#frost diagrams

[mistydeyes]

I wanna get to know more about cod but idk where to start.

When I was younger I new of cod,but I wasn’t really into it.As I never had a console, (I was a wii kid 😭) my parents wouldn’t allow me to play those types of games.

but now that I’m older I joined the fandom a bit late and I wanna know where to start like what comics? I need to read,what game I should play first or watch a gameplay of etc

hi anon! thank you so much for asking :) it is a little daunting when you first look at it (especially with so many games, there's over 20+). i would recommend playing these/watching the gameplay in this order and i included some of the extra content where it fits with the games. the wiki is also a great source for information. here's a little timeline for you! this is primarily focusing on the cod: modern warfare series.

so what most people want to know is where to start if you're interested in the modern warfare story (with price, gaz. ghost, and simon). call of duty is separated into 4 different arcs: world war ii, modern warfare, black ops, and standalone games. as such it doesn't matter what order you play the overall games but within each category, they are mostly released with extra content in order

the initial games (2007-2011) what started it all for the reboots! the story has all the familiar faces but a different story! this includes soap and price having a stronger dynamic (as oppose to the reboot's Price/Gaz and Soap/Ghost). the timeline of the characters are also different compared to the reboot as you'll see throughout the games (this includes major events and character deaths). we follow Captain Price and his Taskforce 141 as they fight through various enemies and try to save the world. there is also more of an emphasis on joint missions (and playable characters) from the US military and federal agencies. there are also more playable characters (Sgt. Paul Jackson, Sgt. Gary "Roach" Sanderson, PFC Joseph Allen and James Ramirez, Yuri, SSG Derek "Frost" Westbrook, and Sgt. Marcus Burns). overall summaries: suggestive gaming | the leaderboard (timeline) price and soap's story: inkslasher

Soap's Journal from the Hardened Edition of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 - 2011 part of the collector's edition for MW3, this 80+ page book details soap's pov for various events happening prior to the first game and through the last game. this includes military sketches, diagrams, and written entries from soap. soap's journal

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare - 2007 gameplay: gamingabsolute | gamer's little playground (only cutscenes)

Modern Warfare 2: Ghost - 2009 my post summary | the comic simon's story explained: inkslasher

Modern Warfare 2 - 2009 shameless promo here but this is my favorite game in the whole series! gameplay: mkiceandfire | gamer's little playground (only cutscenes)

Modern Warfare 3 - 2011 gameplay: nrmwalkthroughhd | gamer's little playground (only cutscenes)

the reboot (2019-2023) while sharing the same name/characterization as some of the characters in the initial series (including Price, Soap, Gaz, Ghost, Nikolai, Makarov, and General Shepherd), this story line is different from the initial series. instead of having many separate missions, it primarily follows Cpt. Price's Taskforce 141 and their allies, Laswell + Alex from the CIA, Urzik's rebel leader Farah Karim, Colonel Alejandro Vargas and SGM Rodlfo "Rudy" Parra, Nikolai, and PMC Commander Graves. the dynamics have changed in the game with the games focusing on Price and Gaz (+ Alex, Laswell, and Farah), then Soap and Ghost (+ Los Vaqueros and Graves).

Modern Warfare - 2019 gameplay: tmartn2 | shirrako (only cutscenes) summary: suggestive gaming | gamespot

Warzone - 2019 this six season battle royale style video game includes many of the characters from the main game. there are also various stories at align with the narratives in Modern Warfare, Black Ops, and Vanguard. summary: inkslasher

Modern Warfare II - 2022 gameplay: gamer's little playground | adguideshd (only cutscenes) summary: mrroflwaffles

Modern Warfare III - 2023 to be released in november

[keqism]

𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐌 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 ໒꒱

≀ featuring: heizou, scaramouche, childe, kazuha

≀ cw: fluff, modern au, swearing

≀ summary: the weather outside is frightful but winter activities with them make everything warmer

for the ice & snow event at @yae-publishing-house 

𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐊𝐘 ≀ feat. Heizou

The cold wind nipped at your face, the chill settling in your bones. You were on your back in the snow, watching the snowflakes fall and rest on your eyelashes. Next to you was Heizou, lying down with his limbs spread out like a starfish. It had been his idea to lay in the snow like two idiots and you had been reluctant to agree, but after one deep kiss, you found yourself involuntarily saying yes. 

"It never snows where I'm from," Heizou remarked. His eyes glittered, excitement shining in his green irises at the sight of the falling flakes. A pale hand left his coat pocket and reached out towards the winter sky, feeling the powdery specks melt into his skin. 

"Never?" You asked incredulously, your eyes widening. You frowned at the thought of a winter without snow. "You're missing out, you know."

"On what?" Green eyes left the sky to meet yours.

"Ice skating… sledding, snowball fights," you paused, wracking your brain for more ideas.

You heard Heizou sit up, the snow crunching under his weight. "You'll show me each one, right?" he smiled, mischief written all over his face. "Let's start now."

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What—" you managed to get out before a chunk of snow hit you in the face. You sputtered, wiping at your eyes to see Heizou running away from you, his laughter ringing through the air. 

"Heizou, you brat!" you shrieked, scrambling up to chase after him. The wind whipped through your hair, numbing the skin of your face, but seeing Heizou's smile was enough to melt the icy air and warm your heart.

It was all worth it—even if it meant getting a snowball to the face.

𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑(𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃) 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 ≀ feat. Scaramouche

"That is the ugliest gingerbread man I've ever seen," Scaramouche sneered, eyeing the mangled lump in your hand.

You sent a pointed look in his direction. "The directions on the box said to make a gingerbread house, Scara—not a shack." 

"Yours isn't any better, you know," he snorted, shaking his head. And he was right—the mess of bread and icing that the two of you had made looked nothing like the picturesque diagrams that came with the gingerbread kits. The roof of Scara's house was partially sliding off and the icing on your two gingerbread people ("it's us, Scara!") was smeared, the dye bleeding into the bread.

Perhaps it was time to give up.

You let out an exasperated sigh, dropping the tube of icing on the table in defeat. "Should we just quit and eat the candy?"

"Oh fuck, I thought you'd never ask."

As Scara tore into a packet of gumdrops, you reached out to pinch his cheek. "Thank you for trying this with me, Scara," you teased with a grin. "Wasn't this fun?"

He slapped your hand away, shooting you a glare. "Fuck your holiday shit," he complained. But a beat passed, and you heard him mutter under his breath.

"It was fun, I guess."

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 ≀ feat. Childe

"You're like Bambi," Childe teased as he gripped your arm, steadying your wobbling legs. A layer of frost had frozen on the sidewalk overnight to form a slippery path, just in time for your morning walk. 

You clutched onto Childe's thick coat, fingers digging into the fur in a desperate attempt to balance yourself. "Ajax please" you pleaded as you slipped on the ice again, your left ankle twisting at an unnatural angle. 

"Woah baby, I got you." A gloved hand wrapped around your waist, its warmth seeping into your body. You teetered a little as Childe knelt in front of you, arms outstretched behind him. He looked over his shoulder, blue eyes meeting your quizzical ones. "Well? Get on, I'll carry you home."

You leaned your body against him, circling your arms around his neck as his hands wrapped around your thighs. With a quiet grunt, Childe hoisted you up and began to walk forward. You tucked your face into the crook of his shoulder, watching his breaths condense into faint puffs of vapor in the cold air.

"Thanks, Ajax," you whispered, pressing a brief kiss on his cheeks, your lips warming the frozen skin. 

"Anything for you, Bambi."

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐖 ≀ feat. Kazuha

"Open wide."

You looked up from the book you were reading, turning your head towards your boyfriend. In Kazuha's hand sat a peeled sweet potato, freshly baked in the flickering embers in your fireplace. He quietly blew puffs of air on it to cool it before bringing it up to your awaiting mouth.

"Thank you, love," you smiled at him before sinking your teeth into the flesh of the potato. The starchy, caramelized flavor burst in your mouth as you chewed, warming your stomach. Kazuha let out a sigh as he took a bite too, nestling down deeper into the blanket the two of you were sharing. 

A head dropped onto your shoulder, sleepy eyes peering at the book in your lap. "Can you read to me?" Kazuha mumbled, absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on your sweater. "I'm gettin' tired."

You cleared your throat and began to read, absentmindedly running your fingers through his hair. Kazuha's eyes gave out, drowsiness pulling them down. The heat from the fireplace, your soft voice, the faint sound of your heartbeat—all of it was slowly lulling him to sleep, and you felt his breathing slow as he dozed off. Somewhere in the middle of the chapter, you glanced over to see him asleep, his face relaxed and peaceful. 

You set your book down next to you, leaning down to press your lips to his brow. "Good night, pretty boy," you whispered. 

a/n ≀ happy holidays! stay warm and stay safe :) (thank you to @/k-zu for beta reading!!)

[my-little-loverboy]

Our own starlight

A SFW Modern AU Halsin x Tav/Reader ficlet

“What’s something small you miss? From living in the forest I mean.”

“Starlight. It was one of the first things that really threw me off about this… place. Night is unbearably dark, yet somehow unpleasantly bright at the same time.”

TWs: Family death, grief, spoilers abt Halsins backstory.

Reader is gn and undefined besides working in a greenhouse.

AN: waugh this is just kinda word vomit following me having a really good idea. It’s entirely unedited so if you see any errors no you don’t <3

Also I am fighting for my life trying to find a voice for halsin bear with me please.

Halsin remembers being a kid in the cabin his family lived in. His mother teaching him how to cook alongside his younger siblings.

He too remembers sitting outside with his father, the chill of fall nipping at his face while he was taught how to pick good sticks for firewood; along with the promise that next year he’d be old enough to help split up logs with his father.

He remembers a thick book shared between him and his eldest sister while she taught him Druidic magic, and the terror on his mothers face when he gave himself fuzzy little bear ears (and his sister laughing because couldn’t figure out how to get rid of them.)

He remembers being sick, just a little sick. A stuffy nose and a sore throat he caught from falling into the stream in late November when the frost set into snow.

He remembers burying them all that spring.

He didn’t want to, but he knew that disease clings to corpses long after the flesh chilled. He thanked Silvanus that the illness came in December and not one of the warm months that would’ve forced him to bury them immediately lest he meet the same fate.

He remembers the following winter being warmer than usual, but little else of the year.

Halsin knows now that he had gotten lucky, unbelievably so. The gentle winter allowed him to live despite being unwilling to split his own firewood, it allowed him one year to prepare himself before he was truly forced to acknowledge the finality of it all.

He remembers finding his balance the following year. Their garden took quite of bit of work to recover after being abandoned for a year. But he managed it, along with making himself some traps based on some diagrams in an old book and the odds and ends he remembered learning about how to make them more effective from his mother.

“So… why are you here?”

They look up at him, visibly confused.

“Not that I don’t like talking to you- but it seems like you were managing fine past the first year.”

“The expansion of the city drove the animals away. Then men in suits appeared at my door asking for documents I didn’t have. Proof of ownership and deeds to the land our cabin was on. They threatened to arrest me for squatting if I didn’t leave.”

He sips his tea, it was brewed far too hot. Leaving it bitter even with sugar, but it was something he could afford, which seemed few and far between lately.

“I only recently learned what squatting actually is. They’d looked at me like I was a fool for asking”

“That’s… Gods I’m sorry. I can’t even fathom how shit that must’ve felt, I’ve always lived in the city so…”

“It isn’t all awful; being in the city. Living is a much more manageable kind of tiring.”

He was lucky to be as strong as he is, he’d manage to land a job as an unskilled labourer. As much as he resented the title he knew it wasn’t a slight, he didn’t have any of the certifications or diplomas required to hold any other station at the greenhouse he worked in. Even if he knew more about many of the plants they grew from his own personal experience working with them.

One thing of many he’d yet to get used to. Your experience doesn’t matter in the city unless you have a piece of paper proving it.

“That’s fair I suppose… I would give damn near anything to be able to be self-sufficient like that… Alas I’m doomed to forever be a slave to capitalism.”

Halsin wants to tell them that they’re not.

He wants to say that if enough people stopped thinking that they don’t have the option to rebel the entire system would fall apart.

He bites his tongue, figuratively and literally. Wincing as the sharp taste of iron settles in his mouth.

Well, it’s not like his tea could’ve gotten much worse.

“What’s something small you miss? From living in the forest I mean.”

“Starlight. It was one of the first things that really threw me off about this place. Night is unbearably dark, yet somehow unpleasantly bright at the same time.”

They nod, and ponder their tea for a beat.

“Do you have any plans tonight?”

“How forward.”

They scoff, but it lacks venom.

“Just answer me you dork.”

“No I do not.”

Their smile widens considerably.

“You do now, assuming you don’t mind coming over to my apartment.”

He nods in agreement, and they beam.

Another thing that’s definitely not awful about living in the city is them. He had met them through the greenhouse they both worked at, and had kept contact after they had quit.

The afternoon passes by as it usually does during their little dates. They would talk about their job and their cats, he would reply in kind. His tea went cold long before he finished it, and he’d thank the barista as he handed their mugs across the counter.

The walk to their apartment was nice. He realized as they spoke about the bus they missed how much he missed not being alone.

It was a long walk, he silently thanked Silvanus.

Their apartment was almost identical to his on the outside. Grey building, black doors, painfully sterile.

The inside however, was not. Almost every flat surface was plastered with posters and prints, the shelves full of knickknacks and candles more so than actual books.

“Okay so, I don’t have a couch obviously because I have a studio apartment but my bed doesn’t have the best view of the thing I want to show you.”

They push some things haphazardly out of the center of the room, before pulling a blanket off their bed and laying it out.

“Gods this is so sketchy I’m so sorry- Lay on this and close your eyes.”

“It’s alright. I trust you.”

The blanket is soft, but thin. The linoleum below digging into his shoulders as he lays down. There’s a soft click and the lights turn off, they settle beside him after a moment.

“Okay. Open your eyes.”

It takes him a second to put together what he’s looking at.

Stars. Painted on the walls and ceiling between the posters and tapestries, glowing in the dark of their apartment.

“It’s obviously not as pretty as real stars but… I dunno I’ve never been far enough out of town to see many real ones so I made my own starlight.

“It’s beautiful.”

He doesn’t need to be able to see them to know they’re smiling.

© cakeboxie •• 2023 •• Please do not translate/repost. reblogs are appreciated and requests are open!

Part of the @eveningatthrmoviesnetwork

~~

Taglist: @yarnnerdally • @starrry-angel • @yuelqnn • @yeonpm • @beardedladyqueen

Wanna be added? Send me an ask off anon and lmk if you want to be on the sfw only list!

[tachyon-omlette]

can't sleep. posting updated Eda physiology diagram

more in-depth descriptions under the cut (feat. a rethinking of how dark energon/angolmois exists)

I use the term "cell-spawned" as a reference to how Armada Sideways was "grown from Unicron's own cells", implying there may be a difference between Unicronians that were once Cybertronians (ex. Galvatron) & those that were fully created by Unicron, like Sideways. or Eda.

cell-spawned Unicronians have 2 sets of major systems: molten metal & angolmois (dark energon)

the molten metal system is a vascular system equivalent, but a little different. ingested metals r smelted down until they're more liquid than solid (& as a consequence a Unicronian's internal temperature is extremely high), then passed through a network of arteries that deposit new metal around the antispark chamber & beneath external plating. this allows the antispark chamber to be reinforced even as its cargo slowly strips away the inner layer, & allows external weathering/surface-level injuries to be sheared off in favor of allowing new metal to grow underneath (which means neither Eda nor any cell-spawned Unicronian bears scars save for what they willfully upkeep). the metal is also infused with heat-resistant nanites once it enters the "bloodstream"; these nanites are what implant proximity sensors on exterior-facing plating & direct the flow of new metals to any pierced-armor injuries (the result of which leaves a scar that appears like a large weld, which can be sanded down or otherwise weathers away on its own). surface-level pierced-armor injuries are usually somewhat painless in the injured area, but release trapped heat & reduce mobility until that heat can be restored.

the dark energon aka angolmois system is, however, very different - where most things have interpreted angolmois as energon but Scary, in my mind it's more accurately an opposite: less fluid & more viscous like tar, a pitch-black that opalesces with deep purples & glitters like the night sky, and cold like the void of space. angolmois systems are more heavily-guarded than a Cybertronian's energon system; it is circulated usually where it is needed to cancel out or counterbalance the excessive heat generated by the molten metal systems (ex. the cpu/brain module & other finely-tuned systems), thus preventing a Unicronian from simply melting themselves down on accident. it also runs through major support structures like bone marrow, emitting a natural cooling that makes excessive heat integral to the use of limbs and digits, lest they grow frost - the rupture of an angolmois line is, thereby, equivalent in pain to a broken bone, & for a cell-spawned Unicronian who feels barely any or even no pain with more common & superficial scrapes, it is often a crippling injury. angolmois leaks are harder for the molten metal system to repair & often create systemic injuries by virtue of the extreme cold structurally compromising most metal it touches, & the damaged structures often require direct patching in order to aid the molten metal repair systems & prevent a total freeze-down. for cell-spawned Unicronians like Eda, angolmois can be naturally replenished by tapping into the entropy of the universe, whether that be through simply waiting (either lucid or in stasis) or artificially increasing localized entropy (i.e. causing problems & destruction & chaos wherever they are currently); for more severe cases the latter route is often necessary.

angolmois is still the most direct route to corruption, as it freezes & kills whatever it touches & often is difficult to recover from (ex. if some lands on a field of wildflowers, the wildflowers it lands on will die, along with the microorganisms living in that patch of soil. if it is removed, then only that place will have a dead area & over time will naturally repopulate; if it seeps into the ground, the entire field may die & will become hard or even impossible to repopulate a la the Prime Kindergarten from Steven Universe). for Cybertronians, coming in direct contact causes freezing injuries & in severe cases requires amputation. ingestion causes internal damage & generates and/or exacerbates inner turmoil(s).

any questions ?

[dragoncharming]

DVaWtK Appearance Masterpost

I put together a non-exhaustive of the descriptions in Devil Venerable Also Wants to Know.

Highlights: Wenren È wears black with gold embroidery that forms the constellation with his halberd. He is an inch taller than Yin Hanjiang. Even when he loses an arm, he projects an illusion that it's there.

Yin Hanjiang wears all black, then red with a silver belt. Wenren È notes that he doesn't stash his sword away. He starts with the red demonic sword that's forged into Army Crushing Sword/Spike which is black.

Baili Qingmiao wears her sect uniform that's yellow. She keeps her white silk weapon wrapped around her waist. She is a head shorter than Qiu Congxue who is noted as being on the taller side.

Shu Yanyan has the most outfit changes.

The commenters call Wenren È a 'pretty boy.'

The quotes are simply pulled in reading order.

YHJ: "wearing all black, a frosty expression on his face."

SYY: "a woman in purple clothes arrived leisurely. What she was wearing could less be called clothes and more a strip of purple gauze wound around her body, barely covering any vital areas, and instead outling her alluring figure, capturing people's attention." "While talking, she brought out a mirror and inspected her face, which looked no older tha a sixteen-year-old girl's" "a woman in a thin white robe and a pipa in hand" "This woman was Shy Yanyan. The two had gotten used to seeing her in revealing clothes, and this proper and pitiful Shu Yanyan like a white lotus flower that trembled in the wind looked really out of place to them."

BLQM: "Being the protagonist of a novel, Baili Qingmiao’s appearance had no flaws. She wore the buttercup yellow dress of the female disciples of Shangqing Sect, hair tied in a simple bun with an ordinary multicolored string. A fresh peach blossom was stuck in her hair, and her face held the same gentle flush as its petals. A few strands of hair fell elegantly across her forehead and framed her face, clear and free from makeup. She wore a pair of light yellow bead earrings and was filled with a youthful grace." -she also often has Moonlit Frost Silk around her waist snow version Violet Pavilion Master: "the wind and snow solidified into a woman in white. She had white hair and brows and lustrous skin like snow. Even her eyes were a pure white, with no pupils. She may have been a person, but she seemed more like a sculpture made of ice and snow." not snow: "The blue-robed woman bore the same features as the snow woman, but she had the complexion of a living person and black hair and eyes."

WRE: "Wenren È held his halberd in one hand. It was the same gold-threaded black as his robe, though now Baili Qingmiao could see that the gold on his robes and halberd linked together to form a diagram of the star Polis. As gold light shimmered on the black cloth, Polis in the sky above gave off a brilliant radiance."

YHJ about General WRE: “This subordinate saw the Venerable, wearing silver armor with a spear in hand, draped in a red cloak, leading a group of battered soldiers to face the invading forces.”

SYY: "Shu Yanyan looked up, and the seductive warmth in her eyes had vanished, only leaving ruthlessness. In her white robe, she seemed like a blooming spider lily, softly beckoning, leading the lost to the next shore."

Altar Master Miao (bug guy): "a purple robe flashed before him and he collapsed. The feminine and androgynous-looking Altar Master Miao"

QCX: "Qiu Congxue was over a thousand years old, but still appeared as a young woman, with smooth pale skin and jet-black hair, fine brows, and elegant eyes. They were tender yet heartless, making her a cold, distant beauty." blqm gives qcx "a light green gown, something that Wenren È had previously given to her." "The gown suited her very well. With her tall stature and slender waist, she seemed like a thin willow. Baili Qingmiao looked at her for a moment, then took out an ordinary jade hairpin she had bought and helped pin up Qiu Congxue’s hair." qcx loses an arm at the Golden Cliffs wre cuts his own arm to forge the sword YHJ w army crushing sword: "Suddenly, a metallic sound rang out from within the lightning, and a sword flash slashed through it, surging toward the heavens, charging into the storm and resembling a black dragon that thrashed within the clouds. After a flurry of other sword flashes, the stormclouds dissipated. Yin Hanjiang’s clothes were tattered and he held a sword in one hand, raised toward the clouds it had cleaved in one strike. Its blade, hilt, and tassel were all pure black, blade sparkling with points of light like stars."

-yhj takes out the ghost mask first this timeline when they're going back to the sect after the Sect War

SYY: "They ran into Shu Yanyan right in the sect’s main hall, wearing a set of lavish red robes" "Shu Yanyan’s red robe was a top-grade defensive item, so she disregarded the masked man who suddenly appeared, assuming he was one of the Altar Masters’ underlings. She raised a sleeve to block, but the blade cleaved through the robe and her arm alike."

Alter Master Shi: "Altar Master Shi was a pale and sickly-looking young man who looked like a scrawny intellectual-type."

to the Zhongli Clan: "Just like in old days, the Lord of Demons was accompanied by his two Protectors. His Left Protector stood at the side of his missing arm, while the Right Protector held a pipa, a silk veil over her face. She wore a thin blue robe which accentuated her figure, and was playing the pipa for Wenren È. Inadvertently, she let the scar on her right arm show. It stood out starkly against her fair skin and must’ve been caused by some terrible injury, garnering the pity of anyone who saw it."

ZLQ: "The highest ranking was Zhongli Qian, looking cultured and refined as he entered slowly, wearing white robes with a bamboo scroll in hand. He took the main seat, his bearing distinguished, each motion calm and at ease." "Zhongli Qian smoothly took the brush out of his hand, turned around, and wrote a poem across a wall. His bearing was dignified, his brush strokes free and graceful. Flecks of ink landed on his white sleeve, blossoming through the fabric. His literacy and bearing both stopped people in their tracks."

the commenters quoting Abusive Romance about BLQM: "big sparkling eyes" "In Abusive Romance, Baili Qingmiao often said that Zhongli Qian always looked tired, and that she wished he would relax a bit, smile a little easier."

Shi Congxin: "a sickly man sitting beside her. He looked young, not more than his twenties, and his skin was so pale that his fingertips appeared a bit translucent in the lamp light. He wore a thin white single robe with a black overcoat thrown over, its dark brown fur collar making his face look even paler by contrast. His long eyelashes were lowered as he focused on the needle in his hand."

*He curses BLQM's left eye. She uses her right eye for the next 30 years. She uses a black band to cover her eye. ZLQ uses white and a walking cane.

ZLQ: "He had a slight smile that put people at ease, and truly fit the expression of a gentleman being unparalleled in the world." "It seemed that his hair had turned white overnight twenty-two years ago. With white hair and a young appearance, he appeared even more like an immortal now." "He tied up his hair, fixing up his appearance."

The star of the show, Rod of Heartbreak: "Su Huai was swinging his bonded weapon at her—the Rod of Heartbreak. The Rod of Heartbreak was forty meters long and as thick as Baili Qingmiao’s waist. Zhongli Qian and Qiu Congxue’s help had been needed to refine it. It was capable of changing size to the wielder’s will." "Su Huai, having missed Baili Qingmiao, spun the rod in his hand and transformed it into two thin sticks, about to whack her again."

Violet Pavilion Master 2!: "a young man in lavish silver robes emerged. He swept his gaze over Baili Qingmiao’s face and said, “Perhaps we met in another life.” His black hair was gathered together by a silver band, with a few loose strands draped over his shoulders. He had cold elegant eyes and colorless lips, and upon catching sight of Baili Qingmiao, had shown a smile without any hint of warmth."

YHJ disguising WRE (as himself): "Yin Hanjiang was quite tall, just an inch shorter than Wenren È. He gazed intently at Wenren È’s face, shaping it carefully. After he created a face, he hesitated, and was about to wipe it out and start over when Wenren È said, “Are you done yet? Let me see.” "With a flick of a finger, a mirror of ice appeared before him. Wenren È stared silently at the face in the reflection. "This was exactly the same as his face. Only the eyes were slightly different, looking a bit more relaxed and resembling the General Wenren stationed at the border town one hundred years ago."

Violet: "He raised his hands, ringing a pair of golden bells tied to his wrists."

QCX: "Hot winds stirred her black robe, revealing her body which was half flesh and half bone." "Half of Qiu Congxue’s face slowly turned into a skull."

at the volcano: "In their twenty-two years of travelling together, this was the first time Su Huai had seen Zhongli Qian’s eyes. They were stunningly bright and perceptive eyes, calm and penetrating. "Using the tracking curse, Zhongli Qian could see what no one else could. "He saw how, as Baili Qingmiao charged into the flames, they parted for her and opened up a path. The flames feared her, yet wished to harm her. She sustained burns one after another, but she didn’t flinch, continuing her search." "A figure covered head to toe with soot charged out of the sea of flames. She held a silver silk sash, the other end tied around several dozen unconscious Violet Spirit Pavilion disciples. One of them carried a mature stalk of the Lockheart Herb. "Baili Qingmiao’s legs had been burned and she could only stand by leaning against Su Huai. She wiped at the ash on her face"

BLQM: "She looked directly at the elders seated above her, her gaze unwavering." "Her back was straight, and it seemed her tiny shoulders could hold up the weight of the world."

BLQM's Moonlit Frost Silk is destroyed at the Blood Hell trap. YHJ's original ghost mask crumbles after.

Army Crushing: "the Army Crushing Sword, which had been sitting silently on the ground, lunged up and pierced through the whip. It had changed its shape, no longer a longsword, but a vicious-looking triangular spike. "It was no longer the Army Crushing Sword, but the Army Crushing Spike."

While WRE is in the Blood Hell, QCX loses most of the rest of her flesh and when YHJ returns the rest of it.

YHJ: "Deputy Sect Leader Yin, wearing a crimson robe, with a silver belt that outlined the slim shape of his waist."

BLQM's depression era: "Baili Qingmiao didn’t notice that Yin Hanjiang had cut several gashes into her dress." "She could only slowly shrink to the other side of the bed, huddling in her blanket, looking pitifully weak and powerless."

WRE post-blood hell: "He wore only a white inner robe, covered with holes made by magical weapons. With a wave of his hand, a grey robe draped itself over his body. Along with the robe appeared three books and a blood-red stone."

"As if the person wearing them had vanished, the grey outer and white inner robe passed through Wenren È’s body and gently landed on the ground. Though both his clothes had fallen, Wenren È still appeared to be wearing the black robe he had used to protect Yin Hanjiang."

looking 👀: "He had never seen Yin Hanjiang like this before. The Sect Leader Yin he remembered dressed in all black and was silent as a shadow. Though Wenren È knew he was good-looking, ordinarily, he was so reserved he was easy to overlook. "This Yin Hanjiang dressed in scarlet, his hair loose and fluttering in the breeze, a vicious spark in his eyes. Were he in a crowd, his figure would instantly draw one’s sight."

SYY: "Shu Yanyan went pale, her previously languid and unconcerned expression instantly becoming serious. She had been wearing a thin light purple outfit which traced her perfect curves, but the moment Yin Hanjiang’s gaze fell on her, a white cloak appeared over her body, covering her from neck to toe so that not an inch of skin showed."

BLQM: "Yin Hanjiang tore a piece off Baili Qingmiao’s clothes to wipe his hands, then tossed it at Yao Jiaping’s face."

WRE: "Wenren È also brought out an ordinary dark blue robe and put it on. He clutched the divine blood tight in one hand, hooking Yin Hanjiang’s waist with the other so that he couldn’t escape." "Zhongli Qian turned toward Shi Congxin. His eyes were blindfolded, yet Shi Congxin had a feeling like all his thoughts were exposed in front of him. It must be his imagination—it was just the moonlight shining through a window and illuminating Zhongli Qian’s face, that was giving him such a strange feeling." "Shi Congxin avoided looking at Zhongli Qian, scared his intentions would be seen through. Staring at the Sect Master, he saw Wenren È dip his head, drawing closer and closer to Yin Hanjiang’s face, until Shi Congxin’s face and ears flushed red. He stared unblinking, trying to figure out what the Sect Master was actually doing, but Wenren È’s long hair slid down and blocked the two’s faces from view."

ghost mask 2!: "Shi Congxin took out a top-grade piece of underworld iron from his storage item, something he was saving for crafting a bonded weapon when he reached Mahayana. “It doesn’t need to be so… whatever, you can go.” Yin Hanjiang took the piece of iron and shooed Shi Congxin away. "Shaping it with his hands and the Burning Sky Drum’s fire, he very quickly turned it into a ghost mask."

BLQM: "Seeing her in such a mess, Yin Hanjiang slowly pulled her sleeve over, ripped off a piece, and used it to wipe nonexistent dust off the Army Crushing Spike’s scabbard. "Every time he wanted to kill Baili Qingmiao, he used this to keep himself in check. "Having gotten half her sleeve ripped off, Baili Qingmiao’s thoughts were interrupted. She stared wordlessly at her tattered dress, not understanding what enjoyment Yin Hanjiang got out of using her as a rag." "Since Baili Qingmiao’s clothes were full of holes, she asked Yin Hanjiang to wait while she changed into something other than a rag for the Army Crushing Spike. "She had just put on the yellow uniform of the disciples of Shangqing Sect"

Blood Flame Silk: "Baili Qingmiao received it, instantly feeling her body fill with power. The stone transformed into a red silk ribbon, becoming her new bonded weapon."

This is YHJ's no touchy era so he often puts on gloves to not touch people and he transports BLQM by wrapping her entirely in rope "a bundle so that no skin showed" [while he's in Yao Jiaping's skin]

"Yao Jiaping ripped off the skin on his face, revealing an extremely handsome, yet somewhat cruel face. He smiled calmly at the Sect Master. “This Lord is Yin Hanjiang.""

WRE[mini flashback]: A wave of the halberd called up the powers of the Northern and Southern Dippers. Above Wenren È’s head, a star map formed. "Fighting intent allowed Wenren È to not feel the pain of his wounds. The power of the stars replenished his drained spiritual essence. Wenren È’s black robe fell, revealing starlight shining on his back. "It wasn’t a technique he had purposefully cultivated, but the scars left from his life-and-death experiences on the battlefield as a mortal. "The scars mysteriously connected into a map of the fourteen major stars, steadily absorbing energy from them. With a swing of the Seven Killing Halberd, the unleashed power of the stars injured all of the hundred-plus people maintaining the array."

The Big Flashback: "A pair of tiny, blackened hands held a white towel out to him. After taking it, Wenren È froze. His servant boy was gone, and in his place was a child who appeared just five or six years old. His skin was covered with purple welts, and half his flesh was rotten. He was dirty and stank, holding up a towel with trembling hands. "It was Yin Hanjiang." "In his childhood, Wenren È was a young general-in-training, always dressed in white brocade and a bit of a show-off. " '“This child was saved a little late,” Doctor Li said, shaking his head. “His left leg will probably be crippled, and there’ll be scars left all over his face and body.' "He thought he had lain low, but hadn’t considered that in the border town, there was only him who was a young teenager with good martial arts skills who spent all day leaping across rooftops. His pair of bright and scornful eyes were different from anyone else’s in the town and could be recognized at a glance."

"Yin Hanjiang’s face was covered with scars, and he had originally thought of wearing a mask, but he noticed that many people in the border town had scarred faces, and there were some with missing hands and legs, but no one looked at them differently."

"Wenren È rode a horse, carrying six-year-old little Yin Hanjiang in his lap, heading slowly toward the border with travel documents in hand. "Little Yin Hanjiang lifted a hand and touched the bandages on Wenren È’s face. '“Do I look scary?” Wenren È asked. "His hands and face were covered with burn wounds, which young Wenren Wu had inflicted himself." "Since Wenren Wu was a fugitive, in order to protect himself and not bring anyone else trouble, he threw himself into a bonfire, burning his face. Before his burns healed, he sped away from the capital, running into a checkpoint on the way where a disbelieving officer ripped off his bandages, revealing crimson and bloody flesh."

"Wenren Wu’s upper robe fell away, revealing the scars crisscrossing his body which he had gained in years of fighting at the border—the proof of him protecting his homeland."

end flashback

QCX: "A black-robed woman with a frosty expression marched into the hall—Qiu Congxue. "She hadn’t been in a good mood lately. It had taken a lot of effort to get rid of her flesh, but it had all regrown."

ZLQ: "After the curse and gu were removed, Zhongli Qian took off his blindfold. The Xuanyuan Sect main hall was bathed in sunbeams. He blinked a few times, feeling like the world he saw was different from what he remembered. His hair also slowly returned to black.

"Baili Qingmiao also removed the blindfold around her left eye."

WRE: "He couldn’t help clasping his hand under their wide sleeves."

YHJ: "Yin Hanjiang’s long hair, usually tied up neatly, was loose over the bed, with one lock being lain on by Wenren È, but he didn’t mind. He picked up a lock of their entwined hair and began playing with it."

ZLQ: "Zhongli Qian, who had been youthful and handsome for many years: … "After some thought, he replied, “After all these years at Xuanyuan Sect, I’m still a teacher of the Dao and haven’t changed.” “I know.” Shu Yanyan suddenly stood up. Stroking his chin, she said tenderly, “You’ve lost weight."

[razorblade180]

I don't remember if you did or not, but do you have a post where there's like a family tree or something for all your RWBY things?

I want to be able to follow along, but it's a bit confusing.

If you do, could you give the link, please?

Funny enough, I don’t. If anyone has a good website for those family tree diagrams I’d love to know.

Until then, I’ll just make a simple list right now because asking about my ocs will always give be boundless energy. I’ll try being brief. If I write a name that has the last name of the main ship in the au, I trust I don’t have to explain who the parents are.

Lasting Embers AU (Dragonslayer)

Jacquelyn Frost

Parents aren’t important aside from being deceased and her mom being the former Winter Maiden (Vol7 didn’t exist yet)

Jael Frost

Biological daughter of Jacquelyn and Adam. The younger sister of Sienna Frost

Sienna Fost

Adopted daughter of Jacquelyn and Adam. Older sister to Jael

Biological parents and older brother are deceased. Happened when she was very young.

Sienna is not her real name. She doesn’t remember. (It’s Jasmine)

Yujin Xiao Long

Only daughter

Lie Tenzen

Ren and Nora’s only son.

Canary Branwen

Daughter of Qrow and Winter.

Qrow passed away when she was like nine. (Don’t quote that age I don’t have my notes with me. She was a kid)

Not a fan of Ruby (Her Cousin)

A fan of Yujin (Also her Cousin)

Twin Snowflakes AU (White Knight)

Nick and Summer Schnee

Fraternal Twins. Brother and Sister

Sparrow Branwen

Winter and Qrows adopted son

Eliza Marigold

Only daughter of Henry Marigold

Mom took hush money and left after birth.

Henry was not the one who gave her hush money.

Valerie Valkyrie

Nora and Ren’s only daughter

Veronica Belladonna

Blake and Yang’s only daughter.

Blake was the one with the bun in the oven.

Miscellaneous (not a OC name)

This Au has a child for Robyn, Cardin, and a couple others. They don’t really matter too that much but they exist. Most notable is Max (Cardin’s kid) and a little girl named Ruth

Premonition AU (Knightshade)

Lucas Belladonna

Peach Rose

Daughter of Ruby and Weiss

Not related to Lucas in any way but they’re close.

Serendipity Karuma

Also goes by Serenity

Parents are alive but not around

Older sibling but doesn’t see the younger one

Rosebud AU (Lancaster)

Dustin Arc Rose

The oldest of three siblings

Raised by Cinder and Neo

Not a fan of his biological parents or siblings

Has silver eyes

(I probably should’ve called him Dustin Fall but oh well. I’m not changing the tags)

Carmine Arc Rose

Middle child technically, but she doesn’t acknowledge Dustin as an older brother.

Has silver eyes but wears red contacts

Only the grownups in her family’s circle know her real eye color

Cousin of Kovu

Garnet Arc Rose

Youngest of the three siblings

He’s just a lil fella

Kovu Belladonna

Son of Blake and Yang

Older cousin to Carmine

Yang had the bun in the oven

Aero Amitola

Son of Ilia and Sun. (I refuse to explain myself here)

Bird Boy

Mona Paulo Furem

All you really gotta know about her parents are that they’re horrible and her mother is reason Mona is the way she is

Has a younger sister. Barely talked about.

Does not live at home or keep in contact

Miscellaneous

Ren and Nora run an orphanage

Oscar is Ozcar and has been for decades.

Side note, there’s a a child named Levi Belladonna that’s Ruby and Blake’s kid. He has no au. I just thought he was neat. Maybe one day.

[ceasarslegion]

“Sometimes that’s what it takes mentally and physically to get the male penis inside the female vagina” I am DYING why would they phrase it like that but also, of course they would phrase it like that…

ITS THE FUNNIEST FILM THEY SHOWED US IN SEX ED

I have not been able to find it since, but i distinctly remember the whole plot because of that one line. It followed the protagonist, who was a teenage boy, from the moment he woke up and realized puberty had started, to when he went to bed at night knowing what sex is. Incredible learning curve btw. Dude was cooking.

He woke up realizing he had a wet dream and told his mom about it, who told him he must have hit puberty and went over how the things he dreams about now are perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of, but are still sometimes private and often not to be acted on in real life. Great lesson to instill in kids, but insane conversation to have over frosted flakes, which were what he was eating. This was how it STARTED btw. Our health class was at 9 in the morning.

He then went to school, where he disregarded what his mom told him entirely and told all his friends he had a wet dream and asked them what puberty was. One said that he thinks thats a city in france. The teacher overhears the conversation and completely stops her math lesson to draw anatomically accurate diagrams of a penis and a vagina on the board and label them.

After school the kid meets up with his older brother who is visiting from military boot camp (NEVER elaborated on. Malcolm in the middle plagiarism) at an outdoor public park by a lake to talk about sex and puberty. The brother has a big long talk with him about growing up and developing his sexuality over time and what is and isnt appropriate to engage in. This is surprisingly progressive for when i grew up in the 2000s, because he covered consent, said that maturbation is healthy, told him when and how to get STI tested without fearmongering, etc. Honestly they could have cut out all the rest of the movie. But the legendary line was when the brother was talking about how some people experience performance anxiety and erectile dysfunction which is totally normal and treatable with the right medical or psychological help and then he hit that one-two punch of "sometimes thats what it takes mentally and physically to get the male penis inside the female vagina."

And now, sometimes, to this day, in my own apartment, with a college degree, and my job, i will sip my coffee in the morning and my brain will think "sometimes thats what it takes mentally and physically to get the male penis inside the female vagina."

[mermaidxatxheart]

Better Together Epilogue

Hey, everyone. This is the final chapter of this story. Thank you to everyone who's been reading right along.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 1682

Warnings: Poe. That's it. He's the whole warning.

A/N: I'm going to be redoing my master lists. If you want to be added or removed from my list please either send me a message or comment.

Series Master List

Previous Part

Poe stops at the market stall, looking over the ripe fruit. He has to be particular, find just the right ones. It looks like it’s going to rain soon and he really doesn’t want to be sent back out because he got the wrong things. 

“Again?” The stall owner asks, looking over the rims of his glasses at him. 

“I blame you. This is your fault.” Poe points. 

“I can’t help it. It’s a special secret.” He grins. He ducks down and comes up with a basket of the perfect fruits. “I had a feeling she’d want more.” 

“You’re a lifesaver.” Poe says, paying him for the produce and heading for the end of the street. He’s about to leave, to head to his brand new home that he shares with you when something bright and colorful catches his eye. 

***

A disassembled piece of furniture lays in pieces around you on the floor, the instructions in a language you’ve never even seen before. The diagrams aren’t even helpful. 

Your eyebrows pinch in frustration. You wanted to have this done before Poe got home, to surprise him. But with the way it’s going now, which is to say nowhere, that won’t happen. 

You pick up two of the long pieces and can’t possibly imagine how they might go together. 

You need a snack. 

Pushing yourself up off the floor, you head for the kitchen. Boxes of brand new dishes and glasses cover the counters and tables. So much left to unpack. It doesn’t feel real. 

The First Order is gone, for good this time. Poe is safe and here with you. You’re in your home. Not some bunker on a base, but a home with his dad nearby, and your friends close. It’s been a long year, setting up the new republic, getting this corner of the galaxy back in order. But finally, you can have Poe all to yourself. Until his boyfriend comes knocking, wanting to know if he can come out to play.

You open the box of cupcakes and inhale the wonderful scent of chocolate and frosting. Standing in front of the sink, you carefully peel the wrapper off and break off the bottom of the cake. You press it down into the frosting, licking any that starts to drip out. The sugary sweet chocolate coats your tongue and you hum in approval, taking a bite. Careful to get the crumbs in the sink this time, you try not to inhale it again. Poe yelled at you the last time he caught you sneaking a cupcake like this. 

Crumbs everywhere, and you’re gonna choke. Who taught you how to eat?

Just as you’re pushing the last bite into your mouth, the door opens. Crap. You can’t chew fast enough to hide the evidence, he’s going to catch you. 

You sweep the wrapper into the sink and pretend to just be looking out the window, surreptitiously trying to chew. You can hear him set his things down on the table and make his way over to you, but you don’t dare look. 

You can feel him behind you, his chest presses against your back and he holds up something bright in front of you. A beautiful bouquet of bright flowers, pinks and blues and oranges in a riotous array. 

You cover your mouth with one hand, trying desperately to swallow the suddenly dry cake, while taking the stunning bouquet with your other hand. 

“I missed you.” He murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, his hands cradling your belly bump. His lips press against your neck, up your jaw before he pauses. “Not gonna say it back?” He asks.

Shit. No hiding it now. “I mithed you, too.” You mumble, keeping your mouth covered. 

“Y/N, you are unbelievable.” He sighs, pulling away and turning you around to face him. You finish chewing now that the damage has been done. He’s furiously trying to keep his lips from tugging up at the corners. “You’re going to make yourself choke!”

“The baby wanted it!” You rush, a few crumbs flying at him. 

He lowers his eyes to where they fall at his feet and then back up to you. “So, you’re gonna blame this bad behavior on our baby?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“Yup. Did you bring home any more fruit?” You ask, trying to sidestep him. 

“If I say yes, are you gonna inhale it?”

“Maybe, but I rather think that’s my business.” You pat his cheek and he captures your hand. 

“Was that the last cupcake?” 

“No. But I’m claiming the others.” You say, dropping your hand to your belly. 

“Oh, for crying-… fine.” 

You kiss him softly before going to see what fruit he brought you. “I love you.” You tell him as he turns towards the rest of the house. 

“I love you, too. Menace.” He shakes his head, pausing in front of the room you had left. “Babe!” He sighs. 

“I was trying to surprise you. Don’t worry, I didn’t actually get anything done on it.” There’s a knock on the door and you glance up. “Good news is, Finn’s here to help you figure it out.” You call as his best friend walks in. 

“Hey, Y/N.” Finn grins, giving you a hug. 

“Hey. Did you bring Rey? Or are you just here by yourself to see your boyfriend?”

“She’s outside. She’ll be in in a minute.” He says, stepping around you and heading for the nursery. You follow him, resting a hand on his broad shoulders. 

“So, you boys can get this done by tonight, right?” You ask as Poe picks up one side of the crib. 

He stares at you before rolling his eyes. “You’re awfully demanding. Claiming all the cupcakes and everything.”

“I’ll make you both dinner.” You promise.

Poe opens his mouth to protest, but Finn cuts him off. “Deal.” 

You turn away and go outside to find Rey. She’s looking up at the sky, her hazel eyes distant and unfocused. She’s been through a lot, and now she carries the memory of countless Jedi before her. Sometimes she can hear them whispering and she gets that far off look. 

You touch her shoulder gently and she turns with a start, blinking at you. “Y/N! Look at you! Oh wow. I can’t believe you let him get what he wants.” She laughs, placing a hand on your belly. 

“He’s pretty persuasive.” You laugh, moving her hand around to where the baby is pushing. 

“Oh wow.” She repeats, her eyes trained on the spot. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long.” She mutters, dropping her hand. 

“Rey, none of us blame you. We know shit’s been hard. That’s the best part about friendship, when you need us, we’ll be here for you. Always.” You cup her cheek affectionately and she smiles sadly. 

“Thanks, Y/N.” 

“Come on. I promised the boys dinner. I think we can eat under the canopy while it rains.” 

“Alright.” She agrees, following you back inside, one last glance over her shoulder. 

***

The thunder rages on while the four of you eat. BB8 is tucked under your chair, his place permanently by your side since you found out you were pregnant. He’s almost as obsessed as Poe is. 

You push your plate back, stuffed. You should have stopped before this. But it was just so good. You drop your head back and stare up at the ceiling of the wide canopy. 

“Y/N, that was delicious.” Finn says, finishing his spotchka.

“Thank you. I don’t have dessert, but I do have caf.” You offer and Finn shakes his head. 

“Maybe in a bit. I couldn’t fit another thing in here.” He pats his stomach and slouches back in his chair. 

Poe, unable to stop himself, reaches for your hand. You smile to yourself, flattening his palm against your belly where you feel the baby the most. Any chance he gets, he’s touching your belly.

“Where did you find this recipe?” Rey asks, glancing at you. 

“Poe’s dad. He gave it to me a couple days ago and I’ve been meaning to try it.” You shrug, stretching your feet up onto the bar under the middle of the table. 

You drift out of focus in the food coma haze as Poe and Finn start discussing additions Poe wants to make to the house. The baby stretches, pushing against Poe’s palm. 

After a little bit, Rey and Finn stand up, grabbing the plates. You start to stand up but Finn shakes his head.

“We got this, Y/N. Relax.” He says with a soft wink, carrying the remains of dinner inside. 

Poe leans over, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re beautiful.” He whispers and you roll your eyes. 

“I bet you say that to all your wives.” 

“Oh, no, I was talking to the baby.” He says, pointing to your belly. 

You laugh, covering his mouth. “I can’t stand you.”

“But I guess you, too.” He shrugs, brushing hair back off your shoulder. “You feeling okay? You didn’t do too much today, right?” He dips his head, pressing kisses to your belly. 

“I’m fine. Just over full.” You play with his dark curls. You hope the baby gets his hair. And his big heart, and chocolate eyes. Really, you wouldn’t say no to a mini-Poe Dameron. 

“We got the crib done.” He says softly. “How many babies do you think we can fit in this house?” He asks, perking his head up. 

You laugh. “I guess we’ll just have to find out.”

“Yes!” He hisses quietly. 

You glance to the doorway to see Rey watching you with a soft smile on her face. Finn drops an arm around her shoulders and tugs her against his side, whispering something in her ear. 

Everything is working out just as it should. Friends and family surrounding you more than they ever have. You wouldn’t trade these people for anything. 

And Poe. 

You’ll stay by his side forever. If this war and your trials have taught you anything, it’s that you’re better together.

The End.

Star Wars Master List

@doctor-warthrop @waterpancakeao3 @generousrunawaydonut @eclipsedplanet @general-latino @mads-weasley @mrsdaamneron @sabxism @fanfictionismydeath @jaxrando @fallinallinmendes @ninjarose23 @einno-arko @a-rose-of-amber @seninjakitey @impala1967666

Everything Tag List

@psyched2b @shreddedparchment @bitsandbobsandstuff @alexblrus @thinkingsofamadwoman @i-dont-want-to-be-called @thefridgeismybestie @fortheloveofallthatsholy @crazychaotic @pleasureoftheguiltiestvariety @justreadingfics @themistsofmyavalon @wkemeup @thiccbinch @glide-thru @elliee1497 @ellaenchanted91 @stuckonjbbarnes @barnesandco @geeksareunique @nicoleplacee @lexshead @gambitsqueen @lokisironthrone @also-fangirlinsweden @ravenesque @murdermornings @countryrockmama @kato-ptris @katzenwahnsinn

[tonguetyd]

Ok hi drift is yelling about baking again sorry

I just saw a post that included the following diagram

And I need to tell you. You are eating the cupcake wrong. If this applies to you.

I am about to explain the correct way to eat a cupcake and many of you already know where this is going and some of you will hate me and others of you are gonna be like “my life was just changed.

Remove wrapper from cupcake

Grab halfway down the cake part. Touch the butt.

Rip off the butt. You now have frosting plus half cake in one hand, and half cake in other

Place the butt on top. You now have a cupcake sandwich.

LOOK!!! You get an even bite now!!! No “oh god this is so dry, oh no a mouthful of too sweet frosting” NO!!!! It is now the same! Every! Time!

There is also WAY LESS MESS. It is CONTAINED!!!

SCIENTIFICALLY!!!!! THE SUPERIOR WAY OF EATING A CUPCAKE.

Thank you for your time.

[violet-moonstone]

Recently realized theres 5 httyd/rotbtd characters that i ship simultaneously/interchangabley with equal enthusiasm

I think its just a collection of characters who fit on the spectrum of "reminds me of myself" on one side and "i would want to date them" on the other

And in that order it would be

Rapunzel -- fishlegs -- hiccup -- jack frost -- dagur

If it were a venn diagram, hiccup would be in the middle

[rofromsinnoh]

Pelipper Mail!

10 books on Pokémon Biology, a set of 8 ⅙ scale physiology diagrams [Vespiquen, Leafeon, Froslass, Garchomp, Bastiodon, Skuntank, Luxray & Gallade], a list of recommended dorm room items, a business card for a Machamp moving company, a set of handwritten recipe cards for lower effort recipes and two handwritten letters.

The first one is in an envelope addressed to the Eterna City University of Pokémon Studies.

The second one reads:

"I hope these find you well, I flew back to Sunyshore to get the books from my personal library. I checked what would be on the syllabus for the year and got the necessary diagrams you'd need for the 8 example pokémon, as well as some of my favourite recipes that got me through university. The dorm rooms are nothing special so there's the list to help make it more interesting, as well as the moving company to help.

I really do hope you enjoy your time there, from a former student to a future one.

-Juniper Frost @sinnohstruggles"

ACTUALLY JUMPING UP AND DOWN OH MY ARCEUS!!!!!!!!! ME AND MY GUYS ARE ALL CELEBRATING SO HARD OMG IM GOING TO COLLEGE!!!!!!

[flamexbound]

Magna rubbed her forehead, trying to dislodge the ache behind her eyes as she took another sip of wine from her goblet. It was late, or perhaps it had become early, and there was still much to do before she could even think about sleep. Her borrowed desk the Greybeards had so graciously lent to her was covered with a scattering of missives from her spies, reports of dragons, maps of every single hold in Skyrim, lists of weapons and potential enemies, and a diagram for a new dragon-slaying weapon that an insistent blacksmith had pressed into her hand. A sea of letters and numbers swam before her eyes, and there was no end in sight. It wasn’t often that Magna drank, but tonight, Magna felt justified in drowning her exhaustion and indulging in lush.

The reports from her contacts were still coming in, but on the whole, it had been a tiresome and draining day. More so for the loss of an important political prisoner, a Nord general known for his tenacity and cleverness. Magna knew it was callous, but frankly, she cared not a wit. Soldiers could be replaced, but a political pawn could not.

Between dealing with the resurrecting dragons, the Thalmor, and every Nord in Skyrim taking arms against the Empire, Magna was now forced to deal with the loss of a competent General, a prisoner smuggled from out of the dungeons by a small group of soldiers who managed to climb over the walls of Solitude and free him. Whitefang had been scheduled for interrogation, and now he was in the wind.

It would make sense to track him down, but how? Whitefang had fled into the mountains, his tracks untraceable, face covered. Putting the town he'd taken residence to the torch would be easy enough...after some sharp questioning.

Magna knew such things did not happen overnight and that much could go wrong with such plans. But slim hopes were all she had. The General's escape was nothing more than a delay tactic, as the Imperials were now groping in the dark blind without Whitefang's information. Papers with all the gory details from the last battle lay scattered across the table in front of her. Magna could not ignore them, although she desperately wanted to. The remaining scraps of her evening meal still looked tempting. Despite everything that had happened, she had managed to retain her appetite. Instead, she poured herself another goblet of wine and stared out the window at the afternoon sky, thinking of other times and places. The day was cold, and heavy bursts of snow swept across the sky followed by the occasional rumble of heavy wings, but no thunder. The unusual weather was the result of Helath summoning Frost Breath earlier that day with a new Shout she had learned.

Magna had reassurances from the Greybeards that the storm would dissipate by itself, so there was nothing to do but watch and wait as the little Dunmer once again made more progress than her. Not that it mattered to Magna...she had more important things to worry about. The open windows made the room chilly, but it was the closest Magna had been to being outdoors for three days, and she liked the smell of the chill outside. There was so much information and so many reports coming from the war, and her spies in the West, that she barely had time for sleep--

"FUS!!"

--or concentrate--

"FO! KRA! DIIN!!!!"

Temper snapping, Magna slammed her wine down, sloshing it everywhere and staining her papers with red liquid. That only served to feed her wrath even more as she poked her head out of the nearest window and roared down at the elf,

"SILENCE!!! I CANNOT THINK WITHOUT YOU SHOUTING LIKE THAT!!"

@dragxnsfire

[your-girl-nina]

Lily Evans but she's pearls and bows, piano keys, lip gloss, ball gowns and shiny jewels, but she is more than what you see.

She is Long Black coats, thunder but no lightning, red wine, blood, forests in winter, a single guttering candle, latin, bones, all of history in your hands, Tchaikovsky, piles of old books, the hour before sunrise, complicated cravats, Hozier, true crime, Donna Tartt, secret diaries.Sunshine in shallow water, white cotton, lacy dresses, smudged lipstick stains, champagne, the plays of Oscar Wilde, summer rain, wind rustling the pages of a book, jacket over on shoulder, Maurice, frost covering new flowers, Florence + the machine, roses, bare feet, girls school, old books about species of plant or butterflies, biological Diagrams, flowers in your hair, perfect notes.Jane eyre, sunrise, cold hands, perfect handwriting, beat gen, Edgar Alan Poe, crows, small animal bones, writing essays until 2am, Vivaldi, February or November, zodiacs, loving history and art, Leonardo davinci, Tamino.

[bellafragolina]

Ice Skating Date

A late Christmas gift for the lovely @astererer !! Hope you enjoy!!

🍓🍓🍓

Skating isn’t really anything new to Aster. She tends to rollerskate around when she’s going somewhere nearby, or whenever she wants to have some fun, and surprisingly ice skating really isn’t that different. She adjusts her balance, gliding over the frozen pond as others sail by. Couples, families, kids, friends, all of them working their way around the ice, hand in hand.

The only person not skating about is Aster’s date. For a man with such presence back in his subway, Ingo seems particularly small out on the rink. Perhaps it’s because he’s curled up, knees touching as he struggles to maintain balance and an upright position on his skates.

Aster carefully stops before him. “Can. . . you not skate?”

Ingo, already rosy from the cold, turns a dangerous red, nearing the same color as his Excadrill beanie. “W-well! I, er, don’t partake in the hobby, but I’ve. . . skated before.” Aster squints, not sure if she believes him. “I don’t do it often, but I heard how wonderful this place was for couples wanting to go on a winter themed date, and I wanted to treat you to a nice day out, and I didn’t realize I’d be so rusty, so. . .”

“So that’s a no.” Aster replies. She chuckles at Ingo’s embarrassed whine, but skates forward, offering her hands to him. Ingo glances at the railing he’s curled around, detaching himself slowly, one hand at a time. “Come on. I’ll show ya.”

Ingo’s grip is tight, cold fingers wrapped around her wrists in a death clench. His feet don’t really move as Aster skates backwards, pulling him along. He stares at her feet, watching them move, brows furrowed as his brain works out the physics of ice skating. Aster snickers to herself, practically able to see the calculations and diagrams floating in and out of his pink ears.

Slowly, Ingo puts more weight onto his skates, carefully leaning into the wobbling steps he makes. Aster moves a little faster to accommodate him, and also to avoid the reach of his longer legs. However, despite Ingo’s planning and careful attempts, he misjudges where most of his weight should lie, and his foot gives out underneath him.

With a scream, he tackles Aster, knocking her onto her back as his face smacks into her chest. The pair slide across the ice, sprayed in the frost of other skaters jerking to avoid them. However, their jerky movements only end up in them also falling over, and then others, until practically the entire rink has collapsed to their butts.

Aster blinks up at the street lights illuminating the rink.

Ingo, horribly embarrassed, pushes himself up. He gazes down at Aster, eyes wide and wet, voice wavering as he tries to apologize. But before he can manage the first word, however, Aster cuts him off with a hearty guffaw. Despite his numbed ears delighting at the sweet  sound, Ingo only blushes harder.

“If you wanted closer, you just had to ask.” She teases. Ingo tries to protest, but Aster just slings her arms around his neck, and he chokes as he realizes their position. “I don’t mind a little cuddling. Though I’d prefer to do it off the ice.”

“Aster. . .” Ingo whines, though he doesn’t resist her tugging.

The cold melts away with the simple press of their lips together. Ice and snow have never existed in the little world the two create for themselves with every kiss they share. They curl together, arms pulling one another ever closer, as the heat of their faces meld into steam caught between their shared smiles.

“Scuse me.” Someone says, popping the warm bubble. Ingo jerks back, dragging Aster up with him, and boggles the man standing over them. “Y’all two wanna. . . get up anytime soon?”

With swiveling heads, the pair see most everyone who had also fallen has stood up again, all waiting for them to rise so they can continue their skating.

Ingo loudly apologizes to everyone, mortified, and Aster can only laugh. Despite what Ingo may lament about later, she thinks this is a wonderful date, one she’ll definitely remember forever.

[steampowered109]

Hello world!

First post ever! I thought that maybe sharing this was a good start. Hope this motivates me to write more... I've been thinking about the name. Maybe "Playing with fire"? I dunno. Hope you like this 3 and ½ pages worth of chicken scratches!

Prologue. Frozen.

The floor is cold. The air is cold. Everything is. And the worst part is that it's the one that sticks down to the bone.

I let go of the pickaxe on the floor and rub my hands together, trying to contain the shivers. Luckily, blowing on them makes the small layer of frost that covered both disappear. It won't be long until they're covered again.

With more energy than before, I pick up the pickaxe again and I go back to hitting the stone surface under my feet. The rock is unusually flat and smooth, too flat in color and without any kind of strata. This has to have been built by the Ancients.

Small shards jump out from the points of contact, but that's about it. With a sigh, I hang the pickaxe from the loop sewn into my backpack, exchanging it with the shovel. After warming my hands again, I start to dig.

The dirt, frozen hard, it's difficult to crack but easy to take out after cracking. I slowly uncover the stone's edges. The color is uniform and it has an unnatural cubic shape. Jackpot. But, how do I take it out from the floor? It looks like it weights a ton at the very least.

While I think about the problem, The rope around my wrist tightens and pulls once. Instinctively, I grab the rope and pull once too, signaling that I was okay and still breathing. Once again, I feel a pull and then, the rope loosens slightly.

I need to work fast if I want to go back safe and sound back to the haven with the artifact in my hands. It's too heavy to simply take it out front he ground and not even the rope around my waist pulling it would make it move. I have to produce a lot of energy to pull or push the rock with little starting energy.

I let go of my backpack and open it, seeing the materials I have available: a long rope, the foldable cart (similar to the "shooting cart" from the ancients, which they used to carry around the food they gathered and hunted), some rations, the pickaxe, the shovel, my notebook... Oh!

I grip the notebook tightly, trying to prevent the shivering to make it fall from my hands. Passing the pages upon pages of Ancient blueprints, I find something that could be useful for this task: the pulley. The old people at the Haven say that this mechanism is used in the Ascent.

After checking the diagram with a glance, I take the shovel and dig again, unearthing most of the rock. Despite my hands being frozen and hurting, I tie the rope from my backpack around the cube.

Taking the rope with me, I climbed up a nearby tree. At the top, I run the rope over the most sturdy-looking branch. After praying for a few seconds to Socca, the god of shiny thingies and machines, asking him to save my ass from what I'm about to do, I jump.

The cube rises elegantly from the ground, while I fall like a featherless bird and end up face-first into the snow.

I let out a swear towards the god, but without letting go of the rope. If I do, I'll have to do it all again. After standing up and cleaning up all the snow in my hair, I walk to another tree and wrap the rope around it, making sure it was still tight.

I grab the shovel again, hopefully for the last time, filling the hole where the cube once was and opened the portable cart. Back to the tree and the rope, I undo the knot and grab the rope, lowering it slowly. Thank Socca the Haven's investigators found a technique to weave rope and make a really strong fabric. If it wasn't made from it, the cart would have broken down from the cube's weight.

Now the only thing that remains to do is go back. That's easy. Y go back to the cart and untie the rope around the rock, storing it back into my backpack. After putting it back on, I unwrap the rope around my waist and tying it to the cart. I sit on top of the cube and pull three times, in fast succession. The previously loose rope tightens and starts pulling me, the cart and the cube slowly through the snow storm.

After around 30 minutes of travel, I finally arrive at the Ascent: a wooden tower in the middle of a clearing. Inside, five guys in armor waited for me, sweating and gasping for air. The captain, Porter, looked at me with anger.

"Damnit, Loto! What the hell did you bring this time!? I needed the whole squad to bring you back here!"

"I have no idea," I said while smiling. "But it looks important. Now, can I go into the Haven or am I gonna have to file another one of your endless list of reports, Porter?"

The guardian didn't reply, and all five of them climbed a ladder. I could hear one of them mutter while climbing something along the lines of "I'm gonna kill her. She does this crap another time and she's dead. I mean it, Arthur."

I simply ignored his whines and stretched while the floor trembled and started descending into the ground.

Now, I just have to wait. Ingra's gonna love what I've found.

And that's it! 3 and a half pages of text, I think. I hope I wrote it correctly, English isn't my first language. Although I think I'm proficient, I've had to change quite a lot of slang since the expressions from the original language don't work in English. If you've read this far, thanks! Please, please, please tell me what you think of it, correct me if you found mistakes or suggest a name in the comments! Peace!

[autumnalwalker]

Empty Names - 15 - Matters of Technique

Author's Note: I'd say something about Ashan's chapters always taking me forever to write, but this also ended up being the longest chapter yet by a wide margin. Maybe its because I tried to fit three separate action scenes? Barely finished in time to post for the "every other week" schedule I've tried setting for myself. This one also ended up being less "monster of the week" and more "villain of the week". Anyway, time for Ashan experimenting with casting from other magic systems and getting in fights with opponents who actually know what they're doing. Hope you like haikus. See the tags for more spoiler-y commentary in the tags. Word Count: 13,075 Content Warnings: "Genre-typical violence" in the form of a sparring match and a wizard duel. Magic mind control. Fantasy parallels to human trafficking. Mild swearing. Blood. A leg impaled by a spear. Mention of a character lit on fire. Implied but undescribed gore.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

Ashan holds his wand upright before him, concentrating on willing an uncooperative flame into existence above its tip.

Eris paces the confines of the transparent dome holding her trapped, periodically striking out at the conjuration with a glyph-inscribed spear that leaves trails of frost wherever it makes contact.

Lacuna stands in her labcoat on the sidelines of the gym’s sparring ring, note-taking momentarily forgotten in the building anticipation of the duel’s tense lull.

Both combatants are trying something new this bout.  For Eris, it is the test run of Lacuna’s first enchanted weapon.  For Ashan, it is attempting a technique from Whispers of the Sun that he had found to be of particular interest whose mastery has so far eluded him.

For all that he has kept his frustration in check up until now, his repeated failures to replicate any of that tome’s spells has begun to gall.  Any magic originating from a world operating on a similar conceptual schema to the one he trained with on Orthon inevitably manifests as one of that world’s purely destructive pyromantic evocations instead of the intended effect.  Meanwhile, attempts at spells built around further-removed systems of rules simply sputter out and die no matter how much energy he draws upon to power them.

Hopefully the stress of battle - if only a mock one - will be the push he needs.  His opponent’s confinement is merely buying him a moment of breathing room.  Thus far in prior matches Eris has displayed a startling - if inconsistent - propensity for breaking through his conjurations with nothing but brute force.  Even without the gloves she employed on the Culescun ship it is only a matter of time until she is on him again.

Curious then that now she is only making quick, light prods and slashes that never land in the same place twice.

Ashan reins his focus back to the flame; it is already split enough between that and keeping the barrier reinforced.  Attempting to ‘draw out the fire from within’ as instructed has so far produced only the briefest of sparks, but what about a hybridized approach?  Perhaps if he conjures the flame in a familiar way, combusting a point in the air and then feeding it ambient energy the same way he would his barriers, and then attempts to manipulate it the way the text said.

The air above the tip of Ashan’s wand catches alight like a candle.  He directs more energy into the fire and the candle becomes a torch.  The growing warmth on his face and hands contrasts sharply with the sudden chill at his back.  While the office facilities are not without their own permeating aether field that he could be drawing from, best to focus these sparring matches on practicing with the power source guaranteed to be available wherever he goes.

With effort, he manages to tame the flame’s flickers into the pattern he memorized from studied diagrams.  Pattern stabilized, he moves on to the step of ‘pouring his will into the fire’.  The point of this spell is not to burn, but to entrance, capturing and drawing in the attention of onlookers like moths to a lantern.  Not true mind-altering magic that would send the spell into the realm of sorcery by issuing commands or stripping a target of autonomy, but merely inducing a brief but intense calm to stop an attacker in their tracks until acted upon or line of sight is lost.  Like any mage with a sense of ethics, the only time Ashan has ever broken that taboo is for the generally-accepted exception of Masquerade-preserving amnestic magic.  Even with so unintrusive an effect as this one, Ashan warned Eris and Lacuna what he intended to attempt ahead of time despite the opportunity it would give Eris to steel her mind for resistance.

Staring into the fire before him Ashan admits to himself that there is an undeniable allure to the flame’s dance, but not one he would go so far as to call truly magical.  Then again, it would be a poor spell unworthy of the Bridgewood library if it affected the caster.  Only one true way to test.

Just then Ashan feels his barrier around Eris fail.  The failure is not the shattering under pressure from raw force that she has accomplished before, the flicker of his own broken concentration, the fading of exhaustion, nor even the shredding or melting of dispelling countermagic.  It is a sudden pinprick puncture followed by an unraveling that collapses the multiple reinforced layers from the inside out and makes him dizzy with the sensory backlash.  The shock of the novel sensation is nearly enough to cause the fire above Ashan’s wand to go out.

The shattering cascade of ice falling without an invisible wall to hold it up snaps Ashan back to awareness just in time to sidestep the fist-sized chunk of ice that Eris kicked in his direction before it could hit the ground.  The unsettling thought that there shouldn’t be enough humidity in this room for anything more than a thin dusting of frost to form crosses the wizard’s mind and then the warrior is upon him.

Even after four duels with her prior to this one, the speed and precision with which Eris moves for a combatant of her size and build continues to catch Ashan off guard, especially now that she is wielding a weapon to further leverage those qualities.  Thrust after thrust after slash, it is all Ashan can do to dodge the strikes while simultaneously maintaining his concentration on unfamiliar magic.  It has been a long time since he last found himself dancing with an opponent rather than around them.

He does indeed however manage to keep that flame burning bright and steady while he holds it between himself and Eris.  So far however, it seems to be failing at its purpose; instead of becoming entranced and slowing - much less stopping - her assault, she just keeps looking straight through the flame and into Ashan’s eyes, predatory grin across her face all the while. 

Ashan tries to alter the conjured fire on the fly as variables come to mind.  Color, brightness, size, pattern, flicker frequency, aetherial composition; none of it produces the desired hypnotic effect.  He is just about to give up on the experiment in favor of focusing on reclaiming a chance at winning the duel when Eris shifts the grip on her weapon and changes up her style of attack, abandoning the spear thrusts in favor of flowing swings as if she were wielding a staff.

Against anyone else the sudden stylistic shift might have had the desired effect of unbalancing Eris’s opponent, but for Ashan it simply kicks a long-dormant set of reflexes into play.  His mentor favored staves over wands for spellcasting implements and melee combat with them had been a persistent, if relatively minor, part of his training even after he switched to a wand for casting.  This is a dance whose steps are well known to Ashan Glassheart, and for all Eris’s strength and speed, she is not half the accomplished staff fighter that Aliana Glassgaze is.

The styles may not be identical, but there is enough similarity that Ashan finds himself slipping back into the old, unthinking rhythm easily enough that he can manage to conjure short-lived shields to parry strikes away from him into the ground and nimbly leap over the follow-up sweeps at his legs.  Despite this, Eris’s grin only grows wider, showing ever more teeth.  Their dance sends Ashan’s mind’s eye back to his mentor’s expressions at times like this.  In most fights, she would seem to enjoy them much as Eris does now, but perhaps without the feral tinge.  The laughing banter that infuriated most of her foes made it all seem like one big fun game to her, and by extension to Ashan.  It was only when against the truly dangerous adversaries when stakes were high or on the rare occasions that Ashan got hurt that Aliana’s face took on the intensely cold and faraway look that was half the reason for her epithet of Glassgaze.

Ashan is picturing that expression, single-minded and unfocused all at once, when something about the flame he has been carrying changes in a way he cannot identify.  Eris slows to a stop, staring into the fire as tension drains from her face.  Ashan fails to suppress a shiver from the precipitous drop in temperature.  Ambient heat energy flows through and out of Ashan as magic, building in power to something new and grand.

The flame above the tip of Ashan’s wand flickers and goes out.

The moment of near-revelation lasted less than a second before ending in anticlimax.

The shaft of Eris’s spear cracks into the upper part of Ashan’s off arm, encasing it in ice and knocking him to the ground.

Ashan mentally scrambles, trying to get the flame back as it was right before it disappeared.  It returns as a roaring jet of fire that engulfs Eris and momentarily blinds Ashan from the unexpected brightness.  He barely sees the spear swinging down at him in time to roll out of the way.  Now held with its full length flat against the floor by a notably unburnt Eris, the glyphs lining the spear pulse with a chilly blue light.  Mist condenses in the air.  Ice spreads across the ground, bulging up into low walls in the spots where earlier deflected blows previously left trails of frost.

Ashan attempts to stand up, slips, and attempts to conjure a support to catch himself on.  A cold pain shoots through his arm in absence of sufficient surrounding air and ground temperature for the spell to draw from.  He gasps and the conjuration flickers out, dropping him back to the frozen floor.  The cold sharp point of a spear presses against his neck without breaking the skin.

“That makes three to two,” Eris says, “my favor.”

She pulls the spear away and offers a hand to pull Ashan to his feet.

The next several minutes are spent cleaning up the generated ice and moving it from the gym’s sparring ring to the lab’s testing chamber for disposal.  All the while, Lacuna chatters excitedly, going back and forth between commenting on how ‘cool’ it is to watch her teammates go at it and asking Eris questions about how well the spear performed.  Apparently the whole length of the spear being able to freeze on contact rather than just the spearhead was an unintended side effect rather than a designed feature.

“Where does all the ice come from?” Ashan asks as the testing chambers close, leaving said ice to safely melt into the chamber’s cleaning system.

Lacuna tilts her head to the side.  “What do you mean?  It’s an enchanted ice spear; it freezes things and makes ice.  Well, maybe more like it manifests the idea of freezing things?  In theory, based on the simulation results it should be able to totally encase someone and just put them in stasis to be thawed out later no worse for the wear, unlike normal ice.  Haven’t figured out an ethical way to actually test that though, so probably best not to try it.”

“But where is the water for all that ice coming from?”

Lacuna shrugs.  “I don’t know, same place as your barriers and fire?”

“My conjurations are all simply energy manipulation,” Ashan corrects that terrifying answer.  “The barriers are pure impartations of kinetic friction onto an area of space with no material component.  The fire is the controlled ignition of the oxygen in the air.  The frost and mist that often forms around me is merely a side effect of rapidly lowering the ambient temperature to fuel those other processes causing the same changes on humidity the same as any mundane overnight cold front would.  What it is not is a violation of the conservation of mass.  Or at least, not beyond the limits of an anchor world’s ability to stretch.”

“Ooohhh, so that’s the difference between conjuring and summoning,” Lacuna says.  “Fascinating.  I’ll need to go take a look at some of the source rituals the program drew from for the enchantment sequence later.”

Ashan dearly hopes that whatever that spear is doing is only a variation of summoning.  But even then, where is that water being summoned from?  An elemental plane?  The nearest ocean?  A random comet orbiting the solar system?  For all any of them know it could be ripping the bodily fluids from some unknown, distant victim, killing someone every time the spear’s magic is used.  That last one is highly unlikely with the Autogenesis Principle in play, but the point is that Lacuna is casually experimenting with magic that would normally take experienced mages and enchanters decades to master without even knowing the answers to such basic questions about how it works.  When Ashan asked her several days ago what such complex, high-output rituals use as a power source for their casting without a strong ambient aether field, ley lines, or other such element lacking from an anchor world (even a pocket dimension with loosened anchoring such as this), she had given the frankly horrifying answer that the power generation issue had been solved before she joined the project and she had never gotten around to reviewing that part of the legacy code so she just took it as a given that it worked safely and stably.

Ashan is just about to bring the matter up again when Lacuna takes a seat in front of her workstation and says “I actually got the idea for the ice spear from you.”

“From me?” Ashan asks.

Lacuna nods.  “Well, that is, partly from you and partly from…” The last half of her sentence trails off into unintelligibility.

“Sis,” Eris prompts, “you’re mumbling again.”

“Sorry!” Lacuna not-quite-shouts.  “It’s just that you and Road both have magic ways to easily subdue people without hurting them and I wanted to help Eris have a way to do the same, and then I got to thinking about something your outfit sort of reminded me of and looked up where I’d seen something similar and…”

Lacuna hands Ashan her phone, face blushing and not making eye contact.  On the screen is a manga cover with the title Crystal Witch Arya.  There, floating in the center of the screen with white staff pointed dramatically and a wry smile on her face is Ashan’s mentor.  The face is artistically stylized and the real Aliana was never so well-endowed as this fictional “Arya” character, but otherwise the resemblance is uncanny.  The midnight blue hair, the robe Ashan’s own was patterned after, the broad-brimmed white hat he had never incorporated into his own style, even the patterns carved into the staff; all of it certainly drawn by someone who met her.

Ashan thinks back to all the cases of mistaken cosplay identity this past convention season and groans.

“Sorry, I know it’s kind of cringe, copying from something like this,” Lacuna says.  “I shouldn’t have made the comparison to you.”

“No it is not that,” Ashan assures her.  “My mentor never was any good at amnestic spells.  It would seem that someone she rescued remembered well enough to capture her likeness.”  He taps on the phone, skimming through questionably scanned and fan-translated pages and cringing at the inaccuracies in personality and magic.  “Albeit not well enough to be accurate about much of anything else.”

Eris laughs.  “So you’re telling me that Crystal Witch Arya is a real person and you trained under her?”

“Her name is Aliana Glassgaze, but yes, this character does appear to be based on her.”  Ashan glances down at a panel of Arya intoxicated at a bar and flirting with a witch dressed all in black.  “Very, very loosely based.”

Knowing his mentor, she probably reads every issue and laughs the whole time.  The more uncomfortable implication is that she came back to this world after he left her on Orthon.

“Oh this is just too perfect,” Eris says with barely contained mirth, looking back and forth between Ashan and Lacuna.

“And why is that?” Ashan asks.

“Oh, no reason.”

Lacuna sinks into her chair, drawing her feet up onto the seat with her, red faced, and muttering something about “ruined cosplay plans.”  She bolts upright at the sound of the lab door opening.

“These are my friends I told you about,” Road says from the doorway.  “You’ll be safe here.”

Out in the hallway a beautiful young man nervously clutches subtly webbed fingers around the edge of the sealskin draped over his shoulders.

*******

Four hours later Ashan stands at the edge of a west-coast forest looking down a hill at a mansion.  With the timezone difference it is still only mid afternoon here.  The mansion is of a modern design and after Bridgewood Manor looks almost quaint by comparison with its mere two floors and swimming pool.  As expected, no one stirs on the property, for the inhabitants, staff, and prisoners are all in the phase-shifted pocket dimension mirroring mundane space but invisible to normal means of detection.

Road and Eris flank him, both fully armored, Road in their uncanny symbiote that’s taken on an almost mechanical look with a metallic sheen and overlapping geometric plates of green and purple, and Eris in her freshly crimson-painted tactical gear.  Unlike Road, her face is still visible through her visor and she looks about ready to do murder as she sets down the knee-high drone sent by Lacuna and unslings the spear from her back.  To Ashan’s eyes, the drone looks like nothing so much as a blocky, headless parody of black dog.

On the other side of Road is the dryad-turned-minor-harvest-goddess that brought them here and will soon be piercing the phase-shifted veil for their party.  From what Ashan has gathered over the past few hours, she was once in a similar situation to the poor souls they are here to save before Road and the Bridgewoods rescued her some years back and is more than eager to repay the favor.   She is yet to speak her name and if Road knows it they are not sharing.

“Let’s review the plan one more time before we head in,” Road’s voice resonates from their helmet.  “Down there is the home of a wizard going by the alias of Logos.  Once our fair lady of the green shifts us over to the true mansion our job is first to retrieve the various items binding the house servants to his will and then to escort them back here where they can be spirited away to safety.”

Mellírd, the selkie Road brought into the office, had recounted a tale that neither Eris nor Road were willing forestall acting upon for more than the minimal amount of time it took to throw a rough plan together.  According to him, this Logos individual has amassed a fortune over the years through bargaining, tricking, coercing, and stealing his way into the possession of objects that would grant him power over the beings they were bound to and then selling those objects - and by extension the people - to wealthy buyers.  Mostly it was selkies like Mellírd, swan maidens, and other shapeshifters who had animal skins to step in and out of to change, but from time to time others with more esoteric tokens would be captured and bound as well.  In every case, these tokens were no mere items but part of their rightful owners just as much as their hearts or brains.  Those still waiting to be sold were made to serve in Logos’s home, or worse, sent out to lure in others of their kind.

Mellírd managed to steal back his skin and escape while in transit to a buyer and in the following days was spotted mid-shapeshift by a photographer who posted his image on an on set forum for cryptid sightings.  Lacuna tagged the story as a potential Masquerade breach, and passed it to Road who followed it up after noting that Mellírd looked distressed in the photo.  As soon as they got him to safety and filled in the rest of the team, preparations of the now-imminent infiltration and extraction commenced.

“Thanks to Mellírd,” Road continues, “we know that Logos keeps the binding items in a display case on the second floor and we have a headcount of everyone that we’ll need to return those items to so they can leave.  For the safety of the people we’re rescuing, we’ll be doing this as stealthily as possible.  Or priority is getting them out; dealing with Logos can come later.  Now then, does everyone remember their roles?”

Eris speaks up first.  “Rescuee escort and protection.  And subdual if required.”

“Detecting and disabling wards,” Ashan says, “in addition to running interference if Logos catches on.”

“Remember,” Road says, “if it comes to a fight just play for time until we give the signal that everyone is out.  We can’t risk him feeling threatened enough to start using prisoners as shields.  Lacuna?”

“Right!  Sorry.  Was running last-minute checks on my end.  The remote mobile concealment rituals should be good to go.  Also, I’ve got Mellírd set up in the testing chamber for observation with cleansing rituals queued up in case any lingering linkage back to Logos flares up.”

“And I shall be ensuring your way out and ferrying any who escape to my demesne.” The trees shake in time with the cadence of each word spoken by the fair lady of the green.  “As much as I would prefer to do more to make this mortal pay, you are correct that rescue must come before retribution, but tarry not in this foul place lest you still be here when that hour of vengeance comes.”

Road nods.  “Consider that warning heeded.”  They turn to look down at the drone.  “Everyone gather in close.  Lacuna, show us what you can do.”

A screen on the drone’s back lights up with the most horrendous mess of a glyph circle that Ashan has ever seen.  To even call the tangled, spiraling mess of overlapping arcane symbols a circle is generous.  To his trained wizard’s eye there are a few scattered and warped fragments that look as if they belong in a visual concealment ritual, but much of the rest that is not gibberish looks to be warped pieces of unrelated functionality.  At a glance he can make out an arc from the start of most divination drawings there, a temperature modulation glyph there, and what looks like a complete miniaturized pattern for a common housecleaning ritual embedded in the middle of a spiral in the corner of the screen.  When what sounds like Lacuna’s voice speaking in an untranslatable tongue starts playing from a speaker and then speeds up into a high-pitched electronic buzz, Ashan is convinced that the whole thing is going to explode and take them with it.  His head certainly feels like it is about to.

“Is it working?” Eris asks.

Ashan focuses his sense for magic and the ensuing nausea from trying to perceive the incomprehensible mess of warped reality flowing from the drone sends him staggering backwards.  And then the noise - audio, mental, spiritual, and aetherial - is gone, along with his companions.  The buzz of the accelerated chant has stopped, ambient magical fields are normal, and the grass everyone should be standing on does not even appear to be bent.  He puts a hand forward to where he had just been standing and the hand stays visible, the shadow cast by the afternoon sun that should be falling across a presumably invisible Eris’s knees projects onto the ground unobstructed.

Ashan steps back into position and suppresses a gasp as everyone, the noise, and the headache all snap back into existence without transition.

“It works,” he confirms, “however unorthodox it may be.”

“Here we go then,” Road says.  “And remember, no names once we’re in.  Mellírd implied that Logos has at least some experience with nominal magic for exerting further control over those already in his clutches and we don’t know what else he can do with it.”

Their fair lady of the green raises her arms, puts the backs of her hands together, and then flings them apart as if throwing wide unseen gates.  The trees behind them shake, the air before them trembles, and the mansion down below appears in misaligned, translucent double.  Her hands drop to her sides and everything stills.  The double image of the mansion snaps into alignment.  Figures now move in the windows and mill about the poolside patio while a  lone gardener trims topiary at the front of the house that had not been there a moment ago and two figures in antique metal armor stand flanking the front door.

The drone begins loping down the hill toward the manor at a pace just slightly too fast for comfortable walking and much too fast for comfortable sneaking while Ashan, Road, and Eris try to stick close to it.  Halfway to the mansion the drone comes to an abrupt halt that causes Ashan to bump into it and Eris to nearly walk out of the range of its veil.  The pulsating buzz of the accelerated chant changes subtly and the glyph circle loses all claim to calling itself that shape as it begins growing new branches of symbols and folding in on itself.

“What’s it doing?” Road asks.

“Sorry.  Hit a ward.  Adapting,”  Lacuna’s voice comes over the line in clipped tones.  “Okay.  We’re good.”

The drone starts walking again.  Ashan takes a step forward and feels the ward that he should have sensed far sooner.  Would have sensed were it not for the horrid metaphysical noise surrounding him.  In any other circumstance he would be worried about having tripped it and chiding himself for not being more aware of his surroundings, but here and now he is too busy being torn between awe, disgust, and horror at the way the glyphs shifted.  One does not simply change a ritual in progress!  And to do so on one so chaotically complex…  Gods, is she trying to kill them all?

Road’s face is still hidden beneath their helmet so Ashan cannot get a read on their reaction to what just happened.  The concerned expression on Eris’s face gives him some hope that she at least might have picked up on how utterly reckless that maneuver was, but her words quickly bury that possibility.

“Nice job.  How you holding up sis?”

“Thanks.  Fine.  Shush.  Concentrating.”

Approaching the front door, it becomes apparent that the armored figures are in fact empty suits of armor.  In Ashan’s experience that is a sign that they are more of a threat, not less, particularly given that they are in front of the main entrance to a wizard’s abode and clashing with the decor.

“Move us to the back,” Road says.  “Might be an already open door if the pool is in use.”

“Okay.  Please shush.”

To call the pool “in use” proves to only be partially accurate in the sense that it is occupied by two mermaids that appear to be twins, one consoling the other at the edge of the water as she cries.  A man in a servant’s uniform with a selkie’s webbed hands scrubs the other end of the patio deck next to another suit of armor, pointedly looking in any other direction.  The drone is halfway across the patio when another uniformed man, this one with fox-red hair and yellow eyes, exits the sliding glass doors on the backside of the mansion carrying a tray of raw fish filets.  Ashan and the others follow the drone through the open door as the man sets the tray down and joins in consoling his fellow prisoner.

None of these people pay the intruding party the slightest notice.

Once inside the only other person they encounter on their way upstairs to the display case is a selkie woman at a bar furiously muttering about “polishing the same sun-blasted clean cups every drowned day.”  That makes all but one target accounted for and still no sign of Logos.  With any luck, he will hold to the routine Mellírd indicated and not wake up until an hour or so before sundown.

Upstairs, the door to the second-floor study is wide open, providing unobstructed passage into a room flooded by sunlight from a wall-wide window silhouetting a stout mahogany desk with bookshelves to its right and a glass display case to its left.  A fox’s pelt, two seal skins, a gown of swan’s feathers, paired driftwood carvings of a human and a mermaid, and a torc of woven grass.  In most folk stories, such treasures would be carefully hidden away from their rightful owners who spend years searching for them to regain their freedom.  It would take both arrogance and cruelty to display them openly like this, easily found but impossible to touch behind magical defenses.

Crossing the threshold causes the glyph pattern on the drone to shift for the seventh time since beginning the infiltration.

“We’re good.  Close door,”  Lacuna’s voice says once the drone reaches the center of the room.  

Ashan waves a hand and the door swings shut.  

“Thanks.  Dropping veil ward.”  The pattern goes dark and the noise stops, taking Ashan’s headache along with it.  Lacuna’s long sigh sounds in his ear.  “Sorry about that.  For getting snippy earlier.  Harder to concentrate on than expected with all the adjustments.  Lot of concepts to hold in my head at once.  Gonna need a minute before I do much else.  Sorry.”

“It’s fine, you did great,” Road says and then turns to Ashan.  “You’re up for getting the protections off the case.”

Ashan steps forward, wand drawn and holds it half an inch off the glass of the case.  He blinks in surprise and then slowly traces a looping pattern back and forth along the length of the case.

“There is nothing there,” he says slowly.

“That was fast,” Eris says.

“No, I mean there is nothing there.  The tokens are real so far as I can tell, but there is no warding on them.”

“A trap then,” Road says.

“No,” Eris growls.  “It’s a flex.  The bastard’s saying ‘Look all you want, but I don’t even need to lock it up because I’ve got your leash so tight.’  Mages.  Probably didn’t even cross his mind that anyone else would even get this far.”  She shoulders Ashan aside and slides the glass open.  “Arrogant prick.  It isn’t even locked.”  She reaches inside and pulls out one of the driftwood carvings.

Ashan flinches, but detects no indication of a tripped ward.  A quick divination spell fails to pick up any signal from a mundane electronic alarm either.

“We are clear,” he confirms.

Road nods and joins Eris in retrieving the items, taking the feather gown and the torc.  “I’ve got my own ways to avoid detection so we’ll split these up.  Eris, you and Ashan stick with the drone, get the people by the pool and head for the extraction point.  I’ll track down -”

“I could have sworn I left this door open earlier.”

Everyone goes still at the sound of the voice outside and the turning doorknob.  The drone lopes over to where they are standing and restarts the veiling ritual just in time for the door to open and give the feather-duster-carrying maid with pale hair a clear view of an empty room.  She looks around for a moment in confusion before her gaze lands on the empty display case and her eyes go wide.

“Ma’am,” Road says, stepping into visibility with helmet retracted and proffering the swan gown, “I believe this belongs to you.”  They give a soft, warm smile of reassurance.  “You’re free now.”

The handle of the feather duster clatters on the floor.  The swan maiden gasps, hesitates, and takes a shaky step toward Road with tears welling up in her eyes.  She closes the distance and reaches a tentative hand for the feathered gown.  For her true skin.  For the stolen part of her self.

She pulls her hand back as if burned and clasps it over her mouth.  She falls to her knees, sobbing.  Now with both hands over her mouth she chokes back muffled words as well as tears.  Road leans down close to her.

“What’s wrong?” they whisper.  “How can I help?”

The swan maiden just shakes her head, hands still over her mouth, doubled over now and rocking with effort until her forehead nearly touches the floor.  Road moves to drape the feather gown over her and she screams a cry more bird than human as she skitters away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers before throwing her head back and screeching “THIEF! INTRUDER!  HERE TO STEAL MASTER’S TREASURES!”

Three flicks of Ashan’s wand and the poor woman is gagged and bound before she can keep being used as a living alarum against her will.  There was magic in those words tied back to the one who planted them in her.  Even if the master of the house somehow failed to hear he still certainly knows.

Even restrained, the swan maiden struggles against Road’s attempt to return her skin until it is fully around her shoulders.  She goes limp, eyes suddenly less frantic but still breathing hard.  Ashan releases her bindings and she pulls the gown tighter around her.  Into her.  Before his still-hidden eyes she shrinks into a ball of white feathers until wings unfurl and a long, graceful neck rises up, proud and free, a swan once more.  She looks back to Road and gives a snort of thanks.

“You’re welcome,” they reply with a nod.

Just as they finish hastily explaining the situation to the once-again-swan and shepherding her into the concealing veil around the drone, a sourceless masculine voice echoes throughout the mansion.

“It has come to my attention that we have an intruder in our lovely home.  I’m afraid you all know what this means.  I’m sorry, but you brought this on yourselves by allowing this miscreant to get this far.”

Servants by Token, Your very selves in my hands, Be as puppets now.

Servants bound by Name, Hearken to your master’s will. My word is your truth.

Servants and naught else, As the sun rises, my will, As sets, your action.

HEED!

“Now, defend your master’s home!  To the death, if need be!  Resist any attempts to take you away as if they were attempts on your life!”

The swan puffs up her feathers and shudders, but otherwise does not react to the spell and subsequent commands.  Ashan takes that as a welcome sign that Logos’s mastery of nominal magic is not so much that he can command others by Name alone.  It makes him feel a little bit better about what is about to come.  He and Road look at one another and nod in unison.

“Please allow me time to engage this Logos before leaving this room,” Ashan says.

“Of course,” Road says.  “The plan still holds.  I’ll signal when everyone is clear.”

“Make him hurt for me,” Eris growls.

With one last nod of acknowledgment to the swan, Ashan steps out of the drone’s veil, slips his earpiece off and into his sleeve, and draws a barrier around himself.  His next breath mists in the air.  There is even less of an ambient field to draw from here than in the basement office, and if Logos is employing the system of magic that Ashan suspects after that incantation then that makes for an even larger home turf advantage than normal.

The doorway ward crackles with electricity at Ashan’s unveiled approach and he raises a second barrier behind him to shield the others before stepping through.  Lightning meets forcefield and turns back on its source.  With senses no longer awash with the noise of Lacuna’s travesty of a ritual, he picks out the weakest points of the ward, flicks his wand with a hooking motion and pulls.  Safely unpicking a ward like this might take the better part of an hour but - as Eris is so apt at demonstrating - destroying one can be done in seconds, with one important caveat.

One must needs be prepared for the backlash.

A burst of light and noise leaves a ragged, scorched hole in the wall twice as wide as the erstwhile doorway.  What parts of the room and outside hall are not burnt are covered in frost, and debris lays in a neat line halfway across the room where it collided with Ashan’s second barrier.  The ring of carpet around Ashan’s feet is pristine.  He drops the barriers and glides out into the hallway.

All starts with a spark. Grow it, nurture it, feed it, Send it blazing forth.

FIREBALL!

The roar of the flame hurtling toward Ashan is almost enough to cover the clang of metal footsteps behind it.  He syphons the fireball down to a puff of hot air and repurposes the energy to lashing the charging suit of armor into place.  Gauntlets to wall, greaves to corners of the floor, chestplate to the ceiling behind.   He puts forward a clenched fist and then snaps it open, ripping the empty construct to pieces.  A dismissive wave of that same hand sends the falling helmet crashing out the window and into the topiary before it can hit the carpet. 

“That style,” says a blonde-bearded man in a knee-length maroon dressing gown at the other end of the hall, “so much flashy yet effective gesturing.  Orthonian in origin is it not?  Dancing Dream Paints I’ve heard the technique called.”  He strokes his beard.  “Yes, you must be the young Ashan Glassheart who’s been making waves lately.”

“You must be Logos,” Ashan says.  A statement, not an answer.  To answer would be to acknowledge his name to one who might wield it as his Name.  “Was that Dorbreithan Long Chant just now?  I have always heard it lauded for its power draw to output efficiency ratio but have never seen it in action until now.”

“At last, a proper connoisseur of mystic arts,” Logos laughs.  “Why, I’m almost glad I didn’t kill you for trespassing already.”

Ashan allows himself the faintest of smiles.  It seems like Logos is just like nearly every wizard he has ever met.  The slightest bit of flattery and acknowledgment of their craft and they become all too eager to stop what they are doing and start talking shop.  It was always one of his mentor’s favorite diversionary tactics.  As much as she claimed to be immune to it herself, even she was nearly as easy to talk into showing off with a demonstration rather than an explanation.

“And fair passing glad am I to still be alive.  Tell me though, is the use of nominal magic a native part of the tradition or your own hybrid innovation?”

“Caught that did you?  As keen as the rumors say, I see.  No, we can’t all be so lucky as to be born on an anchor world.  But oh the wonders I could achieve if I were.  Still, I think I do well enough for myself, mastering obscure branches of my home world’s traditions.  And besides, what other style can match its raw poetic beauty?”

“What other indeed?  I only lament that so much of that poeticism is lost in translation for me.  I am told that even the name of the style is a lyric unto itself in its native tongue.”

“Such is ever the plight of interworld travel.  But alas, as much as I would love a peer to speak of lofty arts into the small hours with, you are a thief and a vandal in my home and I have had my fill of stalling for time.”

“You think I would stoop to stalling?”

“No, but I would.  Now let’s cut to the chase.”

A quick rotation on his heel and a spiraling conjuration sends Ashan to the ceiling just in time for three blades to pierce the empty air where he had been standing.  He cups his hands and the three suits of armor that had tried to sneak up behind him are trapped in a dome.  Three less guards to cause problems for the others.  In the seconds it takes him to neutralize the one threat and then slide down a conjured rail toward Logo’s end of the hall another incantation is nearly complete.

Storm's wrath gathering, Glistening blades fall and scourge Earth lies bare, burnt clean.

LIGHTNING!

The air takes on an acrid reek of ozone and Ashan’s few unbound hairs raise from the gathering static.  He drops the prior conjurations to wrap himself in an opaque cocoon that slams into Logo’s evocation.   He skids to a stop a mere yard from Logos and unspins himself from the cocoon, wand pointed at the enemy wizard and empty hand up and blocking off the corridor behind him.  From here, the edge of a most-likely-enchanted-tattoo on Logos’s chest peeking out from beneath his robe is visible.

“One who goes by Logos,” Ashan says with a voice flat as a frozen lake.  “For breaking the taboo of stealing autonomy I name you sorcerer.  Surrender now and submit to your judgment.”

Logo’s expression does an impressively fast shift from shocked to smug.  “By whose authority?  This is an anchor world and I have not torn the Veil or broken the Masquerade or whatever silly term for secrecy you like.  Nor have I committed a crime within the jurisdiction of any of the hidden city states.”

“By the code of honor amongst mages shared by all civilized peoples, including those of your homeworld.  And on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves.”

“Hah!  Just a child playing hero then.”  Logos shakes his head.  “Given all I’ve heard about you, I suppose it was only a matter of time until it came to this.  And if it wasn’t you it would have been that Road boy.  Very well then.  I suppose you’ll be wanting a formal duel?”

The idea truthfully had not crossed Ashan’s mind, but it works all too well for his role here.

“Indeed.”

“Stakes?”

“Upon my victory, you release all people, beings, and entities currently bound to you by magical means.”

“I figured as much.  Stake accepted.  Upon my victory, you speak to me your Name and allow me to bind you to my service.”

“Stake denied.  Counteroffer: Upon your victory, I surrender unto you a book of spells taken from the private library of the sorceress Bridgewood.”

Logos’s eyes narrow.  “You’re lying.  Carnette Bridgewood never parted with the slightest morsel of her hoard during her life and the library’s been locked since her death.”

Keeping his wand still pointed at Logos, Ashan slowly reaches into his sleeve with his free hand and produces Whispers of the Sun.

“I swear on the Name of my teacher who named me, I speak the truth about the origin of this tome.  Furthermore, I have read it and it contains at least one spell compatible with Dorbreithan magic.”  Ashan returns the book to the safety of his robe’s sleeve.  “Do you accept this stake?”

If the look on Logos’s face were any hungrier he would be slavering.  Whatever price he is getting from trading in sapient flesh, this is knowledge money could never buy him.  “Stake accepted.  But first I must know how you came by it.  Better to die than to inherit one of her curses from beyond the grave.”

“I have reached a mutually beneficial arrangement with the current Bridgewood and this tome is not cursed.  That is more than you need to know.”

“Oh what dark secrets the little wizard in white hides,” Logos mocks.  “Who would have thought Ashan Glassheart, the young wannabe hero, would be so close with the wife-killer?”

“As the challenged, you have the right to set the terms of the duel,” Ashan says, once again ignoring his name.

“Victory by forcing submission or incapacitation.  Anything goes on magic forms.  Retreat is forfeit.  To be held outside my house.  I’d rather avoid yet more property damage.  And partisan outside interference is forfeit, while neutral is annulment.  If the Golden Death is involved in any way, I’d just as soon not have a knife in my back mid duel.  Do you accept these terms?”

“Terms accepted.”

Channeling power into their words to complete the specialized ritual, Ashan and Logos speak in unison.

“Stakes and terms agreed upon, I enter this duel of my own free will.  Upon my magic, may this rite be upheld until a victor is found.”

*******

Several minutes later Ashan is standing halfway to the edge of the mansion’s phase shift border staring down Logos.  Or perhaps staring up, given that the man is head and shoulders taller than him.  And up close it is apparent just how well-toned the muscles beneath that ridiculous excuse for a robe are.  A sign of another wizard who understands the importance of keeping the body in shape for a sharp mind, with none of the exaggerated bulk of novices attempting to shortcut transmutation enhancements on themselves.

The two duelists nod and take seven paces backwards without breaking eye contact.  At the edge of the designated dueling field the intact three suits of armor from the hallway now stand at the ready.  Laughable substitutes for witnesses, but not a technicality of dueling etiquette that Ashan is keen to point out right now with the alternative being one or more of the people the others should even now be spiriting away to safety.  When Logos sent his dragonfly-winged gardener to wait in the house to avoid “collateral property damage” Ashan could not believe his luck.

The casual confidence that Logos is comporting himself with does little to make that luck any more credible.  It is hardly the look of a man who just failed twice in a row at murder.  Tranquil as his own face is, Ashan’s own confidence is still shaken by this morning’s sparring match with Eris.  If she, with no arcane training, could pick out flaws in his barriers that neither he nor his mentor had ever noticed simply by examining the reactions different portions had to the ice spear’s enchantment - or so she explained to him - then what might Logos, a master of a notoriously difficult spellcasting discipline, have already picked out with properly attuned senses when their magic collided in the hallway?

Not to mention the well-known folly of facing a mage in his own domain.  That there will be some manner of trap or hidden resource in play for Logos to draw on is a given.  The most likely such play would be to rescind the temporary guest access that prevented Ashan from triggering the defensive wards on the way out of the house, but that seems almost too obvious.  A distraction then from whatever the real trick Logos has planned is?

Stop thinking and start doing.

His mentor’s words ring in Ashan’s mind.  The corner of his lip creeps upward.  For all that she drilled that advice into him in his youth, it has been many a year since he last needed it.  What would she do in this situation?  How would Aliana Glassgaze continue buying time while putting her opponent off balance?

“You know, when I heard about the great wizard Logos, I was expecting something more than an old man in his pyjamas,” Ashan says with an imitation of his mentor’s smirk.  “I shall see what I can do to be gentle about this.”

She always did enjoy treating the challenger’s call marking the start of formal duels with irreverence.

“Pajamas!?” Logos sputters.  “Are novices taught no respect at all these days?  These are the traditional vestments of the Mystics of the Unending Word!”

“You might have the color right, but the vestments of the Mystics of the Unending Word are floor-brushing robes of heavy wool to endure the climate of mountaintop temples.  That is a thin silk dressing gown short enough to be daring in a light breeze that you tossed on in a hurry after waking up to the sound of your house exploding.”

“You bottom-feeding anchor mage.  I will not abide such disrespect from a man in a dress.”

“Says the man still wearing fuzzy bedroom slippers.”

“Enough!  If you cannot recognize peak performance when you see it, then you must be -”

BLIND!

Ashan’s vision blurs.  Spots of black limned with chimerical colors bloom and spread like holes burnt in a page.  He wraps a barrier around himself by reflex, the motion rote enough to only need be seen in his mind’s eye.  He hunkers down, listening for the attack to come while he is vulnerable.

Hunter in the night, A flash of claws then stillness. Once were two, now none.

Mist upon the ground, Such an ephemeral thing, Gone with the sunrise.

VANISH!

Ashan’s eyes clear just in time to see Logos flicker into invisibility.  

“I understand your technique relies heavily on visualization,” Logos’s voice echoes from everywhere at once.  “Such an eminently exploitable weakness.”

As if any wizard worth their robes could not sense the aetherial hotspot of an active tactical-scale invisibility spell.  Ashan drops his barrier to keep its own signature from interfering as he quickly gauges the hotspot's speed and direction then begins visualizing the arc of a dome.

“What, all out of witty retorts already?”

Splitting his own concentration between banter and spellcasting was one skill that Ashan’s mentor never had been able to properly teach him, albeit not for lack of trying.  Just as well; he has come to find ethereally silent tranquility to carry its own intimidation factor.

“Or are you just now realizing how far you are outclassed, boy?”

The drunkard stumbles. Streets leading home twist strangely. The lantern smashes.

The hotspot is still on course toward where Ashan imagines the dome will be.  Impressive that the sorcerer can still chant while running at that speed.

Smoke reaches the peak, The mountain cannot see past. Its neighbors are lost.

Just a moment more…

HAZE!

A buzzing fills Ashan’s ears and the aetherial signature of the “Vanish” spell’s hotspot begins distorting and bleeding out across the dueling field.  As do any signs of the property’s wards.  Not a second later and Ashan’s magic sensitivity detects little more than a vague static.  While not as utterly overwhelming as Lacuna’s abomination of a ritual, it is still more than enough to keep him from picking out anything useful from the noise.

He flicks his wand in a key-turning motion and the glassy barrier of his trap arcs from the ground and snaps back down in a dome.  A muffled thump and an echoing projected grumble of “Nine hells!” soon follows.

His sense of timing, it would seem, is still as strong as ever.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

DISPEL!

Ashan’s conjuration barely wavers at the attempt.  He points the wand at the apex of the dome and then begins lowering his arm, slowly so as to not destabilize the spell too much while he shrinks it.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

One will against all, A comforting lie you tell, Doomed to fall apart.

DISPEL!

The dome begins to lose cohesion, bulging and sagging like a soap bubble in the breeze.  Irritating but nothing he cannot handle.  He cups his free hand so that distance and perspective give the illusion of gripping the conjuration to stabilize it.  It stabilizes and continues to shrink.  Half the original diameter now.  Ashan continues to look through his cupped hand while moving to a warmer spot, crunching frozen grass beneath his feet.

The tortured earth groans, Writhing for its skin fits not, Never shall it sleep.

We build on a shell. Solidity is a myth. The beast beneath stirs.

QUAKE!

The ground beneath Ashan’s feet trembles, but he has trained with far greater threats to his footing.  The earth roils in waves, but he has danced on the decks of storm-tossed ships.  The land splinters and cracks, vomiting up stones and leaving ragged pits behind, but he simply conjures a platform to stand on and leaves the attempt to break his concentration beneath him.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

One will against all, A comforting lie you tell, Doomed to fall apart.

Fool who would be god Your will does not shape the truth. Behold your folly.

DISPEL!

Ashan’s dome is multilayered and near small enough to crush the sorcerer with it when it flies apart like water from a spun goblet.  He falls through his platform onto the still ground and lands lightly on his feet.  Logos’s spells of concealment are still very much in effect when the next incantation begins echoing from all around.  Ashan makes a tapping gesture with his wand, leaving behind a formless invisible marker that he can only just sense through the “Haze.”  He starts moving.

The scream and the crash from the direction of the mansion is enough to get Logos to break off his incantation without locking in the command word.  Ashan’s misting breath hitches.  Road’s promised signal?  No, that scream is not a voice he recognizes.  A complication with resisting rescue then.

“What infernal trickery is this?”  Logos’s shout rings throughout the phase-shifted mansion grounds.  “Call off your thieving accomplices Glassheart.  This duel is annulled!”

“It is no such thing,” Ashan replies cooly.  “The duel itself has yet not been affected, the terms still stand.  And my companions are not thieves for people cannot be stolen, only captured and forced into bondage or liberated.”  He places another marker.

“Hells take you!”

“You could try to stop them, but you and I both know that would count as a forfeit by retreat.”

The sorcerer’s sourceless growl of frustration is loud and low enough to be felt in Ashan’s bones more than heard.  

“Activate procedure twenty-two.”

The three suits of animated armor that had been watching the duel turn around and begin running toward the mansion to engage the still-unseen-from-here Road and Eris.  Ashan places another marker.

“As for you,” Logo’s voice says, “Enough playing around.  You’ll be incapacitated enough for the duel when you’re dead!”

All starts with a spark Grow it, nurture it, feed it Send it blazing forth.

Flame calls to us all, We answer once and again, In timeless cleansing.

Gift of the dragons Raining down to cry out doom, All before you burns.

FIREBALL!

A floating circle of flame appears yards in the air above the dueling field and dozens of balls of flame like the one Ashan stopped in the hallway begin raining down from its circumference.  Some seem to be aimed at him but most seem to scatter randomly.  With the “Haze” still in effect and preventing Ashan from sensing them without looking, not dodging out of the way of one fireball and into another is harder than it would normally be for him.

And yet it is still easier than keeping up with Eris’s spearwork, and hardly holds a candle to Road’s swordplay.  That had been enough to overcome both him and Eris at once.

More offensive spells come, all of a similar caliber with two and three verse incantations.  Writhing and persistent arcs of lighting.  Erupting stone spikes.  Spinning blades of light.  Throughout it all Ashan stays purely on the defensive.  Converting the heat from fireballs into conjured lightning rods and shields to stay the blades.  Balancing on the tips of the spikes.  Laying more markers in the air.  

There are strings between the markers now; a variation on the wayfinding spell he used on the cave mission.  They are not true conjurations, not yet, and should be invisible even to Logos.

Meanwhile, the sounds of fighting continue from the other side of the mansion.  Ashan has not seen anyone leave yet, but that could just mean Eris is keeping the guardian armors busy while Road smuggles everyone out with Lacuna’s drone.  Best to keep Logos thinking he has him on the run until Road gives the signal that everyone is out and the duel is void due to Logos no longer being able to fulfill his stake by freeing those who are already free.

Or until Ashan can wrap things up in a single move.

The sound of shattering glass, splintering wood, and tearing metal is not the signal Ashan has been waiting for, but signals an opportunity all the same when a giant metal knight formed from the composited and rearranged components of half a dozen suits of animated armor bursts backwards from the front wall of the mansion pursued by a gleefully howling Eris.  The sight and sound of this second duel destroying his house is enough of a distraction for Logos to momentarily cease his chanting attacks.

That is all the opening Ashan needs to trace the lines between his markers and spin a shining web that would make any spider proud, with himself at the center.  He raises his wand to the sky and spins in place, swirling the web into a contracting spiral and sweeping up anything caught between the gaps.  A strand whips around something unseen, dragging it along.  Logos’s shouted curse begins to transition into another incantation.  The rest of the web’s strands continue their path around until they too collide with the invisible sorcerer, wrapping around him and cutting off his words of power.

In the background, a corner of the mansion’s upper level, now bereft of support, crashes to the ground.

The strands of the web weave into a braided rope, neatly outlining the cocooned Logos and leashing him to the tip of Ashan’s wand.  Ashan jerks on the conjuration and his bound opponent flies over the half dozen intervening yards of broken, burnt, and frosted-over earth and grass to come to an abrupt stop within arm’s reach, still held upright.  Ashan stabs his wand into the cocoon and elicits a muffled grunt of pain.  With direct contact, the “Vanish” and “Haze” spells are no longer enough to conceal their source.  He rips the wand away and the concealing spells with it, revealing Logos struggling to open his mouth beneath Ashan’s transparent conjuration.  The front of his dressing gown has fallen partly open, revealing the geometric tattoos on his chest.

Behind them, Eris - now on top of the conglomerate knight - whoops with excitement as she repeatedly stabs into it with her new spear, freezing component pieces together for her to violently rip away from the central mass.

Ashan allows himself to shiver and flexes his numb fingers.

“By the terms of the duel,” Ashan begins, “you have lost by incapa-”

Logos’s tattoo flashes and the strands around his neck shatter.

“You are no longer welcome in my home.”

It is then that Ashan realizes he is standing on top of one of the ward lines he had lost track of in the “Haze.”

The ward abruptly and roughly lifts the young wizard into the air and begins violently shaking him.  Short, shallow, stinging cuts begin appearing across his skin, growing deeper every time they overlap.  Unable to stain his enchanted robes, his blood begins trickling out of his sleeves and around a ring at the hem near his ankles before being flung out in scattered droplets by the shaking.

Ashan drops his wand.  The conjuration binding Logos flickers out.

Unable to move properly to draw a conjuration, unable to concentrate enough to envision one through the pain, true, genuine fear steals into Ashan for the first time in a very long time.  His thoughts race.  Where is Road?  Was that flash just now the signal?  Why isn’t Eris helping him?  What would Aliana do now?  Is he really going to die to this ridiculous, arrogant, monster of a man?  Did they rescue everyone?  Did he buy enough time?  Why didn’t he see that coming with the tattoo?  How could he have been so careless with the ward?  What is Logos chanting now?  If he had forgiven Aliana, would he be in this mess now?  Why could he not bring himself to confront his true parents after returning home?

If he can convert the heat from another mage’s conjured fireball into energy for his own spell, what is stopping him from doing the same for a passive kinetic ward with no directing will behind it?

In any less desperate circumstance the idea would be absurd.  At any other time he would be able to recite eight different theorems on why it should not work.  At the moment he cannot recall any of them and the idea makes perfect, simple, elegant sense.

Ashan’s gaze goes glassy and distant as the shaking on his body lessens and a spark flickers to life in the air before him.  New cuts stop appearing on his skin and the spark grows into a candle flame.  The shaking stops altogether and the candle grows into a torch. He lowers until his toes just brush the ground and he cups his hands around the flame he has poured his will into.  It is warm, but does not burn.

Dimly he realizes that Logos’s chanting has trailed off and the sorcerer is now staring into the flame with a contented expression and glazed eyes that reflect the dancing fire.  Ashan moves the flame in his hands back and forth, still keeping his own gaze fixed at nothing, and the sorcerer wavers back and forth in place to follow it.

“By the terms of the duel,” Ashan begins again.

The last of the imbued power forming the ward runs out.

Ashan drops to his knees on the ground.

The fire in his hands flickers and dies.

The look on Logos’s face contorts into rage.

Ashan scrambles to coax the flame back to life.  Frost blankets the ground, rapidly spreading out from around him.  Grass freezes and audibly cracks.  Mist condenses and blankets the dueling field.  Ashan’s cuts from the ward flare with pins and needles.  The back of his neck burns.

The flame comes back, no more than a sputtering match.

Logos becomes enraptured once more, nonetheless.

Ashan tries to force the words to end the duel out through chattering teeth.  It makes no sense.  So much energy flowing through him, from him, out of him, exhausting him, but the flame is still so small.  Where is it all going?

The flame goes out.

BIND!

Ashan feels a tugging sensation on his numb arms, urging them to his sides

BIND!

BIND!

BIND!

BIND!

Ashan’s limbs snap together.  Not that he had much strength left to move them anyway.

He looks up.  Logos is standing over him, breathing hard.  He has Ashan’s blood on his hands.

No chains so tight as Those in the prisoner's mind Waiting for the rope.

The muscles grow stiff, Blood congeals, breath halts, eyes glaze. In death all is still.

BIND!

Ashan’s posture snaps upright, face forward, neck stiff and unable to turn, shoulders thrown back, arms and legs pressed in tight enough to be painful.

“Amazing isn’t it?” Logos pants.  “As worthlessly inefficiently taxing as chant discarding normally is, you can get so much extra oomph with just a little bit of blood to strengthen the targeting.

Winter's lash falls harsh. Wind bites, snow cuts, frostbite gnaws, Scouring flesh and soul.

The storm drowns voices, Blinds the eye, and steals all warmth. Nothing left but white.

BLIZZARD!

A cold wind blows, stealing the last remnants of warmth from Ashan’s skin.  Unseasonal flakes begin to fall from the sky.

“The thermodynamic twisting was clever, I admit,” Logos says, “but I’ve had just about enough of that.  Now then, by the terms of this duel, you have lost by -”

“I do not yield.”

“Yield or not, there is no more you can do, boy.”

In the Beginning There was the Word, and the Word, The Word was Fire.

“Oh, this should be amusing.  Go ahead boy, knock yourself out.”

From stars worlds are born. Is it any wonder then They embrace in death?

Unable to move, but still able to speak, there’s one more desperate gambit from Whispers of the Sun to call on.  The author’s analysis of the spell’s poetry had been compelling enough for Ashan to read it all, despite the pure destruction of it.

Ashes to ashes, Stardust to stardust. But lo! In between is life.

Dorbreithan Long Chant.  The Unending Word.  The primary strength of the style has always been lauded as its efficiency in taking a small power draw and producing outsized effects.  The unwieldiness of its long cast times are supposedly made up for by the end effect increasing nearly exponentially compared to power input the longer an incantation goes, allowing dramatic end results for the price of what most other styles would expend on simple cantrips.  A midpoint between rituals and pure spellcasting.

Fire we all are. From fire we all sprang forth. In fire all end.

Ashan draws on the thin ambient magic, marginally thicker now in the wake of the duel.  He draws on heat as much as he dares and feels his body wrack with freezing pain and then go numb.  He draws on his own metabolism.  He feels a warmth inside.

Hark! I am flame and flame is light.  I am fire and fire is sun.

Five verses of chant.  The full spell has hundreds, ever increasing in structural complexity and conceptual density, but any more now would risk unacceptable collateral damage, even in his weakened state.  Even incomplete, the air is already growing hot.  What was moments ago frost and mist on the ground begins rising back up as steam.  Feeling creeps back in and sweat runs down Ashan’s face.  Something, somewhere begins to smell burnt.  Logos’s gloating face gives way to fear.

NOVA!

The back of Ashan’s neck burns.

The rising steam flash-freezes into particulate ice.

Ashan goes as limp as his bindings will allow.

Nothing happens.

Logos laughs.  Nervously at first, then mockingly, then victoriously.

“An admirable try boy, I’ll give you that much.  A shame to waste such talent so young.  But, let me show you how a real wizard does it.  Now how did that go again?”

In the Beginning There was the Word, and the Word, The Word was Fire.

From stars worlds are born. Is it any wonder then They embrace in death?

Ashes to ashes, Stardust to stardust. But lo! In between is life.

Fire we all are. From fire we all sprang forth. In fire all end.

Hark! I am flame and flame is light.  I am fire and fire is sun.

NOVA!

A pinprick mote of light appears in the air between the two mages.  It grows in size and intensity to the size of a heart and so bright that it pierces Ashan’s closed eyes.

A miniature sun.

The bonds holding Ashan vanish and he falls forward onto the ground.  He struggles to push himself up onto hands and knees, cracks his eyes open, and glimpses Logos fleeing the bright and still-growing thing he just created.  The thought crosses Ashan’s mind to start syphoning what surely must be abundant energy off of the working before him and converting it into a self-reinforcing bubble to contain the coming blast.

If he were in a better shape, that might be viable.  Funny, the second and third times in his life he has burnt out happening within a month of one another.   If Aliana were here she would lay into him for not being more careful.  And then hug him, cry, and promise to do better protecting him while she nurses him back to health.  Maybe buy him sweets that she knows he is too old for but that will somehow make him feel better anyway.

His leg is numb enough that he barely feels it when the spear pierces his calf and pins it to the ground.  It is more with curiosity than anything else that he watches the thick sheet of ice spread from the point of impact and crawl up his leg to engulf his body.  Where is it all coming from?

A crimson blur brushes past him and the light from the miniature sun dims.  He looks back up to see Eris eclipsing it.

The last thing Ashan sees before the ice reaches his face and he figures it would be best to close his eyes is Eris’s silhouette with her back to him and light streaming from between her fingers as she holds back the sun.

*******

The first thing Ashan hears upon regaining a tenuous consciousness is a repeating heavy, wet, crunching sound.

The ground he is lying on is warm and slightly damp, and after a struggle to open leaden eyelids he sees vapor rising up from the earth around him.  A white flake floats down and lands on the back of his hand.  He forces a blink, trying to focus.  It is ash.

There is a voice accompanying those wet, thudding, crunches.  He cannot quite make out the words.  Or is it only growling?

He tries to shift his position but finds the calf of one cold, numb, and immovable.  Oh right, the spear.  He stretches out an arm to find that the ground mere inches further away from where the hand had lain is intolerably hot.  The reflex of jerking his hand back is enough to tire him.

The sound continues.  He smells something burning.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows is a trial that he surprises himself in passing.  Lifting his head enough to look forward while keeping his fully unbound hair out of his eyes is hardly easier.  The urge to go back to sleep is treacherous and so he quashes it.

He is lying at the edge of a small crater, maybe about as wide across as he is tall.  Hard to judge with the smoke, ash, dust, and steam all swirling together in and around it.  On the other side of that blasted pit a hulking, demonic figure with fire for hair that flows down over the black-and-red carapace of its shoulders and back is repeatedly stomping something obscured by the low-hanging steam.  Its lips are pulled back nearly to its ears is what might just as easily be a snarl or a grin but either way is all teeth.

Amidst the creature’s slew of invectives and vocalizations more beast than human, Ashan manages to pick out the phrase “slaving piece of human garbage,” as one of the few intelligible mutterings directed at whatever it is crushing.

“Eris!”  A voice calls from off to the side.  Road, still armored and running at a full tilt, emerges from the smoke and dust.  They throw something small, round, and blue that bursts over top of the hellish creature, showing it with water and dousing its flames.  The monster does not seem to notice.

“Eris, stop!” Road shouts again, coming to a stop next to the stomping thing.  Their blade of orange light is drawn and lit.  It does not look at them.  It keeps stomping.

Road’s helmet retracts back into their armor and they gently place their free hand on the monster’s shoulder.  “You can stop,” they say softly enough that Ashan has to strain to hear.  It stops.  Their blade is still drawn and positioned at the ready.

A mechanical whir heralds the arrival of the headless black drone through the haze.  It nudges the looming creature’s leg, at last eliciting a reaction.  Its face softens as it turns to look down into the drone’s camera.  Road extinguishes and holsters their sword before it turns around all the way.

“Yo, sis,” Eris says.  “Don’t worry, I’m fine.  Ashan over there prolly needs one of those healing rituals you said you had.”  She cocks a thumb over in Ashan’s direction and then promptly falls over.  Road catches her.

The acknowledgement snaps Ashan from his surreal daze enough that he finally thinks to call out.  All that escapes his throat is a dry coughing fit that sends his face back to the ground.

*******

The first thing Ashan hears upon regaining a comfortable, if drowsy, consciousness is birdsong and the wall-muffled ticking of grandfather clock.

It occurs to him that he is alive, awake, and in a different place.  This revelation causes him to sit bolt upright and begin conjuring a shield.  The former makes his vision swim and the latter elicits a sharp pain in the back of his neck.  He gasps and falls back into the pillow of the bed of one of the guest bedrooms of the bed and breakfast above the office.  He tries again, more slowly this time and without doing anything to aggravate the burnout.  Scanning the room, he locates his wand on the bedside table next to an untouched water glass and his robes hanging in an open wardrobe.  The sight of them both intact and accounted for calms him.

More belatedly, he realizes that his arms are free of any sign of the myriad cuts inflicted by the tripped ward.  Lifting the bedsheets finds his legs similarly unblemished.  At the lack of scar or even bandages, he begins to wonder if he only dreamt the spear and everything else that happened after tripping the ward.

He is still pondering the possibility when a gentle knocking at the door arrives, followed by a “Do you mind if I come in?”

“You may enter,” Ashan answers, realizing his mistake too late.  Glancing furtively from the turning doorknob to his hanging robes and back again, he pulls the bedsheets higher and tighter up around himself.

“I thought I heard you moving in here,” Road says, entering with a soft smile and a tea tray.  Their armor is an unassuming, if distinctively colored, jacket once more.  “You want the door open or closed?”  

It takes Ashan a moment to process the unexpected question.  “Open, please.”  The soothing, regular tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway is louder with the door open.

Road nods, sets the tray on the bed next to Ashan, pulls a wooden chair out from the room’s desk, spins it on one leg to face him and takes a seat.

The smell of steeped herbs and warm toast serves as a powerful reminder to Ashan that it has been at least a day since he last ate.  He resists the urge to indulge just yet and asks “How long?”

“Just under a day,” Road replies.  “You were in and out of it a few times but I’m not surprised you don’t remember it.  After we got everyone out safely Lacuna and I went back for you and Eris.  By that time you’d already beaten Logos, but it looked like that last big blast had just about done all three of you in.  Lacuna did some emergency triage and our fair lady of the green healed you up more thoroughly afterwards.  She doesn’t mix well with burns though and Eris had a few of those despite the fireproofing charm she had on her, so we had to get her back here for the autodoc to deal with the worst of it.  “I handed him over to Sullivan,” they say plainly.

“And Logos?”  As much as Ashan fears the answer, he has to know.

The characteristic warmth of Road’s expression disappears as abruptly as any Ashan has drained from the air for a spell.  “I handed him over to Sullivan,” they say plainly.

A chill unrelated to magic runs down Ashan’s spine.  “I thought he was still out on the lighthouse keeper investigation,” he says.

“Following up on Logos’s past clients was higher priority, and between Eris and our fair lady of the green there wasn’t anything left of his house to search for records.”

“So you are leaving Sullivan to interrogate him?”  Torture him, he almost says.

The look on Road’s face seems almost hurt at the suggestion.  “No, he and Carnette had their own more effective and humane ways of information gathering, along with ways to hold beings like Logos in stasis, seeing as the powers that be in Crossherd won’t take him on account of it not being a Masquerade breach or in their jurisdiction.”  They pause and a measure of warmth returns.  “I can understand why you would think that though.  Sullivan does have a certain reputation in some circles and he loves little more than fanning the flames on rumors about himself.”

“So he did not…”

Road shakes their head.  “Sullivan didn’t murder Carnette, no.  More detail than that about what happened to her isn’t my place to say, but I can assure you, while their marriage did start out strictly as a business arrangement, they wound up loving one another in a way that I don’t think either of them ever had thought themselves capable of before.  Even if they were unorthodox with their displays of affection.  Don’t ever let him hear you say it, but he’s got a more tender heart than you’d think, underneath all the knives and gilt.”

“I shall… I shall take that under consideration.”  Truthfully he had not given much thought to their relationship.  To Ashan, the sorceress Bridgewood was the most famous mage of his time, pushing the boundaries of mortal magic while maintaining the will to refrain from abusing that which most considered taboo to even study due to the inherent temptations.  Sullivan was just an odd, obscure, off-putting, caretaker to her legacy.  To think of either of them in a romantic capacity with anyone, much less each other feels somehow wrong to him to contemplate too closely.

“Anywho,” Road says, brightly as ever, “I’ll not keep you from eating any longer.  I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything.”

Ashan blushes at the realization of how much his gaze has been wandering to the nearby tray instead of making eye contact.  “Thank you.

“Anytime.  Oh, and one more thing,” Road adds, pausing halfway out the door with one hand on the frame.  “If it’s not too personal, I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with the tattoo on the back of your neck?”

Ashan blinks at them, uncomprehending.

“What tattoo?”

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