#labyrinthine convolutions

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 14: Peril

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.3K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Time itself moves sluggishly as the spawn descend upon the petrified, screaming miscreants that share your cell. Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, fighting your ribs like striking bolts of lightning. You steel yourself against the rising panic, wrapping yourself in unflappable poise and watch for your opening.

As soon as the wave of spawn crashes and parts, you squeeze Hecat’s hand to signal her it’s time to move and bound through the gap. The corridor is a catastrophe, the stones painted in fresh crimson, bodies of guards ripped open, with their raw innards spilling out like gruesome garlands wreathing the walls. Hecat pales at the sight, dry heaving, but you’ve long become acquainted with such nightmarish affairs.

You tug Hecat along behind you, bare feet smacking the stone with such force it sends jolts of pain charging up your legs as your bones shudder with the impact of every step. That is nothing compared to the acute, explosive pain stabbing your chest with every inhalation.

Hecat stops, acquiring a shield and sword from a fallen guard. The blood makes the stone slick, and every step must be taken carefully. You cannot afford to fall. A stumble will almost surely mean death. Spawn that have finished their meals are starting to take notice. Hecat deflects them with her shield, stabbing with her sword when she has an opening and keeping you safely behind her.

The passageways are labyrinthine, confused tangles of convoluted twists and turns that sometimes double back or arrive at dead ends unexpectedly. Tears are creeping out of the corners of your eyes, dallying down your grimy, red cheeks from the agony radiating from your ribs with every expansion of your lungs. Panic starts to crumble the blanket of calm, surging through you as you frantically dart through the shadowy, disorienting hallways. The angry army of thudding footfalls of the spawn in pursuit echoes through the corridors.

Bounding up a dim stairway, the hilt of a dagger peeks out from between the joints of armour, nestled into the corpse of a guard. You yank it out with a quick tug, but time is not on your side this night. A spawn grasps your ankle, its clawed fingers sinking into your flesh and jerks you off your feet. Your head bounces off the stone slab stair, peppering your vision with black sparks of dazing pain. The only thing you can see through your muddled sight is those glowing eyes. You lash out with the dagger and sink it deeply into the socket. As soon as you’re released, Hecat is already towing you back to your feet, pulling you up the stairs and into the next room.

The milky eyes and pallor of bloodless bodies greet you. The undead in this part of the prison seem to roam, unsure of their orders, but as soon as the thudding of your heart is heard, their heads snap in your direction. They swarm around you like enraged bees. Despite Hecat’s exhaustion, she is unwavering. Her sword slashes through the air, shield deflecting the snapping fangs and shredding claws.

You feel the pangs of irritation at your uselessness. Your magic, once your greatest weapon, is now a prison in its own right. The vampires press in closer, surrounding you like a pack of ravenous wolves, their movements orchestrated by an unseen hand, but they don’t move to attack further as they corral you.

“What are they doing?” Hecat pants with wild eyes, frantically searching for an escape.

“I don’t know.”

A red aura shifts around the spawn, the same one Cazador used to control Astarion’s sibling during their midnight visit to your camp. They part for a tall, pallid figure that appears seemingly from the shadows.

“Nice to see you again, Sorceress,” it speaks. You recognize that voice, and your heart arrests in your chest, sinking into your stomach.

Aldous.

Your mind reels, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. No. He is dead. You watched the life be abducted from his eyes yourself. Yet, he stands before you, pale as death with glowing crimson eyes. His face splits into that repellent smile, and his cackling resounds off the walls.

“That one.” He points at you, “She is to be taken alive. The Tiefling matters not.”

“What the fuck,” Hecat breathes.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sorceress,” Aldous laughs, hysterical and bone-chilling. “And your fanged friend. I cannot wait to drain you dry in front of him.”

A harrowing scream tears from your throat, a melody of rage and sorrow as Aldous disappears in a burst of red, drawn home by his unknown master. Grabbing Hecat’s hand, you eye a door and dash toward it with renewed vigour. The vampire’s claws and fangs pierce your skin as you burst through the legion. You stab and slash with reckless abandon, sinking the dagger into anything that attempts to halt you.

Hecat and you stumble into the room and try to close the door on writhing arms and legs. Hecat lashes out with her sword, severing limbs from bodies obstructing it until it slams shut and locks.

“Help me!” Hecat yells as she throws a table over. You help barricade the door with whatever is available.

“They want you?” Hecat snaps, levelling the sword at you, “Who the fuck are you, dragon girl, and why the fuck do they want you alive?”

You’re doubled over, hands on your thighs, trying to inhale as much air as your lungs can possibly take, but the splitting pain in your side hampers your ability to catch your breath.

“I don’t know,” you retort venomously, eyeing the sword and Tiefling.

“That one knows you,” she hisses, shifting her stance and getting ready to strike. “Who the fuck is he?”

“A dead man,” you sigh, pushing your hair from your eyes. “I killed him. Apparently, it didn’t stick.”

“You’re a murderer?!” She gasps, bringing the steel blade to your neck.

“Yes,” you growl, unbothered by the threat.

Hecat laughs, withdrawing her blade, “I would not have thought you possible of such a heinous crime.” She winks, “I like you even more now.”

You cannot help but choke out a pained laugh, but it’s more of a groan than anything. You look around. Waxy moonlight floods the room from a small window. It’s the first window you’ve seen, but bars in a crisscross pattern make escape impossible, and the wood door is starting to splinter and crack under the barrage rattling it on its hinges.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere makes your skin prickle as the dam of suppression is released, and the Weave returns to you in an overwhelming deluge. You don’t have time to wonder why or how, and you don’t much care. The Weave causes the air to crackle, abuzz with powerful energy, and you fill yourself with it. You grip the iron and allow the potency of your draconic fire to spill out of you with a daunting laugh you cannot stifle. The bars heat, whine and wail, glowing white-hot and oozing, and Hecat thrusts her sword into the gooey mess of molten metal to clear your path.

The moon hangs high in the sky, casting an eerie glow upon the building, and the air is brisk as you clamber onto the roof. You cast Shatter, crumbling the stone around the window to block the pursuing spawn.

“That’s some potent magic you have there,” Hecat grins. “I’ve never seen anyone melt metal with their hands before.”

Her words of praise float over you as you eye the raging war of the courtyard below. Some guards remain alive, fighting another horde of spawn descending on the grounds. From the height, you can see beyond the solid walls surrounding the compound, and your feet move unconsciously, eyes skipping over the landscape - searching, searching, searching…

There.

“We could jump,” Hecat says hesitantly, peering over the edge.

“No,” you bark with a smile. “We fly. Follow me.”

You cast Fly, taking her hand and soar into the air. Hecat yelps at the suddenness of your movement and clings to you. You cannot quite reach your target before your feet hit the soft, muddied terrain. Spawn trample the ground, careening toward you like a blight on the land. Hecat stands in front of you, but you are muzzled no longer.

“Detono!” You howl, and the wave of crackling energy bowls the spawn over.

You cast Fireball and rain blazing death, warping the fire into flames that burn blue, bending it to your will. Your fingers dance in the moonlight, under stars that envy how bright you burn. Hecat stands at the ready, prepared and reinvigorated, but with unfathomable rage, you don’t miss. With every step, every twitch of your fingers, every syllable that brushes off your tongue, you are violence, you are slaughter, you are death incarnate.

It feels magnificent. Exhilarating. You are so wonderfully, splendidly fucking alive.

Whatever spawn remain have begun to retreat, much to your displeasure, disappearing in puffs of red mist, back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

“Kamena!” Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ground, and pressing you tightly to firm, sculpted muscles. You would do anything to stay in this embrace but the pain in your ribs forces a pained cry from your lips, and Astarion jerks away from you.

Hecat screams, charging forward with her blade levelled at Astarion before you have time to explain. Astarion dodges swiftly and has one blade to Hecat’s throat and the other pressed firmly to her stomach before you can blink.

“Astarion, don’t,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “She helped me escape. Hecat, this is my friend.”

“Friend?” Hecat barks as Astarion releases her with a skeptical frown, and she reels back. “You failed to mention that your friend is also a fucking vampire.”

“Astarion is a person,” you growl. Without the adrenaline rocketing through your veins, your injuries and weariness have begun to take their toll on your body, and you stumble.

Astarion catches you, “You’re injured?”

“Her ribs are broken, I think,” Hecat replies for you. “The guards did not treat her well.”

“Shadowheart!” Astarion bellows and slightly lifts the hem of your shirt, revealing the edges of mottled blue, black and yellowing bruise expanding up your side. “Good Gods, my love.”

“I’m fine.” You bring Astarion’s eyes to yours, gazing into the scarlet sea you have longed to swim in. It almost makes it past you, but your brows furrow, “Did you just call for Shadowheart?”

A hand lays on your shoulder, and blue magic laves away the cutting pain in your side, “This was supposed to be a nice, boring vacation,” Shadowheart tuts, nose rising into the air with a snort. “I should have known better than to think you might be able to keep yourself out of trouble.”

“Shadowheart!” You pivot, wrapping your arms around her. “Gods. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” She drawls, returning the hug gently.

“Where is the wizard?” Astarion asks, “We should get her home. She smells terrible.”

Shadowheart chuckles with Astarion as you frown at them. “She really does. If I can smell her, I can’t imagine how bad she smells to you, vampire.”

“Be glad you can’t,” Astarion wrinkles his nose at you but sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, kissing your forehead.

“Take her home,” Shadowheart instructs. “I’ll wait for Gale.”

The conversation between them starts to sound far away as lethargy drags at your mind.

“What do we do about this one?” Astarion gestures to Hecat.

“Leave her with me,” Shadowheart concludes with a tinge of threat. “She can bring me up to speed on exactly what in the Hells is going on around here while we wait for Gale.”

“She helped me,” you murmur. “Be nice, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart smirks, “Aren’t I always nice?”

“Wake up.”

“No,” you grumble, forcing your eyes open.

“Yes.” Astarion purrs with cold breath on the shell of your ear that sends delightful shivers down your spine. “You are not crawling into our bed smelling like a flophouse latrine.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body tightly to him. He tries to tug you away half-heartedly between his grunting protests, but there’s no real force behind his playful pulling.

“Now, you smell, too!” You chime as he sets you back on your feet and starts drawing a bath.

“Naughty girl,” Astarion smirks, chuckling.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the gilded mirror. Your hair is matted and dingy with grime. Filth streaks your face, dulling your complexion. Your shirt, once a pale blue, has been rendered brown, stained with dirt and blood that’s both new and long dried.

Movement behind you catches your eyes, whisking them away from your reflection. Bottles of oils float through the air, appearing to move on their own as Astarion pours oils into the water, and notes of lavender, sandalwood, and vanilla arise with the steam. This is something you’ve never gotten used to. Objects seemingly floating, as if picked up by a breeze and carried aloft of their own free will.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Astarion says, moving your hair and bringing you back from your contemplations.

“What?”

“No reflection.” Astarion’s cool fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, allowing him to peel the disgusting garment from your body, “Objects moving on their own, a ghost underdressing you.”

“A little,” you admit. “I just don’t understand how you always look so fucking perfect all the time.”

“Oh,” he giggles, turning you around, hooking his fingers in your waistband, and crouching. “Do go on.”

You put your hands on his shoulders, leaning some of your weight into him while he strips you, lifting one leg at a time, “I missed you."

“I missed you, too. Very much.” He says, taking your hand in his, “Come. Into the bath with you before it gets cold, and you chastise me.”

Climbing into the steaming water is like climbing into a sun-soaked dream. How very odd is it you can forget how your skin feels when it’s clean. As you slough off the dirt, blood and filth, the pads of your fingers do not recognize the buttery softness of your skin without the grainy texture.

“Tilt your head back,” Astarion instructs. He pours hot water over your head, fingers gently detangling your matted hair, lathering it with soap.

The bruise extending up your side is still faintly visible, staining your skin in hues of blue and yellow, and your fingers skate up, poking and prodding.

“What happened in there?” Astarion brushes the backs of his fingers gently down the marbled skin.

“The guards had a bone to pick with me,” you shrug, trying to cover the solemnity of the conversation with a pleasant smile. “I don’t wish to talk about it right now, Astarion.”

“Kamena…” Astarion sighs with a sullen shake of his head.

You press your fingers gently under his chin, bringing his eyes to yours. Gods. When he looks at you, it is not a glance. It is a song, a message, a constellation of promises wrapped in scarlet, and you never want to look away.

“I’m not running, Astarion.” You assure him, “I will tell you all about it, but tonight, can we just be us?”

Astarion smiles, nodding his understanding, “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Astarion’s fingers massage your scalp as he washes the soap from your hair, rinsing it until the water finally runs clear.

“Do we have wine?” You ask on a whim.

“Gale does,” Astarion grins momentarily, but his lips press into a thin line. “Is this celebratory drinking or “it’s better to forget” drinking?”

You wince at the question. You know it’s not exactly the healthiest way to deal with your problems. You are tempted to lie to him but force the truth from your lips, “A little of both?”

“I can live with that, I suppose,” Astarion nods, helping you stand and wrapping a plush towel around you, patting you dry. You smile as he dotes on you, “I know where the wizard hides the good stuff. I will go raid his cellar.”

Slipping into one of Astarion’s shirts, you light the fire with naught but a thought. It feels good to have your magic back after being deprived of it for so long. You grip the Weave, pulling the mystical essence from your blood and bones, and it feels like taking a deep breath after you didn’t realize you were holding it. Fire spurts out of your palm, and you fashion it into a ring, forcing the flames to move unnaturally as they chase each other around in a never-ending loop.

You lift the flaming ring above your head, hovering between your palms like a fiery halo, and force it to expand and contract simply because you can.

“Did no one ever teach you it’s dangerous to play with fire, Sorceress?”

“Perhaps for the untrained, Rogue,” you smirk, snap your fingers, and the halo bursts like a firework, pinpricks of fire whirling around you.

You let the fire ebb and die out slowly, relinquishing your magic with a sorrowful sigh. The Weave fills you with life, comfort and peace. Without it, you’re thrust back into a stark reality. Astarion hands you a glass, and you grab the bottle and wink as you drink deeply. The wine is a crisp white wine, buttery with hints of vanilla. It sparkles on your tongue and fizzes down your throat, and you cannot help but close your eyes at the pleasure of it all after drinking brown-tinged water for a week.

“Shall we sit, or would you prefer to keep standing in the middle of the room?”

“Gods,” you smirk, handing the bottle to Astarion and trotting over to the bed. You flop onto it gracelessly. “Let’s drink in bed! I’ve been sleeping on stone for a week, and this is lovely, but it’s missing something.”

“And what’s that, my dear?” Astarion cocks his head handsomely with a boyish smile that tells you he knows exactly what you think it’s missing.

“You!”

“In that case,” Astarion giggles and removes his shirt. He thrusts the wine bottle into your hands. Your fingers fumble to catch it, senses entirely possessed by him, “We might as well get comfortable, yes?”

“Yes,” you breathe, swallowing thickly.

Astarion saunters around the bed, discarding pieces of clothing along the way. He makes it look casual, unpremeditated, but it’s maddeningly slow.

“You’re a tease,” you mutter under your breath, sipping the wine and slipping out of your shirt.

“I am not!” He chuckles, “You’re just exceptionally impatient. Good things come to do who wait, sweetheart.”

“Do they?” You quirk a brow at him, “I’m not so sure about that. Do you have proof of this notion?”

“I waited two hundred years for you.” Astarion purrs as the bed dips under his weight, and he presses his body against your back, wrapping his arms around you.

“I love you,” you murmur, craning your head to look at him, slipping your fingers into his hair.

“I love you, too. I should not have let the wizard talk to me into leaving you in there so long. I—“

“Not tonight, Astarion.” It sounds like a whimpering plea, “Please."

“Right. Apologies,” he rasps, lips against your neck.

“Have you been eating?”

“Always so worried about me,” his lips twitch into a smile. “I’m fine.”

Perhaps he is fine, but you are most certainly not. Suddenly, you’re impacted with a deep-seated need to feel that intimacy, that descent through the branches of his veins. You want to bleed into him, your soul and his, intertwined as one. The intensity of the emotion catches you off guard.

Are you chasing the bloodless daze that his feedings provide? Are you hoping it will lay a shroud over the dread sinking your stomach? Is this another way to run?

Maybe.

But you are so good at running.

“Would you like a nibble?” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the hint of anticipation from your voice.

Astarion jerks his head up, pushing your shoulder until you’re lying on your back and looking up at him with an arched brow. He regards you thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea tonight.”

“Why?”

Astarion rifles his fingers through his hair, “You are well aware of the effect you have on me when I feed on you. I cannot promise that once your blood dawns on my tongue, your skin under my fingertips, I won’t lose myself in the need to make every inch of you mine.”

You wrap an arm around Astarion’s neck carefully, kissing along his jaw. You whisper in his ear, “So make me yours.”

Astarion shudders amorously as you ghost your lips over the ridge of his ear to the tapered tip. He grabs your waist with a low, rumbling growl, pulling you into his lap to straddle him. His desire for you pressed firmly against your already slick sex. Astarion looks deeply into your eyes, holding you still as if trying to figure out if you’re in your right mind.

You’re trying to figure out the same thing.

He catches your lips in his, gentle at first but with progressively more ferocity. He groans into your mouth. It radiates down your spine, stealing your breath, and a chill rushes through you, settling in your core. Your heart flutters with desire, the increasing drumbeat of it making its way between your thighs.

Astarion’s hand grips your hips, undulating them, his cock sliding between your folds, brushing up against your swollen flesh. You have been so fundamentally deprived of his affection that every touch sends shivers over your skin, every slide of his tongue against yours makes you want to sigh, and every groan steals the air from your lungs.

His fingers tease the peaks of your nipples, and you throw your head back and gasp. Astarion kisses up the column of your throat, his free hand cradling the back of your head, fingers twisted in your hair.

There’s but a moment of clarity. You are running headfirst, barrelling into anything that might hope to make you numb - him, pleasure, alcohol, bloodlessness.

Astarion’s fingers glide between your lips and sweep over your sensitive pearl, and coherence is lost in a white-hot rush of pleasure. You melt, draping your arms over him and biting his shoulder to hush your cries. His lips trace along your neck, and you roll your head to the side. His fangs sink into your flesh, and he growls, deeply and lofty, his chest rumbling against yours as if thunder was rolling through it. Your essence trickles through his veins like a gentle rain as he draws in methodical sips, savouring every drop.

Your hips buck as he continues his ministrations. You yearn to feel that decedent stretch of your walls as they envelop his cock, and he knows it. Astarion encourages you to lift your hips, pressing the swollen, blunt head of his cock to your entrance, and you sink down his length as he rubs against all your ridges so exquisitely that it makes your vision blur.

You don’t even notice his fangs retreat from your neck as his lips mould to yours to dampen your unadulterated breathy moans. You close your eyes and fade in and out as your head spins around with pleasure so intense you cannot think straight. The woozy fog of blood loss only adds to your dwindling reason and logic. With every pump of his hips and every roll of yours, you are walking on the fine edge of paradise.

But there’s something not quite right in his movements. They are tactical, methodical, and too perfect. You drive your eyes open, blinking away that haze of ecstasy. When you look into Astarion’s eyes, he’s not looking back at you. He’s looking past you as if through you, but his body knows this dance well enough, and he continues to go through the motions even when he’s a million miles away.

You go rigid, halting all movement in a split second, and your heart seizes, bound by the flash freeze in your chest. It jolts him back to himself, and he blinks rapidly, almost confused.

“Astarion,” you purr, concealing the hurt in your voice. Why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he say something as he promised he would? “Let's stop.”

“No,” he protests, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cradle his cheek, trying very hard not to move a muscle until he tells you, “Tell me when I can move.”

“I’m sorry,” he looks away from you, brows downturned, rubbing his eyes. “I want this. You. I was there, and then I just… wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.”

“Healing is messy. Isn’t it?”

“You are a gift,” Astarion folds his arms around you, hugging you close to him, and you try to hug him back, but it’s admittedly awkward when he’s still inside you, and you’re trying your best to keep yourself still. He laughs, “You can move, Kamena. I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re still inside me,” you retort, almost as if to alert him to this fact.

“Yes, that’s considerably obvious, but thank you for pointing it out,” he chuckles as you relax slightly. “Do you think we could stay like this? Just for a little bit? I find it… strangely helpful.”

This is new. Not unwelcome, but definitely new, “You want to sit here with your cock inside me, and what, chat?”

“Precisely!” He chimes happily, leaning back with a grin, “I’m so glad you understand, darling. Hells. Do I have some stories for you! Do you know how hard it is to break into the government buildings here? They are locked up tighter than a patriar’s purse, but I do love a good challenge.”

You can’t help but burst laughing at his carefree attitude, the way he’s still rock hard inside you, talking about committing crimes as if you were sitting at a table sharing stories over dinner and drinks. This is not typically how you remember him reacting, but this… this is progress, and you will take it.

You groan, “Why were you breaking into the civil buildings, Astarion?”

“How do you think Gale knew where to find and nullify the device suppressing magic at the prison?” Astarion drawls, pleased with himself. “That man is terrible at stealth. Even worse than you. He complained about his knees the entire time! Gods. I am centuries older than him, and you don’t see me bellyaching.”

“How utterly annoying! I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” you giggle at how he smirks with a wily glint in his crimson eyes. He definitely considered it. “In that case, you’re going to have to take me on a date where we break into this government building that gave you a hard time. This is something I must see.”

“You cheeky little minx,” he laughs. “I would love nothing more.”

The murmur of voices, clinking of cutlery on the tableware, and smell of what is surely Gale’s cooking drift down the hallway as you approach. Astarion follows closely behind, his hand at the small of your back. He has not stopped touching you in some fashion since you returned, as if he’s worried that you might disappear.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see the back of Hecat’s head, sitting at the table, shovelling whatever gruel Gale provided into her mouth and nodding as he recounts tales of your grand adventure in the Underdark. It takes substantial effort not to tell Gale to shut his trap. He does realize that you met this person in prison, right?

Shadowheart sees you first, leaping from her chair and dashing over, sweeping you into a tight hug, “Gods. You smell much better,” she giggles when you groan and squeeze her hard enough to expel some air from her lungs, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you nod, but you haven’t been able to take your gaze, etched with skepticism off Hecat.

Shadowheart whispers, “She had nowhere else to go. Gale invited her.”

You snort, “Of course he did.”

“I’ve been watching her closely,” Shadowheart sniffs. “And I will continue to do so.”

You suppose the woman was instrumental in your escape, and perhaps, for now, you should give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Sit,” Astarion instructs, pulling a chair out for you. “I will get you some food.”

You arch a brow at him and give him an almost imperceptible shake of your head. Although anything will be better than the stale bread and dried meat the prison served, whatever Gale has fashioned resembles wet dog food, and your stomach, as hungry as it is, flops in your belly.

Astarion kisses your temple, “Trust me.”

You sit, and Astarion gathers fresh fruit from the fridge, cutting it up in deft, precise movements. He glares at the knife spitefully, assessing the edge and rolling his eyes. You would giggle, knowing he’s judging Gale for the state of his knives, if you were not so flabbergasted that Astarion is preparing your food.

Hecat’s voice breaks you from your astoundment, “You clean up nicely! I almost forgot what colour your hair was under all that crud.”

She, too, looks substantially different without dirt smudged on her face, “I could say the same about you,” you retort a little too sourly.

Hecat smiles, not catching the venom in your voice, “Your friends are very nice.”

“Yes,” you give Gale a sideways glance, and he looks bashful. “Gale is very generous and trusting.”

Gale’s face flushes red, and he clears his throat, putting a finger in the collar of his robe, and pulling it away from his neck like the garment is restricting his breath.

Astarion places a bowl of perfectly diced fruit before you. He sits, dragging his chair close to yours so he can keep a hand resting on your thigh. You don’t miss the way Shadowheart glares at him with unspoken bitterness.

“Dear Shadowheart already gave me quite the berating,” he shimmies his shoulders as if he enjoyed it.

He actually might have.

“Not enough of one if you ask me.” Shadowheart scoffs, her eyes narrowed and blazing with acidity.

Hecat arches a brow, confused at what is going on, and you’re not about to lay out your life story for some stranger you met in prison, so you push the conversation forward.

“Aldous is a vampire,” you say far too casually and are met with looks of shock and silence.

Gale and Shadowheart eye Astarion.

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my bloody doing. I am a mere spawn. I do not have the power to turn anyone. Gods,” he shakes his head. “I don’t believe it possible. I disposed of him. Thoroughly.”

“Did you destroy his body?” You ask. Gale almost chokes on his tea at the indifference in your voice.

Astarion nods, “Entirely. There was nothing left.”

“Is that the man who was after you?” Hecat asks, but her eyes are not on you.

They are moored to Astarion, like a shipwreck lying on the ocean floor, irretrievably bound. Astarion doesn’t seem to notice as he typically does not, but these dew-eyed ogles always make jealously flare to life. You place your hand on Astarion, stop yourself from growling “mine,” and instead, settle on scowling.

Astarion is alerted to your discontentment by the heat radiated from your palm. He makes a show of kissing each of your fingers, slow and lingering, trying very hard not to snicker. He finds your jealousy endearing but equally foolish, and perhaps it is.

Hecat does not seem to care or notice. It drives you mad, so you crawl into his lap, placing yourself between him and her gawking orange eyes. You can hear Shadowheart chuckling under her breath. She knows your protectiveness of Astarion all too well.

Astarion remains casual about it as if it’s not unusual for you to sit in his lap during breakfast. He grabs the bowl of fruit you have yet to finish and shoves it into your hands, “Eat.”

You grumble curses under your breath only he can hear, at him and his bossiness, at Hecat, and shovel fruit into your mouth.

Astarion chuckles, kissing your cheek, and purrs reassuringly, “I only have eyes for you, thiramin.”

You know this, but it’s not his eyes you’re concerned about.

A knock on the door breaks you from your brewing hostility, and you nearly answer it as a reflex, but he holds you and shakes his head, “No. Not this time.”

“I’ll get it,” Shadowheart chimes.

Gale accompanies Shadowheart. All three of you are holding the Weave, ready to cast at a moment’s notice. There is an undertone of mumbling, and Astarion’s face transforms into a formidable scowl. His grip on you tightens, and he brandishes a dagger.

“Blackwell,” he growls.

Flames immediately jump to life across your skin, licking up your forearms and through your hair. Hecat is on her feet, her fists balled, stirred by your unease.

Gale returns, looking contrite, wracking his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, my friend, but we must hear him out.”

Astarion is the first to answer, his voice rough and grated in warning, “Absolutely fucking not! I don’t care what information he has or what he has to say, Gale. If you let him into this house, I will kill him. I promise you that. You would not want to get blood all over these lovely floors. Would you?”

“Information?” You ask, placing a hand on Astarion’s as he grips the dagger so tightly his fist shakes.

“Don’t be an idiot, Kamena,” Astarion snarls.

“My son,” you hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice as he sidles up behind Gale as if using him as a shield. Shadowheart has a tight clutch on his shoulder, bristling with fury, “I’ve made a grave mistake. I know I have no right to ask, but I don’t know where else to turn. I... I need your help.”

“Help?” You seethe, fingernails digging into the table to keep yourself from burning him where he stands, shoulders slumped, wringing his hat in his hands. “You want our help?! That’s laughable.”

“You killed him.” Mr. Blackwell mewls, “Didn’t you?”

You do not answer. No one does. Instead, you level him with a glower sharp enough to cut through mountains.

It is answer enough.

“I made a deal,” he continues. “No one would listen to me. No one cared. I was out of options, and then I was approached by a woman while I was at a tavern. She told me she could bring him back. She told me there was a spell that would return him to me. She said the only payment she would ask was that he would be in her service. I... I did not ask questions. I did not know what she was!”

“You godsdamned idiot,” you hiss, clenching your teeth so hard the nerves trill. “You made a deal with a vampire?”

“Nobles,” Hecat scoffs with a disgusted twist of her lips. “All wealth, zero intelligence.”

“I didn’t know!” Mr. Blackwell cries, slipping to the floor into a puddle of sorrow. “She said he would return to me the next night, and he did, but he was not the same. His mother let him in. She was so happy to see him she did not notice or care. She hugged him. He… He bit her! I could not get him to stop. He looks like you,” Mr. Blackwell says sullenly, nodding toward Astarion. “Red eyes, pale as a sheet.”

“I am sure he does,” Astarion beams a fanged, threatening grin at him, making Mr. Blackwell squeak like a mouse caught in a trap.

Questions are whirling through your mind. Why would a Vampire Lord take notice of you? Why would they waste resources – spawn, scrolls or otherwise? Why bother having you imprisoned, beaten, and weakened? There is always a purpose to their madness, but what could you have that they want?

“What could a Vampire Lord possibly want with you?” Gale echos your thoughts, fingers on his chin. “And why bring Aldous back? How did they bring him back?”

“Aldous is easy. Most likely a scroll of True Resurrection. I imagine they turned him because they knew his thirst for revenge would make him easy to manipulate. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.” Your brows furrow, tapping the table with your finger rapidly, “What I don’t understand is what use they would have for any of us. I can’t think of a single relic in our possession that would do a Vampire Lord any good.”

Hecat looks between all of you with a puzzled look. She knows too much now, adding yet another complication.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart prompts him, “You’re the resident expert on vampires. Care to speculate as to why they would go through all this trouble?”

Astarion’s brows furrow and he shrugs, “I don’t have the slightest clue. Vampires are territorial beasts, but I do not think they would go to such lengths when they could have simply attacked me while I was hunting if their concern was territory.”

You give the worn noble on the floor a once over, and you feel nothing but hatred for the pathetically snivelling man. Should you feel merciful? Gods. When did you become so callous? “Did Aldous say anything else?”

“He muttered things here and there.” Mr. Blackwell sighs letting his head drop into his hands, “Something about ruins being the key and a contract, but none of it made any sense. He seemed like he was in a haze, drunk-like.”

Ruins being a key and a contract? It's not much to go on at this point, but you suppose, it’s a start.

“Whoever this Vampire Lord is,” Shadowheart crosses her arms, “They will know exactly who we are. They will not underestimate us.”

“Indeed,” Gale agrees with a curt nod. “We must take precautions, prepare and plan for the worst.”

“Who the fuck are you people?” Hecat asks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“Adventurers,” you trample over Gale who is about to spill your entire story, looking him in the eyes with a warning. His mouth snaps shut. “Nothing more.”

It seems your adventure in Waterdeep is just beginning.  

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Shadowheart ❤️

I'm dying to hear all your theories on why a Vampire Lord has taken an interest! 😁

Are we trusting Hecat?

Fucking Aldous 🤬 Hopefully we get the chance to kill him... again.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

A Court of Fire & Masks

Eris x OC Fic

Chapter 11

Summary Penelope enters the glamorous yet treacherous world of Autumn Court life, where appearances are everything, and even the slightest misstep could ruin her families reputation. As the youngest daughter of a noble family, she's expected to smile, nod, and blend in - just like her older sister. But when Penelope's curiosity about inter-court politics leads to a forbidden mention of unrest, she quickly realizes she may not have the weaponry for the brutal battle of social court, especially when she runs up against heir to the court, Eris Vanserra.

Content Warnings:

Emotional manipulation

Verbal and emotional abuse

Power imbalances

Anxiety and panic

Mentions of sexism & misogyny

Dark themes of cruelty

Word Count: 5,780

Master List: A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

Tagged: @mrsjna @lilah-asteria @ambivalence-is-me @rcarbo1 @aaliyahmorielle  @feyrfly

The days that followed passed in a blur of monotony, marked by endless hours spent poring over documents that seemed to serve no discernible purpose. That is, if Penelope had been given any real purpose to begin with. The vague directive to review the papers strewn across Eris’s impossibly large desk had offered little more than a way to occupy her time. Most mornings were spent hunched over the desk, convoluted writing of males who seemed to use twenty words where she could summarize in five. Dust-covered books, untouched for half a century, added to her frustrations as she flipped through their brittle, yellowed pages in search of anything actually useful. 

By the afternoons, her momentum had waned. The words blurred together as her eyes grew heavy, and she found herself staring at the same sentences without the slightest notion of comprehension. The stillness of the manor pressed in around her, seeming to grow tighter each day. 

The Autumn Manor itself, vast and wholly unfamiliar, felt less like a home and more like a gilded cage. Seeking some semblance of relief, Penelope had taken to wandering the servants’ quarters. The narrower, utilitarian hallways lacked the opulence of the High Family’s living quarters, and yet she found the simplicity of it to be a strange comfort. Stone corridor after stone corridor often led to doors opening into gardens–or to dead ends, where solid walls marked the abrupt conclusion of her explorations. It was odd, she thought, for a house to have hallways that lead nowhere. Then again, the seeming purposelessness of it all mirrored the seeming purposelessness of the opulence of the Manor altogether. 

The labyrinthine layout did at times disorient her, and more than once, Penelope found herself retracing her steps, certain she’d passed the same ornate portrait at least three times. She often wandered until she felt she might never find her way back, lost in the belly of the Manor, only to be startled by a familiar corridor or landmark that guided her back to her chambers. 

Nights brought little solace. Sleep eluded her more often than not, and she spent countless hours tossing and turning in the too-firm bed, the scratchy woolen blankets offering more discomfort than warmth. The chill of the room settled deeply in her bones despite her efforts to burrow deeply, and she began wearing her heaviest gowns to bed in the futile effort to remain warm.

The wind continued its restless murmuring, slipping through the windows with a persistent hiss. Though she no longer startled at the sound it left her with a deep unease. And then there were the footsteps.

She told herself they were nothing. The house settling, perhaps, or rodents scratching within the ancient walls. But the sound came–faint, deliberate, unmistakably like footsteps–she dared not look at the light beneath her door. The memory of seeing shadows there, unmoving and impossible, was too fresh, too vivid. She wasn’t sure she could bear the sight of them again, the weight of knowing someone–or something–might be right outside the door. 

It was all silly, of course. Mere childish illusions brought on my exhaustion and the unsettling adjustment to a new environment. Foolish. Right?

And yet, the unease lingered in her belly. 

The other advisors remained no more welcoming than they had been during her initial introduction. Penelope had learned their names and roles not through any formal introductions, but through the fragmented pieces of conversation she had overheard and the context she had gleaned from observing them at meals. Gregor, the rotund male whose every word and action seemed designed to provoke disgust, advised the High Lord on military strategy. His manner was as brutish as his appearance, his opinions delivered with a bluntness that left little room for nuance. 

Elias, with his chestnut hair and the faint arrogance of youth, handled economic matters. His purview extended both internally and externally, overseeing trade routes, resource allocation, and financial strategies for court prosperity. Of the three present advisors, he was the least openly hostile, though his sharp remarks and veiled condescension carried their own weight of disdain. 

Alaric, was no less unwelcoming. Tall and spare with silver streaked hair pulled back neatly, he gave the general tone of being perpetually unimpressed and barely seemed to acknowledge Penelope at all. Through snippets of conversation, Alraric was the Autumn Court’s expert in historical affairs, with his knowledge spanning centuries of Prythian’s history. He ensured legacy and tradition remained upheld and advised on everything from diplomatic ceremonies to the proper handling of disputes steeped in ancient precedents.

Then there was Vanderguard, the oldest and most imposing of all three. His hawk-like gaze rarely left her when they were in the same room, and his words–when he chose to speak–cut through the air with the authority of one who had advised Beron Vanserra personally since the beginning of his High Lordship. Vanderguard’s loyalty was clear, his every move calculated to maintain the power and order of the Autumn Court, regardless of who might fall by the wayside. 

The fifth advisor, Pollard, was absent–sent away on what Penelope had pieced together to be a matter of grave importance. Pollard had been Eris’s personal advisor, tasked with guiding the heir into his future role, should he take on the High Lordship. It was no secret that Beron favored Eris as his successor, though his younger brothers vied bitterly for the title, their antics described in tones of disdain during hushed conversations among the staff. The Vanserra family, it seemed, was a storm barely contained within the walls of the manor. Baron’s decision to appoint Pollard as Eris’s mentor had been seen by some as a sign of confidence in his eldest son, though Penelope wondered the truth of that. Beron seemed to care little for anyone but himself and she hazarded a guess that Beron didn’t consider what would happen to his court after his death. Perhaps he didn’t fully believe he could die.

Penelope had heard the rumblings of a rather sinister nature as being the reason for Pollard’s absence–a growing threat beyond Prythian’s borders that required immediate, discreet attention. Whatever Pollard had been sent to address, it was clear from the advisors’ cryptic discussions that the matter was far from trivial. And yet, no one seemed willing to elaborate on what, exactly, was unfolding beyond the Autumn Court’s gilded halls. 

Nearly a week had passed since Madame Alba had informed Penelope of Lord Eris’s delay, and she was beginning to wonder if he would ever return–or if this was all some cruel and unusual plan to humiliate her. The thought gnawed at the edges of her mind. Regardless of her doubts, she kept to her duties, performing them with a quiet diligence that felt more like survival than purpose. 

On the seventh day of her solitude, as the golden light of the late morning filtered weakly through the high windows of Eris’s study, she heard footsteps echoing down the corridor outside. The sound startled her–it had been days since she’d heard anything other than the rustle of pages or the occasional creak of the old manor settling. She froze for a moment, her hand still resting on the edge of a book filled with yellowed, brittle trade maps. Her legs were curled beneath her in the oversized chair behind Eris’s desk, her posture more casual than she would have dared if he were present. 

The footsteps grew closer and stopped outside the study door. A light knock followed. ‘

Penelope glanced up from the faded lines of borders and rivers she hadn’t truly been studying. Her heart gave a faint flutter–of apprehension or relief. She cleared her throat, the sound rasping in the quiet. “Come in,” she called out. 

The brass doorknob turned with a soft click, and the door creaked open just a crack before swinging wider. Standing in the doorway was one of the maids Penelope recognized from the servants’ quarters. The girl’s eyes were wide and youthful, but her rough, calloused hands bore the unmistakable marks of years of hard labor. 

“My apologies for interrupting you, my lady,” the maid said, her voice light and inviting–a stark contrast to the cold formality Penelope had grown accustomed to the last seven days. It was the warmest voice she had heard since her arrival. “But Lord Beron has requested your presence in the council room immediately.” 

Penelope froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Lord Beron? She stared at the maid, her mind scrambling to process the words. The High Lord of the Autumn Court–Beron Vanserra himself–was summoning her? The mere thought sent a jolt of icy panic through her veins. Why? What could he possibly want with her? Did he even know who she was?

The knot in her stomach tightened, but she forced herself to remain calm. “Thank you,” she said, her voice measured. 

The maid bobbed her head in acknowledgement and turned quickly on her heel, leaving the door ajar as she disappeared down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed faintly, fading into the silence of the manor. 

Penelope stood motionless for a moment, staring at the open door as if expecting one of the maids to return and clarify that there had been some sort of mistake. But no one came, and the weight of the summons settled heavily on her shoulders. Lord Beron–the figure whose shadow loomed over every corner of the Autumn court–had called upon her. It wasn’t an honor; it felt like a threat. 

She swallowed hard and set the book she’d been holding onto the desk, her hands trembling slightly as she smoothed her skirts. With a deep, shaking breath, she stepped out of the study and into the dimly lit hall. Of course Beron knows who I am, she told herself firmly. His son–his heir–asked me to come to the manor as an advisor. This is expected. 

But the reasoning felt hollow. The idea of standing before Beron Vanserra himself, without Eris or anyone else present to mediate and provide context, gnawed at her nerves. It felt…wrong. And yet, it couldn’t be wrong. Not when it came from the direct command of the High Lord.

This is fine, she repeated inwardly, her pace steady as she descended the back staircase leading out of the servants’ quarters. I’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no reason to think otherwise. 

The words should have provided some comfort, but the coiling unease in her chest told a very different story. As she stepped into the grand main hall, the walls of the manor began to press down onto her again, the vaulted ceilings amplifying every sound of her quickening footsteps. The polished tile echoed sharply beneath her heels as if the house was announcing her arrival, loudly and rudely. 

The grand doors were slightly ajar, their dark wood towering above her. From within, voices echoed faintly. All male. Her stomach twisted as she recognized the distinct and almost smoky voice of Vanderguard’s voice alongside Beron’s. The realization sent a fresh wave of fear and apprehension crashing over her as she grew ever closer.

This is worse than just Beron himself, she thought, her hands brushing her skirts again in a futile attempt to calm her trembling fingers. If Beron’s command was a fire, Vanderguard’s scrutiny was the blade that followed. 

As the grand double doors swung open, pushed forth by two attending footmen, Penelope stepped into the council room–a space that she had only heard mentions of in passing but had never actually stepped foot in until now. The sight of it struck her immediately. The room was built to intimidate. Its vaulted ceilings stretched high above, the dark wooden beams intricately carved with knotwork that seemed almost alive in the flickering faelight. Massive iron chandeliers, spiked and foreboding, hung from the beams, their candles casting uneven shadows that danced across the vast expanse of the ceiling. 

In the center of the room sat a table of commanding presence–an immense piece of dark oak polished to a mirror-like gleam. Its surface was starkly bare, save for a few scattered documents, an inkwell, and a quill resting near Vanderguard’s place. Ten heavy chairs with high carved backs sat around the edge of the table. All but one was occupied. 

Penelope bit the inside of her cheek, her pulse quickened as her eyes flicked to Vanderguard. He was speaking, his voice sharp and deliberate, though she couldn’t quite make out the words. She hovered in the entryway, uncertain whether to move forward or wait to be acknowledged. Gregor, Elias and Alaric also sat at the table, clearly having also been summoned, but it felt improper to her to approach the table without being beckoned. Her gaze shifted to Beron, seated at the far end of the table, the High Lord’s presence was nearly impossible to ignore. 

Beron Vanserra sat back in his chair, his posture casual yet commanding. He leaned onto the armrest, his sharp, angular face partially obscured by his long fingers as he rested his face against them. His eyes, assessing and unrelenting, remained fixed on Vanderguard as the advisor spoke. Though his demeanor seemed relaxed, there was a tension in the room, and Penelope felt it the moment she stepped foot inside. 

To her right, nearly camouflaged among the towering, thirty-foot tapestries lining the walls, a footman stepped forward. The deep reds and golds of the woven images cast him in muted hues and she barely had noticed he was there. He moved to the single empty chair near the end of the table, pulling it out with a faint scrape of wood against stone. Turning toward Penelope, he gestured silently for her to take her seat. 

Her chest tightened as she forced her feet to move. As she neared the table, Vanderguard’s voice paused mid-sentence, and she felt weight of every gaze around the table shift toward her. Sharp, assessing eyes bore into her. 

She prayed no one noticed as she swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that had collected in the back of her throat. The footman stepped back as she eased into the empty chair, her hands smoothing her skirts beneath the table in a vain attempt to steady herself. Still, the eyes lingered, watching, waiting. 

After what felt like an eternity, Vanderguard’s voice resumed. Apparently, she thought, I’m supposed to be at this table. 

She glanced around the table, her gaze flitting over the faces surrounding her. Four advisors, each one stoic and sharp, Beron at the head of the table, two of his sons seated beside him–faces she had only recognized in passing. And then, directly across from her, Eris. 

He was almost lounging in his chair. When their eyes met, a faint, amused grin curved his lips and he let out a soft, almost noiseless chuckle. Penelope furrowed her brows as she tried to decipher the source of his amusement. But Eris offered nothing, merely pressing his bottom lip between his teeth as though to stifle further laughter. His amber eyes seemed to dance briefly before he turned his attention back to the conversation at the head of the table. 

Penelope’s ears still rang faintly from the rush of the blood pounding in them, but as the voices of Vanderguard and Beron filled the room once more, the tension in her chest began to ease.

“My lord,” Vanderguard continued as Penelope finally managed to pick up the thread in the conversation, “she was at one time an enemy to our court. And now, simply because the bloodshed has ended, there’s no reason to start letting those who were enemies back within our borders.” 

Beron Vanserra shifted slightly in his seat, lifting his brows. With a small sigh, his hand dropped to the table, his fingertips tracing the intricate carved patterns in the polished oak absentmindedly. “But would it not be detrimental to lose out on an opportunity such as this one?” he countered. “Imports from other courts have been lacking, and it seems that outsourcing to further lands would be strategic.” His amber eyes, the same as his sons flicked to Elias, his expression expectant. 

Elias, caught in the debilitating gaze of the High Lord, straightened in his seat, his hands flattening against the table as he gathered himself. He stammered slightly before finding the right words. “I will admit,” he began cautiously, “that trade within Prythian has not been as prosperous as it once was. Biodiversity from other continents could–potentially–bring new economic growth.” 

Beron inclined his head slightly and gestured back to Vanderguard. “So it seems as though this isn’t something we should simply dismiss.” 

Before Vangerguard could respond, Gregor cleared his throat, the grating sound making Penelope cringe. Everything about the male–his mannerisms, his tone, his mere presence–seemed to have that effect on her. “The war we fought has long since passed,” he said. “And from everything I’ve gathered, their armies are disbanded, their ranks in shambles.” He paused, his eyes scanning the table. “At this point, if they’re looking to make amends, I’d wager it’s because they’re struggling to rebuild after the war’s end.” 

Penelope noticed Vanderguard’s expression hardened as he turned his gaze toward Gregor, skeptical. The two locked eyes. Gregor might have held authority in matters of war and military, but Vanderguard’s influence wasn’t far behind.

The stalemate was broken by Eris–his voice calm and measured. “From the little communication I’ve received from Pollard,” he said, “they’ve been more than accommodating. From what I can tell, they seem genuine in their desire to restart trade.” 

Penelope turned to him, watching as his amber eyes remained focused on his father. She had imagined Eris sitting quietly in these meetings, meant to observe his fathers machinations, perhaps offering a question here or there to learn. But now, hearing him speak with such confidence, caught her off guard. He wasn’t a mere student–he was a participant.

Beron nodded at his son’s comment, then turned toward Alaric, seated further down the table. “And what of the other courts? Are they opening their borders?” 

Alaric responded quickly. “I believe they are engaging in the same conversations we are. The Spring Court, however, has been notably accommodating. Their High Lord has even gone so far as to bring his son to court events hosted by them.”

Beron scoffed, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t put much stock in the decisions of a brute as large and unsubtle as he,” he muttered, his words dripping with disdain.

A ripple of low chuckling worked its way around the table, the faintest smiles breaking through some of the advisors' more composed expressions. Penelope noticed, however, that Eris remained mostly silent, his focus still fixed on his father. 

“So it’s decided, then. We reopen trade,” Beron stated, carrying an air of finality. 

Alaric shifted in his seat, his mouth opening slightly as though he were about to protest, but he quickly thought better of it and held his tongue. Elias offered a tight-lipped smile, though the incredulity of it was unmistakable. Strange, Penelope thought. For the advisor in charge of trade, he didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about the new opportunities this decision would bring. 

It was Vanderguard who seemed the most perturbed. His long fingers rubbed together slowly, and his shoulders sagged as if he were releasing a silent, reluctant sight. Beron, oblivious–or perhaps uncaring–clapping his large hand down on the table, the sound echoing through the chamber like a thunderclap. The reverberation made Penelope flinch slightly in her chair. 

“I expect to see a drawing of trade routes and actionable plans before the end of the week,” Beron bellowed. “And send word to their trade masters that we will set up a formal meeting to discuss next steps.”

Vanderguard bent over the parchment in front of him, his quill scratching hastily across the surface. Penelope guessed he was making a detailed list of tasks, likely to assign to the others. The sound of the quill’s movements was oddly loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Hazarding a glance toward Eris, Penelope noted his outward composure, calm and collected as always. But her eyes lingered on his hands. His knuckles were growing paler with each passing moment as his thumb rubbed slowly over them, as though he was restraining himself. 

Beron scanned the room, his gaze sweeping across the table. “Is this going to be an issue for anyone?” he asked. It wasn’t a question–it was a challenge. 

No one spoke. No one dared. 

Penelope found it peculiar, unsettling even, that this group of advisors–assembled to guide the High Lord, to make decisions in the best interest of the Autumn Court–seemed to fall into silence so easily when faced with his preconceived notions. For all their supposed expertise, their collective deference to Beron’s dominance struck her as both troubling and calculating. 

The silence lingered a beat longer, punctuated only by the faint scratching of Vanderguard’s quill. Penelope kept her gaze steady, careful not to draw attention to herself as Beron’s eyes finally hit her. They lingered, and it seemed as though he locked his jaw slightly before moving on from her. She felt herself breathe relief.

“Well,” Beron said, his eyes widening, “I’m not sure what you all are sitting around for. It seems you have plenty to do.” 

The words were laced with hint of amusement, but the underlying command was unmistakable. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as the advisors scrambled to rise, their movements bordering on desperation. Vanderguard was the first to gather his parchment, tucking it neatly under one arm as he strode briskly toward the door. Gregor followed close behind, his boots clunking heavily as he muttered something under his breath. Elias and Alaric both seemed to hesitate for a second, catching each other's eye from across the table before casting a glance at Beron before hurrying after the others. 

Penelope rose more slowly, encumbered by her skirts. Her gaze drifted across the table, landing on Eris. Unlike the others, he hadn’t made a move to leave. He remained seated, his posture unchanged, leaning back slightly in his chair with one arm perched on the table. His eyes were still fixed on his father as though dissecting him. 

For a moment, Penelope hesitated, unsure whether to follow the exodus of other advisors or remain behind. The room felt heavier now, as if the departure of the others had left a vacuum that pressed down on her. She cleared her throat softly, but Eris didn’t seem to notice at first. 

Beron had turned away, leaning slightly toward one of his sons as he spoke in low tones that Penelope couldn’t quite catch. Whatever was being said was clearly not for the ears of the room. She shifted her gaze back to Eris, who still hadn’t moved, his attention locked on his father. 

Clearing her throat slightly, Penelope tried again, the sound barely audible over the faint murmur of Beron’s conversation. This time, it seemed to pull Eris from whatever trance he’d fallen into. His attention snapped to her, his amber eyes narrowing slightly as though he’d forgotten she was still there. After a beat, his lips curved into a faint smile–a polite gesture more than anything else, entirely devoid of warmth. 

“Lady Penelope,” he said at last in his low, smooth voice. 

“My lord,” she replied, dipping into a small curtsey. 

Eris rose from the table then, the scrape of his chair loud in the cavernous room and he buttoned his jacket. There was something unreadable in his expression as he cast one final glance towards his father, who was still enveloped in the quiet conversation at the end fo the table. 

Then, Eris turned to her fully, straightening, though his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than expected. “Let’s chat,” she said simply. 

Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the door. Penelope hesitated for a fraction of a second before following, her footsteps quickening to match his as they passed through the grand doors of the advising hall. 

The two walked in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stones as they ascended the steps and made their way down the corridor to Eris’s study. Penelope waited for Eris to say anything, though he remained silent. 

Once they were inside the confines of his study, Eris let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping as his hands curled over the edge of the doors. He leaned against them for a moment before shutting them with a soft click. 

Penelope stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure whether to sit or remain standing. Eris turned to face her, clapping his hands together with a smile that was surprisingly warm. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he remarked, crossing the room before settling into the chair behind his desk. As he settled in, he immediately began shuffling through the scattered documents on his desk, seemingly mildly confused. Without hesitation, he picked up a few and tossed them unceremoniously into the wastebasket at his side. 

Penelope’s heart sank as she recognized the parchment–maps and records she had painstakingly reviewed for days, trying to make sense of their contents. Her mouth opened slightly, the beginning of a protest forming on her lips before she swallowed them, the words dying in her throat. 

Eris picked up another piece of paper, glanced at it briefly, and made a similar judgement, his hand moving towards the wastebasket. Just as Penelope was resummoning the courage to say something, his eyes flicked up to meet hers, a faint, annoying smug tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You can sit down, you know,” he said. 

Penelope hesitated for a moment before stepping forwards and easing into the chair opposite Eris. 

The heir continued rifling through documents, his attention flicking briefly to each page before discarding them into the wastebasket without a second thought. Each sound of crumbled paper hitting the bin caused the rage simmering in Penelope’s stomach to churn higher. It was like the discarded pages were stoking the fire. 

Eris peeked up at her then. He raised a brow. “Are you going to say anything? Or are we going to just sit in silence?” 

Penelope’s jaw tightened as the pang of frustration and anger rose, traveling from her chest to her throat. “What would you like me to say?” She asked, her voice laced with restrained irritation. 

Eris paused, curling the edge of the paper in his hand to see her better over it, his expression shifted as he studied her. “What?” he asked.

Penelope shrugged, her voice more pointed now. “What would you like me to say, my lord?”

Eris exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a groan as he leaned back in his chair, the paper dangling loosely from his fingers. His head tilted slightly as he regarded her with a look of mild annoyance. “Come now, Penelope,” he said, “Let’s not start all of this.” 

“All of what, my lord?” she shot back, her brows furrowing. Her anger bubbled right beneath the surface. His title, though delivered politely, came out with barbs. 

Eris lowered the paper, gesturing vaguely toward her with a flick of his hand. “All of this,” he said. “All this formality.” He paused, searching for the right word. “It’s exhausting.” 

Penelope’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at him. The audacity. 

“Then tell me how you would like me to be, my lord,” she shot back. 

Eris let out a louder, more theatrical groan this time, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop it with the ‘my lord’ shit,” he said bluntly. 

The unexpected profanity caught her off guard, her brows lifting slightly as the word hung in the air. 

“It’s pandering,” he continued, leaning forward slightly in his chair, narrowing his eyes at her. “Annoying, even. I’ve been hearing it all week–every second of every damn day. If you address me with ‘my lord’ every time you open your mouth, it’s taking at least a century off both my life and yours.” 

He was clearly annoyed, his patience fraying, though Penelope couldn’t begin to guess the length of rope he was at the end of. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. 

Eris rolled his eyes slightly. The irritation in his expression didn’t waver. “What now?” he asked.

Penelope peered up at him from beneath her brows, her fingers tightening slightly against her skirts. “Nothing,” she replied, her words clipped. 

Eris leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he fixed her with a pointed stare. “Why are you acting like a brat?” 

Her mouth dropped open, her shock and offence immediately flaring to life. “Excuse me?” she demanded, her voice sharper now, her hands going to grip the arm leans of the chair. 

“You heard me,” he said bluntly. “You’re acting like a brat and I have no idea why.” 

Penelope’s pulse thundered in her ears, the audacity of his words igniting something in her. “Brat?” She repeated, the word was almost a hiss. “I don’t believe I’ve done or said anything to warrant being called that, my lord.” 

Eris didn’t flinch and he met her glare head on. “We’ve seen each other for, what? Five minutes? And you’re already acting like I’ve done something wrong. So what is it?” His voice remained calm, but there was a notable sharpness in it that sent Penelope into a rage. 

“Maybe I’m acting like this because I’ve been sitting in this house for a week with no direction, no support, and no idea why I’m here in the first place,” she snapped. “And now you show up and toss aside the only work I’ve done like it’s nothing. So forgive me, my lord, if I’m not brimming with joy.” 

Her words hung in the air. Eris blinked slightly and glanced down to the table strewn with papers and books, his expression shifting slightly, though it was hard to tell if it was surprise, guilt, or annoyance that flickered across his face. 

“Well,” he said finally, leaning back in his chair. “At least we’re being honest with one another.” 

Penelope wasn’t finished. “And I think brat was completely uncalled for,” she said. “Frankly, it was immature.”

Eris chuckled low, and faintly mocking. “I’m being immature?” he said, raising a brow. “You’re the one pouting.” 

Her hands shot up in frustration. “What am I doing?” she asked with exasperation. “I’m just sitting here! I haven’t done anything!” 

Eris leaned back in his chair, gesturing vaguely toward her with a flick of his hand. “Your face is pouty,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. 

Penelope’s jaw dropped, her hands clenching in her lap. “My face is–what?!” she sputtered. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not pouting, I’m–” She cut herself off, realizing how defensive she was being, which only made her cheeks burn hotter. 

Eris shrugged nonchalantly, though the mischievous glint still sat in his eyes. “You don’t have to admit it,” she said smoothly, tilting his head slightly as if assessing her. “But it’s written all over you. Sulking, sighing, your quiet glare.” 

Penelope huffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t walked in here acting like everything I’ve done is worthless, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation and I would have acted like a ‘brat.’”

Eris’s smile faltered and he blinked at her. “What?” 

She gestured sharply to the documents strewn about the table. “All the things you left me to read over and review?” 

Eris’s brow furrowed, genuine confusion flickering across his face as he glanced at the pages. “What documents?” he asked in disbelief. 

Penelope leaned forwards, her hands pressing against the desk as her sharp gaze pinned him in place. “The documents you left me to look over,” she said deliberately.

“I didn’t leave you anything,” Eris shot back, his voice rising slightly, though the confusion in his expression seemed genuine. 

Her mouth opened, but she closed it quickly, her mind scrambling. “Madame Alba told me they were from you,” she said after a beat, her voice firmer now, as if stating it aloud might make it irrefutable. “She said you wanted me to review them while you were away.” 

Eris shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he examined the documents again. “I didn’t leave anything,” he repeated firmly, his tone laced with disbelief. He gestured toward the papers with a faint scoff. “I haven’t seen half of these before, and most of them are useless—worthless documents that aren’t worth the ink they’re written with.”

The knot in Penelope’s stomach tightened, unease curling in her chest as confusion morphed into something sharper. “Then… whose idea was it for me to waste a week of my time going through all of this?” she demanded, her voice rising slightly as her frustration seeped through.

Eris leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking faintly as he relaxed into it. He chuckled softly, his gaze drifting downward to his hands, where he rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the amusement in his tone grating against Penelope’s nerves. “But it’s clear someone wanted to keep you busy.”

Penelope’s chest tightened at his words, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks. “To keep me busy?” she echoed, her tone edged with incredulity. “Why? Why waste my time like that?”

Eris stifled another laugh, though his smirk remained intact. “Maybe to test you,” he said with a casual shrug, as if the thought were inconsequential. “Or maybe to humiliate you.”

His chuckle came again, light and irritatingly unaffected, until Penelope shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. His laughter died in his throat, though the smirk lingered faintly at the corner of his mouth.

“Either way,” he said, his tone softening slightly, “it wasn’t me.”

Penelope stared at him, her anger and embarrassment simmering dangerously close to the surface. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” she snapped. “That it wasn’t you? That someone deliberately set me up to look like an idiot?”

“Look Penelope,” Eris offered, “What’s done is done. It’s no harm.” 

Penelope fell back in her chair, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she attempted to temper the growing irritation. She tilted her head slightly onto Eris. “And where have you been the last few days?” she demanded. 

Eris’s faint smirk vanished instantly, his expression hardening into something more serious. His jaw tightened briefly, and the easy, almost teasing feeling between the two of them dissipated entirely. 

“That,” he said, his voice steady and low, “is what we need to talk about.”

A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

[confession-of-the-heart]

Kingdom Hearts' story is not all that confusing tbh, or at least isn't "fully incomprehensible and makes NO sense" levels. It's got some convolution but nothing super labyrinthine and not that it doesn't at least try to explain at some point along itself, people just think too much/explain stuff badly and make it seem way more complex than it actually is sometimes TBH.

~~~

[nomelwelloy]

Alhaitham & Kaveh drabble | light angst

It's a quiet Friday night. Kaveh is draped over the back of the sofa, transfixed on his sleeping roommate’s face.

The dim glow of the crystal lamp dusts a soft yellow glow across Haitham’s face. Even in his sleep, he is largely expressionless, save for the occasional movement under his eyelids and the briefest twitch of his brow. His book rests on his chest with his finger still between the pages of where he’d stopped before sleep stole him away.

Despite his alcohol-hazy and fatigue-fogged mind, Kaveh recognises the title as one of Haitham’s newest reads, picked up at the start of the week- amongst three other titles. Was he a speed-reader? How many words did he capture at a glance? Kaveh wonders, when Haitham reads, if pictures form in his mind, or are abstract ideas contained in the shape, weight, and sound of the words.

He touches his forehead with his fingertip, as though he can connect to his thoughts and reach somewhere beneath his stony facade. Alas, there is no way to read Haitham, no matter how hard he tries; He is a blueprint Kaveh may study ten thousand times, but never be able to figure it’s labyrinthine layers, always stuck at sharp angles and convoluted diagrams that lead to nowhere.

Kaveh’s eyes trace over Haitham’s lips, and his hand follows in its wake. His finger trails along his cupid’s bow, thumb sweeping over the swell of his bottom lip.

Kaveh bites down on his own lower lip, teeth worrying the already broken skin as an undeniable ache to press his own against Haitham’s blooms in his chest.

It’s a familiar feeling, one that has not surfaced for a long time- deadened by the belief that Haitham did not see him as anything more than a broken bird he saved out of pity; the snuffed out Light of Kshahrewar now crawling in soot and ashes.

Albeit this, the old flame flickers to life in his chest, weak but alight. And it is that which forces him over the edge of the sofa, leaning in as close as he dares to. A lock of hair comes loose from his ponytail and it gently sweeps across Haitham’s cheek. His trembling fingers are digging into the sofa seat and he struggles to balance on the balls of his feet.

Without warning, Haitham stretches, his eyes fluttering open in slow blinks. Kaveh falters and fails to recover in time, and he teeters over the sofa.

A series of grunts and curses and more groans follow as Haitham is pinned under him and tries to get Kaveh’s elbow off his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?” Haitham hisses, struggling to breathe with Kaveh’s knee still on his stomach.

“Shit, sorry,” Kaveh mumbles, scrambling to get off but his limbs have turned to jelly and he’s not doing much except fall over Haitham again.

“Stop moving,” Haitham tries to grab him by the elbows but Kaveh isn’t listening and accidentally knees Haitham in the groin. Haitham hisses with a low curse and tightens his grip on him. “Stop,” he growls, the flash of irritation in his tone reflecting in his eyes.

Kaveh’s tongue turns to stone and all he can manage is wordless gaping. He’s perched atop Haitham and straddling his lap, and Kaveh’s cheeks grow hot at the realisation, but he’s bound by that single word that forces him to remain obediently still. “Sorry,” is all he can manage.

Haitham breathes sharply, brows furrowed while he regains his composure. “If it’s that game where you try to walk the shortest possible distance from the door to your room, I swear-”

“Can I go now?” Kaveh asks, vaguely aware of how distant his voice sounds form his body- disembodied, he recalls the word to be- his mind is elsewhere too, trying to distract from how close they are. His heartbeat pounds in his ears and all he can feel is that warmth radiating from beneath him, separated only by a few layers of fabric.

Kaveh manages to stand, swaying unsteadily even with Haitham’s help, before he quickly shuffles away from him. He’s halfway to his room when he realises his hair tie has come loose, and he glances over his shoulder to the sofa for it, but his mind goes blank when their eyes meet.

Haitham drops the hair tie in his hands on his way to his own room, but not before shooting him an odd look. When Kaveh refuses to meet his gaze, however, he eventually bids him goodnight and disappears behind his door.

Kaveh grips the hair tie in a death grip, teeth worrying his lip as he wills himself not to cry. What had compelled him to attempt a kiss of all things, he could not fathom- least of all Haitham’s serious lack of reaction. Had he actually read him wrong this whole time, or was it just in his head?

His colleagues often touted liquid courage as a supposed help with matters such as these, but perhaps it was that Kaveh lacked any at all in the first place.

[vulpinexi]

Feet would move in a canonical pattern, with the miniscule heels of his shoes creating a repetitive sound atop pristine tiled floor. Slender fingers had encircled firmly the handle of the ceramic utensil, with his preferable liquid concoction poured inside. His mind filled with an array of contemplations, centralized in the completion of his aspirations that is approaching dangerously ---

And yet, their interruption took transpiration.

Momentarily, chestnut hues would glance at his surroundings, as the sight of the slightly open door became part of his vision. He had acknowledged to whom this particular room belongs to, notwithstanding the uncanny similitude of each doorframe installed within the stronghold of Las Noches. However, what caught partial attentiveness was the unrecognizable voice emitting from the room that Inoue Orihime was taking temporary residence in. Thence, seconds thereafter his destination altered for the sake of quenching mundane inquisitiveness, as feet began moving again, in a more idle motion this time; soon to find himself standing right at the doorframe hat leads to her private encirclement. A concise scrutiny that led to a technological device he had promised to bestow, should her assistance be satisfactory enough. In actuality, such fact was of no concernment; the minute she was brought to this realm, she was subjected to follow his regulationship.

Hmm.

A faint arch of slender brow was all he allowed himself to unveil as expressionism, as clamor from foremotioned gadget would echo cranial walls. It has come to an immense surprise to behold that such a pure human being would appreciate the usage of profanity, especially in such perpetuity.

Profanity, profanity, and more profanity.

Beholdenly, there was habitual unreadability plastered, with the minor exception of mentioned arch of brow. What in the world is this program? Hm, perhaps this could have been a mistake.

✼        ━━━━━        Expletives   intertwine   humorously   with   laughter,   merging   with   TV's   sound.   An   oddly   fitting   duet,   idiosyncratic   yet   incontrovertibly   captivating.   Cocooned   contentedly   in   the   comfortable   warmth   of   her   blanket,   she   follows   the   unfolding   episode,   irises   glowing   with   excitement,   an   enthusiasm   she   keeps   for   moments   like   this.   The   exchange,   unrefined   though   it   may   be,   obscures   surprising   gems;   subtle   perceptions   nestled   within   vulgarity,   gastronomic   techniques   she   hadn't   anticipated   gaining   from   such   irreverent   sardonicism.

Her   mind   wanders   briefly   to   innumerable   evenings   spent   submerged   in   dense,   labyrinthine   texts.   Aizen's   tasks   had   been   meticulously   brutal,   offering   no   forbearance,   forcing   her   down   convoluted   corridors   of   obscure   verses,   cryptic   metaphors.   Poetry,   of   all   literary   pursuits   her   least   favored,   had   morphed   into   her   confidant.   She   had   fought   vehemently   with   ambiguous   interpretations,   extracting   lucidity   from   opaque   phrases.   Now   the   TV   rests   in   her   embrace,   tangible   proof   of   her   triumph,   hard-earned.

When   the   screen   abruptly   succumbs   to   the   intrusive   glare   of   commercials,   her   awareness   blooms   toward   the   hushed   rustle   at   the   threshold.   She   recognizes   him   instantly,   his   aura   is   unmistakable.   Tilting   her   head   toward   the   entrance,   auburn   locks   cascade   along   her   jawline.   "Do   you   intend   to   linger   there   all   evening,   or   will   you   step   in?"   Timbre   echoes   comfortably   through   the   chamber.   Lonely?   Perhaps.

[furyblaze76tm]

✨ArchaeoAstrology

🧜🏾‍♀️Vixen

🎭Angela Bassett

- Erika Sloane

🎞️”Mission Impossible

The Final Reckoning" aims high, delivering the explosive action and death-defying stunts the franchise is known for.

📑Creative Analysis:

“Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning" (M:I 8)

Aims high, delivering the explosive action and death-defying stunts the franchise is known for.

However, it appears the film fell victim to its own ambitions, with its **mixed reception** reflecting a divide between its visual spectacle and its storytelling flaws.

Here's a deeper dive into how this installment both soars and stumbles:

📜 Strengths:

Where the Mission Succeeds

🤵🏻‍♂️Tom Cruise's Unyielding Dedication

- At 62 years old, Tom Cruise continues to redefine what it means to be an action star.

His **commitment to jaw-dropping stunts**, such as the now-iconic **Biplane Sequence**, is nothing short of extraordinary.

This relentless pursuit of authenticity ensures the action feels visceral and real—something few actors in modern cinema can replicate.

2. **Action as a Visual Ballet**

- The franchise's signature **high-octane action sequences** remain intact. From rooftop chases to gravity-defying combat, the film showcases the kind of **meticulously choreographed chaos** that fans of the series crave. Despite pacing issues in the first act, the action delivers a much-needed adrenaline boost just when it’s required.

3. **A Nostalgic Reunion**

- Returning characters like **Luther Stickell** and **Benji Dunn** lend the film a sense of continuity and camaraderie. Their presence reminds viewers of the franchise's **rich history**, creating emotional touchpoints amidst the chaos.

4. **New Faces Shine**

- The addition of talented actors like **Hannah Waddingham** injects fresh energy into the series. While the plot may falter, the **performances remain strong**, with each actor bringing their A-game, even when burdened with heavy exposition.

5. **Cinematic Beauty**

- Whether it’s sweeping aerial shots, dazzling cityscapes, or tense, close-quarters action, the film is a **feast for the eyes**. Its **visual polish** reinforces the sense of a globe-trotting spy saga, immersing audiences in its world despite narrative shortcomings.

---

#### **Weaknesses: When the Mission Stalls**

1. **Complexity Without Clarity**

- The plot's labyrinthine twists and turns might be intended to keep viewers guessing, but instead, they leave many feeling **alienated and confused**. A convoluted storyline loses its intrigue when it requires constant exposition to remain coherent.

2. **Exposition Overload**

- Speaking of exposition, the film’s heavy reliance on characters **explaining the plot** detracts from its momentum. Scenes that should feel thrilling or emotional are weighed down by overly detailed dialogue that feels more like a lecture than a narrative.

3. **Pacing Problems**

- The film's **three-hour runtime** is an ambitious choice, but not a justified one. The **slow first act** struggles to find its footing, delaying the payoff that fans are waiting for. By the time the action ramps up, some viewers may already feel disengaged.

4. **Retcon Risks**

- In an attempt to tie this installment to earlier films, the story **retcons certain elements**, which some fans feel detracts from the integrity of the series. Instead of expanding the "Mission: Impossible" universe, these changes make it feel **smaller and less cohesive**.

5. **Tone Disparity**

- The shift to a **somber, melodramatic tone** clashes with the **lighthearted fun** that earlier movies balanced so well. While stakes are expected to escalate in a finale, losing the franchise's signature charm may alienate long-time fans.

---

#### **Overall Impression: A Divided Legacy**

"Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning" is a paradox. It delivers on its **promise of action spectacle**, yet falters in its attempts to craft a satisfying, cohesive narrative. Fans of the franchise will undoubtedly appreciate the **thrills and stunts**, but the film's **bloated runtime**, **convoluted plot**, and **shifts in tone** may leave them wishing for the simplicity and charm of earlier installments.

Ultimately, the film stands as a testament to the franchise's ambition—but also as a reminder that **bigger isn’t always better**. For die-hard fans, it’s still an exhilarating ride. For others, however, it may feel like a mission best left unaccepted.

[weird-things-to-think]

Furtiv is lik a sneeky sneek, a shadowy figger slippin thru the crevices of reality, eluding the perceptual faculties of the uninitiated. Itz like a cat, but not a cat, more like a phantasmagorical entity that evades the ocular apparatus with an almost preternatural dexterity. Imagine a clandestine operashun in the labyrinthine corridors of a mind-bogglingly convoluted edifice, where every step is a dance of surreptitiousness and every breath is a whisper of the arcane. Furtiv is the art of being invisibul in plain sight, a masterclass in the esoteric discipline of not-being-seen-ness.

[medullalyweird]

The mind. Such a labyrinthine. An abys yet to be completely expored. Complex in not only its functionality but also in its convoluted anatomy. Stay with me. Let's try and attempt to scratch its base. Hope we don't end up with a basilar fracture or, worse of all, comminuted fracture. That would be catastrophic, wouldn't it?

[classicmarvelera]

The Clone Conundrum: How the 90s Spider-Man Saga Scrambled a Golden Opportunity

Get Spider-Man: Clone Saga Omnibus Vol. 1

Get Spider-Man: Clone Saga Omnibus Vo. 2

Few Spider-Man storylines have left as indelible a mark on comic book history as the infamous “Clone Saga” of the 1990s. What began as a bold narrative experiment evolved—or devolved—into a polarizing epic that alienated fans, frustrated creators, and complicated Spider-Man’s mythos. Despite its stellar roster of writers and artists, the Clone Saga became a sprawling, convoluted tale that epitomized missed potential. It was a fascinating concept on paper that, in execution, felt more like a scrambled egg than the golden goose Marvel hoped it would be.

This is the story of how a saga that could have been one of the most intriguing and impactful Spider-Man narratives instead became one of the most controversial.

The Promise of Simplicity

The Clone Saga wasn’t an entirely new concept. It traced its roots back to the 1970s when the original “clone” storyline introduced a duplicate of Peter Parker. That story ended with the apparent death of the clone, leaving Peter to continue as Spider-Man. In the 1990s, Marvel revisited this idea with a compelling twist: what if the Peter Parker fans had followed for decades wasn’t the real Peter Parker at all?

This premise offered a tantalizing opportunity to strip away decades of continuity baggage and return to the core of Spider-Man’s identity—a young, struggling hero trying to balance his personal life with his responsibilities as a crimefighter. By introducing Ben Reilly, Peter’s clone, as the “real” Spider-Man, Marvel aimed to rejuvenate the character and give fans a fresh perspective.

But here’s where things started to go wrong.

A Saga Stretched Too Thin

The Clone Saga was originally intended to last a few months. It was a straightforward tale of identity, responsibility, and self-discovery. However, as sales for Spider-Man comics surged during the saga’s early issues, Marvel’s editorial team decided to extend the storyline. What was meant to be a tightly woven narrative spiraled into a labyrinthine epic that stretched across multiple titles and years.

As the story dragged on, it became increasingly convoluted.

• New characters like Judas Traveller and Scrier, who were intended to add intrigue, instead felt out of place and disconnected from Spider-Man’s grounded world.

• Twists and reveals—such as Ben Reilly being the “real” Peter Parker and later reversing this revelation—alienated fans who felt jerked around by the shifting narrative.

Get Marvel Legends Ben Reilly Action Figure • The resurrection of Norman Osborn, the original Green Goblin, was a particularly contentious decision. Osborn’s death had been a defining moment in Spider-Man’s history, and bringing him back felt like a betrayal of that legacy.

The result? Reader fatigue. Fans who initially embraced the storyline grew frustrated by its seemingly endless detours and lack of resolution.

The Creative Struggles

Behind the scenes, the Clone Saga was a battleground of conflicting visions. Writers and editors clashed over the direction of the story, leading to inconsistencies in tone and plot. Howard Mackie, one of the key creators involved, later admitted that the saga became too unwieldy, with too many cooks in the kitchen.

Glenn Greenberg, author of “The Osborn Journal,” questioned the logic behind key plot points, such as Norman Osborn’s apparent willingness to let major events unfold without intervening. These inconsistencies undermined the story’s credibility and left readers scratching their heads.

The Fans Speak Out

If there was one thing the Clone Saga did well, it was spark debate. Fans were vocal about their dissatisfaction, particularly with the decision to replace Peter Parker with Ben Reilly. Peter Parker was, and remains, a beloved character. For many readers, the idea that he might be a clone was not only shocking but also unwelcome.

The backlash was so intense that Marvel eventually reversed course, reinstating Peter Parker as the one true Spider-Man. But by then, the damage had been done. The saga’s prolonged runtime and narrative missteps had alienated many readers, some of whom abandoned the comics altogether.

Bright Spots in the Chaos

It’s important to note that the Clone Saga wasn’t without merit. Despite its flaws, it introduced compelling new characters and ideas that left a lasting impact on Spider-Man lore.

• Ben Reilly, though divisive, gained a dedicated fanbase. His journey as the Scarlet Spider offered a fresh take on the Spider-Man mythos, and his struggles mirrored Peter Parker’s in interesting ways.

• The saga explored themes of identity and self-worth, posing thought-provoking questions about what it truly means to be “real.”

• The artwork by artists like Mark Bagley and Sal Buscema was consistently strong, capturing the energy and emotion of Spider-Man’s world.

These elements showed that the Clone Saga had the potential to be something great. Unfortunately, they were overshadowed by the story’s larger flaws.

The Aftermath

Marvel didn’t shy away from acknowledging the Clone Saga’s shortcomings. The company even poked fun at the storyline with the parody comic “Spider-Man: 101 Ways to End the Clone Saga” and a gag cover in an issue of “What If.” These self-referential nods highlighted Marvel’s awareness of the saga’s reception among fans and creators.

In the years since, the Clone Saga has been revisited and re-evaluated. While it remains a cautionary tale about the dangers of overextending a storyline, it’s also a testament to the enduring appeal of Spider-Man as a character. Even at its most chaotic, the Clone Saga reflected the core themes of responsibility, identity, and perseverance that have defined Spider-Man for decades.

A Golden Opportunity, Squandered

In hindsight, the Clone Saga had all the ingredients to become one of Spider-Man’s most intriguing storylines. It had a compelling premise, talented creators, and the potential to redefine the character in meaningful ways. Instead, it became a case study in how editorial interference and commercial pressures can derail a story.

The saga’s greatest tragedy is that it wasn’t inherently a bad idea. On the contrary, the concept of Peter Parker confronting his own identity and legacy was rich with narrative possibilities. But by stretching the story too thin and introducing too many twists, Marvel turned what could have been a streamlined and impactful tale into a convoluted mess.

Conclusion: Lessons Learned

The 90s Clone Saga remains a polarizing chapter in Spider-Man’s history. For some, it’s a nostalgic relic of an era defined by excess and experimentation. For others, it’s a cautionary tale about the perils of prioritizing sales over storytelling.

Ultimately, the Clone Saga was a missed opportunity—a golden idea that could have reinvigorated Spider-Man’s mythos but instead became a symbol of creative overreach. It’s a reminder that even the most beloved characters can stumble when their stories lose focus.

Yet, despite its flaws, the Clone Saga endures as a fascinating piece of Spider-Man lore. It’s a testament to the character’s resilience that even when his world was at its most chaotic, his core appeal remained intact. Spider-Man is and always will be, the friendly neighborhood hero who inspires us to keep going, no matter how tangled life’s web becomes.

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[jasminewalkerauthor]

Trope chats: Time travel

Time travel, a concept that has captivated human imagination for centuries, has been a recurring theme in literature and media, offering endless possibilities for exploration, reflection, and speculation. This essay delves into the rise and fall in popularity of time travel narratives, examines its use as a literary tool and symbol, and discusses the pitfalls inherent in its portrayal.

The origins of time travel in literature can be traced back to ancient myths and legends, where characters journeyed to distant pasts or futures through supernatural means. However, it wasn't until the late 19th and early 20th centuries that time travel became a prominent theme in fiction.

One of the earliest examples is H.G. Wells' seminal novel "The Time Machine" (1895), which popularized the notion of a machine capable of traversing through time. Wells' work laid the foundation for future time travel narratives, inspiring countless authors and filmmakers to explore the concept further.

Throughout the 20th century, time travel narratives flourished in various forms of literature and media, from classic science fiction novels like Ray Bradbury's "A Sound of Thunder" (1952) to iconic television shows like "Doctor Who" (1963-present). These narratives often served as vehicles for exploring philosophical questions about causality, free will, and the nature of reality.

Despite its enduring popularity, time travel experienced a decline in the latter half of the 20th century, as audiences and creators gravitated towards other speculative concepts. However, the genre experienced a resurgence in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, fueled by advancements in science and technology, as well as shifting cultural and social dynamics.

Films like "Back to the Future" (1985) and "The Terminator" (1984) revitalized interest in time travel, blending action, humor, and intricate plotlines to appeal to wider audiences. Similarly, television series such as "Lost" (2004-2010) and "Doctor Who" (2005-present) introduced new generations to the complexities and possibilities of time travel storytelling.

Time travel serves as a versatile literary tool, allowing authors and creators to explore a myriad of themes and concepts. It enables narratives to transcend temporal boundaries, weaving together disparate timelines and realities to craft compelling stories.

One of the most common uses of time travel is as a metaphor for exploring personal or societal change. Characters journeying through time often confront their past mistakes, grapple with unresolved conflicts, or seek redemption for past actions. In novels like Audrey Niffenegger's "The Time Traveler's Wife" (2003), time travel is used to explore themes of love, loss, and the passage of time.

Furthermore, time travel can function as a symbol for the human desire to escape the constraints of mortality and the inexorable march of time. In Jorge Luis Borges' short story "The Garden of Forking Paths" (1941), the protagonist embarks on a labyrinthine journey through time and space, reflecting the complexity and ambiguity of human existence.

Despite its narrative potential, time travel storytelling is fraught with pitfalls and challenges. Maintaining internal consistency and avoiding paradoxes can be difficult, as altering past events can have unforeseen consequences on the narrative's coherence.

Additionally, time travel narratives run the risk of becoming overly convoluted or relying too heavily on contrived plot devices. The temptation to use time travel as a convenient solution to narrative problems can undermine the emotional resonance and thematic depth of the story.

Moreover, time travel can sometimes be used as a crutch to evade meaningful character development or thematic exploration. Instead of grappling with the consequences of their actions, characters may simply "reset" the timeline or escape to a different reality, diminishing the impact of their choices and experiences.

Time travel remains a perennially popular and endlessly fascinating concept in literature and media, offering writers and creators a vast playground for exploration and experimentation. From its humble origins in ancient myth to its modern incarnations in blockbuster films and bestselling novels, time travel continues to captivate audiences with its promise of adventure, mystery, and philosophical inquiry. However, navigating the complexities and pitfalls of time travel storytelling requires careful craftsmanship and a deep understanding of its narrative and thematic implications. As long as human curiosity persists, time travel will remain a timeless trope in the literary and cultural landscape.

[amalgamgooze]

the enigma of (art) blend modes, and how doing brain research taught me how to better utilize them

(DISCLAIMER--I'm not actually going in-depth on different blend modes; there's other resources for that sort of thing! Rather, I'm just planning on talking about how they've been captivating to me in the past.)

I've been working with digital art programs for quite some time now, mostly for my game development pursuits, but also more recently just for fun.

Whatever program I'm using, be it Aseprite, Krita, or Paint.net, there's always this goofy little feature referred to as "blend modes". Really, all it refers to is how new colors should be made when two colors overlap on an image--particularly from different layers.

Back when I was young and naive, those layer blend modes hardly did more than just exist. Maybe I'd pull down that drop-down menu and switch around the modes every once in a while, but this was never used to help me during the creation process.

There's something about starting to use a new art program and getting overwhelmed by all the buttons on the UI. Of course, it takes time to master those menus, but when you do, it's nothing short of rewarding.

Which brings me to one of the most interesting programs I've worked with: Fiji.

Fiji isn't an art program--it's anything but. Instead, it's open source image processing software, designed for life science related analyses.

I've had the (mis)fortune of becoming acquainted with this software through my internship. When it was introduced to me last year, it was... overwhelming, to say the least.

This is what it looks like when you open it:

Not too overwhelming yet, right? Wrong. Here's what the dropdown menu for "Analyze" looks like.

(I like how it starts with normal sounding words, before devolving into things like "Helmholtz Analysis" and "Multi Kymograph".)

If any of you are already super-mega-brain-nerds and know how to utilize all of these options, then good for you, I suppose. For the vast majority of the people who are unacquainted with neuroscience (such as myself), however, this is INCREDIBLY daunting to navigate. Imagine something just as confusing as this for the other menus.

Hell, even just importing imaging data proves labyrinthine:

Okay. I'm done fussing over how convoluted Fiji's menus are.

I've worked with them for long enough to understand them a little better, though I still couldn't tell you what half the buttons do.

...like most of the art programs I use.

Yes, I've used Paint.NET since, like, 2018. No, I still have no idea what the "Clone Stamp" button does.

(by the way, if you're still using Paint.NET yourself for art, 1. what are you doing, and 2. Krita is much better for what I needed from an art program, so I might recommend trying that out if Paint.NET is getting on your nerves!)

Anyway, loading imaging data into Fiji usually gives you a video you can pan through. Most imaging data usually either represents a z-series, t-series, or both.

A z-series is imaging done on several layers of the subject's brain at a single time point, to create a 3D stack of images with time substituting for the depth into the brain.

On the other hand, a t-series is imaging done (usually) on a single layer of the brain throughout several time points. (Data I've worked with has ranged from 15-minute-long t-series to 100-minute-long t-series.) This again creates a 3D stack, though this time, time represents, well, time. (This is how most video is stored--even if the video itself is 2-dimensional, you're still "technically" viewing 2D slices of a 3D stack--though only super-nerds call video 3D.)

A zt-series can also be imaged by making several z-series over time, which can be processed into a 4D video. (Usually, though, the slices have to be processed through software to order them properly.)

Last year, I worked with zt-series a lot. This year, however, I've got easier work--I'm just working with t-series this time, to analyze calcium activity.

They're nicer to work with, to say the least. I've worked on automating the collection of calcium activity data by comparing the minimum and maximum values of each pixel throughout the whole t-series in order to determine where there's potentially calcium activity happening.

...in fact, once you get an image of the minimum and maximum values of each pixel across the whole t-series, you then work with those images as layers and use different functions to extract a mask that shows only potential calcium activity regions.

...

So it's adjacent to blend modes in a way.

Specifically the "Multiply" and "Divide" modes.

...

It's a bit of a stretch, of course, but working with these black-and-white images has helped me better grasp what's going on under the cover when I use those same blend modes for art.

Of course, I'm not using them masterfully yet. Really, I'm just using them to add blocky-ish shading to translucent objects.

...I'd show an example, but I can't find any pictures right now.

...

Sorry about the tangent.

I just feel like somehow this contributes to the intimate interconnectivity of everything.

Art and brain research being related on a software level.

[brooksnunezaca]

Brooks Nunez's Comprehensive Guide to Timeshare Cancellation: A Path to Liberation

Navigating the labyrinthine world of timeshare ownership, Brooks Nunez found himself entangled in a web of perpetual commitments and escalating fees. This realization sparked a journey of empowerment and liberation for Brooks Nunez, leading to the creation of this definitive guide to timeshare cancellation, crafted to aid others in reclaiming their freedom and finances.

The Seductive Trap of Timeshares: Brooks Nunez's Initial Attraction

Brooks Nunez, like many, was initially captivated by the glossy promises of timeshare ownership. The prospect of a guaranteed yearly getaway seemed like a dream. Yet, as the sheen of this dream faded, Brooks Nunez discovered the harsh reality: rising maintenance fees, inflexible scheduling, and the elusive nature of so-called 'investments'. This awakening marked the beginning of Brooks Nunez's quest for autonomy and release from the timeshare bind.

Navigating the Cancellation Labyrinth: Brooks Nunez's Strategy

Brooks Nunez soon realized that severing ties with a timeshare was no simple feat. The process was deliberately obfuscated by providers to deter owners from exiting their contracts. Brooks Nunez's journey through this intricate maze was fraught with legal jargon, stringent policies, and aggressive customer service tactics. However, Brooks Nunez's resolve led to the development of a clear, actionable strategy for those seeking to follow in his footsteps.

Step 1: Deciphering the Contract with Brooks Nunez

Brooks Nunez emphasizes the paramount importance of understanding your timeshare contract inside and out. This document contains the blueprint for your escape. Brooks Nunez advises a meticulous review of any cancellation clauses, paying special attention to the fine print that outlines the conditions and deadlines for termination. For Brooks Nunez, enlightenment began with the realization that the contract held both the shackles and the key to liberation.

Step 2: Brooks Nunez's Advocacy for Legal Counsel

Brooks Nunez strongly advocates for the enlistment of legal expertise. The convoluted nature of timeshare agreements often requires the discerning eye of a professional specialized in timeshare cancellation. Brooks Nunez's journey was significantly aided by such experts, who offered not only clarity but also a robust defense against the timeshare companies' intimidation tactics. Brooks Nunez's partnership with legal counsel was a critical step towards achieving freedom.

Step 3: Brooks Nunez's Proactive Communication and Documentation

Throughout his campaign for cancellation, Brooks Nunez maintained meticulous records of all communications with the timeshare company. Brooks Nunez advises owners to correspond in writing and keep detailed notes on all interactions. This methodical approach, as demonstrated by Brooks Nunez, ensures a well-documented trail of evidence that can prove invaluable, especially in disputes.

The Brooks Nunez Manifesto: Empowerment through Knowledge and Persistence

Brooks Nunez's odyssey from timeshare entrapment to emancipation is more than a personal victory; it's a blueprint for others. Brooks Nunez has emerged not just as a liberated former timeshare owner but as a beacon for those feeling ensnared by their timeshare obligations. Through his detailed guide, Brooks Nunez extends a hand to those navigating the treacherous waters of timeshare cancellation, offering hope and practical advice.

In sharing his narrative, Brooks Nunez underscores a universal truth: with the right knowledge, determination, and resources, liberation from even the most binding commitments is within reach. Let the Brooks Nunez guide to timeshare cancellation illuminate your path to freedom, just as it did for Brooks Nunez himself.

[pyrokineticwarrior]

What were some of the trials and challenges that Elysia faced during her journey in the Underworld? || @mythosisms

During her arduous journey in the Underworld, Elysia faced numerous trials and challenges that tested her strength, resilience, and determination. Here are some of the obstacles she encountered:

The River Styx: To reach the heart of the Underworld and confront Hades, Elysia had to traverse the treacherous River Styx. The dark waters were filled with malevolent spirits and swirling currents that sought to drag her down. She had to navigate the river's depths, evading the grasping hands of lost souls and overcoming the overwhelming despair that permeated the air.

The Guardians of the Underworld: As she ventured deeper into the Underworld, Elysia encountered formidable guardians that sought to impede her progress. These guardians, ancient and powerful beings loyal to Hades, tested her combat skills, cunning, and resourcefulness. Each guardian presented a unique challenge, requiring Elysia to find creative ways to overcome their strengths and exploit their weaknesses.

Labyrinthine Mazes: Within the Underworld, Elysia faced intricate and labyrinthine mazes that twisted and shifted with every step. These mazes were designed to confuse and disorient any intruders, leading them further into the depths of the Underworld. Elysia had to rely on her intuition, problem-solving abilities, and inner resolve to navigate these convoluted paths and find her way forward.

Stygian Shadows: The Underworld was plagued by dark and malevolent creatures known as Stygian Shadows. These elusive beings thrived in the shadows, preying on the life force of lost souls and any intruders who dared to venture into their domain. Elysia had to confront these formidable adversaries, using her combat skills and the remnants of her divine heritage to overcome their insidious attacks.

Emotional Trials: Along her journey, Elysia faced emotional trials that tested her resolve and ability to confront her past. She encountered illusions and manifestations of her lost memories, forcing her to confront painful experiences and make peace with her fractured identity. These trials challenged her emotional strength and determination to reclaim her true self.

Hades' Manipulations: Throughout her quest, Hades relentlessly attempted to manipulate Elysia, exploiting her insecurities and doubts. He whispered lies and doubts into her mind, seeking to break her spirit and bend her to his will once again. Elysia had to develop mental fortitude and inner clarity to distinguish truth from deception and resist Hades' insidious influence.

Through each trial and challenge, Elysia grew stronger, both physically and emotionally. She honed her skills, discovered hidden depths of resilience, and tapped into her divine heritage. These trials shaped her into a formidable warrior, preparing her for the ultimate confrontation with Hades and the reclamation of her freedom.

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: The Last of Sheila

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

A great mystery requires a certain degree of misdirection.

The Last of Sheila, for example—a 1973 whodunnit penned by Broadway composer Stephen Sondheim and Psycho star Anthony Perkins (apparently, neither man decided to quit his day job: this is the pair’s only screenwriting credit)—begins with a fatal hit-and-run. Naturally, the audience assumes that the remainder of the movie will revolve around identifying which member of the sizable ensemble cast (a colorful assortment of Hollywood hotshots, has-beens, and hangers-on) was responsible for the tragic accident. In a subversive twist, however, the opening scene is a red herring (albeit not totally irrelevant to the story)—for both the viewer and the characters. The murder that actually motivates the plot occurs a little more than halfway through the narrative. And once the guilty party is exposed, the fun still isn’t over; indeed, there are approximately thirty minutes—comprising multiple shocking revelations, a whole additional climax, and enough expository dialogue to capsize a luxury yacht—left before the end credits roll. This intentionally convoluted, labyrinthine structure—which Rian Johnson acknowledges as having inspired his own Knives Out franchise—makes the film a delightfully unpredictable thrill ride, even by its genre’s usual standards.

Imaginative, unconventional, darkly comic, relentlessly witty, and savagely satirical, The Last of Sheila is a largely forgotten masterpiece that deserves to be rediscovered. Watch it immediately.

[kobzars]

Two paintings "Pink Parandzha", artist Vadym Mykhalchuk

With dimensions of 100x80 cm (39.4x31.5 inches) for each painting, the large-format canvases command attention and immediately elevate the aesthetic of any space they inhabit. However, it's not merely the scale of the works that astonishes but also the intricacy of execution and the emotional resonance they carry.

Mykhalchuk captures the sublime beauty of the female form in audacious compositions, revealing a blend of boldness and vulnerability. The women in the paintings are portrayed without upper clothing, a deliberate choice by the artist that functions as a celebration of innate beauty and individual uniqueness, rather than objectification.

The use of the pink Parandzha—covering the faces of the women—is an ingenious element that injects layers of complexity into the work. It transforms the painting from a mere visual experience into a narrative expedition. This veil becomes an emblem of both concealment and revelation, symbolizing the labyrinthine complexities of the human psyche. By juxtaposing the daring with the demure, Mykhalchuk invites you to undertake a journey into the ineffable, to probe into the enigmas of identity, desire, and human emotion.

Beyond its aesthetic and narrative merits, this diptych represents an outstanding investment opportunity. Vadim Mykhalchuk is an artist on the rise, and works like "Pink Parandzha" are increasingly gaining international recognition. This acquisition would not only be a focal point of any art collection but also holds significant promise for future appreciation in value.

The "Pink Parandzha" is not merely a work of art—it is a statement, a question, and an invitation all at once. It challenges us to delve deeper, to look beyond the obvious, and to engage with the convoluted layers of human existence. It's more than a painting; it's an experience that enriches the soul and intrigues the mind. Wouldn't you like to be a part of that exploration?

[vinylspinning]

Queens of the Stone Age: Queens of the Stone Age (1998)

Fans were still mourning stoner/desert rock iconoclasts Kyuss 25 years ago when three of its former members -- guitarist Josh Homme, bassist Nick Oliveri, and drummer Alfredo Hernández -- became Queens of the Stone.

Queens of the what?

Actually, most of us diehards already knew the strange moniker from Kyuss' farewell EP, and I'd kept tabs on Homme's ensuing meanderings, which included touring with the Screaming Trees and leading the Palm Desert-based music collective known as the Desert Sessions.

It was out of that eclectic melting pot, mixing the stoner rock scene with musicians as diverse as Dean Ween, Alain Johannes, Chris Goss, Mark Lanegan, Les Claypool, Twiggy Ramirez, even P.J. Harvey, that Q.O.T.S.A.'s mutant sonic recipe got its unique flavor.

But, at first, I simply saw the Queens as a new breed of underground-doomed stoner rock when I picked up this self-titled CD at the specialized record store that once lurked in the basement of Chicago's historic Metro club.

How could I not, given the stylized, anti-commerce '70s erotica chosen for its cover by graphic artist (and future Man's Ruin label head) Frank Kozik? (*)

As I later described it in Loudwire, this was a "transitional record bridging the vast aesthetic gulf between Kyuss’ gale-force stoner metal and the Queens’ psychotic brand of art rock," adding that it "arrived to little fanfare in 1998 but reverberated far and wide."

Moreover, whereas future Q.O.T.S.A. LPs added loads of contributing musicians, this one was jammed into shape by the duo of Homme and Hernandez (Oliveri joined just in time to appear in the rear sleeve photo), and thus, it's a "guitar album" through-and-through.

Albeit one whose sheepish vocals, crunchy guitar, elastic bass, and metronomic drums felt simultaneously familiar and totally alien to stoner rock devotees, so I'll just share some of my personal, convoluted impressions of its songs ...

Beginning with an all-time favorite in "Regular John" (**), which, for a year or two, served as my Friday night, "get revved up to go out and break shit" music, with its relentless thrust and hypnotic, Motorik-like ur-riff (© Julian Cope).

Another mesmerizing standout, "Mexicola," rumbles down the bass' neck with a tone reminiscent of the Beastie Boys' "Sabotage," and leads a flock of slow-boiling siblings in "Walkin' On the Sidewalks," "You Would Know," and "You Can't Quit Me Baby."

As for stoner rock proper, the closest sounds here would be the bombastic power chords of "Avon" and labyrinthine contortions of "Hispanic Impressions," while the clearest glimpses of what lay ahead for Q.O.T.S.A. figured in the groovy "If Only," the shortwave radio distortion afflicting "How to Handle a Rope," and the sheer lunacy of "I Was a Teenage Hand Model."

This last song and another comically-titled highlight, "Give the Mule What He Wants," suggested listeners shouldn't take any of this too seriously, but we soon learned how seriously Homme saw things when he landed the major label and management backing to take Q.O.T.S.A. mainstream with 2000's fabulous Rated R.

Personally, I was thrilled for these Kyuss castaways, because I never expected a band this bizarre, let alone one with roots in the as-yet-unredeemed stoner rock scene, to sell millions of albums -- not least once my boys, Monster Magnet, had failed to do so with '98's No. 1 Active Rock hit "Space Lord."

But Queens of the Stone Age proved to be as unique a commercial/artistic phenomenon over the next few years as their peculiar moniker foreshadowed.

* Two different, N.S.F.W. images were used for the LP and CD: my original copy featured a crotch-shot of Trinidadian-British model Sylvia Bayo, but I'm afraid I haven't found a name for the young lady pictured on the vinyl.

** Co-written by former Monster Magnet/Wellwater Conspiracy guitarist John McBain.

More Queens of the Stone Age: Rated R, Songs for the Deaf, Lullabies to Paralyze, Era Vulgaris, … Like Clockwork.