stupid instinct that would have gotten you killed or at least tossed into the infirmary on a permanent basis had Yancy not grabbed your arm to stop you.

“Hold up there, Eagle.” He pulls you back, a glare fixed on the brutal scene before you. “No need for two of ours to ends up with broken wings, youse hear me?”

You swallow back your righteous anger and force yourself to calm down. It’s not right, it’s not right, and the justice lawyer inside of you is itching to make it right somehow–-

Yancy must see your conflict and anger. He puts a hand on your shoulder and mutters into your ear, “No worries. Me and the others ain’t gonna let this stand. We’ve got our own system in place here.”

That night, you pretend to be asleep when you hear that rookie guard scream for help. You don’t look to see what happens, who does it, or how, and the next day, when the warden summons you to ask if you know anything to explain why the guard’s body was found in the laundry room, you tell him as much.

When you see Yancy later, he seems almost impressed at your lackadaisical reaction to what took place. “Thought you were all about the law, Eagle?”

You lean on the wall next to him and look out across the yard, watching the other inmates mingle together. “In the absence of the law, I’ll take what justice I can get.”

You can almost feel Yancy’s approval. “I can appreciate that.”

Link to Chapter 3 here!

Thank you for reading! Please relbog/comment! If you want to be tagged/untagged for the rest of this series or this pairing, please leave a message in my inbox!

@starcrossedforever87 , @dontworryaboutanything , @beereblogsstuff , @falseroar , @intemperantiae , @memetoyoko , @soul-wolf , @marki-dumb , @withjust-a-bite , @raimeyl , @scribbeetle , @its-dari , @neverisadork , @silver-owl413 , @sassy-in-glasses , @chelseareferenced , @sketchy-scribs-n-doods , @axolittle-boi , @wildfandom , @shrinkthisviolet , @purple-anxiety-blog , @conceitedink , @skidspace

#kat writes #prison attorney #ahwm yancy #ahwm #y/n district attorney #a heist with markiplier #wkm #who killed markiplier

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