#and seducing the barkeeps daughter

[dogbunni]

idk who I should draw next for the DND AU. cleric!teruhashi or rogue!kuboyasu

although. could do bard!toritsuka u KNOW he'd be a bard. the absolute worst bard ever

[hotchs-second-wife]

DON'T BLAME ME || 1 || Jay Halstead / Thea Rhodes

Synopsis: Theodosia Rhodes, the youngest daughter of a big-time Chicago CEO, needs a husband of her own choice before her father makes that decision for her. Jason Halstead, newly-made Intelligence detective, needs a wife to inherit his portion of his mother's inheritance.

Warnings: Mentions of arson, kidnapping, murder, rape; allusion to childhood trauma, suicide, cancer-related death; descriptions of vehicular accidents including, but not limited to, car-on-car collision, car-on-truck, train; outright familial/parental pressure; portrayal of misogyny and misandry. Read ahead at your own risk.

THEODOSIA

My phone buzzed against the bar shelf, as I slid two Long Island ice teas. The constant vibrantions from my pocket annoyed me, so lately I kept a box under the bar for employees to leave their phones if they wanted.

"Should probably answer that," Matt chided from my right. Despite the crowd in Molly's, he could still hear my phone on vibrate. Granted, we were trained to hear the littlest things.

Kelly laughed beside him. "I can guarantee it's the old man or the sister."

"More likely my sister," I snorted, pulling out another bear for them. "Less talk about my familial pressure for marriage and more drinking, boys."

"You don't need our money, you're richer than the entire department," Kelly frowns.

"I do need to pay my employees though, and I'd rather use the money made from this place than my allowance." Considering I own Molly's and not Cornelius. "I might own a department store but Molly's isn't in cahoots with Dolan Rhodes, and I'd rather keep it that way."

Kelly raised his beer in agreement, before I set off to serve other customers. I tend to the usual, everyday regulars that I only ever see in the bar and not at my full-time job, then head over to the officers and detectives sitting at the very end of my bar.

"Good evening, Lieutenant," Antonio nodded once politely, earning a light smack from me. "You might work with my sister, but I'm not getting kicked out for pissing off the bartender."

I snickered, "you have a lot more than getting kicked out to worry about, Antonio. I know all your dirty little secrets. Everyone bullshits to the bartender."

"Just the usual, Rhodes," Atwater laughed between him and Ruzek. I grabbed the men their usual drinks, moving on to cleaning the glasses in the sink.

Ruzek, amidst his friends' conversation, looked at me over his bottle. "My sister's finished med school, and I know your old man donates to Chicago Med."

"And you want me to put in a good word for her?" I nodded over his head. "Which one is she?"

"She doesn't drink, knowing the risks as a doctor and all."

I smiled. "Like her already. I'll put in a good word, as long as you bring her next time. We got a stock of non-alcoholics out back for when we have shift the next day."

Ruzek thanked me and returned to conversation with his co-workers. I heard my name called, following the voice to Gabby Dawson, one of the best paramedics I know and a damn good barkeep.

"You've met Severide's sister," Gabby waved a hand at Brooklyn Severide.

"How could I not when I babysit her niece?"

Brooklyn raised her glass to me, "my niece's mother, you mean."

"You got a kid?" One detective Jay Halstead asked me.

That particular detective that seduced one of my greatest friends, a non-blood sister, and lied to her for the sake of undercover work. He then proceed to let Molly's get set on fire, the one bar owned and worked by firefighters, and broke up with her in the end. I still wanted to kick his ass for that.

Mostly for Gabby, but also for Molly's. My poor baby.

I raised my head a little. "Best friend's kid, lost her mom. I try to be the mother she deserves." To say I'm still a little apprehensive of the detective would be an understatement.

"And you are," Brooklyn held my arm in her hand, before going back to her drink. "Best damn woman in the world, this one."

I see what's happening.

"Fire lieutenant, great with kids, animals and the elderly. Great with cops too. Did I mention she scaled a two story house to get a cat out of a tree because the truck ladder was stuck?" Brooklyn, a little tipsy already, latched onto Halstead's wrist.

He laughed. For such a dick, the laugh was cute. Really brought out a young side to him. Too bad he's a liar. "About a million times, Brooke. You tried to scout her off to Atwater this morning."

"You did?" I deadpanned. In the near decade I'd known her, Brooklyn had been trying to set me up with men—and women when I came out to her—left and right. I was too good for her brother, apparently. I doubted she realised her brother was also like a brother to me.

It just so happened that his daughter looks more like me with her gorgeous brown hair and brown eyes, and likes to call me Mommy whenever her dad brings her over.

"He's a handsome man, Rho, and he'd take good care of you." Brooklyn excused, turning back to Halstead. "Did I mention benefits? Also she's rich, so that's its own benefit."

She's trying to set me up with this dickwad.

"I'm not that urgent for a wife," Halstead shook his head at Brooklyn, keeping his arm out under his partner's hand.

Kelly called across the room to me, "Mom, baby's calling for you!" That got me there in two seconds. Elizabeth Severide was the cutest little girl in existence, and she would be gorgeous as she got older. The Italian in her would bring that out in her.

She was in every way her dad's daughter, from the smile down to the attitude. The Severide siblings were already a lot to deal with, and to pile on a mini-version of Kelly? I couldn't say no to Elli's little face though.

Elizabeth lost her mother when she was born, and the moment Kelly met his baby girl, I had been with him and encouraged him to at least see her before deciding to let her maternal grandparents take her. He'd asked me an important name to me, in which I said his name or Matt's. They were the closest to brothers I had since Connor went overseas.

When it came down to girls names, it had to be my mother's. I lost her when I was ten, to depression, but she was still my mother, down to the looks and personality. So he'd named her Elizabeth Leslie, after my mother and his best friend, Shay.

Shay was ecstatic her best friend's kid was named after her, and it happened that her middle name was Elizabeth. More often times than not, she'd call Elli by her middle name because she liked it so much.

"Hi, Mommy!" Elli waved at me over FaceTime through Kelly's phone. She was at the Herrmanns', while I worked and Kelly hung out until it was time for him to head home. "What are you doing?"

"I'm working, Reginetta." I smiled, taking the phone from her dad. She loved the little nickname I called her, since I'd promised her mother's parents I'd teach her Italian. Being privately tutored in a language of my choice helped them agree to let Kelly keep her. "Are you in bed?"

"Cindy said I can stay up until Daddy comes pick up!"

She was the cutest little 4-year-old ever.

"Well Daddy will be home with Christopher soon. Christopher is almost finished working." I took the beer from his hands.

Elli took her eyes off me for a second, looking over the phone. "Lee Henry said you have to marry soon. Do I get a new daddy?"

"No, your daddy will still be your daddy. I can't replace him."

"But Cindy said you're not marrying Daddy."

I nodded. "That's right. I'm marrying a different man, because my daddy tells me to."

"Do you not love Daddy anymore?"

Oh sweet baby. "I love your Daddy as much as I love you, Reginetta. But your Daddy isn't the man for me. He'll marry a good woman who will love you just as much as we do."

"But I don't want another Mommy, or another Daddy!" She cried, tears falling over her chubby cheeks. "Only you and Daddy!"

"It's okay, baby, you won't see my husband unless your Daddy is okay with it, and only if you want to. He'll just be Mommy's husband."

She nodded, little sniffles leaving her nose as Cindy helped her wipe her tears. "Principessa, your Daddy and I will never introduce you to a man or a woman if you don't want to meet them. Besides, you'll probably be much older when we ask about it."

"Daddy said I'll see you o-morrow at the Big House."

My house looked like a downsized version of the firehouse, so she called my house "Mommy's House" and 51 the "Big House". It worked just as well with her calling Chief Boden the "Big Man".

"That's great! Now you get ready for Daddy to come get you, and I'll see you tomorrow, little one." I hung up and gave Kelly a look to find Herrmann. He did just that, taking his phone and leaving a kiss to the side of my head beforehand.

#

Closing up was as easy as cleaning a pig's back. And that was an understatement, given that I know how to clean a pig while they're running around.

With everything locked up in the bar, and the front door locked, I headed out the back where I expected Brooklyn to be. We were planning to finish off Europe trip plans before we passed out, but her car was nowhere to be seen.

"Antonio said she was too drunk to stay any longer, so he took her home." Halstead's voice carried over the small parking lot reserved for Molly's employees and family. He wasn't family; not to the bar owner. "I called Severide, he said I could park here. His sister's best friend and all. You wouldn't mind, according to him."

Brooklyn was too drunk my ass. I served her all her drinks, and when I wasn't, Gabby was. I knew how much she had.

Little shit trying to set me up.

"I'm sure you know just as well as me, but I'm fully aware she's trying to set us up, and I know you're hating it just as much as you hate me."

"I don't hate you." Now you're a freaking liar, Theodosia. "Just, despise you more than the average person."

He laughed, genuinely, while he moved around his truck to open the passenger door for me. "I think there's people that would argue with that. Unlike you, I was a screwed up kid."

"And how would you know what I was like?" I asked, and he shut the door before I even got an answer. Sitting in his car in silence was peaceful, and somehow comforting. An old smell that was awfully familiar ran over my skin.

Halstead shut the driver's door after he sat down. "One, you're the most popular woman in Chicago. Two, you did everything your dad told you to, even if it was clear you didn't enjoy it. Like modelling."

That was the bane of my long existence. I hated it, and thanked whoever had been listening to my prayers that I'd found firefighting and loved it. It was the first decision I made about my career life, and the first decision I made the moment I turned 18.

Connor had wanted to leave America, start his adult life in another country while he studied medicine, but I dug my roots into the ground of the Chicago Fire Department and fought my way through the academy on my own. I made sure the brass didn't accept any money from my old man so I knew I could accomplish something in my own right.

And it wouldn't bite me in the ass later on either. I'd found myself a real family, one where Boden was a better father than my actual one.

"Brooke always talks so highly of you," Halstead mentioned, his eyes on the road.

For as long as I've known Kelly, I've known Brooklyn. Sweet girl, only a year younger than me. I was almost directly in the middle of the Severides, with Kelly three years my senior. Kelly had been my guide right out of the academy, and when Boden wasn't mentoring me, Kelly was taking me over the basics of rescue firefighting. He'd been candidate for a few months before Matt had arrived, then he was bumped up to rescue squad about a month before I appeared.

Matt and Kelly, being a couple years older, wanted me to get close to Brooklyn, since we were closer in age and women. I was 22, and Brooklyn 21, when Kelly took us out drinking for her 21st. Unbeknownst to Brooklyn—or Kelly—one of the guys over at Firehouse 38 had preyed his eyes on the fresh 21-year-old in the bar.

I'd beaten the shit out of him, and Boden had to convince the patrol sergeant in charge not to charge me. That I was a dedicated firefighter that was just shy of 3 weeks from moving up to search squad, and that I didn't need a stained record when the lieutenants were already riding my ass.

I've had Brooklyn glued to my hip at bars since then. She was always great company, and much more of a pleasure to be around than Kelly when she was drunk. A giggly, playful sort.

She looked up to like the older sister she didn't have, and admired that I put my foot down to my father. Something she wishes she could do.

"Yeah, well, Benny and my father aren't all that different. One's just rich and the other one is god knows where." It was true, for the most part. I knew where Benny was, or where he should've been. And I knew he was coming up to Chicago to see his granddaughter.

Halstead agreed. "She said he's a better grandfather than a father."

"Most shit dads tend to be better with other people's kids. Benny's been great to me, but that's just to get on Kelly's good side. Be nice to your granddaughter's mother figure and you get your son happy."

He didn't say anything to that, but I didn't expect him to. As much as I knew about him, which wasn't much since he'd only been Brooklyn's partner for less than a month, but he didn't have all that good a relationship with his dad either. That's mostly why he and Brooklyn were so close as far as I was concerned.

"About that wife thing," Halstead glanced in his rearview mirror. "I need a wife to get my inheritance from my mother. It's been 10 years, and her will lawyer said if neither my brother nor I claim any of the money, it'll just go to my father. She wanted Will and I to have anything she did, since Dad didn't see her right to the end."

Well shit. Here I was being a bitch about him earlier and bitching to Otis about Brooklyn trying to set me up to marry him, and he needs a wife to keep money from his horrid father.

"She mentioned your dad's been on you to marry men twice your age and you're hating it."

"Hating is an understatement. I could pick any one of them out in a line up against my dad and I wouldn't be able to tell you the difference."

Halstead paused, looking at me before he continued. "She suggested I marry you purely to get your dad off your ass and my inheritance from my dad."

"How long do you have?"

"A week. My mom died 10 years ago on Friday."

A husband—a detective husband at that—would get my father to back off. He could get the inheritance he's keeping from his father, and I'd get to live my life in peace from an unwanted marriage.

"Okay, you have a deal."

[jaskierswolf]

The Bard of Kaer Morhen pt.3/4

Previous

Jaskier was still eighteen the third time he met a witcher.

Two new witchers in one year. It was officially his favourite age so far.

He was also beginning to suspect that he had a type.

He’d always loved freely and had never really considered the idea of him having a type before. He didn’t care about looks or gender. He simply just fell in love with whoever was standing in front of him. It was both a blessing and a curse. Sure he had his preferences in bed but that was less about the person and more about the variety of sex, but even then he could adapt his own particular interests to suit his partners. It was all about working out what worked best for both of them and he was extremely good at it.

He was playing in a tavern in Posada when he saw him.

Geralt of Rivia.

Now this was a witcher that needed no introduction. He was infamous, the Butcher of Blaviken. His silver hair drew Jaskier’s attention over the crowd. He was sat alone in a dark corner of the tavern and Jaskier almost missed a note when he realised that Geralt was staring at him.

And oh those eyes.

The same as Eskel and Lambert.

Witcher’s eyes.

Like the finest honey in the Continent.

He finished up his ballad as quickly as he could without completely destroying the performance and then bowed to his adoring audience. They tossed coins in his direction which he hurried to scoop up. He gave a handful to the barkeeper’s daughter as she passed, and picked up a full mug of ale, never taking his eyes off the witcher. He couldn’t. He was trapped in Geralt’s eyes. They lured him in like moths to a flame. Like he was a vampire and Geralt’s blood was the finest he would ever taste.

No.

That was shit.

And gross.

He would stick to honey and flower metaphors in future. He was good with those.

He leant against the pillar and smiled seductively at the witcher who was still staring at back at him in a way that made his heart sing. “I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

Geralt smirked and picked up his drink. “You’re the bard.”

Jaskier tilted his head, flicking his fringe from out of his eyes. “I’m a bard.” He agreed. “One of many I imagine. It’s a popular profession.”

Geralt growled and Jaskier was gone. His heart now belonged to this man. He was gorgeous and sexy and to the gods Jaskier wanted to drag Geralt’s leather clad ass upstairs to his room immediately.

“Why do you do it?” Geralt asked watching Jaskier with an intensity that was honestly killing him.

“Do what exactly?” He hummed as he slipped onto the bench opposite the witcher and licked his lips.

Geralt’s eyes flickered down to his lips and Jaskier did a little dance in his head. Finally!

“The songs, the coin, the poems.” Geralt tilted his head. “No one else gives a fuck about witchers. So why?”

Jaskier rested his chin on his hands and watched Geralt as he thought about his answer. “Why not?” He settled on. “Eskel saved my life in Oxenfurt, and I thought it would be a good way to repay the debt. I never dreamed it would be so successful.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how Eskel tells it.”

Jaskier smirked as he leant forward on the table. “How does Eskel tell it, my darling witcher?”

Geralt leaned forward so that Jaskier could feel the heat of his breath brush his cheeks. “That you tried to seduce him, begged him to take you home.”

Jaskier’s cheeks felt like they were on fire as he took a shaky breath, arousal flooding his senses. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from whimpering like a fool and cocked his head. “Well, you can’t blame a man for trying, Geralt.” He purred the witcher’s name and looked up at him through his eyelashes.

Geralt reached across the table and grabbed Jaskier’s wrist tightly, bringing it up to his nose. He sniffed deeply and Jaskier furrowed his brow before raising an eyebrow at the witcher’s antics.

“You aren’t afraid?” Geralt breathed huskily.

Jaskier laughed and moved his hand in Geralt’s grip so he was cupping the witcher’s cheek. There was a prickle of silver stubble beneath his fingers and he couldn’t help but stroke his thumb along Geralt’s cheekbone.

“My dear witcher.” Jaskier smiled fondly at the man in front of him. “Why would I be afraid?”

Geralt growled and pulled away and then gestured to the crowd in the tavern behind Jaskier. “Ask any of them.” Jaskier glanced behind him and scoffed.

“They simply don’t know you.” Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“You don’t know me.” Geralt muttered.

Jaskier let his hand rest on Geralt’s arm and squeezed gently. “Not yet, but I wasn’t lying when I said Eskel saved my life. He saved my life and ensured that I got home safely when there was no reward for doing so, even though I was quite honestly being a bit of a brat.”

Geralt chuckled.

Jaskier grinned sheepishly. “We all do things we’re embarrassed about when we’re sixteen.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “So what’s your excuse with Lambert?”

Jaskier laughed as he remembered his encounter with the prickly witcher from earlier in the year. “Oh come on, Geralt.” He whined but continued to trail his fingers along Geralt’s arm. “Why must you shame me in this way?”

“Seems you have type, bard.” Geralt chuckled fondly and stopped Jaskier’s flirtatious caresses on his arm by catching Jaskier’s hand in his.

Jaskier was incredibly pleased with this latest development. He smiled softly at his witcher. “Perhaps,” He laced their fingers together. “Or perhaps every breath, every rejection, every missed opportunity was just leading me here. To you.”

Geralt scoffed. “Romantic fool.”

Jaskier pouted at the new love of his life. “Geralt.”

Geralt frowned.

“Bard?” He asked looking a bit confused.

Oh.

 Oh.

“Oh Melitele, You idiots don’t even know my name!” He gasped and fell back in his seat, pulling his hand away from the witcher.

Geralt grumbled something under his breath.

“No no no. Use your words, witcher!” Jaskier snapped. “I sing your praises all over the Continent for two bloody years and not one of you knows my name! I am a famous troubadour Geralt!”

“It’s not our fault you have so many bloody monikers. Dandelion, Daffodil, Fleur-de-lis, Buttercup, Daisy, Marigold.” Geralt sniped back. “Two years, bard, and not one person has been able to tell me your name.”

Jaskier smiled coyly. “You’ve been asking about me?”

“Professional curiosity. You’ve made all our lives a lot easier, bard.” Geralt mumbled. “It seems only fair to know who we’re thanking.”

Jaskier tilted his head at the witcher. “Aren’t you a gentleman?”

Geralt just hummed gruffly and Jaskier patted the witcher gently on his cheek. To his surprise the witcher leant into his touch ever so slightly, he was certain that Geralt hadn’t even noticed he was doing it.

Jaskier was falling in love even more with every moment that passed between them. Yes the witcher was, like all witchers, fucking sexy, but he was also gentle and kind, thoughtful and surprisingly vulnerable? He was certain that most people would call him mad for saying that but Geralt seemed genuinely hurt that the world saw him as a monster.

Jaskier just couldn’t comprehend that at all.

He was dangerous and lethal yes, but only when he needed to be, or at least Jaskier assumed as much based on his encounters with Eskel and Lambert. Eskel in particular had never drawn his sword unless he absolutely had to, Lambert admittedly was faster to attack but then he was less forgiving to the world that showed him no mercy and Jaskier could hardly blame him for that.

“So, Geralt…” Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Tell me a story.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and smirked. “No.”

“No?” Jaskier cried. “What do mean no?”

Geralt grinned. “You’ve had enough second hand stories, bard.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the witcher whilst he considered his words, smiling as he realised the implication behind the words. “I can come with you?”

Geralt hummed and nodded his head. “As long as you stay back and do as I say. Vesemir would kill me if I got you killed.”

Jaskier tilted his head. “Vesemir?”

Geralt grunted but didn’t elaborate which was fine! Jaskier would draw out more details from the witcher eventually. It seemed no witcher was totally immune to his charms.

“So when do we start?” Jaskier leaned his chin on his arms and looked up into Geralt’s eyes, happily getting lost in their swirling amber depths.

Geralt shrugged. “When I get a job.”

Jaskier grinned and leapt up from the table, bounding back to where he’d stored his lute behind the bar. There were still a few songs left in his witcher centric repertoire that he had yet to play, he could easily tweak the lyrics a little, make them about the witcher tucked away in the back of the tavern… the Butcher of Blaviken.

No.

That wouldn’t do.

He appraised Geralt thoughtfully and grinned as his muse came to him.

The White Wolf!

He took a deep breath, brushed his fingers against the strings of his lute and the tavern fell silent as he began to sing.

Geralt hadn’t intended to invite the bard along when he noticed him dancing and flirting with the crowd. He had had no doubt that this was the one. He was Eskel’s bard. He’d watched completely enraptured by the bard’s performance. His gaze drifting over the bard’s surprisingly muscular body. He’d imagined him to be slight and effeminate, like many bards were but that wasn’t the case. His legs were long but muscular. As he perched one foot on a bench and strummed freely on the strings of the lute, Geralt hadn’t managed to stop his gaze from being drawn to the man’s calf.

And his voice.

He’d played effortlessly with the melody and even Geralt’s untrained ear could tell that singing came as naturally to this man as breathing. He didn’t have to strain to reach any of the notes and his voice didn’t shake no matter how much he danced and spun and flirted with the patrons of the tavern.

No, Geralt hadn’t intended to do anything more than simply introduce himself and find out what the damned bard’s name was and yet, here they were travelling side by side towards  the fields where the supposed devil had been spotted.

And he still didn’t know the idiots name.

He swore, silencing the chattering bard who looked at him curiously.

“Everything alright, Geralt?” He asked, cornflower blue eyes shining in the bright sunlight.

“Why flowers?” He asked the troubadour who smirked and gently dampened the resonating sound of his lute strings with his hand.

“We all have our secrets, witcher.” The brunet winked and strode on ahead.

Geralt frowned and ignored the surge of desire that rushed through him at the bard’s easy flirtations. “Well which one is it?”

“Which one is what?”

Geralt grabbed the bard by his shoulders spun him round so he was facing him. Geralt didn’t miss the spike of lust in the bard’s scent and filed that away for later. Not that there would be a later. One adventure, one song and some extra cash. That was all this would be.

“You know damn well, bard.” He spat out and gripped the man tightly so he couldn’t escape this time. “No changing the subject.”

“As if I would do that!” The troubadour gaped in offence and a quick sniff of the air told Geralt that he was only teasing him. “In all my days.”

“Bard.” Geralt was half-minded to forget the whole thing and gallop away on Roach but he was pinned in place by the mischievous twinkle in the bard’s gaze. He sighed and released his grip on the man.

“I call myself Jaskier.” He answered with open arms and a dramatic bow.

“Jaskier.” Geralt frowned. “From Novigrad?”

“Oxenfurt.” Jaskier corrected. “I am rather delighted that it was translated differently across the Continent. Although it does make it a little harder to make myself known.”

“You’re the bard that sings the songs of the witchers, of Kaer Morhen.” Geralt hummed. “The name didn’t matter as much as the stories.”

Jaskier cocked his head. “It did to you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt agreed. “Jaskier’s not your real name.”

“No.” Jaskier admitted.

“Will you tell me?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “Not yet, maybe eventually, dear heart.”

Geralt’s heart didn’t soften at the newest term of endearment.

Witchers were made of sterner stuff than that.

But he did smile fondly at his new companion behind his back as they headed deeper into the farmland.

_____

Next

[talldarkandroguesome]

7th of First Seed, Sundas

Nabine tells me that she is going to need to put on a bit of a performance in order to get Urtisa’s informants to believe that she is capable. Therefore, I am to become inebriated, be seduced by her, and have her steal something of value of mine.

All in all a very simple task. The issue is finding something that would be valuable to those she needs to impress, but also not something that Urtisa and her informants could potentially use against the House.

I had thought a signet ring or an official House seal, but those can be used for far too many nefarious purposes. I thought jewelry would be the most obvious sort of item though.

Going through what I had, we settled on a pendant which had the image of Almalexia on one side and the Indoril wings upon the other. Clearly a symbol that you are a high ranking member of the House, but not something that could be used by anyone for anything that might cause true damage.

So I went to the Temple to check on how things were coming with Kuna’s acceptance. So far they are still checking records, so I simply spent time, seemingly praying and meeting with others, before I headed out, under the pretense of frustration, to a small tavern between the Temple and home. It is a small place, mostly used for nobles to meet up with contacts outside of the main taverns further downtown. It has a quieter atmosphere, and rooms that can be rented for private negotiations. The owner even has a posted policy that she will not sell anyone the ability to eavesdrop on your private room, but she is not responsible should someone manage to do so anyhow. It is very difficult, given the way the place is set up, to overhear what is happening in another room. I would imagine you would have to plan far in advance to succeed.

With the stage set, I began to drink heavily. Nabine slipped inside not too long after I ordered my second bottle, but she kept to a table by the door and stayed to herself until after I had moved onto my third bottle.

I stood up to get the attention of the proprietor, and with a carefully placed choreography, tripped over my own chair leg, spilling the contents of my purse.

Nabine came over to help me gather the coins.

I looked up at her and told her how beautiful she was. It was not an act in that moment, for truly she remains the most beautiful woman I have ever met. She flirted back with me in a very feminine manner, not at all her usual self. I invited her to my table and bought her a bottle of rotmeth.

We spent a while talking, just loud enough to be heard by anyone else who might be in the place and looking to overhear. We spoke of little. In truth, most of it was me asking her questions about Valenwood and telling her how beautiful she was. By the time an hour of this had passed, we became more and more libidinous in our conversation, our chairs next to one another, our hands beginning to roam.

The barkeep asked if we would like to take our bottles to a private room and after looking to her and receiving a nod, I thanked the mer and asked for the finest room he had.

It was a simple enough set up: a fine carpet, a simple chandelier, and a pile of cushions. A small cabinet on the wall contained blankets and towels, with a basin and small pitcher of water atop. Just enough for whatever sort of business you might have to attend to.

Of course, we enjoyed the privacy and made sure to use the room well. I told her how much I enjoyed her playing a part with me.

She told me that she liked the sneaking around and putting on a part well enough, but that she did not like the fake submissive role. I told her that I did not find it attractive on her compared to her true personality and I saw a small amount of relief cross her face.

I kissed her and reassured her that, once Urtisa was taken care of, we would have little reason to ever have to put her into such a situation again, lest she decided she wanted to do it herself.

She smacked my rear and told me that she was going to give me a good punishment for being so cheeky with her and that I better not like it.

I told her that I could not make such a promise.

When the evening drew late, I gave her the pendant, kissed her, and told her I would meet her back at home later in the night. She told me it was better not to make a scene and to simply pretend I was so drunk I forgot all about the necklace. Then she left.

I laid down on the cushions once more and polished off the end of her rotmeth. I knew I would need to seem truly intoxicated, so I remained in the room, drinking and contemplating the best ways to kill my wife.

There was a rapping at the door and I closed my eyes, relaxed my body, and let my breaths become slow and even.

After several minutes, the door opened and I heard someone enter. They called out several times to me before I grumbled and muttered something about scrib jelly.

They left and soon two mer were there lifting me up and gently rousing me. They asked me for my identity and where I was staying and then called a carriage to come retrieve me and take me home.

Cheerz was waiting when the carriage arrived and had a couple of servants help me to walk inside and up to my room. Then someone with a healer’s background came to ensure I had not been poisoned or otherwise harmed in any way.

I also heard, though a while later, some argument between Cheerz and one of the Ordinators about how I should not have been left to my own devices. The Ordinator tried to assure Cheerz that Ordinators at the Temple were supposed to have taken over my watch and that she did not know how I had come to be unsupervised.

I should have been more careful about making sure to create a scene over bucking my guards at the Temple, but there is nothing for it now.

I stayed in bed and had the girls run in to wake me up. I feigned a minor hangover, but generally was excited to see them. Kuna had much to say about Dunmer history and says that she no longer wishes to be a princess, but rather, the next Mother Morrowind.

Already I could see that Nabine is going to want my head for this, but it was hard not to find joy in seeing your daughter take on such a strong role model. Rejecting the role of princess for that of a living god. One cannot say that Kuna is not a driven girl. She certainly has lofty expectations.

She asked me if she could have a blade like Hopesfire and take lessons to use it. I told her it would be up to her mother whether or not that was acceptable.

Nabine returned after the girls were in bed, but said that the rouse had been a shining success. They had sent someone to follow her and had seen how deftly she was able to seduce and manipulate me. They were impressed.

I told her that I was grateful and asked how much more time she thought they might need before we set our plans into motion. She told me she needed more time now that she had their trust, just to make sure that they did not turn suspicious. I agreed.

We talked about Kuna’s new future aspiration. Nabine was not pleased that Kuna had been taught about a religious figure, but said that at least it was a powerful woman and a god which Kuna looked to emulate.

I said I would talk to Mother about the lessons, but Nabine said that it would be best just to let them continue for now and that there would be time enough for comparative historical understanding later.

I slept well, still a little tipsy as Nabine and I laid down to sleep. And, with no morning obligations, since the Council is spending the day making their final determination about if I will become the direct heir to uncle Urnel or not, Nabine and I were able to sleep in a little bit. At least, we slept in until the girls came in to jump on us. Cariel has taken to climbing the bed posts and then dropping down from her feet into the bed. Kuna prefers a running leap. At least Cariel is still small, but Kuna is too big to do this without an elbow or a knee hitting a soft spot. I swear, I have bruises from every morning she has done it.

Today the whole family is going to go for a ride in the countryside. Nabine will have to make a short detour to meet up with a contact, but we have already set up ways for her to slip away and slip back undetected.

How wonderful it is to actually spend time with my family.

[writer59january13]

Trifolium pollinated courtesy bombus

Before landscapers mow swaths

across undulating waves of clover (the father/daughter team usually cut grass every Tuesday)

bumblebees alight from one to another flower.

Meanwhile, I lie splayed

mid morning June 28th, 2022

with stomach upon natural carpeting

quietly basking espying Robins

oblivious to presence of yours truly

pleasantly distracted unable to concentrate

reading latest issue of Mother Jones.

Revered quintessential pitch perfect... omnipresent natural muse idyllic and pacific temperature

sprawling within sundry

schema encompassing sundry biota

at Highland Manor Apartments)

with nary any other resident nor human hypothetically I experience

webbed wide world imagining domain singularly mine.

Splendiferous sunlight bathed

sol barenaked lady alas and alack leavening kernels harkening

civilizations bajillion millenniums back

before mechanization punctuated

courtesy opposable thumb

hominids forged, molded, usurped...

mother lode carte blanche

yielding resounding click and clack blithely extracting resources

disregarding warnings regarding drawback

Capitalism paradigm wrought

Homo sapiens witnessed vanquishing

close calls with extinction

nevertheless man/womankind came roaring

full steam ahead stronger analogously

think one who trudges thru thick forests

zigzagging across rudely cleared switchback

already disappeared without a trace

what animal, (perhaps protohuman) no tell tale track.

Blessed balm of solar warmth permeated one primate seduced asleep

albeit 245+ months into twenty first century,

where proliferation courtesy since

first Industrial Revolution

circa about 1760 to sometime

between 1820 and 1840,

when bruising bouncer(s) maintained

law and order within barkeep

saloons in colloquial jargon cheap

trick availed supertramp goo goo dolls

guiding drunken proletariat recesses deep

makeshift private booth disproportionate money forked over cuz

crowded house needed upkeep

occasionally respectable fellow

(an average Joe just Biden time

in tandem with his imaginary veep

enriched coffers, whereby generous money

found vent to all purdy girls to weep.

Daydreaming, and inebriate on air

I taste a liquor never brewed* beware... potential plagiarism avoided Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) gave clear

signal, though she dwelt (still does)

with dead souls - poor dear

mine non deliberated reference to said poet spontaneously sprung into logophile engineer

her brief life, yet...

impacted American and English literature triumphant and devoid of fear

harmonious, prodigious, and voluminous

hand deftly wrought skads of poems within her noggin cogs and appropriate gear

smoothly meshed only a humble folk like her

muffled modest gaiety only she could hear.

-------------------------------------------------------

*I taste a liquor never brewed (214)

Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886

I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days,

From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door, When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun

--------------------------------------------- further details:https:// academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/ english/melani/cs6/liquor.html

[mazurah]

Journal of a Buoyant Armiger in Valenwood

First - Previous - Next

5th of Sun’s Height

I spent the day in the Den, mostly drawing animals from sketches. I sat in the room with Qau-dar and his daughter while I did so. I was going to try to engage Qau-dar in a conversation, but when I saw he was giving his daughter an alphabet lesson, I thought I shouldn’t interrupt.

Ta’agra is a beautiful script. I’d never seen it written before. I kept inching closer to see the letters, and before I knew it, I was a part of the lesson. Cyrodiilic Common is by no means my first language--I learned it in Temple primary school over a hundred years ago--so I understand the basics of how to learn a second language. I got the basic gist of their alphabet, took notes, and decided the best way to practice was to write out a quotation in Ta’agra.

I wanted to write Vivec’s Prayer, but Qau-dar wouldn’t have it. He refused to translate it for me. He said I should keep my prayers to myself because they’re sacred. I wasn’t writing it for him! I was writing it for me! Of course, I could have written it in Cyrodiilic Common using the Ta’agra script as a simple substitution cypher, but I think that might sabotage my ability to learn it properly. I asked him what I should write instead and he gave me a short quotation to practice, but he refused to tell me what it meant. The only thing I could gather is that one of the words, “Ahnissi”, is a proper name, and the same name that he mentioned when he kept trying to tell me about the Khajiit version of the origin of Nirn. He showed me how to pronounce the whole thing, so I might as well write it out.

“Ahnissi pur jer. Jer vara dov saa ibo ja'khajiit an jer raba delaka'ali sri buzurriitay Ahnissi, an opa Ahnissi pur jer.”

In any case, a quotation that I don’t know what it says is hardly helpful, so I got clever. I started asking Qau-dar to translate words for me that were in Vivec’s Prayer, out of order. I got pretty far before he caught on--about two lines.

“Ai, this one sees what you be doing, Tel-mer!”

“Learning letters?” I said.

He squinted at me. “You know.”

And then he called off the lesson. He had a conversation with his daughter that I only caught some of. Something about a mini-mammoth show, and I had to learn five letters before I was allowed to go. Then his daughter scampered off somewhere and I was left alone with Qau-dar.

I figured it would be best to be up-front with Qau-dar, so I said, “Look, so I know you said we weren't friends, er... trevan, but I think we got off on the wrong foot, and since we're going to be travelling together I'd like to be trevan with you if that's alright.”

He didn’t say anything--just sat there looking at me--so I started trying to ask him about himself. I got him to tell me that he was a jeweler by trade (I don’t think he knew the word in Cyrodiilic Common, I had to ask him to define it.) He told me he got into jewelry-making because it’s beautiful. That’s something I can relate to. I also like making beautiful things. I tried to tell him about how I got into painting. He seemed interested enough, so I told him how I was raised by the Temple, about my childhood in Balmora, about joining the Buoyant Armigers, though I didn’t name them, I just said it was a religious order devoted to Vivec. I mentioned my first boyfriend, and how he tried to stop me from joining, so I left him. Qau-dar said that was good, that respect should be the base of any relationship.

He was perfectly polite the whole time, but I had a hard time reading his body language. I have no idea how he would react to me telling him about Vivec’s boon, so I held off and asked him about his childhood instead.

He was raised in a clan that traveled a lot. He talked about his siblings, his parents, playing with the other kids in his clan, and riding in his mother’s side bags. His parents are quadrupedal apparently. He spoke of lessons with the Clan Mother that sound quite similar to the lessons I had at the Temple.

The whole time I had to keep interrupting him to ask him to define the words he used in Ta’agra. I now have a small list of Ta’agra vocabulary. Maybe I can get him to like me better if i start using them in conversation with him. I still have no idea if he likes me or not. His body language is impenetrable to me. I thought I might be able to learn to read him by paying attention to his movements the way I would with an unfamiliar animal, but so far it’s not working very well. It doesn’t help that he has a private sign language he uses just with his daughter that I can’t understand at all. At least he was nice enough to translate some of the things his daughter was saying.

In any case, Fayrl kept popping his head into the room in a kind of calculated, disinterested manner that made me wonder if he was waiting for me to finish talking with Qau-dar, so I invited him to come play a game with me.

We found one of the gambling lounges that was relatively empty, and asked the barkeeper if we could appropriate one of the gaming tables. At first Fayrl wanted to play a game of cards wherein the stakes were our clothing, but I kept losing, and had to draw the line at taking off my underwear. Then he changed the stakes on me, and said I could win my clothes back, which… I did, and then immediately lost my trousers again. I told him to choose different stakes, so we started playing a dice game in which the winner could ask the loser one question, or have them do something silly or embarrassing.

I had a lot of fun, even if he did try to make me drink one of those glasses of foul-smelling fermented meat juice the Bosmer call alcohol while standing on my head. At least I had been nice enough to get him to do it with water, but no, he had to turn it around on me and make me do it with that stuff.

I did get some interesting information out of Fayrl. He doesn’t like the teachings of Vivec nearly as much as he likes the teachings of the Anticipations. I got an interesting story out of him about how he seduced a politician while dressed as a slave girl, and fed him enough false information to have him killed for treason. He also told me that the stupidest thing he’s ever done is sleep with his brother’s boyfriend, and also that it totally wasn’t worth it.

The game kind of trailed off when I drunkenly asked him what the worst thing he’d ever done was, and he didn’t want to answer. He told me to ask him something else, so I asked him who it was that had captured him right before he had been forced to retire from House Intelligence. He told me it was the Aldmeri Dominion, but before they called themselves that. After that he didn’t want to play anymore.

I probably shouldn’t have pushed him so far, but I was curious, and at least a little tipsy--not on that meat-juice though, I can’t stand that stuff. I hope he doesn’t avoid playing with me in the future because of this.

Ta’agra translation of Qau-dar’s quotation:

Ahnissi pur jer. Jer vara dov saa ibo ja'khajiit an jer raba delaka'ali sri buzurriitay Ahnissi, an opa Ahnissi pur jer.

Ahnissi tells you. You are no longer a mewing kitten and you have learned to keep secrets from Ahnissi, and so Ahnissi tells you.

(from the Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi)

Fayrl’s Corresponding Entry Qau-dar’s Corresponding Entry

[seriouslyprongs]

((ooc: feel free to scroll past, I just need to get down tonight’s dnd antics because I don’t want to forget a single moment of the beautiful shitstorm that was tonight’s session))

so after being attacked by pirates we land in a port town. the town is lawless, dangerous, very pirates of the caribbean-esque. we get to an inn with a super wholesome landlord. our cleric tries to evangelise the barkeep’s daughter, while at the same time our giving-zero-fucks druid tries to get her to run off to the wilderness to be with the animals. luckily neither succeed because that would require a lot of explaining. our paladin asks to stay in the wedding suit at the inn because of reasons known only to her but because we’re paying big bucks the landlord is like ????okay???.

the next day we go into an old, foreclosed witches’ house on a random alley in the town. we get in there, the door slams shut behind us. it’s super dark and there are shelves and shelves of books with a cauldron in the middle of the room. on one of the shelves was a book called ‘mama’s favourite recipes’ but with loads of amendments (use dead spider instead of vanilla extract etc.). some background: my character is a chaotic good half-gnome half-elf bard called Boone with absolutely no impulse control and is basically a walking shitpost. I saunter over to the fridge to get the ingredients and then back to the couldron to makes ‘mama’s special sauce’. I end up creating a voodoo potion with personalised instructions like ‘Hey Boone! you could straight up kill someone with this so use carefully *wink wink* ;)’

and then shit starts to really go down. feeling very pleased with my suprise potion success (I should have been concerned but like I said, no impulse control whatsoever), I go up to an old broken broom and figure that it’s probably for flying and wow that would be fun and there’s no way this could go wrong. I roll a natural 20 for ‘use magic item’ (which, if you haven’t played, is the highest number you can get on a dice_. I start to fly, but because I got a 20, I fly too well. I go straight up the chimney and end up 30 feet above the town on this now malfunctioning broom. I get stuck in this poor woman’s laundry,  but I roll another nat20 to seduce her while still holding onto the broom (which is now completely out of control). I then roll another nat20 to acrobatically get down to ground level with the broom being contained by the laundry. bear in mind, my entire dnd party roll so badly it has become a running joke that the dice hate us, so this is wild. 

back on the ground, the broom is free of the laundry and has no chill. the rest of the party try to destroy the broom. a crowd forms around us as we’re trying to set fire to it/smash it into pieces/spell it to stop going nuts. the town guards come and arrest us for causing a public nuicence. I try to seduce and bribe the guard but he takes the money and arrests us anyway. but not before our druid rolls one final natural 20 on the sheriff and gives him advanced scurvy

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Shuswap Joe felt like he was drowning with grief.

It was late December 1924, and the winter had been relentless. He had taken over the head office on the top floor of the River Eel Saloon, a lonely refuge directly above the bar, and retreated into solitude. Ragtime music wafted through the floorboards, along with a steady murmur of muffled conversation and punctuated with the occasional racket of gunfire. Clif’s gleaming black oak desk faced the window, where snow gusted past in thick torrents, and behind it was an entire wall of thick-packed bookshelves. To the side was a six-foot tall, six-foot wide aquarium, and listlessly slithering inside were two lonely-looking river eels from the Adams. The ones Shuswap Joe had seen in his youth were alive with rainbows of intoxicating electricity, but these ones seemed more drab and lifeless everyday. He padded the room naked, slurping from a jug of Shu-Scotch and dreading the days to come. He didn’t want to face a world without his best friend and mentor, but he didn’t have a choice.

Eventually Joe ventured downstairs, where the staff treated him as royalty. He began to eat, ordering simmering piles of bacon and stacks of syrup-soaked flapjacks topped with whipped cream and blueberries. He ate steak and eggs and mashed potatoes, chased with beer, then called for salmon. The chef tried everything to sate his hunger, introducing new menu items exclusively for Joe, but inevitably he would let out a thunderous belch and call for more. They brought him sausages on a string that he downed by the dozen, followed by fresh-plucked chickens still dripping from the spit. By this point his arms were like bulging tree trunks and his belly had swelled to the shape of a pumpkin. For a month he rarely left his dining spot in the corner, where people gave him a wide berth. They could see the dark, tortured look in his eyes. 

That’s when he met Mistress Molly, the barkeep, who was less than half his height. Long chocolate curls piled voluminously on her shoulders, framing her wide jolly face and gleaming green eyes. Her bosom was barely contained by the bodice of her dress, and jiggled like rising dough. She’d taken a keen interest in him as he cleaned one plate after another. She recognized the lost look in his eyes, and she was determined to help somehow. Late one night she took the seat across from him, where a teetering tower of dirty plates was stacked precariously. The man who met her gaze had the youthful sheen of his 20s, but the tragic energy of a man facing down oblivion. 

He was a perfect project.

“You keep eating like this and one day you’re liable to burst open like a balloon and paint the walls with your gore,” she said. “If I’m being honest, I don’t want to be the one to clean it up.”

“That would be a grim task.”

“There’s plenty of tragedy in this world without you creating more. You need something to take your mind off your troubles, Joe. You can’t continue like this.”

That was all the invitation Joe needed. Without saying another word he lugged Molly over one shoulder giggling and carried her up the dusty stairs to his loft. He’d never been with a woman before, but Molly’s pink skin and mischievous smile had awakened something inside him. Upstairs he unwrapped her like a present, before a full-length mirror, then dropped to his knees in rapture to drink in the female form. Underneath her clothes Molly was a miracle, or maybe a mirage. He drew her stomach to his bearded face and felt her skin warm against his cheek. This was where he belonged.

“You’ve got three colours in your beard because you have three spirits inside you, each one fighting for dominance,” Molly said, running her fingers through his hair. “The blond is the lover, the brown is the fighter and the red represents a man on fire. You’re red more than you’re not, I can tell that already, but there’s more to you than that.”

“You can tell that all from my beard?”

“Men carry their truths on their bodies. I’ve been around long enough to learn that. That’s why men are lousy liars, because they wear their histories like skin. I could read your body like I read a book.”

“What kind of story would it tell?”

She blinked for a few moments. “It would be a very sad story, but a beautiful one too.”

That night, while Joe snored facedown on his cot with one arm thrown across Mistress Molly, the river eels began to stir. They circled faster, and faster, until one leapt to the surface of the tank and began to sing. Its voice was a flute-like whine, with a slight electric crackle. It serenaded the new lovers as downstairs the party continued. Shadows danced across the floor as the snow continued to flurry beyond the glass. The eels yearned for their home on the Adams River, which seemed like a distant dream now. They remembered surging through the current luxuriously, meandering along the rocky riverbeds and sunning themselves in the shallows. The aquarium seemed to them a savage cruelty, of the sort only humans were capable. Repeatedly they called out to their master, Nanor, but he made no reply.

The next morning Molly asked about them as she pulled her stockings back on. “They give me the creeps, fella.”

“The eels have a strange magic. Clif liked to keep them close. He believed in their power, believed their electricity was responsible for his success. We fished them out of the Adams River together when I was just a kid.”

“Sounds like a swell memory, but eels don’t belong in the Shuswap. If you want my advice, I’d fry them up and eat them. That’s all they’re good for,” she said. “You’ve got more than enough power already.”

Whether he was ready or not, power had been thrust upon him. In the proceeding weeks he met with one subordinate after another, delegating tasks at the distillery and giving instructions to his smugglers. He felt like an imposter, like a fraud, but the men immediately fell into line in his presence. Everywhere he went was boot-licking and subservience.The entire Shu-Scotch operation was running so smoothly that he didn’t have any role other than to supervise from afar. He marvelled at the fat envelopes of cash that his men delivered each week, as if all the money in the Shuswap was on a conveyor belt that delivered it directly to his pocket. He had little purpose for it, though, because he had no interest in material things.

What he did have an interest in, after Mistress Molly awakened the blond spirt within him, was women. All his life he’d avoided them, haunted by the memory of his mother, but now he was utterly bewitched. He would look out at a room full of women and wish he could disrobe each and every one of them. He was intoxicated by their laughter, obsessed with their skin, addicted to the smell of their hair. With each woman he took back to his room, his appetite grew. One night he entertained two sisters simultaneously, a week later it was a mother and daughter. There were church girls, young mothers, whores. Mistress Molly watched his carnal shenanigans from behind the bar, with a knowing smile on her face. Joe was just wondering why the universe was being so kind to him when one night a pack of husbands arrived thirsty for blood. They accused him of seducing their spouses.

Joe held up his hands. “Your wives are all women grown, free to make their own choices. This has nothing to do with me, gentlemen.” 

One of the men stepped forward. “Don’t try to dodge blame, sir. You are a scourge on our community, an absolute villain!”

That’s when Joe’s brown spirit came to life.

He had doubted himself for too long. Ever since leaving the Adams River he’d wondered at his place in this world, his role. But when moments like this arrived, all misgivings evaporated. Right there in the River Eel Saloon he began to twirl and dance his way through a brouhaha of fists and kicks, while patrons jumped out of the way, tables overturned and beer mugs smashed. He took one man by the throat and threw him like a javelin through the front window. The next one he head-butted unconscious. Joe broke the next two noses he saw with the butt of his palm, then he crushed a wrist before its prone owner could pull a pistol. The final man tackled him to the ground and began to strangle him, spitting with rage. Joe’s eyes bulged for only a moment before he got ahold of his hands and crunched all his finger bones. The man screamed in agony, then fainted. Upstairs he could hear the river eels singing. 

After a quiet moment he rose to his feet, panting. He gazed around at the terrified onlookers, and smiled. His nose was bleeding.

“You’re a good fighter, but I think you may have to rethink your romance strategy,” Molly said, coming out from behind the bar. 

“I mean, just look at this mess.” 

The Kootenay Goon