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caeslxys · 1 year ago

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the salt and the skin

Hi! I have been deeply beset by a disease that can only be cured by writing about Imogen Temult’s intensely ingrained mental illnesses. Yeah it’s contagious. Honestly this fic should probably be labeled as some type of biohazard.

Also on Ao3!

The first time Imogen told Laudna about the storm it was, appropriately, storming.

Laudna’s eyes had been swallowed by a blackness darker than that of the night surrounding them, catching and reflecting even the most minuscule scatterings of light in a way that made her gaze look full with shooting stars. She had taken her leather-shielded hand to hold in both of hers as she listened. It was the first time she could remember someone taking her hand simply to hold.

She said, here is what she knows of the storm: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.

After—as they lay for the first time in a shared space, hands locked together in a promise at their sides—Laudna fell asleep before her, eyes wide open. Imogen had spent minutes watching light shows reflect in them, enchanted utterly. She thought, without really considering the weight of it then: beautiful.

When she finally fell back asleep, she did so with the comfort of knowing she was never out of Laudna’s lightspun gaze.

———

In the time that has passed since that night the same things that have changed about the storm have changed for her and Laudna—which is to say, nothing at all.

(Which is to say, absolutely everything.

In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has become familiar with the difference between the chill that follows Laudna’s skin and the chill that follows a corpse with her face. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between running from and running to. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between losing and being left.

Here is what she knows of grief: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.

It does not escape her that the first time she heard her mother’s voice was in a storm.)

———

On the twenty-seventh day of Quen’Pillar, as the falling leaves and spines begin to create a shoreline on the bordering forest in a glaze of varying orange and brown shades, Gelvaan celebrates the Hazel Festival.

This, like all other celebrations in Gelvaan, is celebrated with hastily put-up stands and stages and games, the best and biggest cattle and produce hauled in on freshly cleaned wagons—some sporting their previously won ribbons as intimidating trophies—and various flowery dedications to various different gods.

The Hazel Festival, as her father explained it, is a celebration of love and divine intention—the concept and promise of soul mates. As the superstition goes, if there exists another half of you, then you would find them here. People would arrive with bouquets of freshly picked flowers, hand-written letters or hand-crafted food, wandering the small stream of Gelvaan townsfolk with the belief that they were about to stumble upon the great love of their life.

It always seemed so silly to her, which means it was something many of the people in that town held very close to their hearts.

Her father told her that they met there. He and her mother. Maybe that’s why it seemed so silly.

But here, in the dark and with the taste of honesty staining her lips, she has the passing thought that she’d like to take Laudna one day. Maybe not to the one in Gelvaan; somewhere new, somewhere that feels syrupy sweet and slow and that sticks to your skin like a joyful glaze when it's over. Somewhere that stains. She wants Laudna to have to lick her fingers clean. She wants to bring her a bouquet of flowers.

But, for now, she is in a chasm that might as well be endless telling Laudna things that she deserved to hear in any other way. She should have told her about how she feels about Delilah’s presence in their room, holding her hand, holding her lips to the skin of her throat in a threat and a promise.

She should have told Laudna she loves her at the Hazel Festival.

Instead she says “I love Laudna,” with the same tense hesitance you would feel pulling a trigger and follows it with a “but” that bursts from her chest like a bullet that precedes “I’m disgusted at the idea of Delilah looking at us all the time.” that leaves her smoking mouth like an accusation. She watches her careless aim land true in Laudna’s chest, sees the conflicted hitch and stutter of her breath from even the short distance separating them.

It ricochets; it strikes her, too.

———

During the trial of trust, when Laudna says she loves her, Imogen’s response is: “I think you’re a doppelganger right now?”

Which is silly. They’ll laugh about it later. It also makes her want to die as soon as it leaves her lips.

Because, the thing is, she knows Laudna. She knows Laudna and she would be able to tell if it wasn’t Laudna if she had been blinded or deafened or made senseless altogether. Her tether, her anchor. She would know. She should have known.

In the same way she should have known the moment they landed in Wildemount that Laudna was in Issylra. In the same way she should have known the moment she fled that Laudna was in the Parchwood. In the same way she should have known twenty years ago that Laudna was coming to her.

Not that any of it matters. She didn’t know. She didn’t know that she was in Issylra—the Parchwood—The Hellcatch—in front of her. It feels as close to sacreligious as Imogen has ever truly felt. Heretical. Like she should be punished or brought down altogether. And, really, maybe she should be. The exercise was to trust one another.

What kind of trust was it, to instinctually keep trying to reach into her friend’s minds? To summon a hound to stand between them all as they stood at the very precipice in case? If she’s honest, she doesn’t truthfully feel like any of them deserved to be called victorious.

She wonders, briefly, if the other side is lacking here, too. Ludinus, Otohan. Her mother. Is it trust that binds them? Is it faith?

The brief thought of it, that her mother has found her own version of the Hells—maybe her own version of Laudna—drives into her chest like a fist.

But none of that compares to—Laudna’s face, fumbling into disbelief at the accusation; Laudna’s grasping, empty hands; Laudna’s nervous, darting eyes. Laudna’s screams, cutting through the night off the bow of the Silver Sun. Laudna’s bleeding fingers, dripping black onto shattered, pink stone.

If it was sacrilegious of her to doubt Laudna’s intention, it is damnation she feels take root in her ribs as a hound aparrates at her side. It bursts forth with a growling howl, its decaying hackles raised, its bright green eyes trained on her, sharp and dutiful. For her to doubt Laudna—for her to make Laudna doubt her—

Well. She supposes it’s fair.

She glances at it, her Cerberus. She says, “Hi, baby boy.”

It calms. Across the fountain, face blocked by the angle of her own extended hand, Laudna calms, too. “Yes.” Laudna utters, “Good boy.”

She closes her eyes as she, Orym, and Chetney breach the barrier surrounding the fountain and drop their ivory sticks into its grasp. She reaches for Laudna’s mind one final, unsuccessful time, the plea for her not to lunge dying unheard in the folds of her mind.

(In the moment, as Morri applauds their upward failure of a success, she doesn’t register the way her now red-scarred fingers come up to brush against the now-bare skin of her temple. She should have known.

Next time, she will.)

———

When Fearne finally makes up her mind and readies herself for taking the shard, Imogen’s eyes are on Laudna and how a line of tension shoots up her spine and draws her shoulders together like folding, skeletal wings. How, as Chetney reaches into the bag of holding, she silently steps away.

Imogen hasn’t been wearing her circlet, has lowered herself once again into the rapid waters of her too-open mind for hours now, but she doesn’t need to be in Laudna’s mind to know what is passing through it.

It makes her sick, the thought of that vile woman in Laudna’s mind or soul or presence. It makes her more sick to think of Laudna spending even a moment around her influence alone.

(When Laudna had come back—when they found her, out at the tree line of the Parchwood—she had run. She had taken a moment to meet Imogen’s exhausted-elated-terrified eyes and sprinted in the opposite direction. She ran for fear of what she was capable of doing, of who she was capable of hurting, of both her lack of control and abundance of power.

She thinks of Laudna running from her and from her and from herself and, briefly, envisions a storm in the place where once she stood.)

She doesn’t really register that she has moved until Laudna is already in her arms.

“You can put your head in my shoulder. Til’ it’s over.” She whispers, one hand burying itself in Laudna’s hair and the other wrapping possessively around her waist, “I can tell you what’s happening, if you want?”

Laudna doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, into her neck: “You’re warm.”

She feels the barely-there press of lips to her carotid and tries valiantly not to let the shiver it sparks pass through her. Instead, she takes the hand in her hair and presses lightly, moves so that every point of their bodies that could be connected are. She says, voice silk-soft, lips brushing a metal-armored cropped ear, “So are you.”

For a moment it feels—well, intimate in a way she’s slightly embarrassed about displaying in front of the others. Slightly.

But then Laudna is murmuring “shut up, shut up, shut up,” into the skin of her shoulder and—she can’t help it—she smiles. She giggles. It is pure pride. Her brain in three parts: loving Laudna, hating Delilah, wanting to tell Laudna it’s okay to bite her shoulder to drown out the voice if it’s too loud.

She does not do that, and instead whispers the incantation she has all but ingrained on her tongue from countless back-and-forth trips on too shaky gondolas and grief insurmountable—she says, in some dead language or a command—calm.

She thinks, as the spell leaves her and Laudna’s tense body melts completely—as Fearne’s body rises into the air, encompassed in flame—as Chetney’s grip on the tools he has taken out to hold for comfort, and then on FCG’s raging body, turns white-knuckled—as Ashton flinches and almost doubles over from another shock of pain that passes through them and then as healing energy into Fearne—as Orym bounces anxiously on his heels like a flea or a warrior looking to strike—as FCG’s eyes flicker red and his tiny healing-hands become something violent—as her mother says her name through the roaring of a storm—I’m not running anymore. I won’t run.

She imagines, as Laudna pulls back when things have settled and her taloned grip releases Imogen, that her skin has formed new scars in the shape of Laudna’s hands. She holds the idea in her mind in place of an oath.

———

That night, she gives in.

It’s inevitable, really, no matter which way you look at it she and the storm and the moon have always been meant to collide. To swallow each other whole. It’s better that she does it on her terms.

Laudna agrees. It’s good that Laudna agrees. The best, actually, because she was hoping that she’d say no. She was hoping that she’d say no because she doesn’t actually want to be swallowed whole by the storm or the moon or the concept of a mother. What she wants is for Laudna to say no, and to take her hand and walk her out of the room—the house—the feywild—this entire situation—and into whatever is next. Because the truth of it is, no matter how many people go into her dreams with her, she still feels alone.

In the end, she tells herself as red bleeds into the nothing behind her eyelids, the future she has been fighting for has never been her own. The hope she holds like water in her hands was never meant for herself. Her last fight. Her last hope. She stows them away like weapons. She thinks, They’ll owe me. She thinks, They’ll free her.

Except, when she gives in—when her friends fall away, as they always do, and she is left alone and cradled and warm with the echo of her desperate mother’s voice ringing in her mind—it’s everything. It’s twenty years of nightmares and ten of minds on minds on minds and months of grief and love and wrath all wrapped up in a bow and labeled “purpose”.

She feels like a child. Or what she imagines most children felt like. Weightless. Like if she’s simply good enough there will be someone who loves her there to wrap her in a hug or a blanket and tell her she did well. Who will carry her tiny half-asleep form to her room and tuck her in and kiss her forehead and say “good night.” Like she could close her eyes and let the darkness swallow her and know someone left a light on.

It’s everything. So when she wakes to her friends hovering, groggy faces she is only guilty for a moment at the spike of disappointment that shoots through her at the sight of them. And only guilty for a second longer when her eyes land on Laudna who is still, also, endlessly, everything.

It’s not—she’s not really there for the next few seconds—minutes—hours. All of their voices come through as if she is submerged in something thick that pulls every time she tries to break for air. Or maybe a lack of air altogether. There are still stars behind her eyelids every time she blinks.

At some point in their conversation two things finally register in about the same amount of time. One: her mother had called for her. Her mother had been there. Her mother had sounded like she was crying. And two: Laudna is holding her hand.

Laudna has been holding her hand, maybe. For a few moments and a few years. It's this, her tether, that finally brings her back to—well—Exandria.

The others are—asleep? No, they’ve—that is, she and Laudna—have moved. To their room. They had a room? Have they spent a night here already? If time is a soup then she has made quite the mess.

Regardless, Laudna is holding her hand. It’s everything.

Then there is shifting, slow and slight.

“Imogen.” She hears her whisper, voice dropping to that low husk that her choked, only lightly decayed vocal cords must reach to achieve a tone so soft. She doesn’t ever mention it, but Imogen knows how sometimes kindness exists like a war in Laudna’s body. In the way her throat rebels against the scratchy dip of her voice, in the way her bones ache when embraced. It hurts her to be so soft. For Imogen, she does it anyway. “Imogen. Would you like to lie down?”

She doesn’t respond—she doesn’t think she responds—just squeezes Laudna’s cool hand in her warm one and laces their fingers together in lukewarm knots.

She feels Laudna’s hands take and cradle her close—holds there, chests rising and falling against each other like lapping waves for an amount of time Imogen doesn't bother to count—and then she twists and shifts and lays her down like a sleepy child on their shared pillows. She tucks her in. She stands.

“I’ll be back.” Laudna husks somewhere above her. “Rest, darling. I won’t be but a few minutes. I’m sure Nana has a pitcher of water somewhere around here that I won’t have to—I don’t know—make a deal for, or something.”

She thinks she feels the tiniest beginnings of a grin pinning her lips up as Laudna's steps slow near the door, hesitate—begin to close—and then open the door long enough to peek in and say: “Pâté is with you, okay, I’ll be right back. I’ll try not to bargain what remains of my soul for water, but—you know—as they say—what must be done and all—okay, bye” punctuated by the croaking sound of their door pinching shut.

Definitely a grin, then. “Pâté,” she says, dream-drunk, “Your mom is the best.”

She feels Pâté land on her chest with a soft, somewhat wet flop. His tiny feet pitter like he’s excited or dancing. He says, “I know. She’s the whole package.” And then, after letting loose a rattling sound that could be considered a yawn, he asks, “Can I get cozy, then? While we wait for mum?”

Imogen, eyes still blissfully closed, let's loose a breathless laugh. Her hand blindly makes its way to the ball of fur and viscera and bone and love on her chest and scritches, “‘Course, Pâté. We’ll wait together.”

He hums. She feels him turn in one, two, three circles on her chest before finally curling up and settling in on her skin. He makes another rattling noise that could be a yawn or maybe a purr and says, “You’re warm.”

She is undeniably smiling when she responds, “So are you, buddy.”

———

When Laudna comes back minutes or hours later, Pâté is fast asleep on her chest.

His little body rattles with what she assumes are snores, softly vibrating against her collar. She holds a finger to her lips as Laudna goes to shut the door behind her. Laudna makes a face like she’s about to burst into tears.

She doesn’t. She instead turns to—softly—shut and lock the door, and then turns soundlessly again in her direction. She takes a breath. She smiles, “I’m not going to lie, I was kind of hoping you’d be asleep when I got back.”

She hums, low in her chest. “Why?”

Laudna looks at her in that somewhat blank way she does when she thinks the answer to something is quite obvious. She says, “Because you need the rest.”

She hums again. Laudna treks the distance between them and sits softly beside her, her sharp hip just barely pressing against the bend of her waist. Her bony hand catches Imogen’s cheek—or, maybe, Imogen’s cheek willingly falls into her hand—regardless, suddenly she finds herself held. A thumb brushes under her eye with the barely there gentleness one uses when full with fear for something breaking in their grasp.

She leans forward and over her, dark hair falling around them like a curtain of ink, blanketing them in shadow, encompassing her entire vision. She asks, breath falling upon her lips like a torrent or a phantom kiss, “Are you alright, darling?”

Imogen lifts up the barely there distance to press their lips together, sighing into her mouth. “Careful with Pâté,” she whispers when she falls back, a hand splaying on Laudna’s chest to keep her from fully settling in atop her, “he needs the rest, too.”

Laudna opens her eyes as if from a good dream—and then rolls them. She lifts a hand to wave in the air as if swatting at something. “He’s dead.” She says, like it’s an obvious thing—which, it is. But. “Besides, if he dies from exhaustion or something else ridiculous then I’ll just bring him back.”

Imogen frowns. “I don’t think he’s dead. Not, like, dead-dead, anyway. ‘Sides, he’s comfy. I’d feel bad if we woke him.”

Laudna hums, then. “Yes, he is. Comfy. And also dead.”

Her turn to roll her eyes. “Where’s his house?”

Laudna sighs like the world is ending—which, well—and leans down for one more soft kiss and then back and up and off of her entirely. Imogen tries—valiantly, she might add—not to openly wince at the loss.

She watches Laudna brace her nonexistent weight against the bed in a way that would cause the mattress to dip if it were anyone else, and instead just presses with the barely there imprint of her palms into the silk. She reaches for Imogen’s chest, cups Pâté’s tiny form in her hands; Imogen brings her hands together overtop them both. When Laudna looks at her, her eyes are full of shooting stars.

“Can I?” she asks, “Please?”

Laudna stares at her for a few slow heartbeats more, a little like she is stunned. Eventually, she leans down over their joined hands and kisses her fingers. Again. Moves her thumb to run over her knuckles like she is wiping away a stain. “Of course.”

Her body still feels a little gone, a little floaty, as she brings her hands to catch Pâté’s tiny body in their joint grasp, lifts herself up against the headboard, and then swings her legs over the side of the mattress. She sways to her feet slowly, slightly wobbly, eyes never leaving from the curled-up ball of fur in her hands and on her chest. Laudna’s hands have moved and are pressing into her biceps from somewhere behind her, steadying.

She lifts her head long enough to find where Laudna had placed Pâté's little home across the room, its golden-brown wood resting silently atop the possibly skin-covered drawer by the archway that opens into a vine-wrapped, flower-lined balcony.

She half-shambles, half-stumbles her way over with Laudna on her bleary-eyed heels. It feels infinitely important—it’s always felt important, but—that she is gentle. That Laudna sees her be gentle. It is more important than she has words to describe that Laudna could leave or fall asleep or be elsewhere and feel and know that Pâté would be put softly, lovingly to bed. That he would be tucked in. That Imogen would leave a little light on for him if he asked. She looks down at Laudna’s most special little gift and drops a tiny, feather-light kiss against his skeletal head. “G’night, buddy.”

He mumbles out a gargled sounding, “G’night, ‘mogen.”

She smiles, pulls apart the tiny curtains that act as a privacy sheet to his home, tucks him in as well as she can, runs one last soft finger down the length of his beak and just like that—she can’t help it—she starts to think of her mother.

She wonders how gently Liliana held her, when she was so small and helpless and vulnerable. She wonders if Liliana ever sang to her, ever held her little hands and kissed her stubby fingers. That memory—the one that Otohan conjured or summoned or triggered—her mother had caught her as her toddler legs had stumbled; she had smiled and wiped her tear-stained cheeks and lifted her into her arms and held.

The phantom memory of a mother and the phantom memory of Ruidus begin to overlap—how long had it been, before Laudna, that she was shown gentleness? Before Laudna, two decades into her life, was it her mother? Before her mother, before she was ever given a name, was it the moon?

How was she meant to—how was it fair to expect her to—is it so evil of her, to wish? She won’t—she won’t—because she knows that it’s wrong no matter how desperately it feels right. But the—the venom she catches pooling in the depths of Orym’s gaze, sometimes, when he talks about the moon and the vanguard and she—she gets it—of course she gets it, of course she understands—but it’s not like she’s ever genuinely entertained the thought of joining the vanguard—of joining Otohan—but the moon, Ruidus, Predathos—she won’t—the silence, the comfort—her body, radiant even among the stars—running, tripping into her mother’s arms—she won’t—

“Imogen?”

A chilled hand on her shoulder, gentle, gentle, gentle.

Breath enters her empty lungs in a shock-sharp inhale. Light enters the world again—natural, silver-white moonlight like a stripe of paint from the open balcony; warm, flickering orange from the candle by the bed—and the temperature goes from freezing to scalding to cool as she collapses back into her body like debris flung from orbit. Laudna’s hand on her skin; she crash-lands back home.

On impact, she whispers, “Laudna.”

A moment of hesitance and then a soft, cool pair of lips against the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her hands circle to wrap around Imogen’s waist. She asks, again, voice feather-fall soft, “Are you alright?”

A moment of hesitance and then her traitorous mouth, her traitorous heart: “I don’t know anymore.”

Laudna presses another, more lingering kiss to the space below her ear, then moves to run her nose along the curve of her jaw. She whispers there, in a way that she feels the words press against her skin, “That’s okay.”

Imogen finds her hands against her belly and twines them together as tightly as she can—tether, anchor, home. Her breath trembles.

They don’t say anything, holding each other in the space and the silence. Laudna presses gentle, gentle kisses to anywhere on Imogen that she can reach—neck, shoulder, ear, jaw—until Imogen turns to meet her there, barely capturing Laudna’s bottom lip between hers and then moving in again, more insistent. She feels Laudna’s lips pull into a smile against hers. Imogen notes that she’s becoming familiar with the feeling. The thought pulls her own smile forth.

But they haven’t kissed like this before, at this angle, in this room. There are so many other perfect kisses they have yet to discover.

It doesn’t make sense that she only kissed her a little over a week ago. She should have kissed her a month ago, the moment she came back on the floor in Whitestone, the moment they arrived in Jrusar, two years ago in Gelvaan. She should have kissed her a hundred more times than she did the day that she first gathered the courage to kiss her in the first place and then kissed her some more. She should’ve bought lipstick so she could leave a stain.

Laudna pulls back first, half-laughing and half-sighing at Imogen’s attempt to give chase. She leans back in to press a quick kiss to her nose—new, perfect—and then dips down, seals their foreheads together, looks up at her. She asks, “Would you like to talk about it?”

No, not really. “I think I’d need another week to even begin to process what’s happened to us in the last three days, to be honest.”

Laudna nods. “Yes, understandable. It’s been a lot.” She pauses, as if to see if Imogen will respond, and then says, “Still, I’d like to listen.”

She’s perfect. That’s it, really.

Imogen finds her hand and brings it up to her lips, kissing each finger once and then each knuckle. She whispers, “I’m not sure I know how to.”

Laudna kisses her cheek. “That’s okay, too.”

When she pulls back she also pulls forward, taking Imogen’s hand in her own and guiding her. She twines their fingers together, and then they are on the balcony.

Catha shines more brightly here than she is used to in the Material Plane. There is no bloody red or pink shine of Ruidus to speak of after their work at the key. It is navy-dark, struck through with silver cuts from Sehanine’s light. There are moving, shifting vines wrapped around the stone-skinwork railing of their little alcove, purple and yellow and orange and bright, vibrant green dancing and swirling and alive around them.

Laudna gasps, her lips forming a perfect, excited “O” when she notices the little movements. “Hello, there,” she says to the vine, “Sorry to disturb you. Would it be impolite to talk to my girlfriend out here, for a minute?” and then, her hands coming up like claws and her voice deepening to the tone she uses for her most important and dramatic of questions, “Is this, like, your domain?”

The vines shake back and forth as if to say knock yourself out or maybe well I can’t stop you.

Laudna grins, “Oh, perfect. Excellent. You're much less ferocious than your feywild-forest-flower friends.” Her brows furrow, a single finger coming up to tap nervously against her lips. “Hm. I hope that wasn’t insulting.”

Before Imogen can stop her she reaches forward and lightly taps the vine with two fingers, sharp teeth exposed in a smile, “You’re perfectly ferocious as well.”

The vines shutter as if to say fuck off and then pull back and vanish, leaving clean stonework behind.

Laudna pouts. Imogen takes and tangles their hands together. “Maybe next time.”

She sighs, all dramatics, “I’m beginning to believe plants hate me as much as people do.”

Imogen knocks their shoulders together. “People don’t hate you.”

“Objectively untrue. Regardless,” she says, waving Imogen’s immediate attempt at a counter aside, “Are you ready? For tomorrow.”

For the key? For Ruidus? For her mother?

She shrugs, “As I’ll ever be. You?”

”Oh, I think so.” She leans her bony hip against the balcony wall. “It’s been a long road. To get here. I never doubted you would.”

Imogen scoffs. She leans against the wall, too. “A long road is certainly one way to describe it. A shitty road, would be another.”

Laudna tilts her head at her, raven-like. A rope of black hair falls into her face. Imogen clenches her fingers around her arms in an effort not to reach across the space and brush it behind her ear. She says, with the upward tilting, insecure cadence of a question, “It hasn’t all been shitty, though?”

Imogen heaves a heavy breath. “No,” she says, fingers still digging into her own skin, “No. Not all of it.”

Laudna hums. There is still hair in front of her eyes. “But quite a bit of it.”

”Quite a bit, yeah.”

Quiet. Some likely incredibly fucked-up feywild bird flutters its incredibly fucked-up feywild wings and takes off into the moonlit night. Imogen turns and balances her weight on her elbows, leaning over the wall. The vines from earlier are just over the edge, as if eavesdropping. She says, “But not all of it, Laudna.”

”I know,” Laudna whispers, “I agree.”

”About not all of it sucking absolute ass or about it sucking absolute ass in general?”

”Yes.”

“Awesome.” Imogen chuckles, “I’m glad we agree that everything sucks.”

”But not everything-everything.”

”This is getting pretty circular,” Laudna steps closer, “How do we make it suck less?”

Kiss me, Imogen thinks. “I have no idea.” Imogen says.

“Because, you know,” Laudna continues as if Imogen hadn’t spoken at all, “I think you’re…so capable. Truly. And I really haven’t ever doubted that you’d make it here—“

”—to the moon?—”

”—from the moment it became apparent it was possible, yes—but, really, even then—anyway. I just…I want to protect you. On the moon, but also here,” She lifts one dainty hand and presses her finger against Imogen’s forehead, “I know the dream was a lot.”

Imogen grasps Laudna’s wrist where it is in front of her face, leans forward to press a kiss against the veins there and then again at the tip of that same finger. “It was.”

Laudna shifts closer, still, leaning over her just slightly. “Do you feel any different?”

Imogen finally, finally allows herself the gift of brushing those stray hairs back, lets her fingers linger against Laudna’s gaunt cheek. “Yes and no.” she admits, eyes on the silk-soft hair tangled in her fingers to the side of Laudna’s face, “I’m not sure how to explain it.”

“That’s alright. Maybe I can help you find the words. You just—well, I…don’t want to, you know, but. You’ve just seemed a little—“

”Out of sorts.”

She sees Laudna’s breath stutter and then release. “Yes, I…I didn’t want to pressure you, or anything. It’s been a lot, so much. And you don’t have to—I trust you. I do. But if you…if you need or want help, then I would like to offer it. Is all.”

Imogen swallows. “I meant it, earlier,” bursts from her chest, her heart, “When I—That I love you. That I��m—in love with you. In case that wasn’t, um, clear.”

Laudna, for her part, looks genuinely surprised. Which is itself surprising. Not in the least because she had said she loved her, too; but, also that Imogen realizes that she very simply is not super good at hiding it.

Quietly, softly, Laudna’s lips part. Her eyes go a bit glassy. She shifts forward slightly, leaning into her palm still on her cheek. She says—whispers, really— “I know.”

Imogen inhales. Exhales. “You—well, that's good. That’s great.”

Laudna smiles against her skin. “You’re warm.” she whispers. She presses a kiss there, to the crease of her palm. “I love you, too.”

Imogen inhales. Exhales. “Well. That’s good. That’s great.”

”Mhm.”

”I don’t—“ she licks her dry lips, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Laudna hums. “Yes you do.”

”Right.” she says, “Okay.” and then she’s kissing her again.

”I’m going to ask you—“ a pause, another kiss, “I’m going to ask you about the dream again, when—“

Imogen pulls back. Laudna’s lips are kiss-swollen and shiny. It makes her want to break something. She asks, “When?”

Laudna sighs. Her eyes open to find her slowly, and then stop half-way, hanging over her iris’ heavily. Her eyes are dark. Hungry. She says, “When I’m done.”

Imogen’s eyes fall back to her lips. “Right.” She whispers, “Okay—“ and then the rest of her sentence and the rest of her breath and the rest of her thoughts are stolen from her.

———

“Now, then.” Laudna starts. She wipes the back of her hand across her uptilt lips. “What’s different? Do you have gills? Webbed fingers? Though, I supposed I’d have noticed that much by now—”

”Laudna—“ she heaves a laugh, lungs still desperate, voice a little hoarse, “God, let me catch my breath first.”

Laudna’s tongue runs lightly between her lips. She is above her, still, grey-ish arms bracketing either side of her. There is hair in her face again, sweat-stuck to her skin. Imogen is too mesmerized by the way that it splits her into like running ink and catches the nearby moonglow in a contrasting showcase of light to bother to want to brush it away. Chiaroscuro personified.

She tilts her head, bird-like and uncanny. Her eyes, shooting stars. It makes Imogen want to pull her back in. “Shit, Laudna,” she whisper-giggles, “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

Laudna stutters and then grins, all too-sharp teeth. She says, teasingly, ”It’s nice to not be the breathless one for a change.”

Imogen’s laugh leaves her like a strike to the chest, “Oh, that’s a good one.”

”I thought so.”

Laudna leans down, kisses her again. Imogen sighs into her.

This—the intimacy of it—is still so new and beautiful and exciting and—well—frankly, they've both discovered that they’re ravenous. For each other and for love and for touch. That first night—at Zhudanna’s, her body still thrumming hours later with the electric echo of their first kiss—Imogen had taken Laudna’s hand after they passed the threshold of their little makeshift and borrowed home and led her to their windowless room, their small bed. She had asked: Can I kiss you again?

It was indescribably wonderful, and took approximately two lung-heaving, feather-light minutes in the aftermath to discover that Laudna was starving. Voraciously hungry. Thirty years of nothing and then—suddenly—this. Suddenly them. Imogen could hardly stand the handful of weeks apart.

Which is to say, Laudna has a tendency to lose herself in her, a little bit. It has quickly become one of her greatest prides.

Except—well.

Imogen falls back, separating them. “Sorry,” she whispers, “What were—what were you sayin’?”

Laudna pouts. ”Asking.” She corrects, “Well—maybe theorizing, but mostly asking. You said—earlier—it feels different?”

Imogen nods. She reaches up to brush her fingers over Laudna’s cheek. “Yeah.”

”Is it…good different? Or bad different?”

Imogen nods. “Yeah.”

Laudna nods, too. Imogen watches something like self-consciousness settle on her shoulders. She isn’t sure what to do about it.

Laudna braces to press a kiss to her cheek and then rolls over. When her skin hits the light it makes her look made of marble. Like a statue. A work of art.

She bends across the space and tugs the blanket up and around them both, reaching around Imogen to make sure she is covered completely. Imogen uses the opportunity to press her lips to the skin of her bicep in passing thanks.

She settles back against the sheets. “I love you.” She says. Somehow, it sounds like a plea. “And I’ll support whatever it is you decide you want to do.”

Imogen turns on her side to mirror her. “Even if—if it’s giving in completely?”

Laudna's eyes are dark. Hungry. “Whatever you decide, Imogen.”

Imogen swallows. She feels like she’s choking. Something is rising in her, clawing at her chest and stomach and ripping its way into the world. Laudna’s eyes are so dark. There is a hound in her chest. Imogen swears she hears the echo of its howl, somehow, in her own chest. In the breaths between heartbeats, something is growling.

The howl, her eyes; it rends her completely. With blood in her teeth, she says, “My mom was there.”

It leaves her like a strike of lightning, seeking the quickest way to earth, splitting and bursting apart her ribcage as it rips from her lungs. Or like a hound, pent-up and caged, let loose to hunt and sprinting, snarling to the nearest indicator of meat. Or like sickness, like bile, burning.

That’s the bursting, bleeding, burning truth of it: her mother was there. On Ruidus, at the key, in her dreams for as long as she has had them. Guiding her or warning her. In the end, isn’t that a form of love? Isn’t that what a mother would do? She felt so held, there at the center of Ruidus, in the eye of the storm, in Predathos’ hand or maybe its jaws. Her mother had screamed for her. Her mother had cried for her.

And she can’t remember the feeling of her mother’s warmth, but she can remember the sound of her voice: Run. Imogen.

Does Predathos have a voice? Would it mourn her? Would it leave?

“What did she do?” Laudna—like a thunderclap, or a resonating howl, or a hand on her heaving back—takes and wraps their bodies together like twisting vines. She presses their foreheads together. Her eyes are still dark. “Imogen. What did she say?”

Laudna would. Laudna would mourn her. Laudna would tuck her corpse into bed before leaving her.

”I don’t—she just—called for me. My name. She said no. Laudna.” Laudna’s hands on either side of her clenched jaw, Laudna’s lips centimeters from her own, Laudna’s hand in hers in the middle of the storm. “She sounded like she was crying.”

She feels the well in her eyes overflow, cutting down her cheeks. Laudna makes some gasping sound and leans in, pressing her lips to the skin and the salt. “Imogen. Imogen, I’m sorry. Imogen.” She pulls back. The dark in her eyes is gone. “Darling, what can I do?”

Imogen shakes her head. They’re close enough that each passing arc causes their noses to bump. “I don’t know.” She says, voice tight. “I don’t know. What if I fucked up? What if she left to protect me and I wasted it? I don’t know anymore, Laudna.”

Laudna kisses her, lightly, a barely there press of their lips and then gone. Like she isn’t sure how else to respond. “What happened? When you gave in? What did it feel like?”

Imogen trembles. “I—you all—left. Were pulled away. It brought me in and then—my mama—but it—“ here, she sobs, “it was warm.”

Laudna’s body stiffens around her, arms locking like rigor mortis around her waist. She doesn’t exhale for a long, long time. When she does, it passes over her lips like a torrent.

“My mother taught me to sew.” she starts. “Did I ever tell you that? We didn’t often have enough money to go get new clothes so we made our own. Anyway, the first time it was because I ripped a hole in one of my shirts out in the woods—I was digging for worms—and when I came back I was all in a huff, expecting to be in so much trouble and felt so terrible for ruining clothes I knew she made for me.”

She pauses to press a kiss to Imogen’s hairline, “She took the ruined thing out of my hands and taught me how to fix it.”

She inhales. There’s the tiniest stutter in her chest that makes Imogen want to level another city block. “I used to think about her quite often. Everytime I found myself trying to sleep on the floor of some cold, abandoned cabin, all alone, I remember wishing she were there to teach me how to fix it.”

Their eyes find each other again, snapping together like magnets or puzzle pieces. Laudna’s eyes are full of shooting stars again. “I just—I’m just sorry, Imogen. I’m sorry I don’t know how to fix this. I’m sorry she doesn’t.”

No longer the snapping wolf, no longer the lightning strike or the thunderclap or the bile or the hand; Imogen breaks.

“God, Laudna. It feels like—like I'm mourning her.” She sobs. The words loose from her throat like an arrow held taut for too long, aimless. “But, Laudna, she isn't—she was never gone."

It is an ugly, sharp, irrational thing, her grief; she feels it drive like icicles into Laudna’s already chilled skin and dig rot-guilt up from under the warmth of her own when the weight of it tugs her over and into Laudna further. She wishes, fleetingly, that she could wear her grief as prettily as she thinks Laudna does. Laudna slips into hers like an old coat or an old blanket—scratchy, filled with holes, utterly familiar in a way that settles onto her shoulders in some poor facsimile of comfort.

Imogen’s is always, always this: an implosion. An excavation of the self. Her body nothing more than a dig-site of scars with histories older than she is.

“She’s my mama, Laudna.” It is a pathetic plea, it drops with the weight of a stone into water from her lips, “She was always with me. I never knew her. I love her and I loved her. She was dead. I have to kill her. I have mourned so why am I still mourning?”

The last word rips out of her in two tones, caught in the hiccup-choke of a sob into Laudna’s shoulder.

"Oh, darling." Laudna whispers, her lips against Imogen’s temple petal-soft in a way that makes the guilt dig deeper, sugar and salt. For a moment she only holds her. Presses kisses to the side of her head. And then Imogen feels air fill her chest, hears her lungs expand with the accompanying sound of bones like a creaking ship at sea or a growling hound. She says, with all the wisdom of someone who has lived and died and lived again, "Mourning is just…love in a transitive state.”

She shifts, catching the wet guilt dripping from Imogen’s face and forming lakes of grief at her collar, rivers of it down her chest. It makes Imogen’s breath catch, watches the moonlight catch in the momentary proof of her on Laudna. She continues, more softly, “It is…an adjustment to distance. Not gone—just far."

At this, Imogen glances away from the stain of her to meet Laudna’s eyes. She hesitates, breath a pathetic stutter in her lungs. She asks, “Are we still talking about my mother?”

Laudna watches her. And watches her. And then, voice like a bleeding wound or creaking branches or whining rope: “Death could not take me from you.”

“Don’t—“ she begs, “Do not—Laudna—“

”It can’t, Imogen. She can’t.”

Imogen sobs, reaches up desperately to cradle Laudna’s face in her hands. “I don’t want you to be another voice in my storm, Laudna. I can’t. I won’t.”

Laudna's gentle, cool hands gather her own callous, warm ones together at their collar. She asks, "Can I tell you something you don't want to hear?"

A laugh breaks out of Imogen’s lungs, desperate and sad. “You already are.”

Her grip on Laudna's hands is not gentle, it is clinging. Clawing. She imagines that when Laudna pulls away, her wrists will bear the bruise of her.

She says, in that same creaking branches voice, "You would have been fine without me."

She pulls away—tries to—hears her voice from outside her body saying, "No—No, I—" but then Laudna's fingers are entangled in hers like roots and Imogen is—she's—clinging, too.

"Don't say that." She cries. There is thunder in her voice. A precursor and warning. "I love you. Don’t say that.”

Laudna’s hands release hers to wrap around and claw at the skin of her hip, dragging them close again. Her eyes are swimming. “You’re so strong, so capable, and you are going to live. Your storm won’t take you. You will outgrow it.”

”You are, too.” Imogen demands. Because it is a demand, of herself and of the world. “You’re going to live, too.”

Laudna says nothing. Imogen continues, “I won’t let her have you, Laudna. If I can outgrow my storm, you can outgrow her.”

Laudna’s face is choked up in grief, now, in a way that Imogen has never really seen. “I just mean—“ she starts, chokes, starts again, “I just mean—my mother taught me to sew. And I did. And I think maybe your mother taught you to run. And you did. And I don’t think it’s…it’s understandable, that you wish she had taught you how to sew instead.”

Something in her, some roaring thing—the storm, maybe—cracks her skin at the words. She thinks if she were to look at her hands right now there would be new scars.

Laudna takes her ruined hands into her own; she tries to fix them. “But I can teach you how to sew, Imogen. I can—and then when I'm—gone. You can still sew. Or cook or—or paint or—whatever it is, Imogen. Imogen.”

Imogen rushes in; she kisses her. What else is there to say? What do you say when I love you isn’t big enough anymore? How do you say I don’t want you to teach me how to sew, I want you to teach me how to hunt?

Maybe there aren’t enough words to encompass them. Maybe they’ve created their own expanse of love and devotion here, between them. Maybe they’ve spent two years carving a space for the other in the ether of the world.

Everything they’ve found, all of the information they've picked up on the Gods and what makes or breaks or conjures them in these past months—faith. Both the call and the creator, the word around which divinity molds itself. And her faith, her divine call into the dark—her unanswered pleas on her knees in Gelvaan, on her knees at the altar of the Dawnfather Temple in Whitestone—if they can pick and choose whose faith they deem truthful, then what does it mean to be truly faithful?

The confidence in the callous hands of a blacksmith as he brings the hammer down, striking metal into shape. The gentle hands of a gardener digging into the soil, preparing it for life, removing that which would otherwise ruin and rot. The small hands of a child held in the soft, guiding hands of their mother. Are these not examples of divine faith?

Would the Dawnfather's hands hold her face so gently? Would the Wildmother's lips press so softly to her brow? Would the Changebringer's fingers dig just so into the skin of her shoulders, sweaty and heaving in the aftermath of her storm?

What could the gods offer her that Laudna hasn't? What would they ask in return for what Laudna freely gives? What faith of hers have they earned?

If faith is the ultimate test of love and passion and trust—than whose altar but Laudna's would she kneel to?

If godhood, then, is as simple as a state of faith and belief then maybe she alone can love her to the point of divinity. Immortality. Imogen could make a God of her. Maybe, she thinks with Laudna’s bottom lip caught between her teeth, maybe one more kiss will do the trick. Maybe one more. One more.

Eventually a sob—Imogen’s, of course—breaks them apart. Her head falls into Laudna’s neck. Laudna’s arms cross behind her back and press her close. She runs her taloned fingers over the bare skin at Imogen’s shoulder blades, the base of her neck, down every popping vertebrae. She is breathing at the normal human rate—for her it is heaving. She kisses Imogen’s temple.

“No one can take away the love for the mother you wanted. Not even the mother you have." She says into her hair, and then pulls away and down—kisses her. Keeps kissing her. When she separates to speak it is by centimeters, “And no one can take me away from you. Not Delilah. Not Otohan. Not Predathos or The Matron.”

And then, into her trembling mouth, “If we are apart, then I am within.”

Imogen lets out a wrecked—choking—dying sound, “Yeah—Yes. Laudna, I—“ desperate and clumsy and broken, she brings her shaking hand up to Laudna’s face and presses her finger to Laudna’s forehead, “Here. As long as you’re here.”

Laudna nods, brings her own talons up to Imogen’s face in a mirror-gesture, “Here. As long as you’re here.” And what is left for Imogen to do besides to rush up and in and in and in. Again and again and again.

Here, in Jrusar, in their room at Zhudanna’s, in Zephrah, in the Feywild, in Bassuras, on the moon, in the storm. In the evening, in the morning, in the middle of the day, in the depths of the night. Crying, laughing, bloody, triumphant. Again and again and again and again.

Better halves, Imogen thinks—into Laudna’s head and then, endlessly, into her own, Better wholes. I love you. I love you.

“I love you.” Laudna gasps aloud, ripping away and then rushing back in, “Imogen. Imogen. As long as you’re here. I love you.”

Imogen nods, gasps, and then neither of them say much at all.

———

In the end, Imogen doesn’t say: I lied. When I promised to move on. I lied to you. Nor does she say: I’m sorry. I’m not disgusted by you. I could never be. I love you so deeply that every time I look at you I am remade. She doesn’t say: I sundered her once. I’ll sunder her again. If you’ll let me, I’d plant a new sun tree in your mind. One that makes you think of picnics and not nooses. One that makes you think of the view and not the fall.

She does not say: I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can kill her. Will you do it? Can we trade?

She tucks these confessions away in the divots of her mind right alongside her circlet. She hopes the weight of them, the promise of them, will help to keep her runaway feet firmly rooted.

———

(After, Laudna falls asleep before her, eyes wide open.

Imogen lays next to her, one hand softly running up and down Laudna’s exposed navel, the other curled under her own head as she allows herself to trace the profile of her face.

It is late enough—or, early enough, maybe—that Catha’s light cannot breach the shared darkness of their space. Or maybe it does, and is swallowed entirely by the pitch of Laudna’s eyes.

Laudna’s eyes—the empty, dark swirl of them—Imogen remembers her gaze full with stars—captures her attention. The shadows in the room paint Laudna an even deeper dark, cutting her features into shapes that catch the barely there impression of light that Imogen’s weak, mortal eyes require to capture form.

With no light, with nothing to reflect in her sky-locked, sleep-awake stare; Laudna appears hungry. Like even in sleep, she is hunting. In the dark, she takes the form of a predator.

Watching her, Imogen thinks of Ruidus and of the storm there and of the one in her mind and of the one that takes the shape of her mother—reaching and watching and waiting for her, the entirety of her life—like an animal, like something waiting in the grass for her to make a mistake or lose her footing—waiting on the opportunity to close in on her—to consume her or to change her—

She reaches across the space.

Gently, mournfully, she closes Laudna’s eyes.)

#critical role #imogen temult #laudna #imodna #liliana tumult #writing #I don’t think I love this anymore BUT. at least it is Finished and I can Move On. To Other Equally Distressing WIPs #i have a full blown liliana character study locked in the chamber of my brain. she is in there.#and delilah is right next to her. in a away i am just like the gay girls #also sos. this is the first time i’ve posted fic anywhere but especially on here in YEARS and why the FUCK #did they take away being able to simply add a line break. or am i dumb. i couldn’t get the HTML to work either orz #Also post-posting update. I am now recognizing a collection of formatting errors specifically on this version that I am like. h about.#But Whatever. The Show Must Go On #crit role fic

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quillusquillus · 7 days ago

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HELL YEAH I'M DOING THIS AGAIN BITCHES!! After literally over a decade since doing the last one, I decided to once again throw my OCs at this ridiculous how-do-your-OCs-react adventure text.

This was very cathartic because I haven't written anything for my OCs in a really long time, but I also made it REALLY LONG sorry. Content warnings for: cringe, gore, lots and lots and lots of swearing, very mild spoilers for the 2016 Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency tv show, and me getting way too into making my OCs fight each other

Blank template is here!

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THE ULTIMATE OC ADVENTURE MEME!

RULES

Don't look at the questions before you fill this out! That's cheating!

Tag three people (or more) at the end of this meme and you'll get a cookie.

Try not to skip any questions!

Have fun!

Fill out the forms below:

CHOOSE EIGHT ORIGINAL CHARACTERS:

Kasrou Euler

Pat Grundy (human bound form)

Quentin Barlington (Level 4)

Beau Boggart

King Imsara (wastelander version)

Effa

Happon

Zombie James

CHOOSE ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTERS FROM A FANDOM:

.21. The Mariner (Waterworld (1995))

CHOOSE YOUR LEAST FAVORITE CHARACTER FROM A FANDOM:

.41. Gordon Rimmer (Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (2016))

CHOOSE #5's LEAST FAVORITE FOOD:

.61. "long pork"

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.1. Each of your OCs receive a letter in the mail. Upon opening the letters, they realize that the letters were sent to them by the king! The letters ask your OCs to report to the king's palace at once. How do your OCs react?

King Imsara: Heheh :) Quentin: Did you send this? Imsara: No, I'm the king of the -wasteland- not the king of the fantasy land. This will be interesting though. Effa: Fuck this, they better be paying me for this. I don't do work for free. Kasrou: *nodding shyly but solemnly* Quentin: Well I'm sure we will, and even if we aren't how wonderful to go and visit a king!- Ah, oh, no offence… Imsara: None taken :) Pat: Oh yeah, this'll be something all right heh heh Happon: <Awesome!> :D

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.2. Upon reaching the palace, 3, 5, and 8 are grabbed by guards - they apparently resemble wanted criminals! What happens?

Quentin: Oh there's been a terrible mistake, please let me go! We've been summoned by the king and certainly aren't any sort of criminals! James: help Imsara: *completely relaxes* Yeah it's okay, we're okay, we have nothing to hide :) Guard: you've got dirty great knives on you! Imsara: Ah but they aren't -hidden-, are they? Guard: :0 … >:I James: I'm not… I'm really not dangerous I swear Quentin: Exactly! We're expected by the KING, you know. If you'll just fetch someone in charge I'm sure we can get this whole misunderstanding cleared up right away! Go on now! (+6 to persuasion)

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.3. The guards realize their mistakes and release the "criminals". As your OCs are escorted to the king's chamber, 4 realizes that they need to use the restroom. The guards point down one of the hallways, and 4 quickly goes exploring for the restrooms. But they get lost in the process! What happens?

Beau is a living patch of fear-eating darkness in the shape of a scary goth clown and absolutely does not need to use the restroom. They use this excuse to creep around the corridors and stalk and scare the absolute shit out of a poor maidservant, haunting her with howling shadows until she runs screaming down into the main hall babbling incoherently.

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.4. 1 gets worried and goes to find 4. What happens?

Kasrou: Um. h-Hello? Beau? *holds floofy tail and creeps about nervously* Is that you? Um I noticed you weren't saying much earlier and you went off on your own, is everything okay? Beau: *a door creaks open revealing Beau, standing motionless with red glowing eyes* Kasrou: Eeek! *clutches tail* Oh! Um… sorry that was rude. Are you all right? Beau: ….*tilts head* Kasrou: Well um. It's okay if you need some time on your own, I just thought you should know we're going to see the king very soon. Beau: ….. Kasrou: I was a bit worried you might have gotten lost, actually, it's awful complicated in here. Would you like to walk back with me?

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.5. 1 and 4 eventually find their way back to the other group. Everyone bows as the king approaches them. He speaks of a horrible problem that had befallen the kingdom - the world's chocolate supply went missing! The king then moves on to revealing that your OCs are the "Chosen Ones" who must bring back the kingdom's supply of chocolate. How does everyone react?

Quentin: *gasps* No!! All of it?? ALL of the chocolate?? Happon: <Ehh even the chocolate cakes?> :0 Kasrou: Oh noooo :( Effa: Why is this you guys' fucking concern in this situation Pat: Well I'm sure we can handle that, mister king- er, your majesty. Personally I'll be needing it in writing of course, technicalities of my profession and all that, feel free to cast your eye over these terms and see if they're to your liking. *does a very inaccurate bow with several spinny hand motions* Imsara: As one king to another… I'm not sure I'd recommend that. King: Oh? And why might that be? Pat: *turns slowly to look at Imsara with eyebrows raised like are you seriously doing this? here? now?* Imsara: You chose him so it's your decision of course, but from what little I know of this guy… *meets Pat's look* …I feel being in his debt means bad news for you. Pat: *turns to the king with arms spread wide* Eyy I'm a demon, okay? We all know it, we both went into this relationship eyes wide open et cetera, I'm not beating about the bush with ya here. If I'm supposed to be one of yer "Chosen Ones" this is the way it's gotta be. Couldn't change it even if I wanted to. You sign; I do. 's the way it's gotta go. King: Hmm… I have read your terms, and they seem fair. I will accept this, for the sake of the kingdom's chocolate. Sign here, you say? Pat: *turns to Imsara while the king signs his contract and does a grin and a shrug at him as if to say 'well, what can ya do?'* Imsara: *shrugs and smiles back at him, but the smile doesn't reach his silvery eyes*

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.6. Before the king sends the Chosen Ones off on their journey, a big banquet is held for the new heroes. Unfortunately for 5, all the food served has 5's least favorite food (61) in their recipes! How does 5 react?

Imsara: *completely freezes for 2 seconds after taking a particular bite, then eyes flick quickly around the table. nobody else who is eating has noticed anything* Pat: *catches Imsara's eye and grins knowingly, raising a goblet of wine in toast then stabbing a forkful of food and putting it in his mouth* Imsara: *looks around the rest of the table again, thinking, then relaxes and leans back casually away from his plate as if full, looking content. he says nothing* James: *doesn't even have a plate* This food smells kinda weird… Kasrou: Oh, are you sure you don't want any? James: No I'm… I'm good. Happon: <That's a real shame cuz this is super tasty!> Very good! *he gives a thumbs up to the king*

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.7. After being given instructions to travel to the Temple of Chocolate, the Chosen Ones set off on their journey. However, as the sun sets on their first day together, 2, 6, and 7 get into a brawl! What happens, and what are they fighting over?

This group splits off from the rest of the group for a bit. Pat immediately clocked Effa right away as someone who is really motivated and hedonistic and a good mark. Effa has zero respect nor fear of Pat, since demons in Effa's universe are entities they deal with regularly that are overwhelming powerful forces and Pat just seems to be some annoying humanoid guy and not a demon at all.

Effa: And I'm saying I wouldn't need your stupid contract to make you do as I say, unless you have some kind of hidden power you're not showing us besides making paper appear and disappear. I don't know what kind of stupid weak bitch universe you come from but in mine, THIS is a demon. *tearing, glitchy sound and suddenly a huge, rainbow arm sprouts from their back* Kasrou: Yikes! *holds sides of face* Pat: Wowie! Yeah, that's very impressive! Something I ain't never seen before that's for sure. You two buddy-buddy back there? I wouldn't wanna compete, that's a very close relationship I see, I respect that. Can't help but make the observation though, that I would surmise I could provide a, ah, different sorta skillset than offered by a giant glowing hand? Effa: *grinding teeth with a faint cricket chirp noise* You really don't fucking shut up do you? Don't you fucking get it? I don't NEED help from someone as pathetic as you! *snatches the air with their own small hand as the giant rainbow hand rockets forward and grabs Pat by the head, lifting him off his feet* Pat: *grabbing the hand encasing his head, legs kicking in the air vaguely* Hmmg! mmnf? Ermnnff! Happon: *steps in and waves hands* <Whooaaa wait wait!> Stopp, stopp! No fighting, please! Effa: *sneers at him* And you can shut up too <fucking bastard> I'm tired of hearing your stupid nihon jabbering just speak fucking english. Happon: My english is not good :( Please no fighting! <I'm beggin', put him down!> Effa: *ignoring Happon* No I'm gonna rip his fucking head off, if he's really a demon he'll be fine Pat: *kicking* Mmmf mm mmmn! Happon: <Stop!> *dashes forward and transforms in the same motion, rushing into a hovering shimmering wall of blue coils in front of Effa. his dragon snout stops right in front of their much smaller face, ears down, round yellow eyes enormous and pleading* Effa: *stumbles back, startled, waving Pat though the air* Pat: Hmmf! Effa: *recovering their composure* Oh I see, fucking magic dragons and shit, I forgot that's the kind of bullshit I have to deal with here. You want to fucking go instead, huh? *they turn and stare hard at the rainbow arm, after a second or two it opens and lets Pat fall to the ground* Pat: Owf. Effa: *another ripping, crackling sound and a second demon arm joins the first, both of them arcing over Effa as they sneer at the blue dragon* Happon: *cowers, ears drooping, making a low keening sound* <We aren't here to fight, we're here to help each other out… right?>

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.8. 1 convinces the brawlers to stop fighting. However, 2 and 7 are still ticked off at each other, even after the fight. What happens?

Kasrou: uh… um. Effa? I think everybody here thinks you're the strongest, you don't need to hurt anyone to show it! Happon: *nodding vehemently* Effa: *narrows eyes* Kasrou: And I think Mx. Grundy got the message too! Pat: *still lying on the ground* I sure fucking did. Yeesh kid, a simple "I'm taken" woulda sufficed you don't have to get catty about it. Effa: *rounds on Pat again, eyes narrowed* What did you call me? Pat: *getting up and dusting himself off* Hey no offence, most people are kids to me, ancient being from the dawn of time and all that, nothing personal. Effa: Yeah RIGHT. These losers are right, why am I even wasting my time with you… *raises hands and focuses for a moment, the giant rainbow hands fade and disappear* Kasrou: *sits down hard and holds her face in her hands* Oh thank goodness Happon: *transforms back to human and crouches next to Kasrou, putting a hand on her furry back* Are you okay? You are very… ah.. <how do I say you have courage..> good strong fight? Very small, very tough. :D Kasrou: Aw Happon that's very sweet of you to say. Magic users are so scary!! Happon: *leans in conspiratorially and stage whispers* Next time, you let them fight, okay? Pat is demon, you don't need to fight for demon. He is strong, and bad. Head off? Baaan… no trouble. Pat: Hey I heard that. I'd like to keep my head attached as much as possible, if you don't mind.

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.9. Dawn! Your OCs wake up to another beautiful day. After shaking the sleepiness out of their systems, they check their packed bags to pull out breakfast. Unfortunately due to poor planning, there's only enough food for seven people! What happens, and who doesn't get a meal?

Beau and James don't eat food anyway so this is not a problem. Pat doesn't need to eat food but does so anyway just to be obnoxious.

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.10. Your OCs arrive at a small, ocean-side village. 1 and 8 are sent into the village to look for a grocery store of some sort. After a few hours of searching, they can't seem to find any stores! When they return to the group empty-handed, what happens?

Kasrou: Oh dear, don't they even have food printers or anything? James: Uh, I don't think this place has that kinda technology… Still, it's pretty weird there's no stores… Kasrou: Do you think if we knock on some of the houses they might share some food if they have any? James: Um. If we do that it'd probably be up to you, I'm usually not that great at getting strangers to trust me Kasrou: Really? But you seem so nice! James: Oh… uh….. thanks….. *embarrassed and mildly flustered by this* -they return to the others- Quentin: What?! Nothing?! Are you sure you looked properly? I refuse to believe this. *starts trotting off into the village to check for himself* (+0 to perception)

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.11. Frustrated, the rest of your OCs go into the village and eventually find a vendor of food. As night falls, they choose to spend the night at a local inn. It's a very small inn, however, and 2, 8 and 3 are forced to share a room! What happens?

Quentin: This is outrageous, this place doesn't sell food and has the smallest inn I've ever seen, do they even WANT people to stay here? *is pulling a blanket off the bed and laying it on the floor for himself* James: I mean I don't have to be in here, I don't sleep so… I can just be on watch. Pat: Yeah I don't need sleep either *swings himself into the bed, fully clothed and with his boots on, and lights a cigarillo* Quentin: You are NOT smoking that in here, put that out immediately Pat: *grins* Is that a formal request? Quentin: No it is not! >:( *flicks his wand and puts the cigarillo out with prestidigitation* Pat: Aw

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.12. As it turns out, 2 snores very obnoxiously. How do 3 and 8 handle 2's awful snoring?

Quentin: *throws a pillow at Pat every 10 mins for the first hour or so, getting increasingly cross* James: *is sitting knees up on the open windowsill, watching with pale eyes catching the moonlight* I'm pretty sure he's doing that on purpose Quentin: *sleepy, cross* Oh, of course he is! And he can certainly stop it! Pat: *cracks one eye open and grins* James: I mean I could probably just throw him out the window if you wanted me to Quentin & Pat: *both look at James* James: …I'm just saying I can, it's a suggestion. He'd probably be fine, right? Pat: You know, I think I like you, kid

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.13. 4 wakes up early and goes downstairs to eat breakfast at the inn's small restaurant. But as 4 orders their food, 21 approaches 4 out of nowhere! 21 announces that they are an assassin from a rival kingdom, and that it is their job to kill 4. How does 4 react?

I love this meme because it puts characters together in situations you'd never think to come up with in a billionty years. I think if the Mariner was hired to assassinate Beau specifically (because Beau previously haunted that rival kingdom and now they're mad about this evil creature becoming one of this kingdom's chosen ones?? idk), then he'd have to not know what he was up against or he would have refused. So imagine this Kevin Costner-looking guy creeping stealthily around the inn with a speargun and a big fuckoff knife. Beau doesn't sleep and so was never in a room in the first place, just sitting and staring unblinking with teeth bared at an empty table the entire night. The Mariner peeks into an open window, sees this enormous freaky clown person, catches their rancid vibes IMMEDIATELY and vanishes without a trace. Beau's head turns slowly to look at the place where he was moments before.

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.14. 6 hears the commotion downstairs and quickly rushes to 4's aid! After a bold fight with 21, 6 emerges victorious, and 21 drops to the floor, dead. How does 4 react to 6's heroic efforts?

There was no commotion and Effa wouldn't rush to anyone's aid anyway, but they encounter the Mariner on his way out by coincidentally running into him. Effa: *hissing* Watch where you're FUCKING going! The Mariner: *instinctively swipes his knife at Effa to get them out of the way as fast as possible* Effa: !!!! *stumbles back, summons arms in a sharp crackle and immediately lunges for the Mariner* [Scenes of Unimaginable Violence] I don't want to describe this because I love the Mariner very much but Effa is a professional supervillain and would absolutely destroy his fish mutant ass no question. For a visual, imagine that scene in one of the Avengers movies where Hulk grabs Loki by the legs and bashes him from side to side like a chimp with a dead snake. Beau does not react because Beau doesn't know this happens, and indeed the entire rest of the party remains unaware that the wanton murder of a beloved franchise character just occurred outside.

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.15. And they're off! Your OCs now travel along a cool, windy path running along the ocean. 7, who has gotten bored over time, suggested to the group that they go take a dip in the ocean for a break. 5 thinks this is irresponsible, but the rest of the group agrees to 7's idea. What happens, and how does 5 feel?

Imsara only thinks this is irresponsible because they should send the tougher folks in first to see if there's any unexpected fantasy beasties, but Happon is waaay too enthusiastic and persuasive and is yeeting himself ocean-ward followed by about half the group. Happon: <Wa'hoiiiii it's the ocean!> *flings his shirt off and he runs and jumps in, submerging fully and disappearing* Kasrou: *holding her tail out of the edges of the waves and giggling as they splash over her clawed feet* Quentin: *galloping through the waves with big splashes, tossing his tail and laughing* Oh this is fun! Exactly what was needed! Imsara: Well, too late now I suppose! *also pulls his shirt off and dives into the waves gracefully, emerging and happily doing some powerful strokes through the water* Effa: *is crouched on the wet part of the sand like a goblin, hunched and focused on digging in the sand. they take out a shell of some kind and hold it up without looking at it, letting go. it stays suspended in the air, surrounded by a barely visible grey-rainbow jitter, and Effa continues whatever they're doing* Pat: *chilling and smoking in the shade of the road's embankment* What's he doin over there? Is that magic? Weird kinda magic. You got magic wherever it is you come from? James: *is crouched in the same shady spot* Uhh… not sure really. Pat: But you're like some typea undead magicy sorta thing yourself right? A zombie? James: *looks awkward* Yeah but I mean like we don't have wizards or demons or… whatever that is. …I don't think so anyway. *slumps his chin into his hand* Man… the world got all fucked up, I don't know, maybe we do. Jesus… Pat: *winces slightly* Pat: Well I know what THAT thing is, that's a fucking boggart. *jerks his thumb at Beau, who is leaning against the embankment a short distance away in the shadiest spot, smoking a black cigarette that oozes thick black smoke that sinks downwards* Beau: *tiny high-pitched giggle*

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.16. How refreshing! It's such a scorching hot day, and even 5 grudgingly agrees to go swimming as they watch the others having fun. As time passes, your OCs realize that they need to get back to work. But as they leave the water, 1 suddenly gets attacked by a shark! What happens to 1, and who comes to 1's rescue?

Kasrou was in the shallowest edge of the water and was attacked by a little juvenile shark beach feeding who thought that her scaly clawed feet were delicious dead crabs. Kasrou: *shrieks horrifyingly* HYEEEEEEEEIIIIK Oh oh oh! Owwww! Ohh! Quentin: *galloping over with big splashes* What is it! Are you all right? What happened? Kasrou: *falling down butt-first into the waves, clutching her bleeding foot and keening* Something bit me! T A T Imsara: *swimming over fast* Quentin: Oh dear, let me see… oh that looks… *patting his coat pockets for any kind of potion* I don't have any healing spells, Pip's usually here for that sort of thing… :( Imsara: *walks up and crouches next to Kasrou in the waves* I'm gonna pick you up and take you somewhere dry, okay? Keep holding it just like that :) Kasrou: *sniffle* Okay…. Imsara: *bodily lifts the smaller Kasrou in a princess carry and brings her up the shore, trailing drops of water and a spot or two of blood* Quentin: *trots after, fretting*

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.17. 1 got away from the attack with minor injuries. However, this slows the pace of the group down, since they need to walk slower for 1 to keep up. 6 gets fed up with how slow the group is moving, and eventually abandons the group! A day later, does anyone miss 6? If so, who misses 6, and why?

Kasrou's foot is bandaged by Imsara (and given a "get better kiss" by Happon which surprisingly does make her feel much better). Quentin offers to let her sit on his back but, bizarrely, it's Beau who wordlessly picks her up, walking with her on their broad shoulder, supporting her with one hand. Effa is the one who leaves. They simply stop, go "tch" and start walking off in a different direction.

Quentin: Now where are YOU going? Did you see something? Effa: *without turning around* No, I just realised how stupid this is. You all have fun Pat: Wow, he just straight up gave up, huh? Quentin: Oh come on, you can't just walk off like that, what about, er, all your rewards from the king when we complete this quest! Effa: *flips him the bird without turning around* James: Guess they really don't like working in teams

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.18. The Chosen Ones now have one less comrade. Now it's a little bit more dangerous for them to travel… As the Chosens journey through a ragged mountain pass, they are jumped by bandits! The bandits team up on 2, who was the farthest away from the bigger section of the group. What happens to 2, and how does 2 react?

Pat: Whoa! Hey! Whoa! I'm not the guy you want, look at me, look at these clothes, do I look rich? Go bother those other guys! *gets jabbed in the side with the point of a sword* Ow, hey! Quentin: *a short distance away, facing off fewer bandits with the rest of the group* Oh bother this, don't you chaps have anything better to do? *flourishes with his wand and makes snapping, crackling firework sparks, causing the bandit nearest to him to back off* (+6 intimidation) James: Hey uh, Pat the demon guy's in trouble I think Quentin: *sighs disgustedly* Do we… really have to bother with that right now? Imsara: *says breezily as he slips through the others to get to Pat* Would be hypocritical if we didn't! Beau: *standing still a short distance away, holding Kasrou on their shoulder and grinning at the two bandits who look like they really don't want to get any closer* Pat: *gets knocked down by a guy with an axe and shield* Ah fuck me, come on! Imsara: *parries a sword swipe with one of his long knives and does some kind of cool twisty thing that completely disarms the bandit, moving smoothly to the next guy and dodging his axe before twirling around behind him and pressing his knife in front of his face, grabbing the man's hair* Happon: Waow :O Imsara: *in an almost freakishly calm tone of voice, still holding the knife to the man's face and throat* Okay, okay, everybody calm down, it's all right, we can stop fighting now. Bandits: *don't move, warily regard this standoff* Imsara: *turns slightly to address the man he's holding* You're the leader, yes? Sorry if I'm mistaken. Bandit leader: *a little confused* ….yes Imsara: Excellent! Excellent. Can we come to an agreement then? As you can see we can defend ourselves quite well, so maybe there's something you want that we can get you? Without any of us getting hurt? *he adjusts the knife minutely* Bandit leader: …well we were just… you know. Trying to get some money. You know? No hard feelings… you seemed like a bunch of fre- uh. Nice folks who might have something we could sell. To feed our families, you know… *he glances around at his men, who glance at each other and then all nod enthusiastically* Imsara: *with complete seriousness* Oh absolutely. I understand very well, I sympathise with that. *he takes the knife away from the startled bandit's throat, letting go of his hair and clapping him on the back instead* Pat: Hey what the fuck I'm bleeding here, you should gut that guy like a fish before he does the same to you Imsara: Absolutely not. The first step is always a show of faith. I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement with these fine gentlemen

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.19. Surprise! 6 emerges from the shadows and helps the group defeat the bandits. How does 6 react, and how does the group react to 6's arrival?

Effa: You guys really do suck ass. Agreement? This is what you do when weak bitches get big ideas [MORE SCENES OF UNIMAGINABLE VIOLENCE] Quentin: Oh my gods D: Imsara: *rubs forehead and sighs* James: *in the background not watching and being sosososo glad he didn't have to fight humans either way*

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.20. Dun-dun-dun-duuuuun! 4 has leveled up! What's this? 4 has learned a new skill! What new skill is that?

Beau learned…… Empathy???

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.21. 3 is starving, because they forgot to pack plenty of food before they started journeying through the mountain pass. While the group is taking a break, 3 spots an absolutely ADORABLE bunny in some tall grasses a few feet away! 3's stomach growls mercilessly. What happens?

This wouldn't happen because Quentin doesn't like eating meat and thinks small animals are cute, however it's really funny to me specifically because why does the universe keep pitting Quentin against rabbits anfghtg (this will only make sense to me and my DM). Quentin instead goes "aww, a bunny :)" and then goes and acts forlorn and weak and whines at the others until somebody shares their food with him.

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.22. 7 catches an awful sickness. During one night out in the wilderness, 7 keeps everyone awake with their persistent coughing. How do the others react?

Happon: *coughing* <I'm dying, I'm definitely gonna die> T_T Effa: Stop being so fucking dramatic and shut upp Imsara: How do dragons get better from sickness? Do you want some more water? Happon: Yes please T_T Kasrou: Have you ever had this type of sickness before? Happon: I'm never sick, don't get sick… ocean magic sick maybe… Quentin: Oh dear, is that a thing? Do we all have that now? D: James: Nah it would spread faster to the smaller people first. …I mean, I think Happon: Bad bad bad sick *groans and coughs* <Aahh I want to become a pond loach…>

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.23. The Chosen Ones are nearing the end of the mountain pass…when they come across an ancient, dilapidated temple amid the trees. 3 dares 1 and 6 to enter the temple, no matter how creepy it looks. Do 1 and 6 take the dare, or are they chicken?

Quentin WOULD do that… He dares Kasrou because it looks pretty safe and he wants to cheer her up and get her feeling brave again after her injury (and also just because he wants to poke around in temple ruins. he's a ttrpg character after all, he's GOTTA). He doesn't dare Effa but they tag along anyway.

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.24. Whether 6 and 1 like it or not, the group decides to take a chance and enter the temple. Ancient runes cover the walls, and many plants have broken through the ground and have taken over the place. And there, in the center of the main chamber, lies a stone dais. On top of the dais lies eight weapons. As the Chosen Ones approach the weapons, the walls and the weapons start to glow! A voice speaks out to the Chosen Ones… "Take the weapons and use them against the evils of the world. You are the only ones who can save the world, Chosens." The Chosens take their weapons and leave the temple with renewed hope. How do they react to this experience?

James: *staring at his ornate machete-like shortsword* This is the sickest shit ever Imsara: Ohoho yes *spinning and feeling the balance of his new blades* Effa: You basic bitches got it easy I have to figure this shit out first *examining a multi-faceted crystal that they've suspended in the air, they flick it in annoyance and it spins around, sending sparkles everywhere* Happon: *holding his pendant and feeling the small localised rainstorm around him falling on his palm* :D Kasrou: I'm um, I'm not sure I understand mine yet either… *she is holding a delicate ornate monocle to one of her large eyes, with a hook that goes over one ear* Imsara: Seems like a magic-y thing, no? Perhaps Quentin can help Quentin: *stops galloping around excitedly trying out his new wand* What? Oh. Want me to take a look at it? Yes, I can do that, just give me ten minutes. *he begins to cast Identify* James: Well there's no need to identify the use for… that… *he points over at Beau* Beau: *curiously hefts an absolutely ridiculous giant wedge of a blade, more like a plank of rusty iron with a point and an edge, with two handles along the back and several spikes sticking out :) they lift it up to their mouth and play their three snaking tongues over the rusty metal, drooling* James: Okay well that's horrifying Kasrou: And what did you get, Pat? Pat: *slipping a large ring-shaped piece of coppery metal into his coat and winking* Never you mind Quentin: Got it! Looks like if you focus, you should be able to cast illusions with this! :) Kasrou: Ooooh :o Effa: *teleporting from point to point in the background using their crystal*

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.25. Alas, the final destination lies in the distance! Atop a hill, the Chosens can see the Temple of Chocolate, standing heroically in front of them. They begin to trot down the hill, when it starts pouring rain. 5 slips in the mud and slams into 7, causing 7 to drop their legendary weapon. How do they react?

Happon: <My pendant!!> D: Imsara: I'm so sorry, are you all right? Happon: Necklace, necklace! *scanning around the muddy ground* Imsara: Oh dear, did you see which direction it went? Effa: What are you two dummies fussing about *is using wizardry to make an almost invisible "umbrella" and is completely dry* Quentin: I think Happon lost his magic item, I don't see it anywhere… Oh this rain is AWFUL James: *super zonked out* Uh-huh… Imsara: Ah-ha! *sticks his hand into the mud and pulls out the pendant, handing it to Happon* Happon: Uwaaa thank you! Haha very dirty. *he starts brushing the mud off it* Quentin: Oh, here, let me *he taps it with his wand and casts prestidigitation, flicking the mud off and cleaning it immediately* Kasrou: Oh that's so handy :O Quentin: Isn't it?!? Pat: Aren't you a rain dragon, can't you do something about this fuckin rain? My smoke keeps going out *grumbling as he's relighting his cigarillo* Happon: Yes… <_< But… I like rain Pat: *glares at him* <Don't you wanna show them you're good for something? You've done nothing but slow them all down so far> Happon: *pales, then blushes and looks away. Slowly, the rain around them stops* Quentin: Oh it's stopping! Imsara: What did he just say to you? Happon: *bouncing up again brightly, only a little strained* All okay! I stop the rain :D Quentin: Oh hurrah! Imsara: *looks at Pat suspiciously* Pat: *ignores him and cheerfully puffs his cigarillo*

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.26. The group reached the Temple of Chocolate! The stairway glows as the Chosens approach, and the Temple seems to come to life. There, at the end of the hall, hangs the Sword of Chocolate on the wall. It must be pulled to save the kingdom from a chocolate-less fate! But as your group runs down the hallway, they're jumped by none other than 41! What happens?

They don't get jumped, Gordon and his comrade freaky cult bald guys with crossbows and cattle prods are already there. They've rigged up a welded-together framework of sparking cable and metal braces to the Sword of Chocolate, some weird chocolatey energy pulsing through it and snaking down through the cables into another, smaller device with about 50 levers and buttons, held together with spot welds and hazard tape. The whole thing hums dangerously. The Chosens burst in from the long hallway and Gordon-- a hunched middle-aged man wearing big square glasses and a huge off-white fur coat-- whirls to see them.

Gordon Rimmer: What the hell, who the fuck are these guys?? Effa: *manifesting two giant rainbow hands with a glitchy crackle* Who the fuck are YOU Gordon: Who the fuck are YOU?? *gestures to the drone Men of the Machine* Get these guys outta here, we have to get the rest of the chocolate energy. Come on! *he turns away and lets them deal with it while he presses some buttons on the device* Men: *stride stiffly towards the group, two of them hanging back and raising crossbows* Imsara: *sighs and flicks his knives out of their holsters* Men: *one of the crossbow men fires at Quentin, who has spread out away from the group. The bolt shanks him in the side and a second later a buzzing crackle of electricity surges down the attached wire* Quentin: *yelps and bucks, knocking the bolt out* Ohhhh that! Hurt!! :( *he flicks his wand in the air and a blinding light shines down on his attacker briefly, singing his skin and setting his sleeve on fire* Men: *while the one who shot Quentin is awkwardly patting out the fire on his clothes, another advances on James with cattle prod outstretched* James: *doesn't dodge* Aw come on please I really don't wanna- *jerks and exhales as the prod jabs him in the chest. sparks buzz between the metal bars of his mask and he looks up at the man, annoyed, then whacks the cattle prod out of his hand with the back of his sword and slips behind his guard to deliver a gut punch* Men: *the one who James punched doubles over slightly and gives a wheezing monotone 'Ouch'. elsewhere, the second cattle prod wielder advances on Happon, who yelps and runs away behind Beau, who has Kasrou on their shoulder again* Kasrou: *as the man strides towards them, cattle prod sparking, Kasrou taps the lens over her eye and suddenly both her and Beau scatter and are lost in a dizzying rain of pink cherry petals, the Men of the Machine drone man looks around in confusion, blinking* Beau: *from the edge of the petal storm, one enormous pale, purple-clawed clown hand reaches out and grabs the man by the head, yanking him into invisibility. there is a very heavy, meaty clanging sound*

Men: *the second crossbowman fires at King Imsara, who deflects the slow bolt with a lightning fast movement of his knives, leaving it sparking as it rolls across the floor* Gordon: *whirls around, taking in the state of things* What the hell are you guys doing?? *huffs and mutters and throws his hands in the air in exasperation, turns back to the machine. suddenly a massive rainbow hand grabs him by the back of his enormous coat and pulls him back* Effa: Better question is, what the hell are YOU doing? This machine looks pretty interesting, tell me what it does! Gordon: You came all the way here and you don't even know? What the hell are those hand things? Effa: This is a demon that can pull the skin off your entire body like a fucking snack wrapper, now tell me what this thing does or I'll let it- Hey!! *Effa's second demon arm has twisted around and seized the bundle of cables that feed into the machine, the weird chocolatey energy pulsing into the translucent rainbow appendage as well* You let go of that right now, we can take it apart later! D:< *the hand seems to be ignoring them, growing larger and starting to emit light, gripping tighter. the eye patterns on it suddenly move, the pupil dots on it and on the other hand flicking over to look at Effa between them* Gordon: It's using the energy! Let go of me I gotta shut it down! *he reaches into his coat and pulls out a gun* Effa: *before he can even finish levelling it at Effa they flinch and the hand holding Gordon reacts, slamming him down into the ground with brutal force and then flinging him across the room like a grey rag to crash into some distant rubble. the hand then flicks over and snaps onto the cables as well, pulsing larger. Effa raises from their startled crouch and takes in the situation* Shit!! Come on you bitch, you will DO WHAT I SAY! LET GO!

Men: *continue to harass the others, the crossbow men have switched to short nasty knives. they are unskilled but don't seem to react normally to pain and it takes a few moments for the group to successfully bring them down. the one Beau vanished is never seen again* James: *crouched on the back of one of the men, who is moving feebly but not getting up* What the heck is going on up there Quentin: *poking gingerly at his bleeding wound* I was wondering the same thing, is their magic getting out of control? Effa: *hissing* This is unacceptable behaviour, you'll regret this later… *another arm fizzles and glitches into existence, as if forcing itself through, followed immediately by a fourth. the hands are now massive, more than twice their usual size, and lazily pulsing with a weird energy that distorts the light around it. sparks are beginning to shower from the machine, and the Sword of Chocolate itself is vibrating slightly with the sheer power of vanilla and cocoa* Happon: I think we go now? Machine looks baaaad bad… James: We still gotta get that sword though. …somehow Kasrou: *from Beau's shoulder, who has reappeared* Demons where Effa and I are from are like forces of nature with intelligence. Effa's the one who summoned it, so if they can't control it I'm not sure there's anything we can do D: Pat: *chuckling* Demon. Yeah sure. *he fishes around in his coat as the others turn to look at him* That thing? *he takes the coppery ring object out of his coat. it's revealed to be a slim circlet made of twisting, intertwining metal* I'll show you a real demon. *he slips the circlet over his head, and immediately tiny red flames ignite along the top of it. it rises and floats above his head as he begins to grow in size. he's laughing wetly, the sound getting deeper and deeper. the others step back as a wave of heat emanates from his growing form. his clothes wither and slough off his body like old skin as his actual skin thickens and turns a dull red. he drops to all fours as his neck and face lengthen, long teeth sticking out of his face and his eyes sinking into hollow sockets that duplicate out of the sides of his face from two to six. the light in the entire temple begins to turn a weird diffuse orange, heat and the taste of ash making the air thick. everyone else backs to the walls of the chamber as he almost entirely fills the space: a gargantuan quadrupedal beast with legs like elephantine pillars, a huge spike on his back around which the flaming crown-- now giant-- lazily rotates. his wrinkled, sucker-dotted neck is tall enough that he holds it bent and pressed against the ceiling, hollow eyes in a face like a horse skull with a brick in it leaking fine dribbles of liquid metal as he looks down over Effa and the device* James: Okay. What the fuck Effa: *has finally noticed something's going on, looks around, then up* Oh shit, what the fuck are you supposed to be? *there is a hint of actual distress at this unexpected manifestation in the middle of being unable to control their powerful arms. they raise their own, much more fragile arms and a crackling, jittering angular shape appears in the air above them like an angry shield* Pat: *in a voice the same but much lower, wetter, that reverberates around the entire temple* I'm the Wandering Waste, bitch *he begins to raise his head, his thick neck cracking inexorably through the temple's stone ceiling. massive chunks of worked stone begin to fall and smash the device in huge showers of sparks and screeches of metal. the eyes on Effa's hands flick to Pat and the pupils tremble and jitter but it doesn't let go of the cables*

Effa: *the crackling shield is struck by rubble and the stone simply explodes softly like a clump of ash, instantly turned into powder* Oh you think I'm scared of a big cow? I'm a fucking WIZARD *a rainbow glitter crosses their faceted red eyes for a second as they raise their hand and a thin shaft of grey-white rainbow light appears from floor to ceiling like a blade. terrifyingly fast, it swishes horizontally across the room and through Pat's rotund middle. the light scores a deep smoking line in the floor and where it hits the pillars on the side of the chamber they crack and shatter along a perfect vertical slice, part of the supports collapsing* Pat: *freezes for a moment, then pulls his head out of the hole he's made in the ceiling and looks at his middle, then back down to Effa* Was that supposed to do something. Cuz it sure didn't. Effa: *looks genuinely afraid for the first time, antennae curling down flat against their head and their mouth hanging open slightly* Pat: *opens his skull-like jaw as he chuckles thickly* I'll take that as a yes. *with a great big stomp, he surges one giant leg forward and crashes it down on the machine. a big explosion goes off, a prismatic glitter sparks among plumes of electrical smoke as Effa disappears behind writhing cables, clouds of dust, and another pile of rubble from the collapsing ceiling. Pat lifts the enormous cylinder of his foot away and the pulses of energy surge back into the Sword of Chocolate and a shockwave blasts from it, sending the framework that was draining its energy crashing to the floor. as the dust settles, there's no trace of Effa or their demon arms, and the machine is quite literally flattened like a coke can. the crown on Pat's back begins to break apart and unravel, the flames sputtering, and he starts to shrink to his regular self as the others creep out of hiding*

Quentin: WELL.. That was… certainly something. Is the rainbow demon thing gone? James: Wow… just, wow. There's nothing left Pat: *brushing off his coat, which grew out of him horribly as he returned to his human form* Imsara: How… *shaking his head* did you do that? Pat: *grins* A little jaunt back to my usual self, shall we say. Looks like a one shot wonder though. *he nudges a piece of copper with his toe; the remains of the circlet scattered across the floor* Happon: <Bastard, if you could do that kinda thing from the start you shoulda said right away! People got hurt for that!> >:( Pat: Hey, bad guys getting hurt doesn't count, right kids? Everyone knows that *he turns to the rest of the group and grins* James: :/ I'm just gonna… I'll go get the sword I guess.

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.27. The Chosens finally reach the end of the hallway, and 8 pulls the Sword of Chocolate from its place. They have fulfilled their destiny! They return to the king's palace and are honored by the rich and the poor alike. Chocolate has returned to the kingdom. How do your OCs act to their sudden rise to fame?

James: Cool cool I'd really like to go home now actually Quentin: Oh but this is the best part! *trotting happily down the main street and waving to all the people* This is where they get to show us how happy they are, and we get to show them that we were happy to do it! AND they're giving us stuff :3 Karou: Quentin, are you sure you're all right, you were bleeding pretty badly yesterday :( Quentin: Oh I had a night's sleep, I'm fine! Wound's completely gone James: …What

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.28. Your OCs say goodbye to one another and return to their old lives. How do they handle the memories of their travels with each other?

Effa: *crouched on a hilltop moving the teleportation crystal back and forth in their grasp, idly watching its facets glitter. they are thinking violent thoughts of revenge*

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.29. WHAT? Your OCs roll over in their beds, startled awake by thunder and lightning outside. IT WAS ALL A DREAM! How do they handle such a stunning realization? Do they miss the people they traveled with?

Kasrou: Ohhhhh that was an exciting dream!! I'm going to write this down on my blog before I forget! Pat: …*smokes contemplatively, wondering how the hell he had a dream. maybe he's been bound in this form long enough for weird shit to start happening*… Quentin: *yawning and stretching delicately on his bedroll* Oh you guys are NOT going to believe this insane dream I had, I was working with a zombie, and a little furry person, and a dragon and… I mean… well I suppose that part wasn't all that different, anyway I- Imsara: *holding face in hands* Heh. I could probably take some parts of this and turn it into a story for Gem. Effa: *jolting awake, wrapped and twisted in their silk sheets, they'd be sweating if they had sweat glands* Gah! Ooooohhh… fuck that guy. Fuck him! *gets out of bed shirtless and pours themself an expensive drink in an expensive glass to calm down. it doesn't really help* Happon: *yaaawns expansively and stretches his talons, before curling up in his river embankment nook and falling back asleep, entirely unbothered by the mysteries of his own subconscious* James: *snaps 'awake' from whatever strange dissociated version of sleep he was in that allowed him to dream. he goes over to the edge of his lookout tower and leans on the windowsill* …..damn… DO we have wizards? Beau: … *in the pitch dark of a closed funhouse, Beau taps their shoulder thoughtfully and gives a little high pitched giggle* …Sweet little thing….

#tumblr INSISTED on turning all my asterisks into italics no matter what I tried arrgh I had to go in and add them all back manually #tumblr also deleted everything anyone said in japanese because it thought it was html THANKS TUMBLR REAL HELPFUL

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