#got distracted looking at the desk in the antechamber

[awkwardtuatara]

Next up in I Accidentally Broke The Stanley Parable: I incidentally moved in and out of the Boss's Office as the doors were closing and then tried to get back in, causing one of the doors to jam and not fully close for about 10 more seconds. You know, the same thing that would trigger the Escape Pod Ending.

Well, I restarted the game from the menu, awoke in Stanley's normal office, saw this on my way out:

went "cool, an alternate office," stepped out, and the entire thing suddenly switched to the normal view:

So I turned around, intending to see if it happened again, and. What. That should be Stanley's office, you know, the one behind Door 427, except it's just a grey rectangle and some darker grey floor.

Going into this grey rectangle, Stanley's room became normal again, and the external office became the short corridor from the first image. So I stepped in and out of Stanley's room a few times (wasn't counting exactly how many) until I stepped into his room, and everything went black.

When I walked forward more I was falling through the map. Various rooms like the main office and some other corridors were visible from the bottom, but fell away too fast for me to take a screenshot of in my surprise. Pretty soon after the game restarted and I was back in a fairly normal that did *not* glitch in and out of scenery.

I did, however, get the office covered in paper upon restarting. And on almost every single subsequent run, I got either an alternate voiceline, an alternate office arrangement, or both. Not sure if that's related, though. I was also holding the Bucket, if that matters.

Anyway. Falling through the map was very cool, I wish I got an image of it - I've seen out-of-map exploration on youtube, but it felt a bit different somehow doing it by accident myself. I'll try jamming the doors in the Boss's Office again - I think it might be because the office loads in differently for the Escape Pod ending? I wonder what happens if you jam the doors and then leave before the external door to the Boss's Office re-opens for you...

[whump-me-all-night-long]

The Jewelry Box: Diamond's Origins

So, this takes place approximately twelve years before Amber is brought to the Jewelry Box, when Diamond wasn't quite Diamond yet.

Taglist: @newbornwhumperfly @unicornscotty @itsleighlove @whump-scribbles @getyourwhumphere @skunkandgrenade @penny-for-your-whump @lektric-whump @just-a-whump-lover @thelazywitchphotographer @restrainthenmaime @angstyachesplus @lilbitwhumpy @leaderofthebeanarmy @aquard-skaii @whumprincess @thatgaysnail @finaldreams1106 @reveriedeludesme @kemonoinuzuka @circlingravens @whumpasaurus101 @spicy-wendigo @femmewithadhd @wafflestakethecake let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: power dynamics between a boss and employee, implied family abuse, misgendering (which is quickly corrected), idk what else to add, there's just a very possessive feel between Diamond and the Jeweler in this one, so let me know if I need to add anything else!

---

Shit. Dakota quickly sped through the halls, counting the numbers on the gold-embossed plaques as they went. 323. 324. 325. As they hurried, struggling not to trip over their own feet, their hands tightened on the still slightly steaming cups of coffee they held as their shoulder raised, making sure their messenger bag wouldn't slip off.

Finding room 327, Dakota used their elbow to open the door. Slipping inside, they felt every head turn towards them, a dark red flush creeping into their cheeks. They took fast, precise steps towards the head of the table, where their boss waited, a small smile on his face.

Reaching him felt like it took a million years, every eye on them. Their traitorous hands trembled and they had to remember to take deep, even breaths. Finally, though, they reached him.

Setting the coffee down, they took a step back, squeezing their own so tightly their knuckles turned white. They turned to sit down in their chair, set along the wall, behind the boardroom table, where the rest of the interns and assistants sat.

One of the men sitting close to their boss, Mr. Johnson, who had been watching them closely, cleared his throat pointedly. “Young man-” he started but Dakota’s boss interjected.

“Not a man,” he said, voice leaving no room for arguments. Dakota’s cheeks must be permanently stained red, they thought distantly, as their shaking hands grabbed their notebook and pen out of their bag. They slouched down in their chair, letting their wavy, white hair fall in front of their face. They also wondered if it would be possible for them to sink into the ground and never reappear.

The other man frowned, before trying to begin again. “Young lady-” he once again started before their boss sighed, looking up from the papers in front of him.

“They’re not a lady either, Johnson,” he said with a pointed look. “Now, are we going to sit here and discuss my assistant’s gender identity or can we proceed with the meeting?”

As the rest of the people gathered at the table began speaking, each trying to raise a different issue, claiming it should be first on the agenda, Dakota’s boss leaned back in his swivel chair, meeting their eyes with a kind smile.

“Thank you for the coffee, darling,” he said, quiet enough that only Dakota could hear. “You truly are a lifesaver.” They gave him a tight smile, ready to focus on taking notes, distracting themself so they didn’t have to think about what that man had said. He stared at them for another moment before adding, “Don’t let what Johnson said get to you. He’s a grade A asshole.”

A real smile dawned on Dakota’s face. “I know.. but, thank you, Mr. Spencer,” they murmured back.

Mr. Spencer smiled at them for another moment before turning around and calling the meeting to order.

-

After the meeting, Dakota stayed in their seat, watching as the rest of the people trickled out, chatting and scheming, until it was only them and Mr. Spencer left.

With a heavy sigh, Mr. Spencer turned around in their chair, leaning back and surveying Dakota with weary eyes. “Well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dakota glanced back over their pages of notes, written in small, cramped handwriting. “You were right,” they said with a timid smile. “Norris and Hernandez are definitely planning something. The two couldn't stop looking at each other the entire time, especially whenever someone brought up the budget for next year. According to their history, they'll most likely try to get more funding for the hands-on experience with the, the pets.”

Dakota cleared their throat, glancing up at Mr. Spencer. He was staring at them with a smile on his face, eyes twinkling. He cleared his throat. “Darling, you're quite miraculous, you know that, right? I've never seen someone able to read people so naturally and precisely.”

Dakota felt their ears heating and smiled, looking down. “Th-thank you, sir,” they replied, fiddling with the sleeve of their sweater, frowning slightly as they noticed a fraying edge.

Mr. Spencer noticed their gaze and stood, offering them a hand. “Come, I have something for you in my office.”

Taking his hand without hesitation, Dakota stood, grabbing their bag and following him out.

-

Back in his office, Dakota glanced around, feeling awkward being inside the neatly organized area, despite going in there several times a day. They were much more used to their desk, placed in the antechamber, where they could putter around all day. They also did tend to spend more time walking around the enormous building, delivering this and picking that up, than anything else.

They watched Mr. Spencer pull out a large box from beneath his desk. Setting it on top of his desk, he looked up at Dakota.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Now, Dakota, I want you to tell me if I'm crossing a line here. I, well, I've just noticed that you haven't exactly had very many resources available to you right now, due to your family situation.” Dakota looked down, shame burning through them.

Suddenly, Mr. Spencer was in front of them, lifting their head with a finger. “It's nothing to be ashamed of,” he said in a gentle voice. “Not everyone is lucky enough to have a supportive family. I'm glad you were able to get out while you could. However, I do know that that's caused lots of stress on you. So I thought this might help.”

He stepped back, gesturing to the box. Nervously, Dakota stepped up to the desk, slowly taking the lid off. Inside were clothes, fashionable and business-like, neatly folded. They jerked their head up, staring at Mr. Spencer in shock. “I- I couldn't,” they stuttered. “This, this is too much.”

He smiled at them, placing a reassuring hand on their back. “You can,” he replied. “And if it's a matter of price, you can just consider it a business expense. What kind of businessman would I be, if my assistant wore the same few outfits? You know appearance is everything here.”

Dakota nodded, giving them a bigger smile. “Thank you, then,” they conceded, picking up the box.

Mr. Spencer smiled back, settling back down at his desk. “You're very welcome, darling. Just make sure you have your full report from the meeting drawn up and given to me tomorrow morning.”

Dakota nodded, slipping out of the room and back to their desk. Setting the box down, they woke up their computer and pulled out their notebook. They quickly set to work on the report, knowing they'd have it done by the end of the day. Mr. Spencer knew it too.

-

A few hours later, back in their shoddy one-room apartment, Dakota set the box of clothes down at their small kitchen/dining table, opening it up and beginning to sort through the clothes.

Their eyes widened as they took in each article. These were… definitely not what they were used to. The clothing was slim-fitting, all silks and cashmeres, tasteful and expensive. Nothing like the darker, oversized, nice sweaters they typically wore.

But, well, Mr. Spencer had been so kind to pick these clothes out for them, and they did need more high-end, business-appropriate clothes. And now that they looked at them, they couldn't help but admire them, picturing themself in them, a smile creeping onto their face.

-

The next day, Mr. Spencer sat in his office, leaning back, reading through the thorough report his darling Dakota had placed on his desk before leaving last night. As always, it was in-depth and full of all the wonderful little tidbits they'd picked up on that nobody - not even himself - had noticed.

At a knock, he looked up, beginning to smile when he saw Dakota standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee. They were wearing one of the outfits he'd picked out for them: a form-fitting, silky, silver shirt worn atop slim black pants.

“Good morning, sir,” they said in greeting, stepping inside and placing the coffee on his desk. “I was just dropping off your coffee and making sure you got my report.”

He smiled, nodding and taking a sip of the steaming drink. Perfectly done, as it always was when his darling made it. “Yes, I was just going over it. It's very helpful, thank you.”

Dakota nodded, almost glowing at the praise, before stepping back and turning to leave when he added, “And might I add, you look really good, Dakota. I'm glad you liked the clothes.” They blushed and left with another incline of their head.

Mr. Spencer turned back to the report, glancing at his desktop, where a new proposal was drawn up. At the top he'd written The Jewelry Box. And he had just the perfect idea for the first Jewel.

[romioneficfest]

Tutor Girl

Title: Tutor Girl Prompt/Day: Day 10 - Movie/TV/Book Fusion Tumblr name:  Rating: T Brief summary: Inspired by One Tree Hill Season 1 Episode 3 - Are You True? Any possible triggering/warning tags: None

Ignoring the vicious pounding in her head, Hermione tapped her wand against the giant pile of musty books, giving them the command to sort themselves into their rightful place. She massaged her temple as she waited for them to finish. It had been a long day and she was looking forward to the end of her shift at the library when she could curl up next to the fire in the Ravenclaw common room with her book before bed.

With her tidying completed, she returned to Madam Pince’s desk to collect her things. Knowing the librarian hated any sort of noise, Hermione gave her a curt nod to say goodbye then threw her far-too-heavy bag over her shoulder before finally leaving.

Although the corridors were already dark, she didn’t have to worry about being caught out after-hours, thanks to her Prefect badge. If she came across Filch as she made her way to the Ravenclaw tower, Hermione could just say she was on rounds. He wouldn’t know any different anyway.

She lit her wand then turned the corner, making her way towards the great staircase. Distracted by the thought of reaching her destination, Hermione didn’t notice the shadow stepping out from behind the suit of armour until it was standing directly in front of her.

“Hey!”

Hermione jumped a mile, placing her hand over her pounding heart as she struggled to maintain her composure. She lifted her wand, ignoring the tremble of the light as she surveyed her assailant; a tall, redheaded Gryffindor.

Growling in frustration, she dropped her wand to her side again and righted her bag before carrying on her way, trying her best to ignore Ron Weasley as he fell into step with her, easily matching her furious pace with his gangly legs.

“Can I help you?” snapped Hermione.

She had no time for the wizard ever since he’d started making her best friend’s life a living hell for wanting to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team this year. Harry had it hard enough as it is, without the added grief from Ron Weasley.

“Well, I hope so. You’re the lucky witch who gets to be my tutor.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t think so, Ron.”

He carried on walking alongside her, frowning at the piece of parchment in his hand. “But you’re Hermione Granger, right?”

She stopped in her tracks, grumbling in frustration as she snatched the paper out of his hands, lifting her wand so that she could read the writing on it better. “I’m sorry. I’m best friends with Harry Potter.”

“Oh, well. My commiserations then,” Ron quipped in return.

Hermione’s eyes rolled so hard, she thought she might have gotten a glimpse of the back of her head. She waved the note at him. “I’ll take this and speak to Professor McGonagall in the morning and see if I can get you assigned to someone else.”

Folding the parchment up neatly, she stowed it in the front pocket of her bag and continued making her way to the staircase, trying to put as much distance in between her and Ron as possible.

“No, no, wait.” He hurried to catch up with her, grabbing her arm to stop her from running away. Goosebumps covered her flesh as his fingers made contact with her skin, although she did her best to ignore the sensation. “There is nobody else. I’d be fine with that if there was—”

“...if there were,” she interjected, unable to stop herself from correcting him. A blush creeped up her neck as soon as she realised what she’d done.

“See, you’re helping me already!” Ron gave her a lop-sided grin. It lit up his ocean blue eyes, even in the darkness of the corridor.

“Look, I can’t help you, and on top of that, I won’t help you. Got it?” Pulling her arm out of his grip, she pushed past him, deliberately hitting him with her shoulder. She bit her lip as pain radiated from the point of contact. Ron was fitter than he looked, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing her aggression hurt her more than it did him.

“Don’t you worry about me, Hermione Granger,” he called after her. “I reckon I’m going to be just terrific. I mean, that’s what getting a T in Potions means, right?”

A rush of guilt washed over her as she hurried away. Although she wasn’t a Hufflepuff, the desire to help was strong, even for an awful wizard like Ron Weasley. But she couldn’t allow herself to get caught up with him, not with everything else going on.

⁂

After a restless night, Hermione sat eating her breakfast alone at the Ravenclaw table. Ron’s words bounced around her head every time she closed her eyes. As a member of the tutor group, it was her job to help students who needed it, and she hated letting someone down. Still, someone like Ernie might still be able to do an okay job with the Gryffindor Keeper, as long as they didn’t clash heads.

To add to Hermione’s anguish, Harry had owled and asked to meet her late last night. The Quidditch team had poured water into his kit bag, drowning all his books and his dry clothes and he was finally at his wits end with them. He wanted to quit, and it took a long time for Hermione to talk him off the ledge.

It was so unfair. He’d done nothing wrong, apart from wanting to join the team all of a sudden. They were short of a seeker anyway, and Harry was good. She just wished there was something she could do to help him.

A flurry of activity at the Gryffindor table caught her eye. The Quidditch team sans Harry were saying goodbye to each other, leaving Ron Weasley, their ringleader, alone to finish his breakfast. The idea hit her like a bludger, and she was up on her feet before she even had the chance to say Blibbering Humdinger.

Slamming the piece of parchment from last night down on the table, Hermione slid into the seat opposite Ron. Her sudden appearance caused him to choke on his toast. Although the thought of him passing away in front of her was very appealing, she wasn’t one for murdering her classmates, however annoying they might be.

Lifting her wand with a sigh, she cast the charm to clear his airway. “Anapneo.”

Ron thumped his chest then took a huge swig of pumpkin juice. When he finally recovered, he flashed her that huge lop-sided grin again. “Thanks for that. What are you doing here anyway, Tutor Girl? This isn’t the Ravenclaw table.”

“Look, I know you’re struggling in Potions, and you might end up getting kicked off the team if you can’t get your grades up. Snape is super strict, I get it. And if you’re genuine about wanting to learn, then I can help you.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “That’s great! I—”

“I have two conditions,” she interrupted. “One: Harry does not find out about this, ever. Okay?” She waited for his nod before continuing, “And number two, you leave him alone. No more pranks or hazing. Just let him play on the team.”

Ron’s eyes burned into her with an intensity Hermione had never experienced before. It was like he could see into her soul. She resisted every instinct that told her to run away, and fast. Instead, she slid her hands under her legs, and gripped hold of the wooden bench she was sitting on.

Finally, he spoke again. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Breathing out a long sigh of relief, Hermione relaxed. “Okay, good. Tomorrow morning, seven on the bench outside greenhouse three.” She pushed herself off the bench and smoothed out the wrinkles in her starched grey skirt.

“Wait, why can’t we go to the library to study? Rumour has it you live there when you’re not in class.”

“Oh ha ha. It’s greenhouse three or nothing. Take it or leave it.”

“Alright then.” Ron shrugged. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Seemingly done with the conversation, he continued with his breakfast.

No longer hungry, Hermione hurried back to the Ravenclaw table before anyone else saw them. She abandoned her half-eaten meal, scooped up her things then made her way out of the Great Hall, giving one final backwards glance at Ron, who was smiling to himself as he ate, looking very pleased with himself.

A flutter of excitement filled her belly as she passed into the antechamber and made her way to her first class of the morning. Maybe taking a chance on Ron Weasley might not be so bad after all.

[miss-spooky-eyes]

disarm me with a smile (or: Time to give Aric Jorgan an Aric Jorgasm)

So it’s been quite a while since I wrote anything and I had what you might call a very specific scenario in mind involving Aric Jorgan I wanted to write, but no suitable Trooper.

Then @sunsetofdoom very generously allowed me to borrow her Jerin, who turned out to be just what I needed and is, believe me, exactly what you need too (although you might not know it from this). 

It also turned out to be Sunset’s birthday, so I really, really wanted to do a good job with her girl in order to pay tribute to Sunset, who in addition to being ridiculously talented is also unfailingly generous and magnificently filthy, a rare combination in these degenerate days, I don’t make the rules.

Happy belated birthday Sunset! and check out her Jerin content and, fuck, all her content if you haven’t already, and if you haven’t, are you even alive? no.

disarm me with a smile (Aric Jorgan/female Republic Trooper)

Jorgan just wants to get his paperwork finished, but as always when his CO has something else on her mind, there’s nothing for him to do but go down fighting

(No reports were completed during the making of this story.)

WARNINGS: filth; handjobs; ears; much fondling of ears; really an impossible amount of ear action; half-baked alien biology; femdom; risk of discovery

' - revealed an accuracy rating of 89.7%, a 0.6 improvement on last artillery exercise conducted on Tatooine (see report HV/AE/74-J). Subsequent to target elimination, squad was deployed in standard search formation covering a radius of -'

'You still at that?'

Jorgan slumped back in his chair as the words he'd painstakingly lined up in his head to complete the sentence broke ranks and dived for cover. One thing he hadn't missed about being an officer was the paperwork. 'Last one.'

He heard the slapping of her flimsy plastic sandals against the soles of her feet as she approached him, not that he needed that to tell him she'd just returned from the refresher; the smell of the ship's regulation-issue cleaning products and the herb-scented skin lotion she'd got on Alderaan had filled the air before she even stepped through the doorway.  As she drew closer, he smelled clean skin, wet hair. 'Long shower,' he noted.

'CO's privilege.' She stopped behind him, and he felt the slightest vibration through the metal as she rested her fingertips on the chair back. 'Long report.'

'XO's privilege,' Aric returned dryly. He deliberately didn't turn to look at her; he knew what she usually wore when she got out of the shower - sweatpants and a sleeveless undershirt - and nothing about the sight of all that glistening green skin was going to help him finish these reports. 'You need the room?'

'Nah, you're good.' The CO's quarters came complete with a tiny antechamber designed to be used as an office, complete with chair, desk and wall-mounted terminal, all of which was generally wasted on Jerin, who preferred to write what passed for her reports on a datapad while lying on her back on the couch in the common area, long legs extended up the wall. Jorgan, on the other hand, found a stack of paperwork a nearly impossible proposition without a desk and a terminal equipped with a proper keypad, so he used the captain's office by permission; a working arrangement. One of many. 'You finish up.'

Despite her words, she didn't move away from the chair; her proximity was as difficult to ignore as the cloud of her fresh-from-the-refresher scent that still surrounded them both. Jorgan leaned forward, clearing his throat, and checked his notes.

'- 3 klicks from initial contact. Grid blocks 1-3 were covered in an average of 14 minutes, 36 seconds per block, dropping to 11 minutes 17 as terrain -'

'Kriff, you're thorough.' Jerin sounded amused, and the chair shifted slightly, as if she was now leaning on the back to look over his shoulder. 'Sure you don't want to include the ambient temperature? The phases of the moon?'

Interrupted, Aric lifted his fingers from the keyboard and glared at the terminal screen, in which he could faintly see Jerin's reflection. 'Problem with my reports, sir?'

'No, no problem.' The tone of her voice clearly hinted at an imminent 'but' and Aric waited, but after several seconds went by and she didn't speak, he figured she must have thought better of it and reached for the keyboard again - 

'I'm just saying it was a routine training exercise, not the first three Xanitian Wars.'

Aric flexed his fingers, which hadn't quite touched the keys. 'So I should follow your example? What did your report to Garza after Tatooine say? "They died, we didn't. Best wishes, Captain Porter"?' 

He saw a flicker of movement reflected in the terminal screen as she laughed. 'Garza said it was my best report ever.'

Mainly because Dorne wrote the one that actually got sent, and every one after that. Aric sighed. 'You going to stand there all night?'

He felt the chair shift slightly as she shrugged. 'Depends.'

'On?'

'On how long it takes you to finish your magnum opus.'

'Why? There something you want me to do afterwards?' Sufficiently distracted to turn away from the screen and twist to look back at her, Aric realised a split second later he'd done exactly what she was hoping he would, because she was smirking down at him in a very particular way, and the picture she made - bare arms braced on the back of the chair in a way that not so subtly highlighted her muscles, freshly-lotioned green skin gleaming like satin, wet hair slicked back and shining - was - 

... was ...

.... was not conducive to finishing a report on Havoc Squad training exercises.

She shrugged, and he didn't need Cathar vision to notice the way her chest moved underneath that thin undershirt when she did. 'Play your cards right, Lieutenant,' she said, and the tone of her voice told Aric clearly that this battle was already lost, and the only thing left was to fight a valiant rearguard action and hope to go down with honour.

He had to swallow twice before he could say, 'Door's open.'

She didn't even glance back. 'Nobody's out there.'

There might be nobody in the common area now - for once - but anybody could wander in at any moment, could hear a noise from the captain's office, could walk curiously to the open door and see ... 'We shouldn't,' he mumbled, lowering his gaze, realizing as he said it that he sounded like some cornered ingenue in a holodrama.

'Shouldn't what?' She leaned down, resting her elbows on the back of her chair, her face just inches from his, and raised her eyebrows. 'There something you're planning to do to me, Lieutenant?'

That did it; he felt the heat, the tingle ... He turned back hastily to face the terminal, trying to hide it, although he knew it was a futile gesture.

It was; he heard her crow with delighted laughter, and saw the movement reflected in the terminal screen as she raised a hand to muffle it. 'Why, Lieutenant,' she said, lowering her hand to her chest in fake shock. 'Did I do that? Is that for me?'

He tried not to squirm in the narrow chair, tried to resist the impulse to hunch over and attempt to hide it. 'You know it is,' he growled.

'Oh, don't be shy.' He felt her fingertips graze the back of his neck, drifting upwards ... 'You know I love to see them wiggle.'

The tingling intensified, and Aric jerked irritably at her touch. Damn the woman! He'd served with COs, with entire squads who never found out what Cathar ears did when their owners got embarrassed. But two days on the same ship with this Coruscant back-slum loud-mouth and she'd spotted it ... and never forgotten about it. 

It was ridiculous. He'd long ago gotten used to the idea that non-furred humanoids like humans and Mirialans had a tendency to find the physiology of furred species like his own ... intriguing; that they had a regrettable habit of finding perfectly normal behaviours and responses cute, even of comparing them to those exhibited by their domesticated animals. On the whole, he thought Cathar came off better than Bothans and Wookies, and anybody who had ever made jokes in his presence about scratching posts and hairballs had quickly seen, or rather been shown, the error of their ways. 

But if Jerin was better at something than noticing things you'd rather she didn't, it was making you like her so much you didn't mind. She disarmed people as easily as she did bombs.

Even Garza. Even Fuse. Even Dorne.

Her fingertips were still just touching the back of his neck, just below the base of his skull, just resting there as if she'd forgotten about them.

Even him.

He could still feel her delighted gaze on his twitching ears. He sat up straight, resisting the urge to tilt his head and brush each ear against his shoulder to stop the tingling. Personally he didn't see what the big deal was; at least ears that wriggled slightly as a social signifier were subtle, not like furless faces that bloomed with blood. He cleared his throat in what he hoped was a dignified fashion. 'I'd better finish this report.'

'Mmmm, yeah, you'd better.' She was still leaning on her elbows on the back of the chair, a casual pose; anyone who looked in through the doorway would think that she was just reading the terminal screen over his shoulder, perhaps offering him some constructive advice on his report, like a good CO. 

Anyone who looked in through the doorway wouldn't see the fingers still positioned at the back of his neck, the tips just grazing the fur as he breathed. 

'Wouldn't want to waste the whole night on it, after all,' she added.

Concentrate. Aric squared his shoulders, extended his arms, positioned his own fingers above the keyboard.

'- terrain became smoother -'

'Smoother' was a dangerous word right now; he highlighted and deleted.

'- more easily navigable by patrols on foot.'

Garza, or whoever would be reading this, knew that they would have been on foot.

He was almost sure that Jerin's fingertips were higher up his neck than they had been before.

He highlighted and deleted.

'- as terrain became less rocky. After approximately forty-nine minutes, squad Besh -'

'You sure it was forty-nine? Not forty-eight? Not fifty-one?' Jerin punctuated each number with a touch, her index and middle fingers walking slowly across his neck towards his right ear. 'Did we synchronise chronometers?'

'We did.' He cleared his throat again, trying unsuccessfully to smooth the roughness from it as her fingers continued their deliberate progress. 'I covered that already.'

'You did? Where?' She straightened up, leaning further over the back of the chair to see the monitor screen better, and the curve of her breast not-so-accidentally grazed his cheek, and he knew that she could feel his pulse jump through his fur where her fingertips had come to rest just below his ear.

'Right there,' he said, working to keep his tone even. He pointed at the relevant words on the screen.

'My mistake.' She leaned back, with another oh-so-accidental brush of her breast against his neck. 'Carry on, soldier.'

Right. Reports. Training exercises. Aric blinked and refocused on the screen, trying to remember what he'd been going to write.

'- squad Besh reported signs of enemy passage, bearing 213.75 degrees.'

Her fingers were still resting just below his ear, behind the angle of his jaw, drifting in the tiniest of circles over the tips of his fur as they both breathed.

'Squad Aurek, designated C&C for this exercise, analysed topographical data and recomended -'

'You missed an "m" there,' Jerin pointed out, bringing her hand up to point at the screen.

The backs of her fingers just brushed the rim of his ear as she did so, and he jolted in his chair, twisting involuntarily to look back and up at her.

She met his glare with eyes of melting innocence. 'Something wrong?'

For a second, he let himself picture himself reaching up, grabbing a handful of her undershirt and twisting to pull her down to his level, a kiss so hard they'd both break away gasping for breath; the darkening skin on her face and neck as the blood started to pound, her lips swollen, eyes bright ...

He'd be damned if he let her win that easily. 'No, sir.' He turned back to face the terminal.

'Better carry on with your report then, Lieutenant.' Her hands brushed lightly along both of his shoulders, idly picking off a piece of lint here, deftly adjusting his collar there. 'We don't have all night.'

He squared his jaw and reached for the keyboard again.

Her hands rested softly one on each shoulder, and he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin material of his shirt. 'Or maybe we do.'

Aric highlighted, deleted, typed: '- recommended both squads circle round to intercept the enemy on their projected path -'

A finger trailed up the right side of his neck.

'- at canyon mouth designated Choke Point One -'

Despite himself, his fingers faltered on the keys as the questing finger approached the place where it had rested before, and he breathed in as it trailed towards his ear. But it swerved away before it reached the lobe, instead continuing on its slow path upwards, following the curve of his ear without touching it, up and over and down towards his cheek.

'- located at coordinates -'

The fingertip reversed its course, following the same path back, the softest skim against his fur as she traced the shape of his ear without touching it. All the way back down to just below the lobe and then up again.

Coordinates. He had them written down. In his notes. Somewhere. He reached blindly for his datapad.

As Jerin's finger trailed up and down, it left a line of tingling warmth in its wake, and his ear ... She hadn't even touched his ear and already it was warm, throbbing in a distant yet urgent tandem with the beating of his heart.

The problem, he thought dizzily as he paged unseeing through his notes, was evolution. Cathar ears didn't just signal embarrassment; they registered and communicated all different types of emotions and social cues. Much of what humans and many other humanoids communicated through their mouths - smiles, frowns, smirks, winces - was in a Cathar visible instead in tiny shifts and motions to which other species tended to be oblivious. And all of that subtle movement required many, many tiny muscles ... a tracery of many, many infinitesimal blood vessels to fill and throb ... hundreds upon thousands of nerve endings. 

Well, that was one problem. The other was that the woman standing behind him was pure evil.

She would have to touch his ear soon, if only by accident. She would have to ...

Then he felt the lightest stroke across the lobe of his other ear, and jerked, caught completely off guard. The datapad clattered to the desk. 

Pure. Damn. Evil.

'Better pick that up,' she suggested helpfully, her fingertip stroking across his earlobe again.

Automatically, with fingers that felt like they no longer belonged to him, he picked up the datapad again.

'You were looking up coordinates,' she prompted him. 

Coordinates. He made an effort, focused, resolving the blur of shapes to green text on a black background. Numbers. He was looking for numbers.

Then both those fingertips stroked as one up the outside of both ears, and everything blurred again.

'Lieutenant?'

They followed the curves and indentations up to the point of his ears, and then down.

'Seems like you've stopped writing, Lieutenant.'

And then they slipped as one just half a centimeter inside, and started to climb again, this time tracing the inner surface of that soft ridge, up and over and down again.

He arched in his chair as she stroked him, the lightest, most abominably teasing brush of skin against fur, and the thought that came to mind was: It wasn't fair. It really, truly wasn't right that a woman of her size and strength, who threw punches the way other people threw grenades, should have hands like this.

Bomb-defusing hands. That's where this all started; that grimy Port Raga hellhole, the senator whining in his chair, the air thick with sirens and smoke and Jerin's hands, disconnecting sensors, rewiring gauges, as if there was all the time in the world. He'd watched, mesmerised, as she delicately picked apart the instruments of fiery death, and despite being one touch too heavy or too lingering away from the kind of pointless end he'd always hoped against hope he would avoid, all he could think about was those same fingers, grease-blackened, smelling of acrid smoke, on him. 

After that it had been just a matter of time before she found him in the armoury one day and gave him what no shame could stop him from wanting, peeling away his armour piece by piece until she could run her hands all over his bare torso, touching and caressing him until he was panting, open-mouthed, then spinning him around and pinning him to the wall, grinding her hips against his from behind with such unmistakable promise that he came just like that, came inside his pants, without her ever even laying a finger on him below the waist. 

'You'll never make captain at this rate, Lieutenant.'

She was using her thumbs now, a delicate pressure against the back of his earlobes as those fingers stroked again and again around the rim of his ear, each time lingering a little longer, straying a little further towards the inner folds and ridges.

Because she knew, knew what nobody else had ever looked at him and seen, what he'd rather die than let Dorne or Vik or any of the rest of them see; that day in, day out, he wore thirty-five kilos of reinforced durasteel, and underneath it what he really wanted was to be ... touched. Not to fuck, or even to be fucked, although both had their place. To be touched. Caressed. Stroked.

Petted.

Fingertips were circling the inner ridges of his ears now. He arched again, pressing his head back against her, no longer caring if she saw how much she was affecting him. She'd known from the beginning. From before the start.

The chair legs squealed on the floor, metal against metal, as he nudged it backwards, away from the desk. Creating space, so she could reach down and ...

Not that she would, unless and until he asked for it.

'Giving up already?' The question was a taunt, breathed out against one ear, stirring the fine hairs inside. Aric shuddered, fingers flexing and kneading at empty air, as he felt her move behind him to whisper the next question across the burning membranes of the other ear. 'On your reports, that is?'

The wet flick of her tongue across his earlobe.

'What happened to being thorough, Lieutenant?'

The softest tug of teeth. 

'Unless there's something you care about more?'

His hand twitched involuntarily up towards hers before he could stop it. Her laugh stirred every strand of fur across his ear, made them sing.

'Better undo those pants before you make a mess of them.

Fumbling with numb fingers, he unfastened, yanked his pants open, hissing underneath his breath as his dick sprang free, hard and twitching and exposed. 

She switched sides again, fondling fingers replacing lips and breath on his right ear, tongue snaking up and around and into his right. 

Aric's dick throbbed, a pulse so powerful it was almost painful. His hand twitched upwards again - 

Footsteps.

They froze as one, listening.

Someone was walking into the common area; Yuun or Dorne, he thought, or maybe even Vik; the big Weequay moved with a softness that belied his size, and it was hard to tell through the pounding of blood in his tortured ears. 

The door was open. He tried to think, through the throbbing and the pounding and the tickle of breath stirring the fur on his ear. If whoever it was was just passing through the common area to get from one side of the ship to the other, they would have no reason to look through the open doorway, or at least would only take a casual glance that would reveal little but the captain's back. 

If they were there to grab a snack, though, or to slump in the seating area that was just outside the door ...

He might be the one with his dick out, but she had more to lose, they both understood that; a blind eye might be turned to a CO sleeping with their subordinate as long as a certain level of discretion was observed, but this would hardly be considered discreet by any standards, let alone General Garza's. If whoever was out there saw. If they chose to report. 

Even if they didn't report ... they'd know.

The footsteps grew a little louder, paused, as if whoever it was had stopped by the battered table, maybe to inspect a datapad left lying there, trying to decide whether the latest holodrama was worth sitting down and watching.

She was the CO. She would be the one to lose her command. And yet this was part of the equation for her, in a way he didn't quite understand. The open door was for her, not him; he felt no thrill from the possibility of discovery; there was nothing more likely to make his hard-on shrivel up and disappear than the thought of Tanno Vik, for example, knowing anything, ever, about what he and the captain did. 

Jerin, though. He didn't understand why, but he understood that she was playing with the fears at the ragged fringe of her existence, playing with the possibility of it all unravelling, as much as she was playing with him. 

Pathetically, that knowledge almost made him jealous.

Pressed together like this, his head flush against her chest, he could almost feel her heart beating, hear her trying not to breathe. He listened with her to the soft thunk as whoever it was put something down on the table, listened to the noises as they walked across the common area to the door on the other side, listened to the footsteps receding down the hall until they died away.

The captain let out the breath she'd been holding, and he could almost swear he felt each individual strand of fur shiver as it passed. 

'Where were we?' The whisper was hot against the nape of his neck as she moved her head back from his left side to his right. He felt her lips fasten delicately around the crest of his ear, forming a tight, wet seal, and the touch of her tongue as it toyed with the pointed tip.

Damn dignity, kriff going down fighting, he couldn't take it any more. His hand seized hers and wrenched it downwards.

The softness of her breasts surrounded his head and neck as his grip on her hand yanked her forward, but neither they nor the drumming of the blood in his ears could muffle the little satisfied snicker she gave as he slapped her hand against his shaft and wrapped their fingers around it.

One thing he could say for his captain; she was merciful, once the conquest was complete. He let his hand fall away as hers began to move, firm strokes, her grip hot and hard and a little too dry, smoothing his fur on the downstroke only to rough it up once more. He'd given in, accepted defeat, and now all he had to do was wait in blind, throbbing anticipation for her to end it. He turned his head, nuzzling into her breasts, reaching back blindly for a handful of ass, thigh, anything he could dig his fingers into and squeeze as she worked him, worked him, worked him.

Jerin shifted her weight, brought her other hand around, enfolding him more tightly as she took hold of him with both hands, one circling tightly at the base of his shaft while the other twisted and stroked near the head. That's all it took, a few breathless, straining seconds of her hands on him and then everything that had been gathering in him ignited in white fire and he found himself thrusting wildly, desperately, as best as he could up into her fist.

She knew to release her grip on his shaft as the barbs sprang up, the teeth that were supposed to lock him into place within his mate until he was done spilling his seed, and her freed hand came up to stroke his face, cradling it against her breast as her other hand coaxed everything from him, circling and twisting to catch the pearly strands until he was spent, left trembling and boneless and clinging against her. 

She stroked his face gently, murmuring things he registered only as waves of tenderness breaking against his twitching ears, as she brought her hand up in front of his face, his cum striping her green skin.

And without needing to be told, Aric bent his head to her hand and began to lick it clean, a purr rising from deep within his chest.

[vulpinmusings]

Ski’tar and Friends part 17: Envar’s Wild Tour

This week, Ski’tar, 6, and Vemir follow a drugged-out teenage Lashunta around a highly secured space station run by a probably-evil corporation.  Headaches ensue.

The Dawn of this Nonsense

The Prior Incident

Archive

There were a few false starts before Envar managed to locate the elevator, since he had all the mental coherency of a bowl of pudding. Eventually, though, he managed to both get into the elevator and decide on a destination at the same time, and we went down to a level on the station chock full of very secure doors.  When we stepped out of the elevator, we were greeted by a pre-recorded hologram of Llia Tam, Envar’s mom and CEO of Arch-Energy Consortium.  The message was a basic but very firm reminder to all employees to maintain a proper level of security with their personal passwords.  Envar talked back to the hologram, confusing it for the real Llia, and complained that he just couldn’t remember all the complicated passwords.

The hologram had nothing to say in reply.

Once the hologram had switched off, Envar took us to a door locked with a retinal scan and unlocked it for us.  It led to another, fancier elevator.  We got off in what looked to be a lounge for high-class station employees.  At the far end, past a set of glass doors, was a bar staffed by androids wearing crisp white suits.  The android at the door welcomed us, checked our weapons and Vemir’s coat, and then Envar took us to the bar itself, which was tended by a Kasatha with two extra prosthetic arms.  That makes six total.

Envar ordered the strongest cocktail available, while my companions opted for something more normal.  I ended up getting served a whiskey because I hesitated too much. Luckily for my sobriety I never had to drink it, because just as the bartender set the glass in front of me, there was a commotion at the doors.  A rough female Ysoki flanked by two Vesk had come barging in, shoving the maitre d’ aside and making a beeline for Envar.  The Ysoki was demanding money that Envar owed, but our good buddy was still way too high on trans-dimensional pesh to register anything besides the fact that the Ysoki was fluffy and pet-able.  Vemir managed to catch Envar’s hand before he could do any actual petting, and I stepped up to try and defuse the situation.

I’m not sure if was our shared species or my calm logic, but I got the lady to calm down enough to acknowledge that Envar was clearly needed time to come back down to reality enough to worth threatening. She wasn’t willing to just walk away or sit around, though, so she proposed a bet: if we won a challenge of strength against her Vesk or a battle of wits against her, she’d give Envar another week before coming to collect.

After sizing up the Vesk and discussing matters among ourselves, we agreed that I would take on the battle of wits.  The challenge turned out to be a game of Farlay’s Crossing, a simplified recreation of a major battle between the Pact and the Swarm; whoever eliminated their opponent’s fleet was the winner.  I chose to play as the Swarm, and that may have tipped the scales because the Ysoki lady said the Swarm was her preferred faction.  It was a close game, as the first five rounds went to whoever was taking the agressor’s turn.  In the sixth round, when I had two ships against her last, I finally managed to pull off a defense that beat her attack, eliminating her final ship.

The Ysoki was upset about losing, but I’d been turning the charm on during the game, complimenting her successes and not gloating over my own, so she left without further fuss beyond giving me some flirty looks and pushing a sample of pesh onto me.  I held onto the drug just in case we needed something to nudge Envar later on.

Envar had sobered up somewhat during the course of the Farlay’s Crossing game, so he took less time guiding us to his next destination: the observatory lab at the top of the station.  When we arrived, Envar promptly got lost in the star-field displayed on one of the screens in the antechamber and didn’t snap out of it until Vemir knocked on one of the retina-locked doors leading farther in. The next room contained the telescope and a number of consoles for controlling the various systems.  Another hologram of Llia appeared with a warning about the restricted access rules for the observatory, but Envar just waved that off and went to the consoles, saying he wanted to get a “new high score” on what he assumed was just a vidgame.

We rushed after Envar to try and keep him out of trouble, but before we could even start trying to talk him down he’d somehow configured a dimensional shield to focus the surface of the local star right on top of us.  The room grew blindingly bright and a couple spots started getting dangerously hot, heralding the arrival of two sunspot fire elementals.

We wrestled Envar out of the chair and I took his place to reset the dimensional shield before any more elementals appeared, and this while one of the things was breathing down my neck and bathing me in radiation.  Vemir and 6 pulled out their arc pistol and frostbite rifle, respectively, and laid in to one of the Elementals.  Once I’d gotten the shield out of the danger zone, I ordered my drone to physcially shove the other elemental back, since I figured the drone’s laser would be next to worthless against beings made of literal fire.  The drone managed to throw the elemental into the wall once, but after that only succeeded in holding it in place until it bashed my drone into a pile of slag.  I threw a pair of shock grenades and a frag, all to some success, but then the second elemental got back up in my face and gave me a slap as I tried to scurry away.  I dodged around the first elemental, which was looking a lot less hot after suffering a lot of cryo-bullets and electrocution, and knifed the thing in the back as I regained my feet.  That proved to be enough to discorporate the first elemental. 6 did one better, landing a cryo shot on the remaining elemental in just the right spot to turn the whole thing into cool rock just long enough for a roundhouse kick to destroy it.

Envar took a picture of us catching our breaths following that fiasco, and judging by his reaction the pic went viral after he posted it to social media.  He then took us around the lab and let us loot several lockers.  We found a few good things, and figured that if we managed to get out the station without further incident then the blame for everything would just fall on Envar’s shoulders. Vemir found a deactivated spy drone hidden behind a locker and took it in case it had any data that historia-7 might be interested in. After looking over the remains of my drone, I salvaged its laser pistol and decided it would be better to just leave the rest and rebuild the drone from scratch.

Envar was at a bit of a loss for where to take us next, so we seized the opening by implying we had an interest in Arch-energy Consortium’s operations.  We intended to get Envar to lead us somewhere close to his mother’s office and then ditch him to break in, but he declared the only part of the business area that wasn’t boring was his mother’s office.

So, that proved to be easier than planned, for once.

During the elevator ride, a pair of Vesk in station security uniforms joined us for a few floors and gave our group suspicious looks.  They got off without saying anything, but I knew our odds of a clean getaway had just taken a bit of a dive.  We got to the door of Llia’s office without trouble, but when Envar opened the door he was dismayed to discover a new, second set of doors just inside.  I managed to hack the lock without tripping the silent alarm, and we went inside.

Llia Tam’s taste of decorations leaned toward the ancient.  There were old parchment maps and oil paintings on the wall, racks of wine, and a model of the Pact Worlds hanging from the ceiling.  The only proper technology was the computer on the desk.  While 6 and Vemir distracted Envar by asking for wine and chatting about one of the paintings, I went to the desk and started doing my thing.  Then Envar offered me some wine and asked what I was doing.  6 said I was just checking the firmware, and I added that I was going to try and alter the second door’s security so Envar could get through himself.

I was lying, of course.  All I was interested in was finding any data that looked like it would be damaging to Arch-Energy if the Starfinders were to posses it.  I located a set of files locked behind two-factor authentication; I would need Envar’s keycard and hack a password.  I managed to non-verbally convey my first need to 6, who smoothly swiped Envar’s keycard and passed it to me, and the password gave me little difficulty.  The hidden data was still heavily encrypted, but I was able to determine that it proved that Arch-Eenrgy Consortium was a front for a secretive corporate group that operated through false identities.  I copied everything of value for the Data-philes to take a crack at later.

With the data now in hand, we asked Envar to walk us back to our ship so that his presence would dissuade any suspicious parties from acting until we were back in space.  As we started flying away, we spotted two security drones following us.  I obstructed their attempts to scan us, so they found nothing incriminating and we got into the Drift without a fight.

Historia-7 was pleased with both the data and the spy drone.  She actually smiled for a split second!  She sent everything off for analysis, and as our debriefing came to an end some results came back.  Historia didn’t give away and details, but she did say that Zigvigix, the Exo-guardian leader, would need to know some of what had been uncovered.

Envar sent us an invitation to his 24th birthday party, but none of us had any intention of putting up with him again without a big ulterior motive.  Historia-7 overheard this conversation and, for some reason, felt it was important that we maintain a presence in Envar’s life, so she “volunteered” some other Starfinders to go in our place.

[0bsidian5ire]

Prompt #3: The Missing Status Quo

Prompt: Lost from @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast's #ffxivwrite2019

Set in the aftermath of the raid on the Waking Sands

Ow... why does the Echo always give us a headache... Kharagal kneaded her forehead scales to chase away the migraine as the Waking Sands came back into focus. Around her, the rest of the Warriors of Light were doing the same. She shook her head one more time to get rid of the foreign emotions of the bone-deep terror Noraxia had felt.

Watching that memory had been weird compared to the other Echo visions she had seen. It wasn't often that Kharagal had the fact that she had gown up in a place with a very odd society by the rest of the world's standards shoved in her face. She had grown up in a place where raids could happen at any time and everyone was mentally prepared for it to happen. Weather that was by getting raided or by raiding someone else if a tribe had good reason to think another tribe was planning to raid them. The scene she had just watched was too familiar from both the Garleans and the Scions perspectives.

"So what do we do now?" said Avila quietly. It was obvious from her stillness how shaken she was.

"Get to the Church of Saint Adama Landama," said Kukunji. Lily was now flying beside him.

"Not yet we don't," Kharagal made out, memories of being forced to stay hidden so other people could draw out any pursuers mingling with being the one doing the pursuing. "There's too many of us and we're too distinctive. We need to split up." At the shocked looks around her she sighed. "Look, there's twelve of us; four Hyur, two Roegadens, two elezen, two Miqo'te, a Lalafell and an Au Ra. Ever since we killed Ifrit, we haven't exactly been hiding that. If we want to stay hidden, then we can't all show up at the same place at the same time."

"There's also the matter o' how the Garleans got in here," Carment picked up the thread. "If they'd come through Horizon on the way 'ere, we'd have known about it as soon as we entered the town." She paused. "And we know they didn' leave the buildin' either on the way out."

"So, we are dealing with Garleans that can seemingly show up anywhere with no one being the wiser," said Izuna. He leaned against a nearby wall, his arms folded over his chest. "I do not like the sound of that."

"If they are using magitek to teleport somehow, then they'll have a range," said Eyrikoel. "The further we are from their castra, the harder time they'll have finding us."

"'ere," Carmen pulled out a map from her pack and furled it on Minfilia's desk. "Let's figure out where we're all goin'." Marked on the map were the different castra locations. She begain tapping out locations. "The Church's in Eastern Thanalan, anythin' tryin' to get into range o' any supposed teleportation there would have to travel a ways and would be hard not to notice. We were jus' in La Noscea, so we probably shouldn' go back there. The Black Shroud is too close to Oriens, so..."

"The South Shroud isn't," Nhagi'a interrupted. "Or at least, you can get so lost in that area it would far enough." He paused. "I know where to go if we don't want the Gridanians not to know either."

"Works for me," Himalgeim said. She had worked in Gridania with the Lancer's Guild before. "Avila, you want to come too?"

Avila flinched, her sword and shield clattering against the wall. "I... Yeah..." She nodded sharply to herself. "That... that works."

"I'll come too then," Rivienne fingered the focus on her hip. "You'll need someone who can heal."

No one else spoke up and Carmen looked around. "No one else goin'?" The other Warriors of Light shook their head and Carmen went back to tapping map locations. "Coerthas would be ideal, but they don' like the rest of the Alliance, so that's out. Thanalan... we're goin' there already."

"What about Southern Thanalan?" Osric rubbed his chin and looked at the map. "Zanr'ak would make for a natural barrier to word from Eastern Thanalan if we went to Forgotten Springs. And it's about as far as you can get from the Garleans in Eorzea."

"I'm game." Kharagal could barely contain her grin. Southern Thanalan was the closest she could get to home in Eorzea.

"I will go with you," Alex rumbled. "The Church..." he swallowed.

Carmen caught her boyfriend's eye. Something passed between them and she nodded. "We'll both go." Alex visibly relaxed at that.

"So the four of us will go to the Church then," Eyrikoel motioned to him, Kukunji, J'attano and Izuna. "Is there anything else we need to do before we can leave?"

"Nothing except not leave here at the same time," said Kharagal. "They came for us, but they mistimed it." She thought back to all the times she'd been in the Garleans place. "If I was them, I'd be watching this place to see if we came back after they left. And we don't want to teleport in too close to where we are going. If they have people watching the aetherytes..."

"Then they'll have an easier time guessing where we are going," Eyrikoel finished. "That means we'll teleport to Little Ala Mhigo first and then head north."

"Dry Bone for us then," said Nhagi'a. "The further we stay from Gridania, the better."

"I think Forgottn Springs is far enough out of the way that we can teleport directly there." Osric furrowed his brow. "The aetheryte closest to it is Ul'dah, and we certainly can't go there."

"We can be the distraction," said Carmen. "If we are last seen going in here, it'll look too suspicious to whoever is watching. And I don't just mean the Garleans."

"So we go and then so long as nothing happens, everyone else will teleport out." Alex started adjusting his greatsword in preparation for a possible ambush. He looked back at everyone. "Wait fifteen minutes before teleporting, that should be long enough to flush out a possible ambush." Eyrikoel and Nhagi'a both nodded at that. "Let's go." Alex headed towards the door of the antechamber and disappeared through it.

J'attano flinched as everyone got a view of the bodies outside the door. Eyrikoel placed his hand on her shoulder, only for J'attano to latch around him in a fierce hug and start sobbing into his armor.

Kharagal mentally shook her head at them and walked out into the rest of the Waking Sands. She picked her way around the bodies, determined to ignore what they meant until she was somewhere where an enemy did not have a record of showing up unannounced, and headed for the stairs.

Outside, it didn't look like anyone knew what had happened in the Waking Sands. Alex was leaning against the wall next to the door. The Elezen's eyes flicked around not just the town, but the skies. Kharagal settled in next to him to wait in see if anyone would ambush the Waking Sands now that the Warriors of Light had returned.

Fifteen minutes later, no one had.

Author's Notes: Kharagal honestly has... a lot of culture shock to navigate when it comes to living in Eorzea. Like trying to wrap her head around the idea that not only are civilians (as a concept) a thing that exists, but that they are considered the "default" state of most people unless they say otherwise. The Raid on the Waking Sands made it something she was more activly aware of instead of just passively noticing that most people in Eorzea think there's something weird about her.

[gretchensinister]

Let's see, for the reverse fanfic meme, how about some Pitchmas? Either the "North is Pitch's boss" drabble or "Even Coal has Value"?

Here’s North’s perspective for the “North is Pitch’s boss” drabble! I hope it’s a nice surprise after so long!

***

Nicholas St. North’s office was warm, cheerful, and if notexactly homey, it was the kind of place that someone who had a home and lovedit would be glad to work in. A large, thick Persian rug, mostly red, coveredthe greater part of the hardwood floor, and protected those boards from thefeet of North’s expansive replica-antique desk. Replica, because North wantedmore space to work with than most antique desks provided; replica, becauseNorth didn’t want to sacrifice his normal way of moving in his own office, anddidn’t want to damage anything of historical importance with an enthusiasticjab of a pen or the slamming of a drawer; replica, because North had wanted thechallenge of designing and constructing his own puzzle desk.

Upon the desk rested the usual complement of moderntechnology, though, because he had one day realized he could do such a thing, North had sent out the monitor, keyboard,mouse, and telephone to be modified and decorated in a manner that mostlyinvolved them being encased in finely worked brass and enamel. Even thecomputer, resting in a compartment that an antique puzzle desk would certainlynot have had, had been given the same treatment. In addition to these thingsthat would be anachronisms no matter what century they were in, the desk alsoheld three different paper organizers, all full to bursting. They were notdisorganized, but each unwieldy category cried out to be divided into smallersubcategories. Or they would have, if North had been anyone else. Northmaintained that his system gave him no trouble at all, and no one had ever seenany evidence to the contrary. The rest of the real estate on the desk was givenover to an ever-changing collection of small tools, sometimes suitable formetalwork, the sculpting of clay, or the assembly of watches, as well as thematerials that these tools were used upon. Nicholas St. North had not stoppedhaving ideas since he became CEO, and he filled the many compartments of hispuzzle desk with the means to act upon them whenever they might arise.

Beyond the desk, shelves took up nearly every wall of theoffice that wasn’t occupied by windows, displaying the ample fruit of North’sideas: toys. Wondrous toys of every description, in every shape and color,sturdy and beautiful, all made to remain workable for generations of play, andnone requiring access to batteries or outlets.

North smiled a little as he leaned back in his luxuriousleather chair. (Truth be told, he hadn’t required such luxury, but he hadwanted to make sure that his chair would comfortably hold someone as tall andbroad as he was. That requirement tended to come with luxury included.) He wasproud of the business he had made, and was happy that he had managed to organizehis staff around him so that he could devote much of his time to new toy designand public relations—or, as this had been defined when he was a child, fiddlingwith things and chattering to people—but not everything was ticking along assmoothly as he had hoped. And he was the part developing a troublesome flaw.

It all had to do with the office that served as anantechamber to North’s office and the man who inhabited it: North’s executiveassistant.

North had hired the man, Pitch Black, for practical,pragmatic reasons. North quirked his eyebrows. Of course he should haverealized something would go wrong when he did something like that.

North had been persuaded to hire Pitch Black to solve avariety of problems, all related to the fact that North would talk with anyone,anytime, anywhere, about anything, limited only by his own discretion. AndNorth’s version of discretion didn’t line up with society’s or the toymakingindustry’s idea of what a CEO’s discretion should be. So, North needed anexecutive assistant, and the main duties of this executive assistant would be tovet the people who got appointments with North and to make sure that no one sawNorth without an appointment. North and his company needed someone scrupulous,efficient, difficult to persuade, and, if possible, someone who people wouldnot even try to wheedle.

Pitch Black’s interview had been incredible. Tall, slender,and sharp-faced, he had arrived wearing all black and a demeanor that made himseem like he had emerged fully-formed from a cryptic obsidian obelisk in themiddle of a desert. There was no question that appeals to reach North for thesake of the children, or any such plays for sympathy, would bring Pitch’s penno closer to North’s appointment book. Pitch promised he would judge eachvisitor by the substance of their claim for North’s time, and by nothing else,and stated he was perfectly willing to be the bad guy if North decided hewanted to admit someone that Pitch had rejected.

North had never seen someone so utterly polished. It was lowof him, he knew, but the interview had led him to solidly dislike Pitch on apersonal level, but also know with complete certainty that no better candidatewould appear.

He felt as though he had to have known that Pitch’s polishwas an act, even from the start, but he couldn’t say this for certain. Truth betold, Pitch was very, very good at his job, and North had been happy enough tolet him get on with it as the summer preparation for the Christmas season gotunderway. North just hadn’t thought about Pitch very much at all.

But then, one day—October 1st, North remembered it quiteclearly—he had finally seen something beneath the polish. North was leaving thebuilding for a lunch meeting, and as he passed the break in the building thatallowed access to the inner courtyard and light well, he happened to turn andsee Pitch sitting on a bench, his legs folded up beside him. He held a thickpaperback book open with one hand, and a king-sized Snickers bar in the other.After the immediate surprise of seeing Pitch outside subsided, North noticed afew more details. While he couldn’t read the title of the book, he could easilysee the author’s name, KING, blazoned across the cover. There was another largecandy bar wrapper discarded on the bench next to him. The windy day had managedto ruffle his hair, and he was smiling a little as he read. Though the smilewas small, it was genuine, something North had never seen on Pitch’s facebefore. So he is real, North thought,moving on quickly towards his car as he did. Knowing that Pitch was real meantthat he could be embarrassed, and North could guess that it would be highlyembarrassing for Pitch to know he had been observed on his lunch break justnow.

During the meeting that followed, North had been distracted,turning the little he knew of Pitch over and over in his mind. What kind of manwould live in the persona he had chosen, and why? What other things were thereto know about Pitch? He had, with one little smile, been transformed in North’smind from a slightly unpleasant piece of office machinery to an unusual,fascinating individual who North would very much like to get to know.

And so North had started talking to him. He hadn’t tried todraw him out, no, nothing so obvious as that—Pitch was a person who went out ofhis way to make it difficult for others to know him, and would doubtless rejectany ordinary conversational lures. Instead, North had simply started talking toPitch like he would any person working for him: enthusiastically, and withrather low pressure to respond.

This, North guessed, had relaxed Pitch greatly. North’sbusiness matters and schedule management smoothed out even further and no otherbut Pitch’s hand could be responsible for that improvement. Pitch also relaxedenough to assume that North wasn’t really paying attention to him anymore, andNorth caught few more details about him. North learned that Pitch’s unflappabledemeanor concealed an odd, almost chaotic sense of humor that heavily relied onboth puns and the kinds of scenarios that most people would find horrifying. Hecaught Pitch doing a dance step or two every now and then as he moved aroundthe office. North was no expert, but he looked formally trained. North sawPitch make a small concession to the black severity of his wardrobe by adding asmall gold tiepin shaped like a horse to his ensemble. And though he neverintruded, he saw Pitch on his lunch break several more times, through severaldifferent large paperbacks, and several different kinds of large candy bars.

And all of this would have been all right for a very, veryslow development of workplace camaraderie. However, North had made a gravemistake in his treatment of Pitch. In treating Pitch like anyone else, he hadbecome much more physically demonstrative around him. This physicality hadincluded casually draping an arm around Pitch’s shoulders, and when he had donethis, he had happened to glance at Pitch’s face. Pitch had looked surprised.Surprised! But not unhappy. And then North had realized when Pitch showedgenuine emotion, his angular face became quite charming indeed.

North stood up and slowly paced in front of his windows. Hewas well aware of every factor that precluded him from saying anything at allto Pitch about this attraction, but it wasn’t workplace regulations thattroubled him. Those could be overcome, if Pitch returned his interest. If Pitchhad no interest, though, then that would be that. North had gotten over manyunrequited crushes in his life, and had even helped a few women talk throughtheirs on him.

North paused and looked towards the door that led to Pitch’soffice. Out there, in a space of clean lines and sharp corners, Pitch sat athis desk, a puzzle in stark black against the silvery gray and rich red of the décor.Yes, a puzzle indeed. North was attracted to Pitch, and not only for his looks,but he still knew so little about him. North knew of many things that Pitchcould reveal that would end his crush. And yet. He also knew of many thingsthat would add to it.

But how to find any of this out? Pitch was far more complexthan North’s puzzle desk, and, wonderfully, North had not designed him. He wasglad to be almost entirely in the dark when it came to Pitch, but he certainlydidn’t want to do anything to damage any delicate mechanisms. If he brokesomething opening the outermost lock, there was no chance that he’d be able tofind any secret compartments.

North paced a little bit more. He had to figure out at leastthe smallest part of the solution before he could focus on anything else, andthere were things that called to hisattention today. North stopped abruptly and scoffed at himself when he realizedhe couldn’t remember what a single one of those things was. Even in the face ofa crush, that simply wouldn’t do. He strode over to his inbox to see what wasin it, and when he saw the item resting on top, he smiled. He should have beenpacing nearer to the desk if he wanted a solution.

The item that had caught his eye was a proof of theinvitation to the company Christmas party. He was meant to approve it today soit could be printed and sent out by the end of the week. And this Christmasparty, naturally, would include plenty of that simplest of liquid lockpicks.Oh, North didn’t think that one tipsy evening was all it would take to getPitch to open up completely, but if it would turn one tumbler? If it would leadhim to become just a little more garrulous? Then the evening would becompletely worth it.

Now the only thing to do was to convince Pitch to go to theparty in the first place. He acted as though he could form no friends at hisworkplace, and his salary was certainly enough to allow him to eat dinner andget drunk on his own anywhere he wanted, that evening. So how…ah, well. PerhapsNorth would like another opinion on this invitation proof. And perhaps Pitchwould be more likely to come to the party if he was personally invited by Northhimself.

North returned to his desk and pressed the button to callPitch.

[robinhoodrevisited]

The Wicked Winchester (pt.5)

Nottingham Castle. Interior corridor. (Robin runs to Marian’s door and bursts in.) Marian’s chamber. Robin: “Marian? (Robin puts his bow on the bed and checks the antechamber. Much and the gang follow him in. He walks out and in front of the fireplace.) She’s not here.” Much: “What’s the problem?” Robin: “I wanted to talk to her before…” (Robin doesn’t finish his sentence and sits at the table instead. Little John passes behind him and Will adjusts the ribbons round his leg.) Much: “Before what? What do we have to warn her about? (Robin sits, staring, then opens the box on the table and pulls out a small piece of parchment. Leaning over the table:) Robin?!” Djaq: (Admonishingly:) “Much.” (Much scowls at her and she shakes her head. Robin starts to write on the parchment.) Robin: (Overdub:) “My dearest Marian, I fear we may not meet again… (The Black Knights walk towards the war room, their rings prominent on their fingers.) … in this life… For the things I did wrong, for the things I am about to do… (Tears fall as he writes.) … but mostly for the life, the love we could not have, I am truly sorry. (Much watches in bewilderment as Robin sniffles while rolling up and tying the parchment. Quietly, solemnly, with a note of hopelessness:) I want you to give this note to Marian.” Much: “What for?” Robin: (Is still a moment, then stands and leans on the chair’s back, leaving the note on the table.) “There’s been a change of plan. I want you to wait here for her.” Much: “Aren’t we supposed to help you and Winchester escape?” (Robin nods.) Will: “Yeah, after the showdown?” Robin: “I’ll deal with Winchester. Use the distraction to go down to the dungeons to release Sir Edward. Then take him and Marian to the forest. I’ll meet you there.” Djaq: “How are you and Winchester going to escape? If the castle guards find you—” Robin: (Interrupting, with doleful and pleading eyes:) “Just do as I say. Please. I want you to give me your word. (Djaq nods. Robin looks at the three men, who nod.) Good. (Robin steps to the door with a heavy sigh, sniffles, then turns around.) And thank you, my friends.” (Robin looks at each one in turn, then leaves. All save Much recognise the fact that Robin expects he will not return.)  

Interior corridor. (A Black Knight makes his way to the war room. Robin suddenly steps out in front of him.) Robin: “I have a message for you… (The Black Knight stops. Robin summons up his temper)…. from King Richard.” (Robin punches out the man and drags him away.) Nottingham Castle. Marian’s chamber. (The note remains untouched on the table where Robin left it. Will is sitting in the chair with his leg over its arm, fiddling with a ribbon. Djaq is leaning on the table. Little John is sitting on the seat under the windows. Much is pacing and thinking out loud.) Much: (Sighs.) “I don’t like this. I hate it. It doesn’t make sense. If Marian’s in danger, we should be looking for her! Robin’s up to something.” (Sighs, sees Robin’s note on the table and grabs it.) Djaq: “No! You cannot open people’s private letters.” (Much sighs and looks at Will, holding out the note. Will shrugs, not knowing what to say.) Will: (Leans forward to look at Little John.) “John?” Little John: “Read it.” (Much nods at Little John, then looks at Djaq triumphantly and unfurls the note, sliding off the string. He holds the parchment up, then realises he can’t read and humbly hands her the paper.) Much: “Read it for me?” (Djaq hesitantly takes the message and reads.) Djaq: “My dearest Marian. I fear we may not meet… again… in this life…” (Will looks up. Little John comes over.) Much: (Looking at her incredulously:) “What?” Djaq: “We are both to be betrayed by Winchester.” Kitchens. (Robin, dressed as a Black Knight, shoves knives into sheets tied around him under his cloak.) Robin: (Overdub, continuing the note:) “I cannot allow it. All the Black Knights will be gathered together [picks up a knife and shoves one in on each name]: Winchester, Durham, Rotherham, and the rest of the Sheriff’s traitorous gang. (Robin looks up, sighs and resolves himself, unhappy with his choice.) I may never have the chance again. (Robin puts up his hood and closes his cloak over his arsenal.) And I cannot allow this opportunity to pass. (Robin steps out of the room with a mask over his mouth and walks down the corridor.) I must kill them.”

War room. (Robin, at the door to the war room, raises his hand to show his ring to Gisborne, who follows him into the room. The Sheriff, holding his arms round himself, glances at him, restraining his excitement.) Robin: (Overdub:) “I only hope you remember me well and forgive the brutality of what I’m going to do. If England is to live… (Winchester sits in his place in the circle.) … they must die. And so, I fear, must I. (Robin backs into the last vacant chair as he looks about, and sits down.) Go to the woods to fight again. Go with my lads. I will see you in heaven.” Sheriff: “Let the walls enclose us.” (Robin watches the Sheriff as the doors slam shut, knowing there is no going back. His eyes above his mask are fearful but determined.) Robin: “Goodbye, my love.” (Robin eyes the Black Knights across the room from him, planning his strategy. Between them is a large round table, bowls of fire spaced around its perimeter, the pact waiting at the edge near the Sheriff.) Sheriff: “My friends, we are a brotherhood of steel. (Outstretches his arms, fists clenched.) And our time has come. (Winchester coolly stares at Robin, who glares back with narrowed eyes.) As a sign of my unbending fastness to the cause, I, Vaisey, Sheriff of this shire, do add my name to the Great Pact of Nottingham. (Robin watches as he picks up his seal.) And I do make my mark. (The wax makes a squelching sound against the parchment as he places the seal on it.) Next to add his name, the Lord Winchester.” (Winchester stands and approaches the table, removing his hood.) Winchester: “As a sign of my unbending fastness to the cause, I, Harold, Lord of Winchester, do add my name to this Great Pact… (pours wax)… of Nottingham. (Robin watches as Winchester holds up his ringed hand.) And I do make my mark.” (Presses the ring to the wax.)

(Robin pulls off his mask and jumps onto the table.) Robin: “Traitors!” (Gisborne draws his sword as the Sheriff speaks.) Sheriff: “Robin Hood!” (Robin throws off his cloak and in one motion, pulls out two knives and throws them simultaneously to his left and right, hitting two Black Knights squarely in their chests. He spins round and throws another behind him at a Knight who is drawing his sword. Robin pulls out another knife, flips it to his right hand and drives it into the chest of a Knight drawing his sword, opposite the last one. Robin then throws a knife to his right at a Knight with his sword raised, ready to strike. Robin pulls out another knife and throws it to his left at one more as he raises his sword. Robin turns to Winchester.) Robin: “Winchester, (Winchester appears stunned.) the death of every man in this room is on your head. (Robin throws a knife into Winchester’s chest, then simultaneously flips out his last two knives, one in each hand.) Sheriff, Gisborne…(Winchester falls to his knees)…. say your prayers.” (Robin throws both knives at them. They look down at their chests in shock.) Sheriff: (Gasps:) “Hood…(Robin breathes heavily)…. forgive me.” (The Sheriff and Gisborne fall to the floor, appearing to be dead. Robin stands on the table, catching his breath, and looks around at all the bodies on the floor. He closes his eyes and hangs his head, taking several deep breaths, then puts his hands over his face and sighs deeply, relieved it’s over and that he’s still alive, until the Sheriff, Gisborne and Winchester suddenly sit up, laughing. Robin is stunned and gapes at them. The Sheriff indicates the knife protruding from his chest.) Sheriff: “Guards! (Robin closes his eyes and hangs his head, utterly devastated that his effort has been wasted, his mission has failed and he himself has been deceived. The doors burst open and guards with halberds surround the table. The Sheriff pulls the knife out of his chest and looks at it, turning it over.) Thank you, my lord Winchester. (Pulls out the board that was under his clothes, protecting him.) A very good little sweetener indeed.” Winchester: “My pleasure.” Sheriff: “Gisborne, don’t hang your boy. I’ve got a better idea. (Puts the board and the knife on the table.) Cake on the terrace, gentlemen.” (Robin looks around at the guards, trying not to think about what the Sheriff has planned next.)  

Commander's Camp. Commander's Hut. (Clarke re-enters the hut and approaches Lexa who is stood at her desk.) Clarke: "You sent for me?" Lexa: (Turning to her:) "Yes. Octavia has nothing to fear from me. (Looking down at the table:) I do trust you, Clarke." Clarke: (Taking a step closer:) "I know how hard that is for you." (Lexa glances at Clarke, sees the empathy in her eyes then turns bodily towards her.) Lexa: "You think our ways are harsh. But it's how we survive." Clarke: "Maybe life should be about more than just surviving. (Looking away:) Don't we deserve better than that?" Lexa: (Never taking her eyes off Clarke:) "Maybe we do." (Lexa reaches out and gently pulls Clarke toward her in a passionate kiss. One that is returned freely by Clarke. After a long moment however, Clarke breaks the kiss.)

Clarke: "I'm sorry. (Shaking her head:) I'm not ready to be with anyone. (Lexa lifts her chin, her expression hardening somewhat.) Not yet." (Lexa looks to her for a few moments and then nods her understanding.) Warrior: (From outside:) "Heda! Come quick!" (Clarke and Lexa exchange looks then rush outside.) Commander's Camp. Warrior: "Look, they're here!" (Lexa rushes over to the top of the hill and sees hundreds of warriors arriving, the Commander's army now stronger than ever.) Lexa: (To Clarke:) "Now we fight."

Dungeons. (Isabella is visiting Edward, who is desperate to know what’s happening.) Edward: “How can you not know what’s going on?” Isabella: “I haven’t been to the castle until now. (Looking away:) I’ve been at Locksley, keeping away from Marian.” Edward: “What is the matter with you two? What’s happened?” Isabella: “Oh...it’s a long story.” Edward: “Well whatever it is you need to get past it. Marian needs your help.” Isabella: “I don’t think she’d accept it.” Edward: “Damn it, Bella listen to me! (Isabella turns and looks at Edward.) Lord Winchester seeks to take Marian as part of his deal for signing the Pact when he leaves here.” Isabella: “What do you mean take her?” Edward: “I mean as a trophy, as a wife, as... (unable to think about what else)…as revenge against me!” Isabella: (Realisation dawning on her:) “Marian is being sold into marriage?” Edward: (Nods solemnly:) “And if anyone knows how terrible a fate that is, it’s you.” Isabella: (Determinedly:) “I’ll see the Sheriff right now, Marian will not be treated like property as long as I have anything to say about it.” Edward: “Thank you, Bella. Go quickly, you don’t have much time.” (Isabella nods and turns hurriedly up the steps and out of the dungeon.) Nottingham Castle. Interior corridor. (Much leads the gang, running round a corner.) Much: (Muttering:) “If he dies, I die. If he dies, I die.” (Two guards suddenly appear in front of them.) Guard 2: “Halt! Been looking for you.” (The gang stop in their tracks, surprised and anxious.) Much: (A bit panicked:) “What? How come?” Guard 2: “The Sheriff wants musicians outside. They caught Robin Hood.” (Much and Djaq exchange fearful glances.)

[worldfortomorrow-blog]

Session 1 Recap

The campaign begins in the City of Bestraville, within the kingdom of Kelerak, the Continent of Farland, and the planet, Nurion. The first scene takes place in a pub within the city, just like the rest of the town, the pub is constructed of bright red woods and a dark wood roof, surrounded by banisters of yellow, baring the symbol of Bestra.

The Hound Pub is a place of merriment, men, elves, and even barbarians celebrate together on a nightly basis. Within the warm lights of the pub, lies a fighting ring, surrounded by townsfolk throwing their coin and making bets. A man gets knocked out from a single punch to the jaw, blood and spit are sprayed across the repulsed crowd as he goes down. A burly dragonborn shakes off his scaly fist before turning around and throwing two hands up in victory.

A sharp lad comes to the edge of the ring and hands the host his Ukulele and steps into the ring as the host, in a shrill voice, yells over the crowd to announce the fight. “Next challenger has approached! Torinn vs. Glen, toss your bets on the board now!” As Glen steps in the ring, the crowd grows quiet in a universal coo, seeing the difference in size between the contenders. Everyone throws their bets on Torinn as the fight commences, Glen throws the first punch, which bounces off Torinn’s scales as if a peanut had been thrown. He retaliates with a hefty bitch slap, sending Glen stumbling back against a banister behind him. Torinn turns to face the crowd for a set of showboating, just before Glen leaps into the air and rams his elbow into the back of Torinn’s skull, knocking him out. As soon as he hit the ground, the crowd grew deathly quiet, the music slows to an undignified stop, and a glass hits the floor at the bar.

The bar becomes total mayhem, everyone surprised at how much gold they’d put and lost on Torinn. Two bouncers drag the dragonborn out behind the pub, they toss him into a pig sty, covering him in shit. As soon as the bouncers shut the door behind him, he comes back from his fake unconsciousness, just as Glen rounds the corner holding their winnings. They exchange some laughs while Torinn washes himself at a nearby spicket, Glen attempts to deceive his comrade by giving him slightly less gold from the winnings, but failed miserably, Torinn grabs the sack from his hand and tosses him a single gold coin as he walks away.

They re-enter the pub, approach the bar, and call for the handmaid. Glen fails to flirt with the young lass, receiving Blueberry milk, rather than strawberry. Torinn prides himself on a flagon of ale. In the middle of conversation, a man sits beside the two, dressed in purple royalesque clothing, but very torn and dirty, as if it was all he had ever known. Sporting a tall hat and a scraggly beard, he orders a strawberry milk (actually receives it) and turns to Torinn and Glen. He introduces himself as Simon Ancred. Simon comments on how he admired their ability to fool the crowd and offered them an opportunity to get some work with a group of freedom-fighters he captains in Bestraville. Just as they begin to talk some more, they hear the fighting crowd roar behind them, at that moment, Glen spitefully knocks the tankard of milk from Simon’s hand, who hadn’t noticed from the commotion.

A young half-elf steps into the ring, who sports long black hair and the charisma of a god, there are several men and women reaching out to him as if he were a celebrity. He was being challenged by a taller elf with bright red paint marked across his olive skin. The two exchanged punches and blows, each one accompanied by an “ooh” and “ah” from the crowd. Finally, with the fluidity and finesse of a bird in flight, the half-elf dealt a final kick to his challenger’s face, resulting in a roar of victory. After the fight, Simon took him aside and dragged him over to Torinn and Glen, being introduced as Kunashir of Eruna. Simon commented on his brilliance in combat and asked if he would also be interested in some work helping the city. All three seemed mildly interested and vied to listen. Simon explained that the local Baron, Payn Walchilem, had been a tyrant, over-taxing the citizens, dealing unfair trials, and depriving the town of resources for his lavish parties. He asked if the group would be interested in helping to find evidence to bring to King Keler in order to prove his misdeeds. After having made his vague explanation, he bid the group good night, telling them to meet him in the town square at dawn, and flipped each of them a gold coin as “incentive.”

In the morning after, the group sat at a table just outside the Bestravin Inn, next to the Hound Pub. They discussed the previous nights events, groggily and without much resolve, they got up and made their way towards the city center, petting dogs, seeing sights, as well as drinking coffee and eating pastries from BestraBrew. Once they reach the bustling town square, they see Simon standing up against a pillar on the other side. Making their way towards him, Simon turns to walk down some stone stairs and into a candlelit tunnel. The group keeps him in sight as they follow him down the subterranean passages, passing monks, dawning orange robes in prayer, a bar with three merry men toasting, and others smithing weapons and armor. The hallways are cobblestone, dingy, mossy, and laden with puddles.

Up ahead, the tunnels get brighter and open up into a large antechamber, a large rotunda with a circle of waterways going through it, evidently a center for the city’s water system. Simon brings the group to a table at one end and sits down and props his feet up on a beautiful mahogany desk, just as ornate as it is out of place. He waves some other people over and begins to speak to the group of now eleven people, various in races and origins, from dwarves to barbarians. He reiterates what he had explained the night previous, plus some extra details about the baron’s interests and possibilities for retrieval of the necessary information. As he speaks, two young dwarves, seemingly twins, are excitedly and listening with wide eyes. Simon says that his beneficiaries are offering 1,000 gold split amongst the team which successfully receives pertinent information. The guild does not condone killing, but if it is required to feed the greater good, they can look the other way. Upon saying this, the members of the group unwilling to kill leave, leaving only Torinn, Glen, Kunashir, and the two dwarves, who, at the discussion of killing have become much more excited, grinning ear-to-ear.

The six all discuss various ways of infiltrating the Baron’s lakeside castle, ultimately, the two dwarves agreed to go their own way, while the three remaining decided on attempting to pose Torinn and Kunashir as distant royalty, bearing gifts, and Glen being the entertainment and distraction for the partygoers, being that he is a bard. Simon explains that, in order to get in, the group will need to bring something of true value to the Baron, such as some expensive or exotic Ale. He mentions that he knows the owner of the Salvaire Meadery in town, who may be able to help.

Simon sends them off to the Meadery, the group stops to look at several trinket shops and spice markets along the way. Upon their approach of the meadery, which is in a tighter corridor, they smell brilliant aromas of honey and bread. Stepping closer to the building, they also hear a commotion, people arguing and yelling. Suddenly, a man come crashing through the glass door of the meadery, stumbling and hitting the wall behind him. A tall women with Jet black hair and a purple gown come stomping out, shaking her fist and saying, “this is the last time you skip out of yer tab, ye scum!” After composing herself, she fixes her posture upright, turns to the door and with posh steps, she reenters the meadery. The group follow her in and take a seat at the bar. The building is modeled after the unique architecture of Orland, with a greenish wood and brass fittings for contrast, the establishment is very well-kept. She comes back after serving a few other guests and addresses the group. She introduces herself as Remi Salvaire. After inquiring about unique ale to quench the Baron, she suggests some Imported Orland Ale. She offers a small cask to the group in exchange for 60G or 20G if the group fetches some honey from a beekeeper who owes her some stock. The group chose to fetch the honey. Session 1 ends here.