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umbrellagoblin · 2 years

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Plague Be Upon Ye, Son of God!

Hello!

This is basically a fanfic featuring two original characters tormenting one another. I was greatly inspired by @kwillow 's Ambroys, because he's simply the perfect dumpsterfire of an angelic bastard and I wanted to make my own little mage, Mortimer, bash heads with him. That's a story of how they met and how their relationship follows suit for, well, a while...

// CW: Grotesque displays of sickness and bodily harm, mental torture.

Ahh… No better sound in the world than a somber “Lecture over.” Especially after a long, grueling, and utterly boring day of kinda-studying. The (literal) golden boy spent all this time twirling his locks and snoozing the class away. It wasn’t all that boring, though; the occasional nudge from a groupmate, a mocking giggle of his own, and an incessant barrage of whispers occasionally broke the dignified silence… If one could call it such.

A teacher’s monotone voice was interrupted with the occasional stammer. Awh, did he feel embarrassed even an angel refuses to grant him attention? How unfortunate it must be - to be this pathetic. That’s all there is to the pretty slacker’s mind right now. But at long last - it’s over.

Clearly, Ambroys DeLuxe is not interested in studying - in spite of keeping a high scoreboard. Nor is he too keen on socializing (and no, dragging the “impure” through mud doesn’t count). Yet in spite of walking alone, the plentiful classroom stares suggest he’s dipped his fingers into everyone’s life, somehow… Be it through charms, or the livid personality this preppy frat-boy is notorious for. Reveling in his own purity and perfection, it appears as if the slightest breeze could knock Ambroys off his high-horse. Lo and behold - it’s exactly what happens next:

February is still in full swing. One should expect it to get warmer, but alas - it has not. Roads are still covered in ice and snow, while the wind’s high speeds make the bits of exposed skin turn blue. A nasty, frigid, windy month it is - and the golden boy came ill-prepared.

“Rhnf… Why in Dad’s name did he invent winter?!” Ambroys hissed through gritted, clacking teeth and biting his lip. Tugging tighter on his scarf of pure-white silk did not save him from a frosty wind gust nearly knocking the delicate thing down. Immediately muttering an apology, Ambroys simply put his coat’s collar up, and went on his merry way to the pick-up spot. Shame it was on the other end of the campus alleyway…

A familiar figure sat on the bench nearby. Sulking, its round face buried in a big book. That made Ambroys stop in his tracks, forget about the frosty weather, then come on over and loom over the nerd in question. Said figure was Mortimer Killinger - Morty for short. Even though Ambroys and Morty were from entirely different faculties, their classes often matched. How Applied Alchemy and Theology of Evocation could be so similar is still a mystery to the two of them. And, judging by a sore look upward - Morty isn’t too happy about the golden boy’s presence.

Amber eyes, thus, stared into eyes of pure gold. Keeping up the staring contest, Mortimer closed his book and let it rest on his lap.

“Lord Ambroys Leriche Belrose Deluxe,” he said, “To what do I owe the pleasure of being graced with your attention?”

A gasp, and a press into his own luxury-laden chest followed suit: ”My oh my,” the golden boy cooed, “Simply Ambroys would have sufficed… Hello-hello!~ How do you know my full name, Killinger?”

“Uh, checked the enrollment ledger?” Morty said. Oh boy, he’s already getting tired of this…

What an awkward silence that was. The look of dismissal on Mortimer’s face remained quite contrary to the lively, toxically-positive mug of Ambroys. A few more moments of that and Morty would have left, but unfortunately - he still has manners and dignity.

“...Don’t you have places to be?” he asked.

“Mmn, not really,” Ambroys replied, “My chauffeur can wait, and isn’t the weather just lovely today?”

That’s it. Mortimer’s brows furrowed and he prepared to get up: “Not particularly, no. I’m not into smalltalk, Ambroys - stop beatin’ around the bush or get lost.”

That was the exact moment Ambroys’s expression shifted from a snooty nobleman’s smirk to haughty offense, instead. Almost turning away to the side and glaring down at the tired nerd.

“I know what you are, Killinger,” Ambroys hissed, “You are a witch. Studying witchcraft. Dabbling in the arcane like it’s your business. Making deals with devils my tongue cannot turn to name! You should redeem yourself of this wretched pseudo-scientific heresy and-”

“Blah-blah-blah, you’re a sinner, blah-blah-blah, I’ll pray for you more… I’ve heard it all before,” Morty interrupted there and then. His eyes rolled back and his body oozed onto the bench. This goody-two-shoes really didn’t get the hint, so he’s as direct as it gets: “I know somethin’ about you, too, Ambroys. You run with Alpha Nu Omega - and I don’t want in. Thank you for the offer. Now please, move on.”

The angelic harassment did not end there, however. Another moment of awkward silence later, Ambroys walked up even closer. His amber eyes were laid on Morty’s grimoire. A cocky smirk turned into a mirth-filled smile:

“...In all fairness, witch - I need your services,” Ambroys murmured, “No - I need your goods. What’s this tome you have here?”

Mortimer only squinted at first. “What’s it to you, frat-boy?” He asked then, clutching it closer.

Ambroys’s hand reached for the book, as if politely asking for it: “I assume it’s a grimoire, right? I need it for research purposes. Ones which your devil-worshipping brain should not concern itself with!”

Although the tired mage was clasping the book tight, Ambroys still reached for it and took a firm grasp at its edge. His face haughty and demanding, the golden boy’s squint was supposed to make Morty intimidated, now: “...Well? Forfeit your grimoire to me! Come on then, chop-chop!”

“I don’t think you know how research works,” Mortimer hissed in response, “First of all - that’s not how you politely ask to share research material. Secondly, Ambroys - I don’t trust a word coming out of your mouth. And lastly - you could be in trouble for it! So it is you who must let-”

But it was pointless. All Ambroys did now is tug at the grimoire like a stubborn donkey. Mortimer refused to let go - for obvious reasons - and so, it only resulted in further confrontation:

“Just give me the damn book!”

“No! You can’t have it! It’s my personal diary!”

“Obey what an Angel tells you to do, Witch!”

“I am not going to! Let go, you jerk!”

“No! Give me the book!”

“No!”

“Let go!”

“You let go!”

“Fine!” - Ambroys barked, and, after giving the grimoire his harshest tug, suddenly stopped clutching at it. The resulting inertia flicked the book out of Mortimer’s arms, as well. It landed directly in a dirty snowpile - much to the witch’s horror.

“Oh look, now neither of us can have it!” Ambroys gawked with faux-disappointment. Prepared to dash, it doesn’t seem like Mortimer’s ready to throw hands. No - he’s simply sitting here. Waiting, as his grimoire gets soaking-wet with both snow, and… The angel’s spit.

Indeed, the golden boy was fuming - so fuming, in fact, it gave him enough courage to disrespect a witch even further. “Hp-Thoo! Why can’t you on the losing side just confess and obey the higher power, hm!” Ambroys babbled on - and Morty let him. Calmly rising from his bench, the witch’s delicate hands reached for the book again. Ink and spit with golden sparkles ran down the moist pages… And a beautiful diagram of elements ruined.

Mortimer didn’t even listen to Ambroys anymore - he let him have his moment of victory. Cackling, the angelic frathouse jerk then went on his merry way, shuddering from the nasty wind in the midst of it. Some might consider it a moment of weakness - but alas, it was not. Au contraire - Mortimer’s plan had its cogs put in motion the moment Ambroys chose to spit on his prized possession:

The rest of the day went as usual; a smooth ride home from a handsome chauffeur, then - a fruit salad for dinner, a pack or two of IPAs, an excessive nightly routine, and lastly - a few litanies before bed. In spite of his lavish lifestyle, Ambroys still studied somewhat-diligently. He read and read, the rustling of pages mixing in with the golden candles’ crackling. In the midst of it, prayers and mutters mingled together with belches and guttural huffs. They were oozing past the golden boy’s lips thanks to all that liquid creativity. Minutes of doing actual work felt like hours, draining Ambroys of his life forces…

“Hhh… To Sheol with that,” the paladin said, and the reading time was over. Still dressed in naught but a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, he immediately went to bed. No point in staying up if there’s no house party to ruin. Ambroys fell onto his grand resting palace of a bed, surrounded himself with cold blankets and pillows, then - drifted away immediately afterward. The golden steed’s rest was surprisingly-dreamless. Nothing of note - only some mediocre silence and a lingering sense of boredom. Suddenly - a spark of familiar voice, a giggle, rumbled somewhere deep inside his head. Ambroys felt that in his skull. And so, he woke up in cold sweat… Unable to move, or speak. Only watch and feel as his body was getting coated in something slimy and itchy.

Ambroys then let a strained moan ooze past his clasped, dry lips. Nothing worked - he thought of the litanies and prayers beforehand, reciting them in panic. No matter how hard he tried to lift his arm or leg up - it felt heavier than lead, and this strange, itching sensation soon turned to burning. As it progressed further upward, Ambroys could finally tense his calves up and move his legs around. Though it wouldn’t help him, regardless - as the small, black, bubonic blisters forming all across his delicate frame made it painful to even shift in bed. Still, moaning and straining, the golden boy turned to his side and tried to slide off the bed, to try and get help, somehow! Reach for his books, or something… But as soon as his hand lifted and tried to grab at the book of litanies, it burst into flames.

Already frightened beyond any common sense, Ambroys gurgled out a whelpish whine. He crawled back onto the bed and tried to wrap himself into a blanket - it was too painful to handle. And then, it finally clicked in the golden boy’s mind; he was being cursed. The strange and sudden malady already seeped past the skin and muscle, making his stomach twist and turn, while his lungs were squeezed by constant, agonizing pressure. Ambroys couldn’t take a breath of fresh air, hungrily swallowing and gasping to no avail. It felt like he was burning without flames, drowning without water. Left entirely helpless, with all his cockiness withering away alongside his powers.

Some form of relief came when the blisters stopped appearing altogether. Those that were already there threatened to pop at any moment, though. Ambroys shakily lifted himself up from the bed, and looked down onto it with great horror; it was drenched in dark pus. The disgraced paladin rushed himself to the bathroom, stumbling and itching at his face and shoulders. His robe was an equal mess, but he couldn’t ditch it altogether - that’d be quite indecent. What he saw in the mirror was even more horrifying:

Bloodshot eyes with missing color glared at their own reflection. A body coated in scars and popped blisters looked disfigured beyond recognition. And in fact, the golden boy’s face and mane lacked color altogether. As if something drained him of life, itself. Something malicious, bloodthirsty, already feasting on his body, mind, and soul, like… A bat. It flew past the open window and right into the common bathroom, squeaking and slapping its wings against the terrified paladin. Yearning for a good scream, Ambroys still found himself unable to. So a pathetically-quiet yelp that was.

“Ffffollow! Ffffollow!” - the bat hissed at Ambroys, letting him be and slowly flying away, through the window. Blindsighted by fear and agony, the paladin in training stumbled his way downstairs, clutching his stomach and drooling onto the floor. The sight was… Amusing, to the flatmates at least, so their loud chuckling signified an even further downfall of Ambroys DeLuxe; his reputation would be ruined after this! But now it wasn’t important. Now - it was necessary to just, survive. There were no quips or hisses from Ambroys, himself, as he dashed through the front door and spotted the bat under the streetlight. Little did he know his way would be long, draining, and laced with agony.

Surely magic must be at stake. Ambroys could feel the malady moving down from his lungs to his pancreas, and then - vice versa. He felt sick, drained, exhausted. Minutes of walking and stumbling felt like hours. Soon enough, concrete was replaced with bricks, bricks - with dirt, dirt - with podzol. The bat led him deep into the grove nextblock, off the known trail and into its heart.

Without any footwear, the sticks and leaves and whatever else the students threw on the ground dug into Ambroys’s heels, causing him to gurgle. That’s right - gurgle. The curse imposed on him caused his lungs and stomach to flare up with the same dark pus, which tasted of vinegar and gall. Drool turned that same, sickly dark-green, as he spewed it down and contorted in awful cramps… But not long after Ambroys felt like he won’t make it - he saw a campfire nearby and rushed straight to it - only to find the worst possible host:

Mortimer Killinger summoned the bat to his sleeve with a click of his fingers. Dressed according to the weather, the coat of hide he adorned was encrusted with silver weaves and ruby buttons - shaped like cats, because apparently witches love cats. As the soft, delicate hands unleashed their claws - the gloves of black cowhide simply let them slide through designated pockets. High-heeled boots tap-tapped against the ground in evident disinterest, as the golden pony finally had the courtesy to show up. The witch’s burning charcoals for eyes looked Ambroys over. Well - he is late, but he at least looks delightfully-pathetic in contrast. Hence - Mortimer smirked, and reached for the side of a log he sat on, right as Ambroys felt his limbs lock in place once again.

There’s a cauldron resting atop the campfire. Two logs by either of its sides were occupied by Mortimer’s buttocks and Ambroys’s legs. There also rested a puppet, right next to the malicious witch. While woven out of hay and pebbles - it had a particular strand of golden-blond locks streaming down from its creepy smiling head. Most importantly - it was coated and soaked in the bubbling concoction from within this big pit of wrought iron. Now the golden boy knew exactly where the malady came from; Killinger dragged the little thing across the cauldron again, letting it absorb the noxious fumes and knock the paladin back to the ground.

Ambroys collapsed and writhed in agony, soaking himself in forest mud as Mortimer sat there, silently.

“...Ah. So it works more potently than originally expected,” he spoke at last, “Given the circumstances, I can’t blame you for arriving so late. My messenger tried their best to find a good route. But you must understand - my work demands a degree of secrecy.”

The golden boy looked up as the warlock mused. His sparkling eyes are full of rage and pain. Shakily, Amroys tried getting up, grumbling: “I knew it, y-you damned witch… I knew you’re a dirty, filthy servant of some low-end imp. You’re disgusting! Heaven will not pardon yor-gh- GHRGHL?!”

Suddenly - the disgraced paladin choked on his own words. As well as muddy water, which outpoured from his gaping maw and coated his skin in more blisters. Mortimer lowered the puppet’s head into the cauldron. That, in turn, caused Ambroys to slowly suffocate and cook. He stood there, petrified, helpless against the circumstances. Nothing could compare in degrees of terrifying as this. The witch held him like so for a few seconds more, then yanked the puppet out of the concoction and gripped it even tighter. And while Ambroys still couldn’t move - he felt his lungs, his innards, being squeezed at with powerful, invisible claws.

“I don’t like it when I’m being yelled at,” Mortimer added, “Raise your voice again and I’ll ensure your cosmetic changes are permanent. Is that clear?”

Ambroys was beyond-terrified. Whimpering like a beat dog, he had no choice but to quiet down and nod - much to the witch’s relief. As the bat flew away altogether, the black cat rose and stepped forward - perhaps just to look at an angel up close. Long, wavy brown hair covered most of his face, save for the eyes and the upturned lips showing off one menacing scowl of a grin. The tense silence is broken by water boiling and fire crackling, with Morty making a full circle around the horrified paladin.

And now, the witch is… Bored. So he casually relieves his grip on the puppet and pokes it right in the stomach. “Doesn’t mean you’ve got to be entirely quiet, though,” Mortimer said.

Ambroys obliged, huffing and trembling and taking a few steps back: “Oh God, oh GOD! Whatever you want, I can give you, o-okay? Money, jewelry, books, prayers, gossip- Anything. All I ask of you is to not let me perish, pghn- Please don’t kill me!”

To that, Mortimer only raised his brow and chuckled. “Oh no, no,” he said, “There is no point in outright killing you, Monsieur DeLuxe… Even though there are plenty of reasons for me to do so.” The witch’s tone changed drastically, as he started circling around the petrified paladin and let his claws run loose against his bathrobe.

“For one, you’ve shown gross disrespect to my family and craft. Furthermore, you actively sought to ruin my grimoire and doom my research with it, thus causing me more harm than your blade ever could. Hmm…”

Ambroys only stammered and whined in return: “L-Look, uhm- Mortimer, right? Right, um- I know I did a bad, BAD thing, but I really can offer a lot in exchange for you not, heh-heh, doing that- No, seriously, please don’t end me like that, I erm- I really prefer to live-”

“I know you do,” Mort interrupted, “But… I struggle to find purpose in you being around, you know? You’re quite the tattle-tale, you’re vain, you’re a fucking idiot. Hm, but you’re popular, so I guess some will miss you. So there’s one argument against your untimely demise…”

As the golden boy stood there, quivering and sobbing, Mortimer casually pulled the robe’s wrists up. What he found was surprising: Scars. Loads of them, dozens. Big or small, wide or narrow, covered the paladin’s arms up to his elbows. And no, these weren’t battle-scars - he was either cutting himself, or someone else did. And then - a clue; a few small, red dots along the veins. Needles, they must be! Mortimer smirked, and leaned in to give those cuts a teasing few licks… Much to the cringing and huffing of the disgraced paladin.

“...Ah. So you’ve already been claimed, then?” Mortimer muttered, a low purr of a growl oozing out of his lungs.

“Claimed?” Ambroys asked, shocked, “What do you mean by that?! I am my own person, you nerd!”

“Oh no, I feel someone else’s presence here,” Mort then poked Ambroys in the wrist, “...Someone potent, no less. Your body is not of your own, Ambroys DeLuxe! You’re used as some rich mage’s gilded blood bank! Haw-haw-haw!”

The black cat of a witch couldn’t help but laugh in the golden boy’s face. Clutching at his prominent belly, the young wizard took his seat back on the log and tossed the voodoo doll out altogether. Ambroys was freed immediately therafter, and collapsed on the ground right in front of the campfire.

“You know what? Yeah, I think you’re worth more keeping alive,” the witch said, “You’re at least entertaining, and you could be of good use to me.”

“Oh, of course. I’m a dignified paladin, after all,” Ambroys replied, rolling his eyes.

Mortimer offered Ambroys some warm “broth” from the cauldron, but the golden boy’s still proud enough to openly refuse it. And furthermore, the complains returned immediately after the witch offered a modicum of hospitality:

“...Look, i-it’s very cold, I’m about to freeze. Can’t I just…Go home? I told you I’m-”

“No.”

“But I said I’m sorry!-”

“No. Sit upright, and warm up by the campfire. I am not done with you.”

“Who are you to-”

“I literally have a cursed doll of you in my hands’ vicinity. So shut up and listen to me, DeLuxe…”

Mortimer paused, for a time. His quiet mutterings made Ambroys all the more concerned. He could take his chances and pray to the Lord, then run. But that’d only mean he’d meet a fate worse than death - and there are loads of those, no doubt. So in spite of the cold, the terror, and the utterly humiliating defeat at the hands of some nerd - the disgraced paladin waited, with some degree of patience.

Then, at last, the witch broke his silence: “...Well. Since your body is already used by someone else, for whatever reason, I don’t wanna know, your mind could still serve some purpose to me. As reparations for damaging my grimoire.”

“My mind?! You’re not going to teach me your satanic rituals, right?!” Ambroys inquired, raising his voice once more. He soon corrected himself and fell quiet: “...I’ve no idea about any of your customs. I just know they are that of malice and wrongdoings against God!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong,” the witch mused, “Poor you - all you know is hedonism and nepotism under your Lord’s guise. And thankfully stupid enough to lose a lock of hair! But ohh, tell me, isn’t being vain and rich also quite sinful?”

Ambroys crossed his arms and pouted: “It is different for our kind. For me. I deserve all of this bliss, I fell from Heav’n itself.”

“Ah, but of course - it always is different, after all,” Mortimer replied, “Maybe I should teach you some of the things I know of how the world works… Well anyway. No, you won’t corrupt your puny little soul for my sake. What I want to know, are the customs, traditions, and culture of you Angels.”

Woah now. That was a surprise like no other. The golden boy raised his brow and leaned forward, to give Mortimer a closer look: “...Customs? Traditions? So you want me, to tell you, about my lifestyle and trials? As retaliation?” Ambroys could not believe his ears, but… If this was true, it was the mildest reparation he could offer! Boring, but mild. “May I ask - why?”

“Because, Ambroys, my grimoire is not just spells and witchcraft,” Mort replied, “Unlike you - I have better goals than virgin maidens and common indulgences. I want to know a bit of everything about everyone, all at once - and since you’ve ruined my research on Halflings - you’d be a great, direct source about Angels… Aasimar… Whatever you call yourselves.”

Ambroys had to give it a bit of thought. Naturally, it’s an offer he can’t refuse - especially in the presence of a wizard, vulnerable and without protection. However, maybe… Just maybe. He could turn it around into mutual benefit. Finally letting his pearl-whites shine in a big smile, the deposed angel stretched his hand forward: “Fine! Whatever you ask of me, nerd - I will tell you. In full, macabre detail. First maiden to last, quiet litanies to loud prayers, and so on and so forth, yada-yada-yada. I specialize in smiting, though, so you best expect to travel on missions with me - IF you want the full experience, of course~”

Mort reached his hand forward, too. He shook hands with DeLuxe, and held it there: “Did not expect anything less than that,” he said, “Our faculties are so, very much alike. It’ll be easy for me to join you… And study a twat- I mean an angel’s, way of life~”

With that said, Ambroys felt a sudden sting on the back of his palm. Golden blood rushed out, droplets of it painted the noxious-green of the cauldron gold… Then crimson. Mortimer held onto Ambroys with both hands now, then grabbed the puppet from the back and held it taut. His eyes rolled into the back of his skull as he whispered in tongues. Terrified, the disgraced paladin tried to yank back - to no avail. A few seconds more of agony, and…

The wound is gone. “The contract is sealed,” Mortimer proclaimed - but not with his own voice. A guttural, low voice of something much bigger than him said so. His face contorting, it then returned to its accustomed, smug expression. “That’s… Actually about all I brought you here for, really,” Mortimer spoke in his “normal” voice, “Be there or be square when I call upon you, Ambroys DeLuxe. I think we’ll make a great team! IF you’ll stop being such a frat bro.”

“Sure, whatever - if you stop being a dork and a devil-worshiper, Killinger,” Ambroys grumbled dismissively. For a moment, his eyes pulled away into the side of the forest. Dawn was approaching. And, to his surprise - he could still move with Mort’s doll still in his hand. As he paid attention to it, Mortimer dropped it into the cauldron with a face full of malice.

“No, wait!!!-” Ambroys yowled out… And then it suddenly faded to black.

It’s not quite clear for how long he was gone. The golden boy woke up with a loud scream and a shudder… As well as a sore spine. He’s been laying on the cobble steps of the frat-house’s porch, for quite some time at that. Upon inspecting his own body, Ambroys found his robe to be clean and good as new. Furthermore, the blisters disappeared, the cut - healed, scarless, and the aches were gone. Was it… Even real? It couldn’t be. Huffing and stretching out in relief, the golden boy shakily got back onto his legs and loudly knocked on the door.

Huey and Toby, the two oafs Ambroys had the (questionable) fortune of sharing the house with, were already up and dressed.

“Ambroys? The fu-... Wow, man, you look like shit,” Toby said.

“Yeah, bro, you do,” Huey added.

“Shut up, you three,” Ambroys replied, “And let me in! At once!”

The twins didn’t resist, their bright-green eyes sparkling like emeralds as they looked DeLuxe over, up and down. Ambroys stormed in, grumpy, and immediately went to the kitchen. He needed some well-deserved coffee… No, water. The poor boy’s throat feels like hell incarnate!

Ambroys yanked the plastic filter with grubby hands, still dressed in just a bathrobe and barefoot. The twins stared him down as he gulped the entire contents down. And as he couldn’t talk, they argued between each other:

“Think he caught a bad trip, bro?”

“Looks like it. He had weed, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. Good weed, too.”

“And he never shares it with us!”

“He doesn’t, yeah. Can’t blame him, though.”

“That’s right, but the shortie at the door did!”

“Sure did, bro!”

“Wuh- Wait,” Ambroys stammered, terrified, “Which- Which shortie are you talking about?”

“Some shortie,” Toby said, “Said he knew ya and gave us a pack to rest up on. Gave us a letter an’ told us to give it to ya. Kinda weird, but friendly. Must be fun at parties.”

Ambroys’s heart sank down to his stomach: “...Well do you still have that letter?”

Huey nodded, and fished it out of his pale-pink polo shirt. He handed it to Ambroys just as silently. Panicking and flustered, Ambroys was in no mood to talk. The twins left him alone, chuckling. And boy what a letter it was to wake up to!

A crimson envelope, with a black rubber stamp on it. A cat blacker than the rubber of the stamp glared directly at the paladin in training. It invited him to open it, and see what was inside. Within, of course, was a small note, with a golden fingerprint and very recognizable handwriting. To Ambroys’s horror, it read:

“Welcome to the Killinger Organization, Amby! Last night was fun, but it won’t happen again - unless you fail, and you OBVIOUSLY won’t. Your blood’s actually quite “cool” in properties, so I’ll examine it more during my spare time. You don’t mind, right? Anyway - fancy seeing you in college today. You’ve lots to tell, or else your tongue may dry out just a little bit prematurely. We meet at noon - and don’t be late! I will be waiting~

Mortimer Ollivander Killinger, Baron of the Killjoy Estate.”

Some friends Ambroys has the luck of finding. Christ Almighty… FIN.

#original character #oc #amaranthine #fanfiction #ambroys deluxe #mortimer killinger #my writing #original writing #college setting #college au #angst #mental anguish #plague be upon ye

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