#laudna cares so much about imogen but she needs to care about herself too

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

The thing about how Laudna deals with the many terrible things that have happened to her throughout her life is that she (and tbh many of her fans) acts as though she has uniquely suffered in such a way that no one else possibly could understand her pain. But several of the other members of the Hells share experiences similar to hers.

Had suffering inflicted on her for the sake of something she wasn't involved in that concerned people greater than herself? Orym experienced that when the Vanguard murdered Derrig and Will as part of a test, to see if the theory that Vax would appear to protect Keyleth was true. And sure Orym didn't die that day; he wasn't murdered as a part of this the way Laudna was. But this did serve as the impetus for him to leave his home and start wandering Tal'dorei, the same as being murdered and waking up on the Sun Tree did for Laudna.

Wandered the world for decades unable to make meaningful connections or really properly settle in one place because of something traumatic that happened in her past? Chetney's family all left him without a word at the start of the Icelost Years; he lost both his home and his family in one fell swoop, the same as Laudna. He then spent decades wandering the world afraid to make sincere connections in case those people left him too. He also can understand what it's like to be scorned and rejected specifically for the kind of creature that he is: Chetney's a werewolf in a world where such people are considered monsters by many.

Has the voice of some powerful, dark force whispering in her ear telling her she's nothing without her and needs her power to protect those she cares about? Dorian had that exact thing with the Spider Queen. Lolth preyed hard in his insecurities and feelings of inadequacy in order to try and convince him to put on the Circlet of Barbed Vision and become her Champion. She specifically leaned into the idea that he needed her power to protect his friends in much the same was Delilah is leaning into the idea that Laudna needs her power to keep Imogen safe. The message from both was: "You need me to protect that ones you love."

Laudna has experienced and continues to experience some very terrible things, but those experiences and the resulting pain aren't unique to her in the world of Exandria; they aren't even unique within her own personal circle. But she focuses so heavily on her own trauma that she doesn't notice this, and in fact specifically holds up her own trauma as greater when the pain of others is brought up ("Don't speak to me of loss"). It means she loses out on the wisdom the others could give her in dealing with her own life: building up a new life after a major and pointless traumatic event from Orym, learning to truly trust and open up to other people again from Chetney, and pushing back against the literal voice in your head telling you you're shit from Dorian. Instead she wallows in her own trauma blind to what it's truly doing to her and to the people around her.

[distant--shadow]

The Witch and the Widow – Chapter One – The Lake

Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

Maybe murdered. Apparently. That is what brought Imogen here - indirectly, at least.

Not that she's with the law enforcement or anything. Not that, definitely, though ironically being an officer - an interrogator - would suit her well, at least on paper. Passion and enthusiasm would be a different question - and that's why she's here. Sorta. Indirectly, again, for a different question. Words travel, by means of mouth or ink or thoughts (apparently, she had found out), even though thoughts should not travel past the head that they were made in. But they did, and continue to do so, and Imogen had heard enough accounts about the man himself (the Lady’s husband, when he was alive and after the fact), had seen enough women squashed under the boots of the men they were tied to to intimately know and understand a flash decision made in a moment for self-preservation-

all too often women tempered their instincts to allow themselves to become the soil underfoot rather than the sole of the shoe

so much as to say that Imogen does not care much if Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

She cares more about what the words whispered and weaved and waded in the time after wrote:

Laudna Bradbury had used witchcraft to murder her husband.

The only utterances of magic Imogen had heard of, had seen, had unexplainably received taken telegraphed by inner voice and grey matter before that rumour, were her own.

Imogen needs answers, desperately, as though a necessity purely imperative like breathing and eating, and so she brought herself to the source of the lake before it divided and weakened and meandered from river to muddy stream to drink directly from her-

(it.)

Laudna Bradbury is a widow, a widow who continues to live on the estate her husband’s heraldry and wealth had afforded them, company kept by a small team of housemaids and gardeners and the like.

and it is a large estate, a lot to look after, for sure, certainly, with its couple hundred maybe more years in age and just as many acres. There's hairline cracks in the stucco, a missing roof tile here and there

but there is no denying that it is a fine example of architecture, certainly was the highest of fashion at the time. A grand country house with an East Wing and a West, bay windows and towers and pleasing ratios between alcove and doorways and arches and walled topiaried gardens that extend from north to south, illustrations in stained glass ornately framed with flowering climbing ivy

statues that step out from domesticated bordering jungles, now appearing more as gargoyles thanks to the decay of time, noses eroded like they have rotted off, birds’ nests of briars thorned crowns or horns

rosemary bushes skirt the main building’s façade, perfuming the sometimes hot-and-humid, more often brisk-and-grey air carried through the opened lead-lined boiled sweet coloured window panes into the dark mahogany-panelled and silk-embroidered tapestried interiors.

Off of the West Wing there is an extension nearing the height of the gargoyled walls that surround the estate. This is the wall that fortifies the Lady Bradbury’s private garden; with doors adjoining directly to her study - both of which are off limits. Imogen doesn't know much of pretty and imported flowers, but she knows local common sense, knows what berries to pick and which weed’s sap causes a blister that will never heal again should it brush her skin.

Through small cracks in the masonry delicate tendrils curl out; leaves crawling, surfacing, small purple flowers with yellow tear-drop centres blooming.

Deadly nightshade.

She wonders what else grows behind the wall, patiently biding its time until the decay of such allows it through. 

It is in the stables that Imogen spends most of her own time; her years of experience working under Master Faramore awarded her an earnest recommendation, and it sure helped that a couple of the Lady’s mares and a stallion were from his own livery, that they had been raised and trained by Imogen's own hands before they left them.

She needs answers, so she has taken herself to them, to the lake to drink from. She observes from a distance, listens to any whisperings and wonderings that bed with her in the servants’ quarters.

The days are long, mostly spent between mucking and feeding and exercising and grooming the horses and watching the Lady Bradbury taking a walk around the herb garden with knees as muddied as the kitchen staff’s, or cutting bark segments from off of the trees that dot the grounds as if she were operating in front of an amphitheatre of flora and fauna students whilst Imogen brushes down one of the horses or shovels hay

and despite the distance and Imogen's best efforts to remain subtle, the Lady Bradbury’s eyes would sometimes catch hers observing (staring, admittedly), and she would smile, and perform a barely perceivable curtsey (one of many behaviours outside of expectations), and Imogen would tip her brimmed suede hat in return, and would think of how despite the fact that the Lady’s practices of class and boundaries and what is proper were different, a bit odd, nothing of the woman's behaviour suggested that of a killer - only the situation that she stood in - the peculiarly beautiful widow with a walled off poison garden. And so maybe the same is to be said of her magic, should she even be harbouring or practicing any (although admittedly her appearance certainly is bewitching…)

and it's like the instances before but unlike them - Imogen stealing glances of the Lady Bradbury as she potters about her estate (she probably really does potter, she fills so much of her time with crafting and making. Imogen wouldn't be surprised to see her pale skin elbow-deep in caked-on terracotta pigment digging out clay rich soil into old whisky barrels to have carried by willing hands to a throwing room with a secret kiln.) but on this day, when their eyes in new routine now inevitably meet across the wildflower-speckled field (that in itself is unusual, highly out of vogue, it isn't the acres of well-kept uniform lawn and paths laid with talking-point pebbles imported from the coast that the other estates boasted and Imogen had glanced when ferrying Master Faramore’s horses elsewhere) the Lady Bradbury takes pause, before she starts to make her advance towards Imogen.

shit.

She's been brushing the same patch of short thick hair on Foie Gras’ shoulder for so long that she's surprised there isn't a bald patch. Maybe the Lady Bradbury is worried as such. Maybe Imogen has been too obvious in her observing (admitted staring). Maybe she has been found out.

She feels her brow start to perspire, the muscles in her limbs wishing to move erratically and awkwardly and restlessly and to carry her to stand out of sight hidden behind the thick neck of the horse like an obvious child playing hide and seek behind a tree trunk, or to flatten the creases in her breaches and her linen tunic and pick out the strands of hair and hay that have lodged themselves into their weave, untwist the grasp of her suspenders over her shoulders - but she practices restraint - is trained and cautious and intentional and thorough she was only being thorough with the mare, casts her gaze in iron like the blacksmith hammering the horseshoes and steels herself for the Lady Bradbury’s approach.

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

Imogen has heard her call them her children (the birds that is, not the wrinkles) - has heard her talk to them as if they are responding, oftentimes giving her own tampered voice to do so (and to Imogen’s amusement)

The Lady never had children of her own; those are their own rivers of rumours within themselves. Imogen did not care for that stream of gossip at all.

The Lady steps closer, and the yet-to-be familiar fog of her mind cocoons Imogen, water transmuted into mist against jutting rock at the plummet of rapids, relief from the laborious work and humidity, her previous restraint to keep her body in check breaking as she visibly swallows and licks her lips, suddenly aware of how dry they had been.

The Lady Bradbury rests her hand on the back of Foie Gras’ neck, fingers long and pale and decorated in black lace like mother of pearl inlay and marquetry on a lacquered curious curio cabinet that perhaps Imogen had eyed through a stained glass window standing in the corner of the out-of-bounds office.

“Good day. It's Imogen, correct?” her delicately veiled fingers comb through the mare’s mane, her dark mahogany eyes seeming to look over the gloss of Foie Gras’ coat to inspect the way the late morning sunlight rests upon its sandy hues before turning her attention back to Imogen with a smile.

She hadn't spoken much to the Lady since she was hired a few weeks back - not much being that this is the third time, after her interview and a brief acknowledgment when being shown around by one of the housemaids the day she started.

The Lady Bradbury’s lips are painted a deep purple, an unusual colour for sure; Imogen had only seen illustrations and paintings of the dignitary from era’s passed in shades of peach and pinks and reds, stencilled in exaggerated shapes, and as with the landscaping of grounds, to wear such obvious make up itself is frowned upon, old fashioned, conveniently equated with providing false fronts.

The Lady’s teeth are bright, especially in comparison to the purpled dark lips.

and sharp

especially in comparison to how soft-

“You must pardon me, have I got it wrong?”

shit, fuck-

“Oh! n-no-” Imogen was staring, definitely “I apologise m’lady. You are right, it is Imogen.”

God dammit - she’s gonna get herself fired, fired for daydreamin’ and giving the horses receding hairlines and ignoring the Lady of the Manor when she addresses her-

The Lady chuckles to herself delicately, an act displaying a markable absence of frustration and bewilderment.

“From Master Faramore’s, yes? How are you finding the new environment? I am sure the stables here pale in comparison to his, but I do not believe that they afforded such space and the opportunity for frequent walks around such a beautiful lake…”

“Certainly, m’lady. There are less of them so they get more attention, they can be well looked after-”

“Indeed, plenty of grooming at the very least-”

Imogen can feel the hot blood rush to the surface of her cheeks, unable this time to wrangle her body’s motor reflexes.

“I have yet to visit the lake m’self, I am sure they enjoy bein’ taken by you though, they always seem happier when they come back.”

“Is that so? Well, I must insist you see the lake for yourself, if not only to relish the fact that you took great part in an amount of their contentedness.”

The Lady Bradbury looks to her expectantly, Imogen expected to have a reply for the unexpected.

“Would you accompany me this afternoon?”

Imogen can read thoughts. She can read thoughts but what if the Lady Bradbury can too? Or what if she can tell that she is imposing? Would she find herself in the bottom of that lake on her very first visit? A drink more filling than what she had wanted, her lungs full and void of buoyancy. Imogen can read thoughts but she dares not to read the Lady’s.

She can feel them, though, that first and second and now third time in her vicinity, feel how they are different, an audible silence amongst the swarm of bees wings and small talk and anxieties

At some point the Lady had stepped around Foie Gras’ head to stand beside Imogen

She smells like sage and gunpowder

On the day of her interview she had smelled of eucalyptus and raw animal fat-

“You’re quite the thinker, aren’t you?”

Of that she is guilty, though usually she can argue that the majority of the thoughts that weigh her down are not her own.

“Apologies m’lady, I wasn’t sure I had heard you right. Did you want a horse saddled for you for this afternoon?”

Imogen had never thought that her accent sounded particularly thick or clunky, but it felt as heavy as her mind tends to be around other company when speaking with the Lady, her tongue all thick tangled muscle swelling against the roof of her mouth and her teeth.

Perhaps this is some sort of witchery. She waits for the molasses to take a hold on her muscles and limbs, for the her skull to be crushed concave from the inside

But it doesn’t happen.

The Lady smiles (again)

“Almost. One for you and one for me, if you would accompany me around the lake - there isn’t a cloud in the sky today and it would be a shame to keep the clear reflections of the mountains to myself and Foie Gras here.”

Imogen is thrown. Yes, y’all could argue that this is exactly what she came here for; time alone with the Lady Bradbury, the opportunity to form a rapport or to subtly pluck at her brain but there is something in the way that she carries herself, how she talks to Imogen with ease and lack of formality that is alarmingly disarming, and leaves Imogen cloudy on why she came here in the first place-

“C-certainly, if it’s what the Lady wants-” she chuckles (again, again) waving her hand dismissively before catching herself and laying it over the patch of hair on the mare’s shoulder that surprisingly hasn’t thinned from all of Imogen’s enthusiastic (distracted) brushing.

“I will take Ceviche; you seem to have formed quite the bond with Foie Gras.”

Imogen can only nod with lips parted in silenced protest as she feels her cheeks flush again.

~

The walls of the stable are thick and stone, absent of windows save for the upper halves of the handful of wooden doors that allow for the horses to pop their heads out in eager greeting to Imogen as she walks towards them with their buckets of feed.

It is a clear day, as the Lady Bradbury has said, hot and humid and Imogen is grateful for both the surroundings and the company of the stable.

As she rakes the trodden-in and dirtied hay across the flagstone floor she allows the earthy scents of the dried grass to remind her of the smell of the sage, the crumbling mortar imitating gunpowder.

She wipes the back of her shirt sleeve across her brow, skin also sweating at the wrist where the gloves wrap work-beaten leather over shielded skin

Soft skin, mostly - save for where her fingertips appear to be frost-bitten.

A fairly visible reminder of why Imogen is here, should she forget again in the Lady’s presence-

Not that she would dare to take off the gloves.

That would only lead to questions.

‘Jammed in between horse-drawn carriage and stable door’ - she used to say, before the purple bruised tips started to migrate further, splitting out like surfaced capillaries that encompassed her fingers one knuckle at a time

They mark half-way over her palms now – like someone had dipped fine dense vegetable roots in an inkwell and struck them in lashings across her hand, punishment obfuscating her palmistry.

She hears one of the horses whinny – Ceviche most likely, a little restless, the black stallion not having been let out onto the fields yet today, as Imogen was now preparing him for his ride to be taken shortly.

The Lady’s saddle is very ornate, the leather finely tooled and decorated with organic flowing arrangements that resemble leaves and petals and insects with patterned wings or many many limbs

Its material and stitching is kin to the other saddles, the ones for notable guests and stablehands alike, brands the same maker’s mark

After a short amount of time observing (staring), Imogen suspects that the Lady tooled it herself.

~

The Lady does not ride sidesaddle – she straddles the stallion proper.

Imogen can only assume that she changes from her garden-strolling undergarments to allow for this, having never worn a crinoline herself - that would both be out-of-class, and, more importantly (to Imogen at least) - real impractical.

She had noted as such about the Lady on the first day she had seen her taking one of the horses (it was Carpaccio, a black and white paint) out of field.

It was the first instance of out-of-expected behaviour that she had witnessed.

Imogen can admit to herself that such a small thing had ignited her warming to the widow.

~

Imogen allows the Lady Bradbury and her steed to take the lead, pace set by the older woman’s enthusiasms making themselves known in short enough time from pointing out ‘notable’ forms in the sloping rock faces lining the well-worn path, covered in blankets of moss and ferns and tall stems of bell-shaped pink and white foxgloves and pomanders of wild thistles.

“I just can’t help but imagine what tiny creatures would love to make home between the cracks in the rock and the tree-stumps.”

“’lotta mice and rats I imagine, probably squirrels-”

“Well, yes, certainly…”

Ceviche’s slow walk carries on ahead of Foie Gras’, and the Lady sways with his gate in the saddle, though despite this Imogen could just about read the slight deflation in her shoulders when she had replied to the Lady’s statement.

Her head turns over her shoulder, gaze searching and challenging Imogen’s, caught staring (again), dark eyes hollows of homes burrowed in rocks, the high sun exaggerating high cheekbone architecture, pleasing ratios of brow to bridge of nose.

“…I refuse to believe that there are no imps or fairies when the land is so perfectly carved for them.”

“I can only say I’ve heard stories…” Rumours, rivers.

“Certainly, else you would not be here, would you?”

The Lady holds her gaze a moment longer, as if expecting Imogen to have an answer worth vocalising for that. Imogen feels her pulse begin to thud at her temples, the sweat returning to her hairline and underneath the cuff of her gloves.

The Lady giggles melodically and dismissively, returning her attention to whatever catches its fancy on the path ahead.

“How ugly it is that we must quarry and build. I have thought more than once about leaving the manor to the animals and the girls and making my home in the cave by the lake- oh, I am so very thrilled to show it to you.”

Her excitement cuts the atmosphere, spring back in her step transposed through the steed’s, one hand off of his reins and gesturing in the air.

“You can see it from the upper floors of the house – though that is rather rude of me to say, isn’t it? If you will allow that injustice to fall upon the architect and how societal structure seems to love its walls and assigning basement dwelling.”

Imogen finds herself inadvertently allowing Foie Gras to fall at a pace beside the Lady and Ceviche.

“That’s alright, most nights I tend t’lodge in the stables; eases my mind that I’ll be near the horses should anythin’ happen.”

“Plenty of wild animals around, yes? They do get spooked so easily.”

“I like how you’ve named ‘em – it’s fun.”

“Oh!, You do? I am so glad! You are the one who has to be calling their names most often after all.” Imogen may be in early days (hours) of learning the Lady’s tells, but the smile that creases the skin around her nose and mouth and deepens the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes feels genuine.

“It does often make me chuckle, I assume you’re fond of raw meats?”

“I suppose you would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Are y’not?”

The Lady takes pause, her look introspective.

“Have you ever eaten horse?”

“w-what? Of course not – do people actually do that?”

“Mmhmm, across the waters – in all directions. It is certainly a common custom. What makes horse any different from beef?”

“I could never – we share a bond, they let us- they give us-” Imogen's tongue is too thick and heavy again, blubbering with words that do not come easily to it as they do her head. She allows herself a deep breath, collects what little face she has, remembers the presence she is in (a Lady regardless of murder or witchcraft) “-in all honesty I rarely eat any meat, the more time ya spend with animals the more guilty ya feel about doing so.”

“How peculiar…maybe you need to spend more time around carnivores.” The Lady laughs at her own joke this time, hand patting at the side of Ceviche’s neck, the horse unaware of what words have been said. Imogen is thankful, in this instance, though she will admit she has tried more than once to see if her mind reading extended to her four-legged friends.

“But they’ve got no choice, that’s how they were made.”

She mimics the Lady’s movements, lovingly patting Foie Gras at the same spot on her neck.

“Made…yes…You have incisors don’t you? Canines?”

“I do, but I don’t have a mouth full of ‘em. Most of our teeth are as flat as these fellas over here…” she ruffles the mare’s mane “-though I won’t deny that gettin’ bitten still hurts something fierce.”

“Makes you wonder what sort of damage you could do if you so chose to, after all, your eyes are not on the sides of your head.”

~

The lake is beautiful.

Of course it is. It displays itself naturally basined, wrapped in the embrace of the mountains surrounding draped in forest cloak, walls both man-made and much older obfuscating its view from the ground floor of the estate.

The lilac and blue hues of the pebbles are familiar, lining the vegetable patch borders in the garden, larger stones used for holding stable doors open.

It is quiet over the lake. The terrain raised around it shutting out the winds, only the quiet breeze that drifts through the canopies on the mountain crests giving a gentle whistle to the waters below, an enjoyable confusement between what is wind and what is the crashing of the tender tides.

The waters are clear blue with a hint of turquoise, green given by either the surrounding plant life’s reflection or by the ones that live underwater.

It reminds Imogen of the lakes in the mountains from her childhood. It is something else new.

Their horses slow to a stop, on the Lady’s cue.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It really is - no wonder why the horses come back so happy.”

“And will you be as such on your return?”

“Certainly m’lady, thank you for allowing me such a privilege”

“It is not mine to give, though I will make it explicit that you may come down here whenever you wish – providing the horses are happy, of course. That is what I ask of you.”

Imogen thinks she is blushing again, but the feeling is further inside her than her veins, a warmth radiating.

“You take good care of the servants at the estate, don’t you?”

For the first time, the Lady seems thrown by what Imogen offers, a step behind instead of two larger-horsed paces ahead.

“They take better care of me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone wish to leave their home to the help.”

“It would be the very least I could do.”

“You give ‘em food and a roof over their heads-”

“They sow the seeds, they tend to the animals, they butcher their meat and harvest the wheat to bake the bread. I have been so lucky that they have yet to poison me.”

“I can only say from ma short experience that I’d find that hard t’understand.”

Her face softens again. It feels both comforting like a blanket but then uneasing like having the lights blown out.

“Funny thing, perspective…”

Lady Bradbury slides off of her horse, heels of her fine boots falling into the gaps between the pebbles, though her footing remains certain, experienced.

On the surface of the lake the trees grow downwards, the birds fly with their bellies exposed to what lies in the waters.

The Lady halts, dropping to one knee as she makes short work of the laces on her shoes.

Imogen isn’t sure if she should be offering to remove them for her, jumps down from Foie Gras and jogs clumsily on uneven surface towards the Lady regardless. 

“There are old stories of this lake, you know-”

Lady Bradbury confesses a little breathlessly, lung capacity limited by the press of her thigh into her stomach. She swaps her knee for the other on the ground, starting on the other lace.

“I won’t tell of them just yet, I would hate for them to be off-putting.”

She stands straight again, the sieved remnants of harsher winds that have made it over the mountains’ embrace wishing to make field mouse nests of her hair, spiderwebs of the lace collar around her neck, footprints of birds’ feet fossilised in the marble cornering her eyes.

She looks at home at the lake, certainly a natural thing - flesh and blood and bones cocoons to silk cotton to yarn to lace – Imogen wonders what a marvel the Lady could paint and chisel into the mouth of an open cave.

Balancing, she pulls each shoe free, grin knowing, slightly manic, intensely catching Imogen before she gathers the length of layers of skirts into one hand and steps into the clear waters.

Imogen swears she sees something conjure beneath its surface to greet her.

Laudna Bradbury had (maybe) murdered her husband – (maybe) with witchcraft, most importantly - but Imogen has bigger questions that require her answers, and so she follows the Lady into the lake.

[bunchofdoodlesinspace]

Im kinda shocked I’m not seeing more about the parallels between what Laudna did and what Ashton did last night bc currently that’s what I can’t stop thinking about. This theme of self-sacrifice that just keeps coming back over and over. And it makes so, so much sense to me given who this party is made out of.

Ages ago they really fully grasped that they’re all just powder kegs waiting to blow, that at any moment any of them could cause serious harm to the others, whether it be because of the powers they wield of the unfortunate circumstances of their existence- They’re all dangers to each other in some way.

And now, we’re seeing that theme sort of twist into this concept of “fuck it. I have this power, and I could destroy the world and my friends and myself using it, but I might as well try to use it for something good on the way down” and there’s just. There’s something so tragic and beautiful about that. To finally have people you care about so much that you would destroy yourself to see them survive.

In my head, that’s why Laudna is accepting the help of her own murderer. It’s not to walk down this path of darkness, but to give herself the strength she feels she needs to take down the threats in front of them. If that comes at the cost of her sanity, her relationships with the others, her life? So be it. She’s died before, and she’ll do it again if everyone she loves, who have loved her in spite of everything (esp Imogen), can survive and live happy lives.

Same thing with Ashton. No, two shards were not meant be handled by one person. But Fearne didn’t seem to want it, no one else was going to take it, and but they still need the power. Because what they’re facing isn’t anything like anyone has ever seen, they need everything they can possibly get. And if the risk of taking on that power was his own life? Fine. He’s died before too. And for the rest of his friends? The people who have loved him despite everything? For Fearne? He’d do it. Even if it was just to give them a chance.

These aren’t selfish decisions made to try and gain power. This is selflessness to the most dangerous degree. It’s a demonstration of how much they love and how little love they think they deserve in return. It’s a recognition of how big this threat is, how desperate they are for a chance to succeed even if it means they won’t all come back.

I said it in the tags of another post I reblogged and I will say it over and over again.

This shit doesn’t come out of a place of hate.

It only ever comes out of a place of love.

And it is absolutely heartbreaking.

[lavendertheys]

my favorite thing (Sugar, You)

for @thewhalelord <3

To each one’s own, but as far as Laudna is concerned, it’s not a lie if you genuinely believe that what you’re saying is true. 

When Imogen asks her about the obvious stiffness in her right hand as they work on an after-dinner puzzle, Laudna tells her not to worry, because Laudna isn’t worried, because there’s no swelling yet, and they needn’t waste precious energy on false alarms. Later, when Laudna tries to pick Cǎté up off the bed and can’t, she elects to shove him with her forearm instead, and Imogen isn’t looking anyway, so Laudna simply continues with her nighttime routine.

By morning the weakness hasn’t faded at all, but it hasn’t gotten worse either, so she calls that a win and parks herself on the couch and resumes her work on the scarf she’s been working on for weeks to give to Eshteross for his birthday. Laudna found the most beautiful blue yarn at her favorite craft store and is trying to do a cable stitch for the very first time—not so advanced that it’s beyond her understanding, but today she’s pausing every few minutes to stretch her hands and having the damndest time keeping her fingers steady—

“Laudna, that looks amazin’.”

Imogen’s voice is nothing but soft and sweet—one of the things Laudna loves most about her—but she startles at the sudden comment and tries to hide a wince as her knuckles flex sharply around her tools.

“I’m not even halfway done yet,” she says with a sigh, “but if I really lean into it I think I can finish by his birthday.” Laudna goes right into another hand stretch without thinking, isn’t quite as ginger with her left wrist as she should be, and her whole arm recoils at the subsequent pulse of heat.

She feels the couch cushion sink under the weight of Imogen perching beside her.

“Laudna…”

“I’m fine,” she cuts Imogen off. “I’ll be fine. I’ve crocheted through much worse before,” Laudna says in somewhat of a rush.

Imogen leans forward with an elbow propped on her thigh, head resting in her palm, and gives Laudna that look that means she’s about to see right through her in the gentlest way possible. “What color?” she asks quietly.

Neither of them can talk their way around the color system, and Imogen seems to be very aware of that in this moment.

“I… Yellow,” Laudna admits with a sigh.

“You know you’re not supposed to be pushin’ yourself when you’re yellow,” Imogen reminds her, still patient as ever.

Laudna’s shoulders sag even as her hands itch—metaphorically—to get back to the scarf. “I do, but—but this is important, and I’ve been having so much fun with this new stitch, and…” She forces herself to meet Imogen’s eyes. “Just this one time. Just long enough to finish, and then I’ll take a nice, long break. I promise.”

But Imogen only shrugs. “You don’t need my permission, Laudna. This is between you and your body. Won’t stop me from worryin’ about you,” she admits as her expression conveys as much, “but it’s still your choice.”

Imogen leans forward, kisses her on the cheek, and leaves her to it.

Laudna sighs again and splays all ten fingers out and back, looking away when they start to shake.

She spends the rest of the day taking as much ibuprofen as she can safely get away with, trying to work quickly (as if that will give her joints less time to process their irritation), and Laudna is definitely sore by the time they settle into bed, but still hopeful that this flare-up will hold off just a little longer. Imogen hasn’t asked her any more questions about it, but takes extra care with Laudna’s hands, and chooses to hold one flat in her palm and delicately caress the knuckles rather than lace their fingers together.

But, even with all of their caution, Laudna wakes up far too early the next morning to swelling and hot throbs of pain. The sun is only just starting to peek through their window shades and there’s not quite enough light yet to see her joints, but she can feel how bad it is, and tears of frustration come pouring out before Laudna can even consider trying to hold them back.

Imogen stirs beside her and she braces herself for disappointment and “I told you so”s, but instead she feels a warm, grounding touch at her arm and a feather-light thumb brushing back and forth.

“Ice or heat?” Imogen whispers.

Laudna’s chest stutters and she swallows at the lump in her throat. “Heat,” she chokes out, “please.”

A small kiss to her temple, then fingertips easing Laudna’s hair behind her ear, then Imogen slips out of bed.

She comes back several minutes later with heating pads and Laudna’s laptop and some extra pillows from the living room, and Imogen helps Laudna get comfortable before opening her laptop and scrolling to see where Laudna left off on her favorite show.

“I hate it,” Laudna mutters as she waits for the worst of the pain to subside. “I hate not being able to do my favorite thing. I hate having something wrong with the part of my body that I need the most. What—f-fucking rotten luck is that?”

Imogen sets the laptop aside, tucks in close to Laudna, and ghosts her knuckles along Laudna’s wet cheeks. “I know,” she soothes, soft and quiet and steady. “It’s not fair.”

Laudna sniffs a few times and takes a deep, shaky breath. “What am I supposed to do now? His birthday is—I don’t have time.”

“Well, personally,” Imogen replies, “I’m willin’ to bet that he won’t give a shit if you’re a few days late. He’d want you to take care of yourself first,” she points out, “because we both love you a whole lot, birthday scarf or no birthday scarf.”

A cozy silence settles between them as Laudna focuses on calming down, and when she’s confident her voice will be steadier, she clears her throat a little.

“Ibuprofen?”

“Comin’ right up,” Imogen promises, and opens the drawer to the bedside table to retrieve Laudna’s meds.

“Also, Laudna adds, voice still slightly wobbly from her tears, “I finished season four last week when you were sick and slept all day. I’m halfway through five, I think.”

Imogen pauses in the middle of shaking two tablets into her palm to shoot Laudna a teasing look, and all Laudna can do is shrug.

“The blonde one got abducted and the brunette one was freaking out about it and they dragged out the rescue for like twenty episodes and I hoped they would admit their feelings once she found her and they didn’t say anything but they did hug each other for an extra long time so I have to assume they’ll kiss in the season finale.”

She watches Imogen process her recap, looking almost like she’s trying to do complicated math in her head, but eventually she just blinks in confusion and hands Laudna the ibuprofen.

“Who?”

Laudna nods her head toward the computer. “Just start the episode and I’ll catch you up as we go.”

Imogen kisses her and then barely remembers to switch seasons in the drop-down menu, and Laudna smiles for the first time since her hands started to hurt.

Read on AO3

Sugar, You (Complete)

[isagrimorie]

The thing I’ve realized about Laudna is, she’s a naturally friendly person. She likes to talk to people and uplift them in anyway.

She likes taking care of people but her whole life she’s been either the odd ball kid other kids would make fun of, or she was getting mobbed out of any home she could make for herself.

And post-rez her only interaction was with Delilah Briarwood. Like, initially, I think Laudna formerly Matilda Bradbury would be delighted and happy to have someone with her until she realized who it was.

It’s no wonder she latched on to Imogen and Imogen to her. Her connection and relationship to Imogen has only bolstered Laudna’s friendly nature, and she is almost always the first to reach out.

Yes, Laudna and Imogen are each other’s priorities (which is understandable, since they’ve only had each other for 2 years) but contrary to what some fandom thinks… they do care for other people too.

(They care and fuss over other people a lot.)

The myth that Imogen only cares about Laudna and vice versa minimizes so much of who Imogen and Laudna are.

Do they care more about each other? Of course!

In any given relationship, of course a person in a relationship (familial and/or romantic) will be a priority more than anyone else. If someone says otherwise, they’re lying.

Anyway, I love this confirmation that Laudna really is the more extroverted one, and Imogen is the more introverted one.

Laudna can make friends anywhere, she can and has been thrown through various situations and she can make a friend. There is a caveat that she needs to be someone else to vouch for her.

She thrives in a social situation and meeting new people and it’s such a tragedy that it took her 30 years to be in a position to be taken in more positively by other people.

[ratinayellowbandana]

Prompt: “I feel terrible.” And/or “I want you to kiss me right now.”

I love your fics 🥹 just yesterday I was thinking of your name while perusing ao3 and was wishing for another Imodna fic of yours

hi!! thank you so much for your kind words. it always shocks me when people, like, want to read my writing? so it really means a lot. i'm sorry this took me a little longer. i ended up combining your first one with another prompt and part of my wip so when i eventually publish a fic with an extremely similar scene from imogen's perspective.. dw about it.

anyway, here's some post-resurrection hurt/comfort. we're gonna all pretend they stayed in the castle for a couple days and sorted their shit out.

cw for feelings of helplessness and self-loathing

length: ~1.7k

some prompt lists if you're so inclined || my ao3

~~~

It’s been three days since they got her back. 

Three days since she woke on the worn wooden floors of Pike’s home to a small crowd of friends and strangers. 

Three days since she set foot in Whitestone again, a place she never hoped to return. 

And three days since everyone began treating Laudna as if she's going to shatter. 

The worst part is she feels as if she might. 

The world is too vibrant. Loud. The birds chirping outside the too-large castle window grate on her ears. The silky sheets on the too-soft four-poster bed cling to her in all the wrong ways. Her skin crawls and her bones grind and she can feel her teeth. 

The gnome who revived her said this is normal. She’d been dead, after all. The body would need time to recalibrate. Time they do not have if they want to have any hope of intervening on the solstice. 

Imogen dotes the best way she knows how. With soup and kind words and glares that warn the others to keep back if they don’t want a zap to the forehead. She offers furs from the trunk at the foot of the bed and cool cloths that do little to ease the ache of Laudna’s fragile joints. She brings pillows and keeps watch in the window seat as Laudna sleeps. 

It’s sickeningly sweet and thoughtful and lovely, and Laudna hates it just a little bit because Imogen has spent far too much time fretting over Laudna as of late when she should be anywhere but a stuffy old castle spooning broth to a dead lady whose hands won’t stop shaking. 

Laudna is fine. 

She’s fine. 

She is. 

Delilah is gone, they assure her. Imogen herself sent a bolt of lightning through the bitch’s strange conjured tree trunk in the twisting nether realm that left the smell of iron and marrow lingering in Laudna’s nose. Her limbs still sting with phantom wounds where she had thrashed against Delilah’s cage. 

Helpless. Weak. 

The others were there, too. At least, for much of the fight and everything that preceded. They had seen Laudna’s memories, as Fresh Cut Grass informed her. Learned the name she had taken care to hide all these years. Buried deep enough, even Imogen, brilliant as she is, would have to dig to uncover it. Delilah, it seemed, only cared for secrets when they were hers to keep. 

When her friends visit her chambers, their vivacity is dulled. They are tense, anxious, and trying and failing to hide the restlessness that they are all feeling. 

Orym regards her with new wariness, searching for lies and cracks, though he is kind as ever. It’s understandable, Laudna reasons. In this place, where the Briarwood reign harmed innumerable lives, she is a liability. A threat to be guarded against.

Fearne is delicate with her hugs, moves cautiously through Laudna’s space. She hasn’t even stolen any of the silver soup spoons or fine teacups, which might be most concerning of all. 

Ashton hovers in the doorway. They return her awkward waves with a nod and flick of their wrist. 

Chetney and Fresh Cut Grass seem the most unbothered. Chetney in a plush bathrobe that appears to have been hastily cropped to suit his stature, and F.C.G. chattering on about the importance of rest to the healing process. 

And Laudna hates them just a little bit because she cares for them all so deeply, but mostly, she just hates herself. Hates Delilah. Hates Otohan Thull. 

They’re losing time and they’ve already lost so much. Imogen has already lost so much. Her mother’s trail is growing colder by the day, and there is nothing Laudna can do but lay in this godsforsaken luxurious bed and wait until her body recovers. 

It’s all she can do not to break into a thousand pieces that she would scatter to the nooks and crannies so she wouldn’t have to see the pitying looks on her friends’ faces when Imogen has to help her up. 

She turns on her side and buries her face in an obnoxiously soft down pillow to muffle the sob that wells within her and wracks her body. 

She does a piss-poor job of that, too. 

“Laudna?” Imogen calls sleepily, roused from a sun-dappled doze. Then, alert, “Hey, hey–” 

She’s standing, Laudna can hear, and now she’s gone and disturbed Imogen. Bare feet pad across the cool stone floor, and the far side of the bed dips, ever considerate. She will not come closer, Laudna knows, unless given explicit consent because Imogen is wonderful and caring and lovely.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” 

Laudna shudders. “I feel terrible.” 

“Oh,” Imogen says, and Laudna can feel the flash of guilt and concern that radiates off of her. “Can I bring you anything? Is it your head?” She shifts her weight. “Do you need water? I can go get a pitcher. Or food, maybe?”

“Stop. Please, stop,” Laudna croaks. Imogen flinches, and gods, Laudna could be sick.

Imogen retreats. “Sorry, I’ll just– sorry,” she murmurs, sounding so small. 

Laudna lifts her head and darts a trembling hand to catch her wrist. “No!” she says. Her body betrays her, the word coming out as more of a roar than she ever could have meant. “No,” she repeats, softer, “stay. Please,” because if she frightens Imogen off, she fears what will crawl into the hole left behind. 

Imogen hesitates, glances down at the ink-tipped fingers clasped around her arm, and sits again. She doesn’t speak, leaving the path clear for Laudna to lead the way, and oh, Laudna could melt. 

Laudna sighs shakily, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…it’s not you.” 

Not Imogen. Never Imogen. 

The silence hangs heavy between them until Laudna can bring herself to speak again. 

“This is my fault, I’m afraid,” she states flatly, refusing to meet Imogen’s gaze. Refusing to see whatever reaction she may find there. Anguish. Frustration. Irritation.

“What?” 

Confusion.  

Laudna looks up, gestures vaguely to their surroundings. “This. All of us being… trapped here.” 

“Laud, what’re you talkin’ about?” 

Imogen’s hand comes to stroke the back of Laudna’s knuckles where they wrap around her other wrist. Her fingers are calloused and work-worn, the rough patches of them catching on the imperfect parts of Laudna. 

“You should be off tracking down your mother or finding out what you can about the moon, and instead,” Laudna’s voice catches in her throat, “you’re here.”

Imogen shakes her head, exhales. “Where I should be is for me to decide.” She says it gently. It is not meant to be a reprimand. It still feels like one. “And where I should be,” she continues, “is wherever you are.” 

Laudna’s eyes flit anywhere but Imogen’s face. 

“If you want me there, of course.”

Laudna’s response is instant. “Always.” 

She finally meets Imogen’s eyes and is met with a somewhat furrowed brow. She wants to ask something, Laudna can tell. Imogen’s head is tilted curiously, her lips slightly parted. Her jaw works subtly, muscles tensing. 

“It’s not your fault,” she settles on at last. “None of it, okay?”

Laudna opens her mouth to respond.

Imogen is steely calm. “You were gone, Laudna. And I couldn’t reach you, and…and you’re here now. You’re back, and that’s all that matters.” 

Laudna shrinks into the pillows, takes her hand back beneath the sheet, fist clenching and unclenching. “I feel like such a nuisance,” she confesses quietly. “I should have tried harder to break her hold on me. I should have–”

“No. Gods,” Imogen snaps, lacking any real bite. She inhales. “Laudna, you…you were dead. And I hate sayin’ it; I hate thinkin’ about it. You couldn’t’ve done anythin’ more than what you did.” She softens, throat tightening with emotion. “You did so much. And I’m so proud of you. And… I’m so grateful you chose to come back.” 

“It wasn’t much of a choice,” Laudna whispers, “I couldn’t very well leave you, darling.” 

“You could’ve.” Imogen bites her lip, ducks her head, fiddles with the hem of her vest. “We, um, I know F.C.G. told you, but we… saw some of your memories. And, and I didn’t really wanna bring it up? So I’m real sorry, but we only saw a couple moments, and we don’t have to talk about it, but,” she looks back to Laudna, “you’re so brave. I don’t think you get told that enough. You’re so strong, Laud, and so good, and I missed you. So much.” She takes a sharp breath.

It bursts out as though holding it in any longer might suffocate her, and Laudna’s hands cease their twitching. She hesitates. Imogen’s affection has split her open, and it’s odd, she thinks, to feel so vulnerable and so safe. That those two sensations can coexist as a tingling in her chest that extends into her tendons and ligaments to warm her all over. She can sense the discolored blush rising in her cheeks. 

She does not feel brave. Strength has always been foreign and abstract. That Imogen can see her that way is… incongruous. Absurd, even. 

“You’re very kind.”

Imogen looks as if she might protest but seems to think better of it. She sighs, a slight, sad smile crossing her lips. She moves to stand again, to cross the room back to her seat, and suddenly, the thought of Imogen being so far away is unbearable. 

“Stay, please?” Laudna shuffles, lifting a corner of the quilt. “This bed is plenty big enough for two, and I dread to think of the state of your neck curled up in the window.”

“You’re sure?” Imogen asks, faint hope coloring her words. 

“Come here.” 

The bed dips again as Imogen clambers in, pressing herself against Laudna, who lets out an oomph as Imogen wraps around her and intertwines their fingers. 

“Sorry!” Imogen says with a relieved exhale, “Sorry, I just–I know I said it before, but… I really missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” Laudna assures gently, taking in the oaty smell of Imogen. The smell of home. “Rest well, darling.” 

Imogen squeezes their hands in response and burrows closer. 

Laudna relaxes into the embrace.

[willowbirds]

fearnie :)

I’m going to assume this is for that character ask thing. If it isn’t? Well you’re about to get infodumped my lovely Anon! (This is what happens when you ask about my blorbos)

First impression

Absolutely loved the Ashley got to play full time in a campaign, and was really excited to see what she had in store for Fearne especially since I hadn’t watched EXU: Prime.

Impression now

I am SO GLAD Fearne is the character Ashley is playing full time! There are so many intercity to her character and she has now live a life of a mortal and not a fey. It is so interesting how this world has affected her. For better or for worse.

Favorite moment(s)

Similar to Imogen, I don’t know how I would choose. Fearne has so many funny moments that they tend to outshine her more soft or serious ones. For humorous, probably when she found out that Imogen was afraid of heights and started swaying the cart whenever they were on it. For serious, I absolutely loved her most recent speech. Honestly take any of her more serious moments and I will probably say it’s my favourite.

Idea for a story

Well there is currently my Cyberpunk fic I’m working on and even though I don’t go too in depth with this version of Fearne, I still explore her a lot more. Even though I absolutely adore her, she is quite hard to write for me. I do have an idea where both Fearne and Imogen were raised by Nana Morri, but that will have to be explored at a later date.

Unpopular opinion (Again, I don’t know if this is unpopular, but I’m gonna say it anyway)

Okay! This is gonna be long. People need to stop acting like Fearne (and by extension, Ashley) has no agency. People keep saying how the rest of the party forces things on her and believe she hasn’t made her own decisions which is completely untrue. The shard incident comes to mind where people thought that Ashton (by extension, Taliesin) forced Fearne/Ashley to give him the shard even though BOTH PLAYERS said in a 4-Sided Dive that they thought the shard was supposed to go to Ashton. This then leads to some people thinking that Fearne was forced to take the shard because Fearne was adamant on not taking it but got worn down and gave in. Again, Ashley thought it was supposed to go to Ashton so she played Fearne as not wanting to take it because she didn’t want to steal Ashton’s backstory thing. She eventually took it because she thought, might as well, and look how excited she was to get that new sheet! If she had no agency she wouldn’t be playing with this group, and if she felt like the wasn’t making her own choices she would let them know off screen BECAUSE THEY ARE ADULTS THAT HAVE PLAYED TOGETHER FOR A DECADE!! I’ve been thinking about this ever since I saw people saying that the cast is forcing monogamy on Fearne. Tal was clearly on board with the idea of Braius asking out Ashton and Braius asked if Fearne and Ashton were a thing because he sees the world in Black and White (According to Sam on 4SD) and there for likely views the world in monogamy. LEST WE FORGET THAT LAURA BAILEY PITCHED THE WITCH THRUPLE AT A COMIC CON PANEL HERSELF!!

TL;DR: Stop saying that a grown woman doesn’t have agency over her own character.

Favourite relationship

Imogen and Fearne honestly. Their shared connection to ruidus aside, these two care about each other so damn much. I know I ship them (and since Laura pitched the Witch Thruple I think she does too) but I think currently in canon they see each other as sisters. Again, mentioning the serious moments that I love with Fearne, the amount of protectiveness she has for Imogen is only beat by Laudna. The fact that she gets nervous when the Nightmare King says that Imogen is special and asks what they would do to her if they got her, the way she casts earth bind on her while she’s in her dream because she doesn’t want her to go away, her scream of desperation as she tries to wake her up, Ollie’s vision of seeing an older Fearne reaching towards a burning red light (I know it’s not an Imogearne moment, BUT IF YOU SQWINT-). Anyway, Imogearne for life :)

(This is not to diminish any of her other relationships. They are all so important to Fearne’s character, but my witchy shipper brain took over)

Favourite headcanon

If you’ve seen my blog then you might be aware of my Blue Blooded Fey headcanon. This is obviously my favourite, but I’ll add a few others for funsies.

Blue blood, ambidextrous, tooth gap, small fangs, glowing ember tipped ears (after she got the shard), warm to the touch (even warmer after getting the shard)

[darkdisrepair]

c3e36 - vox machina and the lady of whitestone

in this week's meta, we break down the appearances of FOUR (four!!!) members of vox machina in campaign 3, five if you count trinket, and what makes them all so different, and how this episode was, in a great, beautiful way, a love letter to vex'ahlia.

now, originally, i think we all probably thought that keyleth would be at the center of all of this, as she naturally has the best connection with bell's hells and orym. i anticipated her being a strong advocate for laudna because of her perspective and relationship with orym- and didn't really see her pushing the "we owe her because of the sun tree" angle as hard as other vm characters would have.

but also, it makes so much sense for matt to call keyleth away. this stops her from becoming too much of bell's hells' advocate and benefactor than she already is, as orym's leader.

not to mention the fact that whitestone is, ultimately, vex's and percy's and pike's, and playing keyleth in a space that really isn't hers and not her authority is an awkward power balance for sure. and it's hard enough playing multiple de rolos and pike in the same episode.

though i did love the beautiful nods to her, that we did get- her cloak trailing beauty everywhere she walked was such a great touch. and her rambling awkwardness while spouting all of the things she was dealing with? perfection.

that being said: 1. i think keyleth the most difficult impersonation. 2. our lady pike trickfoot is just such a light every time she appears. plus, it was nice to see her again, and see how comfortable matt was playing her.

i think pike was a necessary appearance. you need a little bit of a brighter character (in the happiness sense) to balance out just how Edgy both of the de Rolo parents can be, and without keyleth, pike is the perfect balance to them.

that being said.

at the end of all this, the most beautiful part of the storytelling in this episode was vex.

was it also amazing to see percy? yes, but, to quote my friend, "i forgot vox machina are condescending assholes," and percy is no different [lovingly].

his reactions, while completely justified given his history and the future he's built for himself and his people, was also just that.

but vex?

this was so much a love letter to her, and her journey with grief, and her journey with everything that happened in campaign 1.

laudna died for her. she died and was mutilated to look like her. and watching bell's hells grieve for this woman, and despite the danger doing everything in her power to help them? going against percy, spending thousands of gold and diamonds?

how could she not.

in the end, it was never a debate, was it? what vex's perspective would be?

if she could spend all the money in the world to get her brother back, don't you think she would? don't you think that she sees herself in bell's hells, in the grief written all over their faces?

fix him, she can remember grog shouting. and sobbing over her husband's body. and waking up cold and shivering on the floor of the raven queen's temple.

and after all that, how could she say no?

and what makes her different form percy? there's the obvious, that laudna was her representation on the sun tree. but at the core- her heart is so good.

all her money tendencies was because she worried that she couldn't care for everyone in her life. all of her standoffishness was because she couldn't bear feeling like she was losing her brother to keyleth.

and she has lost so much. she lost the person who was her world (percy has lost people, too, but there's something still so visceral about her loss that still sticks with me even now).

she is so perceptive.

how could she not see the desperation on their faces? the heavy burden on imogen's shoulders?

the feathers in her hair are black.

not teal.

and i think that was all the clues that we needed to know that vex would never let whitestone abandon laudna.

[unicyclehippo]

Museum AU prompt: restricted

Glancing at the note in her hand, Laudna made her way toward the blue tent—though it would be more correct to call it grey, she thought, no matter that it might have begun its life as a blue tent the weathering of it had left it most certainly not blue. On the other hand, all the other tents were white or yellow so it didn’t really matter.

The grey-blue tent was easily distinguished from the others by its size, entirely closed walls, and where it was placed central to the camp but somehow still managing to seem removed from the rest. It was also the only tent she could see that was being guarded.

Laudna checked her note again and scanned the encampment for another—any other—blue tent. She’d settle for a green one, even. Finding none, she sidled forward nervously.

The man posted at the entrance to the grey-blue tent wore the same dull-red uniform as the rest of the dig team, though accented with pieces of military gear. A sand-coloured vest, marching boots. A gun, holstered on his side. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old but his face was made stern by the deep, searching frown he wore as he scanned the area. Noticing Laudna, he gave her a nod and waited until she was closer to speak. The noise of the diggers was loud, even from the camp.

‘Afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you?’

‘Ah, no, thank you. I only need to slip past you—‘

‘I can’t allow that, ma’am. This area is restricted.’

Before she could grow too flustered—which she could feel happening already, pulse fluttering, palms growing clammy—the flap of the tent parted for another soldier.

‘That won’t be necessary, Dobson,’ the older man said. Turning his attention to Laudna, he asked, ‘Doctor Bradbury?’ though it was abundantly clear he had recognised her. ‘My name is Orym Derigsson. I act as head of Doctor Temult’s personal security while she’s on site—she extends her apology she couldn’t greet you at the landing strip herself. Please, come inside. Dobson, she’s on the list.’

‘Yessir,’ Dobson answered smartly, and his eyes snapped from a careful watch of her back to the surrounding tents and distant cliffs.

Orym Derigsson held back the tent flap for her and closed it carefully once she had entered. He was considerably shorter than her and looked not much like the other soldiers. Dobson, and two others she had spotted, had been tall and buff. Derigsson had a gymnast’s build and wore no red uniform, entirely in shades of sand and brown, save his baseball cap, which was a cheerful green and had a logo or brand printed on it. Was he so much their superior that he could dress as he wanted, she wondered, or did he not fall under their hierarchy at all? Dobson had jumped at his command, though. Curious.

Not seeming to notice her appraisal, Derigsson led her through the tent.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t collect you either,’ he offered, sounding genuinely remorseful. ‘I was with Doctor Temult at the dig. There was an incident last night that threw all her plans out—‘

‘Is she alright?’

Derigsson smiled back at her over his shoulder. ‘Unless you count her being in a temper, yes ma’am, she’s fine.’

Laudna arched a brow. She had yet to see Imogen angry—certainly not to the degree his rueful expression seemed to indicate. She smiled. It would be a marvellous thing to witness. ‘Oh good,’ she said faintly. ‘And are you taking me to her?’

‘No ma’am. Doctor Temult hoped to show you around herself.’ He stopped in the third—and final—room of the tent, gesturing for her to make herself comfortable.

It was a small square space, about as large as the other tents she had seen outside, and spartan in design. Two bunks were laid out, one on either side of the room, separated by the office desk against the far wall. There was nothing on the desk save a handful of pens and an opened envelope and, despite the beds being ready and made with military precision, it didn’t have the feel of a space that had been lived in much. She said as much. Derigsson nodded.

‘We don’t sleep here if we can help it. We have nicer accommodation at the Strip—you would have flown over them, five or so warehouse looking buildings? That’s where everyone lives, showers, eats. This is the dig site. Teams get assigned and head out to the dig, everything gets photographed, recorded, and labelled here before being moved to the Strip for all the scientific tests they do. And please don’t ask me what tests because I don’t know—I’m just the muscle.’

‘That’s not true and you know it,’ Imogen chided from her place at the entrance to the room. From where he stood, there was no way that Derigsson had missed her approach. Out of the corner of her eye, Laudna saw him grin at her startled jump—and then he was put entirely out of mind as she spun to face Imogen.

The moment she laid eyes on her, Laudna felt her heart and mind stir as if from a long sleep. Her mind alit with a hundred stories to tell that Imogen had missed in their time apart, with a thousand questions to ask in turn.

‘Imogen,’ she breathed. ‘Hello.’

Imogen wanted to laugh, eyes brilliant with it. She didn’t. She only smiled that lovely crooked smile that dimpled her cheek. ‘Hello. Good flight?’

[leet911]

Names

Names have power, Imogen knows. She's read too many books by long dead conjurers and mages to think otherwise. So when Laudna comes back and the music is different, Imogen is relieved, but torn. Because her favorite person is back, sort of.

Laudna is alive again. She's alive alive, in a way she hasn't been as long as Imogen has known her. This person though, this Matilda, is just as caring and selfless and precious. And Imogen doesn't know if this music is more like a cover or a remix, just that it's not the way that Laudna used to sound. This is not the way that Laudna used to feel.

"Should I—" Imogen stumbles over her words, catches herself wanting when the song in her head doesn't resolve the way she remembers it. "Should I call you Matilda?"

"I've always been Laudna to you."

"But I don't want you to hide who you are." Imogen reaches a hand out momentarily, but she changes her mind and drops it back to her side just as fast, clenching the fist closed.

Laudna (Matilda?) smiles then, her face softening as she looks at Imogen. "You know I never felt like I had to hide from you."

Imogen cries, and the chimes sound in her head, still not exactly the same as Laudna, but almost. It's clearer now, the notes distinct and crisp, the hushed whispers missing from the background. The melody is gentle, just like it's always been, but the ominous undertone is gone. Now, the most ominous thing is that the music is different. And Imogen knows that's not fair, but that's the part that scares her. Because maybe she was hoping that they could go back to the way things were before.

"Laud—" Imogen starts, then corrects herself. "Matilda, I…"

"Call me Laudna," she interrupts. Her eyes are watery and shy, avoiding Imogen's. "I've only ever dreamed about you calling me Laudna."

Imogen breathes a sigh of relief then, because she's only ever thought about this person as Laudna, and she's never felt like Laudna needed any other names. "I'm glad," Imogen whispers, and she takes Laudna's hand for real this time. Their fingers lace together, just like they used to, and Imogen squeezes, shivers when the grip is returned. Laudna's hand is warmer than Imogen remembers, and Imogen thinks she can feel a pulse hammering much faster than usual, but she's not even sure whose heartbeat that is. "Because I think I fell in love with Laudna."

[masterqwertster]

After watching the last episode, I looked back at the Gentle Prompts and 28 caught my eye. I think all the Hells need a hug right now.

Gentle 30 Prompt 28 "You look like you need a hug."

“Alright! Everyone gather up,” FCG calls, bringing Bells Hells together from their little personal respites scattered around a common area of Ligament Manor.

“It occurred to me that everyone looks to be in need of a good hug, so we're gonna have a group hug session,” the aeormaton announces.

“A group hug session?” Imogen skeptically asks.

“Yes. The most cathartic place in a group hug is the center, but you can only really have one person in the middle at a time. So I figured we could have a bunch of group hugs and rotate who's in the middle so everyone can get that healin' energy,” Fresh Cut Grass explains.

“Oh, that makes so much sense,” Fearne chimes in, tail wagging in excitement.

“So who's going first?” Laudna queries,  fingers absently tangling through her hair.

“And is this gonna take more than an hour? ‘Cause I can get fuzzy for everyone if it's less than an hour,” Chetney offers.

“Well, I dunno how long this is gonna take. It kinda depends on how long of a hug everyone needs, really,” FCG answers, pondering the presented puzzle.

“Eh, we can always take a break so I can recharge the wolf, if need be,” Chetney waves dismissively. With a little snarling growl, a white werewolf emerges from beneath the gnome’s skin, tail wagging eagerly.

“As for who's going first, that'd be Ashton,” FCG continues, the were-cuddles issue resolved.

“Wait, me?” Ashton responds, surprised.

“Yup!” Fresh Cut Grass happily agrees, wrapping their arms firmly around the genasi’s waist. “I know touch can get overwhelmin’ for you, so if you go in the center first, you only gotta participate as much as is comfortable for you for the rest of ‘em.”

“Oh.” And he looks way too touched for such a simple consideration.

The rest of Bells Hells pile on, surrounding their barbarian in their embrace. Most of them are still mad about what he pulled with the Spark, but it’s only because they care and he nearly (temporarily) killed himself with that stunt.

Tremors run through the group hug, all of them being shaken by the stone center.

“Hey, don't force yourself. We can stop–”

“Don't! It's– it's good pain. Don't stop. Please,” Ashton quietly begs, voice cracking with the tears dripping down their face.

Everyone presses in closer at the admission, resolved to not end the hug until Ashton wants it to stop.

Resolved to not let any of the hugs end until whoever is in the middle calls a stop.

Ashton’s hug ends when they finally stop shaking everyone else with their sobs.

Laudna’s hug ends when the pressure of so many bodies against her frail form threatens to break something rather than just crack or dislocate it.

Fearne’s hug ends once she’s stealthily (or at least not been called out for) moved items among everyone's pockets.

Imogen's hug ends once she’s brushed through everyone's surface thoughts, reassuring herself of their care for her (and each other).

Orym’s hug ends when he decides he (and FCG, by his observation) has had enough of being held in the air by the hug.

Fresh Cut Grass's hug ends when they feel that winding spring of stress within them loosen up.

And Chetney’s hug ends when everyone practically collapses on one another as he reverts back to his smaller gnomish form.

They all laugh at the mess of tangled limbs they've become. 

This was a good bonding experience.

[inconmess]

Ok. Prefacing this, I know some of the points I mentioned here will overlap with stuff already posted and speculated but this is also my POV and not really leeching off their ideas. (probably you guys wouldn't really care but I have run into problems of "plagiarism" and don't want to risk it)

So the cast split up. Brilliant move, truly. For the sake of convenience, Orym, Ashton and Laudna are the ES (Emotionally Sane) and while Chetney, Fearne, FCG and Imogen are LC (Lost Chaos)

Putting everything under cut cuz this is a long ass post

First, covering the main things about the split up:

LC has all the healers and senders of the group and is majorly the group which relied on having a tether/required the most support from their "better halves." Fearne needed Orym, Imogen needed Laudna and FCG needed Ashton to guide them because they were all naive in some way or the other in the mechanics of the world. And Chetney was relatively close off until he was thrown back to face his past. This group essentially lost the "mature and protective people."

Now for ES. This group consists of people who have their own issues and relied on the fact that people relied on them to cope. They were protectors, the front liners in battle (mostly) and are possibly the masters of avoiding, deflecting and repressing shit. Yeah, they all talk about their shit to each other, Ashton and his regular talks with Laudna, Ashton checking up with Orym... Well, Orym talking when someone asks. But they all are repressing stuff really bad no matter how much they portray talking about it, they have their bouts of silent panic and insecurities and every single fucking shit and this separation is gonna take a toll on that. This group essentially lost its "distraction/support people/the reason they actually held onto their sanity."

Where are they:

Team LC - Uthodurn. Chetney's homeplace, close to his personal shit and FCG's too.

Team ES - Personally, I think they can be in Terrah, for some reason I always think about the "missing week of EXU and the crater" or Issyylra. Not in Marquet or Wildmount as far as I consider it.

(On a side note, I stand corrected, the wrap-up mentioned a pregame with a crater and not a chasm but I mixed the two of them up. Sorry for all the posts I had mentioned it on)

Expectations:

Team LCs: a lot of lore dump, history dump and characters dealing with their personal history while Imogen and Fearne come to terms with how the ritual of Ludinus is going to affect them, Imogen in particular being an exaltant. Does her powers diminish? Vanish? Does it change and mutate? Does the whole thing affect Fearne in some way? She wasn't an exaltant but was Ruidus born nonetheless.

Possible happening of getting a depressed Fearne cuz Orym was her halfling and the lack of their relationship with Ashton so she really doesn't have someone to balance her nature out. Like yeah, Chetney and her have a great relationship in and of itself and while we haven't seen it much onscreen, Imogen and FCG too, but I feel like her main circle was Orym and Ashton so she is definitely going to struggle with that. And take drastic wahs to cope with this loss too, eventually without anyone keeping her in check. Might also become a handler for the group eventually, but not initially.

Imogen will have to deal with her dissonance probably. Reevaluate a lot of stuff. The beliefs of her mom. The reassimilation with her powers depending on whether it's mutated, changed or gone as stated before. And even if it is unchanged, rethinking about her powers, strengthening herself. And not to mention, her dreams. Are they still there? How do they change? And how does she cope without Laudna when she get them?

Chetney's past. Period. And how he needs to control the wolf around this place, especially if the hunters are out there. He has control over it, more than anyone expects, yes. But can he have full control over it? Is that something which is possible for him? Technically his favourite target had been Orym but he wasn't here now. Can he handle his path and learn more about his wolf and control over it at the same time?

FCG is... Well, he has the Aeorean ruins for one, getting to discover more about his own kind and is definitely probably going to have another episode and I am counting on it, tbh. I am expecting each and every one of them to blow up in a certain way. And if they meet up with the Darrington Brigade, his relationship with Dotty is something I wanna see!

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

Team ES: Probably head-on smashes with Ashton's past and personal history, info dump and lore dump on that. Or they are near the Crown Keepers and get to deal with a rogue Opal. Laudna wondered what happened to Pate. Well, first they do need to figure out where they are anyways, and how to fucking communicate and get shit done.

Orym has his guilt and all three of them are spiralling in worry. He comes to know of the cause of the death of Will and Derrig, witnesses Keyleth almost killed by Otohan, failed in disabling the backpack and also was partly the reason Keyleth came there in the first place, luring in the Champion and providing Ludinus with what he needed. And so many regrets and guilt and just the fact that he has been separated from Fearne, who had in her weird sociopathic Fey way been his anchor, was now gone and nothing was to be known on what was up with everyone and is so worried that I am pretty sure he is gonna have a meltdown and go apeshit if he has to also help deal with Ashton's past because he is at that threshold and is barely hanging from the edge of it and really really needs people right now. The wee halfling deserves to go apeshit, blow up and break down, please!

Laudna... I honestly don't know apart from the fact that being separated from Imogen is going to deeply impact her cuz as far as I know, Imogen was the first person to accept her for who she was and they were just on the cusp of developing their relationship and she is worried for Imogen for the most part. Oh and maybe Delilah shows up again!

Ashton, I am rooting for him having to confront his past the most, a possible meet up with the Nobodies, if possible and their overall worry over the whole group, but especially FCG and Fearne. A possible breakdown and apeshit on the horizon along with some memory problems I believe. Not to mention them trying to find a way to find out more about the Dunamis shit that's going around, probably that also messes with their head a little bit...

Possible faces we can see:

The Crown Keepers (secretly rooting for them), Darrington Brigade, Possibly members of VM and M9, a few past NPCs (sorry I haven't watched much of the other two campaigns so maybe you can tag a few of the names you expect to see?

[mintywolf]

“Why would she run away like that?” asks Fearne, with drooping ears, “Did we do something to make her upset?”

“She seemed pretty chipper,” says FCG doubtfully.

“No,” replies Oyrm, “We’ve seen that flavor of chipper from her before. It means something’s on her mind that she doesn’t want anyone to know about.”

Chetney steps in front of Imogen with his wiry arms folded across his chest and scowls up at her from the region of her waist. “Listen, you. You need to stop bein’ so mean to Millie.”

“I’m not bein’ mean to her!” she cries in disbelief, too quickly to not have felt the sting of the accusation.

Ashton leans their good shoulder against the wall and fixes her with a gem-hard stare. “Maybe not outright mean. But you’ve been punishing her for not being Laudna, and now she seems to feel like that’s something about herself she needs to fix.”

“She’s doing her best to be a good wife to you because someone made her think that that’s what she thinks she should be doing,” Chetney asserts truculently. Under other circumstances his loyalty to her would be touching, but anger is crawling up Imogen’s arms in tingling sparks. “Least you could do is return it with some enthusiasm, ‘stead of moping around like she’s still dead!”

Ashton raises a hand as Imogen tries to interrupt. “Look, I admit the whole fake marriage thing is weird, and probably going to blow up in all our faces, but if you’re looking for the upper limit of how much she cares about you, you’re not going to find it. What’s bothering you? Is it that you looked into her memories and didn’t see yourself there? Well, then put yourself there. Make some new ones.”

“You want to know what’s botherin’ me?” Imogen bursts out, at last. She glares around into all their faces, meeting the defiance she finds in Ashton’s, the belligerence in Chetney’s, the caution in Orym’s, the sorrow in Fearne’s, and the contrition in the tilt of FCG’s head. “Maybe it’s that all y’all are out here havin’ a great time with this new person in Laudna’s place, and I never even got to mourn her. Because I should be so happy, right? She’s alive and well and free of Delilah, everything we wanted her to be, and now I’ve got this pretense of a happy marriage to hold up — for which, I realize, I have no one to blame but myself — but it feels like I’m the only one even acknowledgin’ that she’s gone.”

(Continue on AO3)

[laudsimogen]

This Hunger, It Isn't You (Ch. 19)

Read on AO3

Laudna didn’t have the strength to fight Imogen.

She wanted to. She wanted to beg Imogen not to put herself in harm’s way for her sake, to ask her to just stay with her and stay safe, but she knew it would take physical restraint to keep her from trying. So, she leaned against the tree and watched Imogen talk to Ashton by the fire, then leave through the other side with the sickle clutched tight in her hand.

Ashton watched her leave, too, and then headed toward Laudna. She flashed them the brightest smile she could muster as they reached her, but it fell flat.

“Hello again,” she said.

“Hey.” Ashton leaned against a tree opposite her and crossed their arms. “So, I’m supposed to not let you die. What happened? Imogen didn’t elaborate.”

“It’s…kind of a long story,” Laudna said.

“We got time.”

Laudna sighed. “All right,” she said. “Well, we decided to see what would happen if we killed the other killers. The Entity wasn’t happy with that, so I went to kill another one to fuck it over, and they got me pretty good.” She paused. “Hm. I guess it wasn’t a very long story after all.”

Ashton blinked. “You killed other killers? Like, they’re dead dead?”

“Only two.” Laudna frowned. “Or three. I’m not sure.”

“That’s crazy,” Ashton said. “Really fucking crazy. In a good way. Sorry you got hurt, though. You’re not gonna actually die on me, are you?”

Laudna hummed and looked down at herself. The sheets Imogen had secured to her were bleeding through, and she felt weak and lightheaded, but she’d come moments from dying before. This didn’t feel quite like that. Not yet, but probably soon.

“I’ll try not to,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. If this doesn’t kill me, the Entity will.”

“I’m guessing Imogen is out making sure that won’t happen,” Ashton said. “If there’s anything she can do for you, she will.”

“I know,” Laudna said. “That’s what scares me. She’s too stubborn.”

“Trust me,” Ashton said, “I know. First it was the escape thing—I guess it kind of still is—and now you. Honestly, I feel bad for whatever she’s going after. Clearly, she gets pissed when someone she loves is threatened.”

Laudna’s heart beat a little faster at their words. She might have even blushed if she hadn’t lost so much blood. “She told you she loves me?” It wasn’t as if she hadn’t said it to Laudna before, but there was something even more intimate about someone else knowing—about being spoken of to someone else in a positive light. Friends-of-friends who knew about her despite barely having talked to her. She’d never experienced that before.

Ashton laughed. “No,” they said. “Of course not; she doesn’t talk about shit like that. But I can tell. I think she loves you more than anything, honestly. So, don’t die, ’cause if you do…” They let out a low whistle. “That aftermath won’t be pretty.”

Laudna’s head swam, and she couldn’t tell if it was more from the blood loss or from her emotions. “She can’t…love me more than anything,” Laudna said. “I love her more than anything, but she’s so special. I’m just…” she took a shaky breath. “I’m not important. Not enough for her to risk herself for.”

“No, don’t do that.”

Laudna frowned. “Do what?”

“Act like you don’t matter,” Ashton said. “It’s bullshit. If Imogen likes you so much, then you gotta be something special, too. And, I mean, you’re the only killer who’s tried to do right by us. Paid for it, too. That matters.”

They sighed and sat down, resting their elbows on their knees. “I gotta admit, I don’t know you all that well, but I care about you, too. So, cut the self-deprecating crap and just tell me what you need from me to stay alive until Imogen gets back. I’m no healer, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Okay,” Laudna murmured. She didn’t know how to handle one person caring about her, let alone two. Even through the pain, she felt horribly awkward. “I don’t know what you can do, though. Imogen slowed it down, but I’m still bleeding out.”

Ashton sighed. “Great,” they said. “I have a friend who used to do healing spells, but that shit doesn’t work here or I’d go get him. I’m sorry, Laudna.”

“It’s all right,” Laudna said. “I do appreciate you sitting with me, in any case. I’ve learned that I kind of hate being alone.”

“You and me both,” Ashton said. “Guess it just takes the right company, huh?”

“Mm.”

She was fading now. Her chest, her limbs, her eyelids—everything felt so heavy that she couldn’t even shiver in the cold washing over her. This was it: that feeling she’d had back in the real world when she’d lay dying in the woods. This time, the Entity wouldn’t rescue her.

“Laudna?”

She vaguely felt a hand on her shoulder, and she tried to focus on the contact, on the voice, on anything. She had to stay until Imogen got back. She couldn’t go yet.

“Laudna, come on.” Ashton snapped their fingers in her face. “I made a promise, okay? Do you want Imogen to fucking kill me?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. Tell her I’m sorry.”

“I’m not telling her shit,” Ashton said. “Just hold on a little longer.”

I’m trying, Laudna thought, but she couldn’t get her words out anymore. She wanted more than anything to see Imogen one more time, just to know she was okay, but now she couldn’t see, and she couldn’t hear, and she couldn’t feel.

And then she was gone.

Laudna had never come back from being gone—really gone—before. Not like the survivors. But like the survivors, she found herself blinking awake bathed in warmth with soft, lush grass beneath her. She squinted in the unfamiliar light, wondering where she was, until she realized. The campfire.

“Welcome back,” Ashton said from beside her.

Was this real? This couldn’t be real. The Fog didn’t allow killers in the campfire. She’d died; her realm had to have collapsed; she was gone.

But she could feel warmth on her skin for the first time in decades, and as her vision came into focus, she could see the other survivors standing at a distance, gawking at her. That was real.

“What happened?” she murmured to Ashton, and they shrugged.

“You died,” they said. “But then it was like the Fog was screaming; the crows started going nuts and the campfire walls were freaking out. So, I tried bringing you in, and it worked.”

“Well, shit.” Laudna looked around, but she didn’t catch sight of the pale purple she was looking for. “Where’s Imogen?”

“She’s not back yet,” Ashton said. “Whatever she’s doing must be taking a while.”

Laudna sat up a little too quickly and leaned back on her hand to steady herself. The pain was gone besides a few dull aches, but she still had to shake off the lightheadedness.

“I can go help her now,” Laudna said. “She’s out there alone because of me; I need to find her.”

“Woah,” Ashton said, “slow down a little. What do you think is gonna happen if you’re gone when she comes back?” They gave her a pointed look. “She’s gonna want to find you, and then you’re both gonna be running all over the Fog looking for each other, and nobody’s gonna be having a good time.”

Laudna sighed. “I guess,” she said. They had a point, but that also meant she had to stay at the campfire. Warm and comfortable as it was, she could feel the survivors’ eyes lingering on her. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know,” she called to the crowd. “You can stop staring now.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Ashton said. “Let me introduce you to my friends while you wait for Imogen; I think they’ll like you.”

[a-couple-of-notes]

cr3e52 hot takes that I need to get out of my system

not main-tagging this and putting it under a cut because it's salty as hell, but I really just need to get this out of my system by writing it down. mayhap I will take parts of this and flesh them out into more considered posts later, with all the nuance and disclaimers about blorbo apologist. for now, have straight crankiness. spoilers for c3e52.

I can see the whole "The party/specifically Imogen is still thinking about joining Ludinus, they're so dumb and frustrating" discourse starting up again, and it's getting on my nerves. All of Bells Hells understands that Ludinus is the bad guy; nowhere in this episode did I hear any of them say that they should join his moon cult. In fact, Imogen was pretty clear that the god-eater was bad. It was actually F.R.I.D.A. who was closest to exhibiting a pro-Ludinus stance (Imogen says that Ludinus is trying to destroy the gods, and they say "good.") And even Deanna (who's no fan of the gods herself) tells them hmm, no, wait.

I continue to be frustrated at how much crap Imogen gets for--like, three canonical moments of doubt, which again, are not about whether the party should join the moon cult. I also think we should talk more about why she's tempted, which is an interesting mix of actual supernatural compulsion (Laura's rolling saves, y'all! she's being cued by the DM!), yearning for her mother, and her implied past ideation of death.

There's a difference between exploring strained relationships with gods, questioning the meaning and worth of faith, and wondering why this is the path you're on - and straight-up wanting to join the moon cult. It's okay if you don't like this narrative, or find it repetitive. But the question that continues to be in tension is not "Are Ludinus' actions right, and should we join his cult?" It's "Do the gods care about us? Why are we, the largely faithless group, the ones on the path to saving the gods?"

Though I understand the categorization of these two groups into "emotionally stable" and "powder kegs without a brain cell" (and to some extent agree - Chet, FCG, and Imogen have very volatile elements, and Orym, Ashton, and post-Delilah Laudna don't as much), I feel that this can get into the infantilization of Imogen and FCG especially. "Imogen has never learned to take care of herself." "The party will have to learn to function without their babysitters." Like. Yes, Imogen is very attached to Laudna, but this ignores the fact that she is a 28-year-old woman with a decade of experience in managing her condition, who has regularly played the even keel for both FCG and Laudna herself. And this also limits the way we can view the other half of the party. If they're just the long-suffering adults dragging their idiot companions along, there's no room to address, say, Laudna's arrested development (which I believe is still a facet of her even post-Delilah) or Ashton's rage and projection onto parental relationships.

(Since I'm very ornery in this post I will also say that buying into this read too much can flatten the relationships between the starting pairs into simplistic tropes--one is only the caretaker, and the other is only the one being cared for. And that bugs me, because there are a lot more reasons why these pairs have stayed with each other--healthy or unhealthy--and those are also [if not far more] interesting.)

[antlereed]

“Please, I don’t have anythin’ you want!” Imogen felt desperation flood her blood, feeling all too much like an animal backed into a corner.

“Don’t rightly care what you do or don’t have, monsters don’t kill for the rewards.” Their voice was like ice, dark and cold and fragmenting. It kept her from moving, and they slowly grew closer and closer. Imogen could swear she heard that faint music from before, and she wondered if it would be for the last time. She wondered faintly if the stranger really was a monster, or if the adrenaline was making the shadows shift and dance on the outer edges of their arms like a sort of fearful hallucination.

“That’s curious. You seem to think you’re a monster? Have you seen the real thing?” An accented voice seems to come from everywhere, surrounding her with that same music before the shadows completely engulf the person in front of her.

It was a silent thing, one moment the shadows seemed to come to life, crawling and writhing over the stranger and the next they were gone. As if swallowed whole by the dark. Imogen waited, still frozen, for them to dart out to grab for her, for their sword to slice and bite at her skin. But it never came.

The music only grew closer, and Imogen let her breathing relax slowly as the shadows began to fade. There was no sign of her assailant, only a tall woman standing in the road a little ways off, walking up the path towards her.

“Are you alright? That fool didn’t cause too much damage, did they?” That same voice asked, and now the woman was walking in a moonbeam. She was tall, gaunt and gangly. Her arms dangled as she walked, a hand plucking at her skirts every so often to avoid the hem getting too muddied. If Imogen had been able to think clearly at the time, she would have noticed the ways the shadows clung to this new stranger, dripping like molasses down her arms to stain her fingertips. But since she couldn’t, all she truly remembers is the pure embarrassment of:

“Your music is beautiful.”

“My music? Oh dear, please tell me they didn’t manage to get you bleeding.” She sped up, and Imogen could feel her heart in her throat as she got closer. A small beauty mark was under her eye, with dark lips that drew her eye. She was biting at her lower lip, her teeth sharp and pointed and it made Imogen’s chest twist.

“No, no I’m fine. Was just a little frightened is all.” Imogen takes a deep, steadying breath and pulls her eyes away from this stranger's mouth as she stands up properly. She pats the worst of the mud off of her legs, winces as she realizes there is a faint streak of blood mixing with the dirt caked on her legs, her dress torn nearly beyond repair. The woman is next to her now, and it’s now that Imogen finally notices the stains. And then she says the second most embarrassing thing for the night.

“Was that black shadowy stuff you?”

“It was.” The stranger steps closer, though her hands thread through the tangled strands of hair that frame her face. She shrinks in on herself, and Imogen lurches with the guilt of having caused the reaction.

“I’m sorry, here I am askin’ questions when I should be thankin’ you. I’m Imogen.” Imogen hopes that introductions will at least put the woman at some sort of ease.

“Laudna. And no need for thanks, can’t have people going about giving monsters a bad name. I already have a reputation.” Laudna says it all with a twist of her wrist, the shadows there dripping now like hot wax. Imogen feels an odd sensation, and with a quick glance she notices the tear in her dress is patching itself over with the shadow. Imogen watches it for a moment, the obvious magic making her mind wander to the lilac scars under her nail beds.

“Are you sure you’re alright? I have some bandages and medicines in my home if you’d like to get patched up?” Laudna is still pulling herself taught, and Imogen desperately needs to make the other woman relax. So she lets the third embarrassment escape her lips with no remorse.

“I’d love that. If you’ll have me, that is. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense, it would be my pleasure.”