#one just has to be young. pathetic. and snarky enough and it really kicks their parental instincts into gear yknow

[incendiorum]

I'm a cruel puppetmaster. I think io should be force-adopted as a parental figure by wayward youth

[a-smile-hides]

WARPAINT (P.2) - I.R.

Pairing: Ivar x reader

Sum: Sum: Ivar is left in the camp with the realisation that you have been taken by a Christian prince. And that he simply cannot save you by himself. 

Warnings: abduction, blood, murder, strangulation, and description of wounds

A/N: Hiya. How is everyone doing? I really hope you are all safe! Sadly, Belgium is not doing very good at the moment. And our goverment has decided to take some extra measures yesterday... I hope they will give us the results that we hope for... Now for the good news: I finished this imagine! Wohoo! Again, thank you for requesting this imagine! I hope you enjoyed it and it (kinda) was what you expected/hoped. I sure had a lot of fun making and I am actually quite proud of this part. 

PART 1

---

“No!”

Ivar shout travelled far over the burned ground on which once their camp was located. His rage clear for all to hear in that small word. His fist slammed against his chariot, making it tremble under the force. He felt the pain go up his arm, but he did not pay much attention to it.

The anger, fear, hatred, and disappointment that ran through his veins numbed his senses.

A rotting smell had spread over the area. Burned fabrics were the only remains of the tents they had left behind. The broken shields and death bodies scattered around showed the three brothers what happened to their people. Ubbe shook his head, his heart hammered in his throat as he looked down at the man that lay dead before him. He lay on his stomach, the two arrows that sealed his fate still latched into his body. One in his arm, the other in his throat. Sniffing, Ubbe kicked the man. A bitter laugh escaped his lips once the man rolled over and Ubbe saw the red and golden coloured armour he wore. Now, he could not deny the truth anymore.

“It seems, after all brother, that things may not always go as you thought they would.” Ivar’s snarky comment made Ubbe grumble. Hvitserk jumped up, walking towards him. He knew what Ivar was trying to do. “Once again, you let yourself be fooled.”

It had taken the brothers a full day to come to terms about the conditions the prince offered them. It was only after he had put his signature under the deed to the land that the three brothers had noticed night had fallen. This made it impossible to return to their camp, even if Ivar proclaimed otherwise. The road back was long and had weird turns and corners. Getting lost in this foreign land was easy. The prince, warm and welcoming as he was, invited them all to stay at his castle. Although his words were rushed and he kept on emphasising that their stay was not problematic, it did not cause any weird feelings with Ubbe or Hvitserk, nor with any of the men that had come along. They all were glad to sleep in a comfortable place for the night.

When morning arrived, Ivar was the first to leave the castle. With the deed clutched in his hand, he urged his horse to go faster. Letting everyone else run behind him. The animal had neighed loudly, refusing to fulfil its master’s wishes. It was tired from the long walk on the seemingly never-ending road. But for once the young prince did not care one bit for the horse’s need. His mind was only focused on the one person he left behind. And the dreadful feeling that had been bothering him ever since they arrived in that large palace room.

Now, as he let his eyes glide over his surroundings, it became clear that this dreadful feeling had not been out of place as Hvitserk had suggested.

“This was planned.”

Hvitserk looked down at the ground, his brows furrowed in confusion at Ivar’s words. Planned? He forced himself to look up. To the remains of their camp. He was gutted by the sight in front of him. The scent made him feel sick and the sight made him almost wish for blindness.

Ivar rolled his eyes, nodding his head at the wreckage around him. “The moment we leave… an attack happens. There is no such thing as coincidence, brother.” Ivar explained as he looked into Hvitserk’s widened eyes. Next to Hvitserk, Ubbe grumbled again, his body began shaking with rage.

The deafening silence that fell onto them felt as a plead from Hvitserk and Ubbe for Ivar to stop his taunting. The men that had come along stood silent around the three brothers. Just like Hvitserk and Ubbe, they understood what happened here. Still, Ivar wanted to say it out loud. Make them pay for their ignorance. “We have been betrayed, dear brothers. They have fooled us all. Those peaceful Christians have fooled you.”

“And what do we do now?” Hvitserk asked timidly, trying desperately to change the subject. Ubbe remained silent. Just like Hvitserk, the man felt betrayed, humiliated, and angry. He could not take his gaze of the Christian soldier that lay at his feet. One of the men that aided in this slaughter, in the name of that pathetic prince.

Ivar raised his eyebrows at Ubbe, awaiting his ‘wise words’. But for once, none came. With that, Ivar shouted out, demanding his horse to continue walking. The animal snorted, tapping its hoof against the ground, refusing once again to comply. Ivar clicked his tongue, hitting the chariot with his hand, successfully making the horse move forward. Angrily pulling on the reigns, he directed the animal towards the woods. A shadow had lured him there. Ubbe sighed out as he saw his little brother depart, choosing that it was better to follow him.

As they both neared the trees, a sinister smile grew on Ivar’s face. With a small nod, he directed Ubbe behind the cover of the trees, where they were met by a handful of people. It was a rather small group. All of them looking defeated and beaten up. But fortunately, they were alive.

One of the men that had come along with the three brothers ran past Ubbe and Ivar, straight into the arms of a woman. She cried as he took her in his embrace, muttering that all was well now.

A young girl, that Ubbe recognized as the daughter of their best healer, jumped forward and followed their example. Running as fast as her little legs could carry her, she launched herself around Ubbe’s legs. Ubbe stood perplexed, his eyes opening wide as the girl started sobbing. Slowly, he crouched down and wrapped his arms around the girl.

Her eyes were filled with tears and on one of her rosy cheeks was a small cut. Aside from that, it seemed that she was fortune enough to have escaped the attack without a real injury.

Ivar looked away from the scene, letting his eyes fall over the few that survived the attack. A cold feeling suddenly overwhelmed him. His heart hammered against his chest as he could not spot your face amongst the survivors.

“What happened here?” Ubbe mumbled out.

“There was an ambush, my prince. We were overtaken.” A man spoke up.

“How is that possible?” Hvitserk asked, he appeared from behind Ivar, panting as he regained his breath from running after them.

“We had not heard them coming. No warning signal was sent.”

“That can’t be!” Ivar’s voice boomed through the forest. His facial expression was one of thunder. “We had men out here for that.”

A small stammering voice ended the silence. “They were no good for us. You left us! And they attacked… They played you!”

Ivar lifted his head. His eyebrows perked up in disbelief as he looked into the eyes of the petit girl that still had her arms wrapped around his older brother. Licking her lips, she let go of him and stepped forward.

“How would you know, child?” Ivar snapped, leaning forward. The small girl did not seem fazed by him. She looked the prince straight in the eyes, almost challenging him.

Before she could reply, her mother walked forward. Her eyes filled with tears as she kept them focused on her daughter, fearful the youngest son of Ragnar might hurt her for her childish outburst. “A few of us have found our scouts. Death.” With a trembling hand, she gestured to her throat, running her finger over it. Ivar’s eyes went from her to the child that stood before him. Her big eyes were still solely focussed on him. “That woman you brought along, Y/N. She was with us during the attack. She-She was the one who suspected that you were being double-crossed.” The woman chocked out.

Ubbe nodded his head, walking the child to her mother and placing his hand on the brave woman’s shoulder. Silently thanking her for stepping forward.

Ivar fumbled with the reigns in his hands. He felt the nerves go up and down his body. “Where is she?” He mumbled. A lump had formed in his throat. He despised the way his voice sounded. So unsteady, so weak. The young man breathed in deeply, lifting his head to look into the eyes of the few survivors.  

“Are you the only ones who survived?”

A man hung his head. “I am afraid… yes.”

“Ivar-“ Hvitserk began.

Ivar shook his head, refusing to believe it. “She is too smart to lie amongst the death. She cannot be… Search!”  

“Ivar, there is no point.” Ubbe whispered. He too did want to think you had died, but as he looked upon the survivors, he had to believe it.

“Some were taken, my prince.” The mother of the young child spoke up again. “She helped us escape. I guess after that, they caught her.”

Ivar grabbed the side of his chariot, his knuckles turning white. A fire was burning inside of him. The monster that people feared slowly crawled out of him. “You let her get caught?”

The woman whimpered under his intense stare, but stood her ground, standing protectively in front of her child who by now had crumbled under Ivar’s behaviour, pressing her face against her mother’s side. Ubbe clenched his jaw, but said nothing. He knew his words would only anger his brother more.

Ivar sniffed, his head going from side to side while the corners of his mouth perked upwards. The smile formed on his face anything but one of happiness.

“Find her.”

---

The ground was cold and hard in your cell. The room was round, and the walls reached high, making you feel as if you were trapped in a tower. Far above you was a gap that with some imagination, could serve as a window. Probably made there by the previous inhabitant of this lovely place. It was the only thing that let some light enter the tiny room. The only way you got a sense of time. The bright light that started to shine out of that sad excuse of a window marked the beginning of your second day in imprisonment.

You did not know the fate of the others that had been taken by those Christians. You cell was at the end of a long, dark corridor. It was almost impossible to try and communicate with the others. Guards patrolled regularly, and if not present, it seemed they could sense it when one of you dared to open your mouth. The only time the door of your cell opened was when your captor sent in a man to throw some bread at your feet. You did not know why he kept you alive. Was the prince’s ego really that big?

His message was already sent to the three brothers. Go away or meet your end. There was no need in keeping any of the captives alive.

As the hours ticked by, the faith you had in being rescued melted as snow in the sun. The pain in your shoulder became unbearable. Not long after you had been thrown in this miserable place, you had managed to stop the bleeding by pushing some ripped fabric against the wound. But with no medical attention, the wound got infected.

The prince of this forsaken land had played a foul game and placed a dangerous bet. But he had won. The army the sons of Ragnar had attacked with was weakened greatly. The brothers were humiliated. Defeated, when they were the ones who had won the battle.

Although the heathen army was greatly weakened, the prince’s council still held the possibility of a revenge attack into account. But the prince himself did not seem troubled by that thought. He had been the one to stop the heathens from ravishing his kingdom. Now, as the only heir, he would be the one to climb onto the throne and wear the crown.

Even from your little cell, you had noticed the peaceful state of every resident in the castle. Not once did you catch any sign of preparations in withholding an attack. Not once did the man that entered your cell look frightened or worn out. No, he looked proud. Well rested. Glad to be on the winning side. Completely trusting into the man that he called his leader, his prince and soon, his king.

A scream echoed through the dungeon. Climbing forward on your hands and knees, you tried your best to get a glimpse of what was happening. A woman was thrashing around in the arms of the man that came down every now and then to hand out some food and water. Her hands reached out desperately for anything she could cling herself to, while the man wrapped his strong arms around her, trapping her in his hold.

You frowned at the sight. Had she tried to get away? Had she seen her chance when the door opened? You honestly could not blame her. But the poor woman wasn’t very strong, nor smart. The man was twice her size and easily picked her up by her arms, throwing her back into the cell and locking the door. He mumbled something between his teeth and picked up the basked with bread.

Eventually, the man stood before your door. You scrambled back, shielding yourself in the shadows. And a sickening grin appeared on his face. He clearly enjoyed being in power.

The words that slithered out his mouth were unfamiliar, but by the look in his eyes you were glad you could not understand him. He didn’t seem to be bothered that his monologue was falling to deaf man’s ears. You just stared ahead of you, arms wrapped around your knees, waiting until he gave you your food. Until a name slipped pass his lips that made you look up. Ivar. He laughed loudly as he saw you lift your head in anger.

In the blink of an eye, you stood up, hands out to throw yourself at the man. But his reflexes were fast, and his hand was strong. In a second, he had his hand wrapped around your throat; one finger lifted in front of his lips. His eyes spread open wide as he made a low shushing sound.

The dark chuckle combined with his foreign words made the strength escape out of your legs. Completely powerless, you slid down the wall onto the ground. The man followed you down, his sickening grin never fading away. The look in his eyes made you feel sick. Fear ran up and down your body. As he noticed how the fight escaped your body, he raised one eyebrow, his grin slowly becoming wider. With his thumb, he slowly rubbed your chin, before he placed his nail in your skin. There he kept on pressing harder, waiting for a reaction. Gritting your teeth, you held back. Clawing at the ground underneath you.

“Feisty little thing, he has” He muttered out. His words came out raspy, uneven as he searched for the right way to speak them out loud. Biting on your tongue you remained silent, a comment would only make your situation worse.

Apparently, the man was not impressed by your lack of response. Now wrapping his hand tighter around your throat. The small gesture made the panic rise in your body. Instantly, you wrapped one hand around his wrist, trying in vain to lift his hand off your throat. The other started a frantic search for anything to help you out of this mess. But the only thing you felt was the cold, wet ground. And the fine, crushed rocks that lay on it.

The lack of air made your ears ring. The cell lost its colour, becoming even darker. Fading as your vision became blurry. You knew you had to move fast. Time was running out.

Without any option left, you closed your hand over the few rocks and dust you could grab onto. In one fluent movement, you threw it at the man’s face. He grunted, closing his eyes and letting go of you. Angry shouts left his mouth. All of them for sure foul words directed straight at you. The moment his hands left your throat, you gasped loudly. Taking big chunks of air as the world around you became sharp again.

On your hands and knees you crawled further, the door of your cell was wide open. The man was on his knees rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands to remove the dust. Freedom was winking at you.

However, fate thought so differently. For the moment you reached the door, you were met by a guard that had run down after hearing the man shout out. With a swift kick he pushed you back. By this time, the man was back on his feet. An angry scowl on his face as the guard pulled him with him, keeping him from getting his revenge and slamming the door behind them. Not noticing how the hinges broke under the force.

---

“We cannot simply march into his castle and demand her and the other’s back, Ivar. We are too weak.”

Ivar closed his eyes momentarily, pinching his nose. A fine, sarcastic smile appeared on his face. “And who is to blame for that, dear brother?”

“We won’t get a step further with blaming each other. We have to wait.” Hvitserk perked up. “We have to wait until our brother Sigurd gets our message. Until we-“

“Until we get word that we can bury her here, in this ground, far away from her home. Like they do with their deaths?” Ivar snapped, his voice trembling as he tightened his grip on the small blade in his hand. Hvitserk and Ubbe looked at each other warily. Just like Ivar, they felt anger run through their veins. Just like him, they wished to free those that were taken.

The lucky few that had survived the Christian attack had talked them through what happened once more. Their testimony only confirmed that what Ivar had said. The prince had deceived them all. He had invited them over with the message of peace, only to lure them away from their camp and destroy it. Now the three brothers sat around a table in one of the tents that survived the attack. All of them trying to think of a way out of their situation, a way to save the ones that were captured and avenge the fallen.

“Ivar” Ubbe hissed. His annoyance with his little brother grew intensely. Ivar was ashamed because of their loss, concerned for your safety and angry with himself for allowing this to happen. Even if he would never admit that out loud. “Hvitserk is right: fighting won’t get us anywhere.”

“Look at that… The voice of reason has returned.” Ivar hissed. Licking his lips, he looked down at the blade in his hand. The small thing twirled in his grip as he tried his best not to think of all the bad that could have happened already.  

“Ivar don’t be blind. We are too weak to attack them, right now.”

Ivar slammed his hand on the table, “You were too weak to make the decision that was clear as dawn for anyone else brother! People were taken by them! They-“ Ivar paused, he felt himself tremble with rage. His eyes were filled with fire. Ubbe sat back in his chair. His face unreadable as he stared back at Ivar. Hvitserk just watched the exchange between them. He did not know what to say or do.

“She grew up with us, Ivar. You know she is tougher than she looks. I know you fear for her. I know you care.”

“No, brother. No. That is where you are wrong once again.” Ivar laughed bitterly, pointing his blade at Ubbe. “You don’t know what is happening over there. We must get her back. Now.”

All three fell silent when a man stormed in, his shoulder went up and down with every breath. His eyes went from Ubbe to Hvitserk, who both had risen out of their chair, to Ivar who tilted his head at the man. He could feel the tension in the air as his eyes remained on the blade Ivar held threateningly in his hand. The man swallowed and nodded his head.

“They- They found one of the captives.”

---

The heavy steps accompanied with a loud thud every time he slammed his crutch down on the ground announced his presence long before he entered your small bubble of comfort. With every step he seemed to grow more restless, eagerly pushing himself forward. His breathing was loud and uneven. He knew he had to calm himself down, but he could not bring himself to do it.

Ivar roughly pushed away the fabric that closed one of the tents that survived the attack. His heart hammered against his chest. The hope that had overwhelmed him when they finally announced you had woken up pushed him forward. He did not give an ear to the cries of the healers, asking him to stay with his brothers and leave you alone for now. No, he had simply pushed them aside, leaving them and his brothers without looking anyone in the eye.

But as he stood there in the small tent and took sight of the woman that went through the hell he so desperately wanted to protect her from, Ivar could no longer think straight. He stood frozen to the ground. You had survived. But at what cost? The sight in front of him was deceiving. A young woman, sitting in a mended bathtub, surrounded by some wildflowers that had been thrown into the water in an effort to make her feel more comfortable. It was almost as if nothing had happened. But Ivar could not fool himself even if he wanted to. Your body was trembling, shaking as if you were bathing in ice-cold water. Your hair was dirty and stuck to your head. A couple of leaves were still in them as if they were accessories. Even from afar he could not miss the purple and blue spots that decorated your back and arms. Not to mention the big reddish-brown mark where the healers had quickly placed a muddy coloured paste on.

He did not know what happened to you. After Ivar realized you were taken, he knew he had to get you back instantly. Even if his brothers would not listen to him. Without them knowing, Ivar had sent men sent out to scout the area for any possible second attack. They were the ones who had found you lying in the dirt not far from their camp. Clearly worn out and broken by what you had gone through, but by the Gods’ mercy: alive.

When they had brought you in, your eyes were closed and your breathing slow. Healers were rushed to your aid in no time, as they feared the wrath that Ivar would unleash on them if they failed. The young prince did not let anyone come near them as they tried to nurse you back to health. Together with his brothers, he waited for one of them to come and let him know everything was fine. The few people that had survived the attack all looked at their leaders with questioned looks. All wondering what made this simple girl so special. Why did she deserve the attention of the best healer and her daughter, plus another one to assist them? But none of them even dared to open their mouths. Never had they seen their youngest prince react in such a way, as how he did when your lifeless body was carried into a tent.

And now he stood behind you. Trembling on his feet.

With a deep breath, he cleared his mind and stepped inside the tent. As you felt him near you turned your body away from him as much as the tub allowed you to. Bringing your knees up and wrapping your arms around them, trying to hide yourself from him and the world around you.

“For someone that appreciates his space and privacy, you sure like to invade other’s”

No answer. Just a chuckle. A dry chuckle as he grabbed a chair and dragged it with him. Until he was standing right beside your tub. With a sigh the young man sat down on it, letting his crutch fall harshly on the ground. But he did not look at it. No, his eyes were entirely focussed on you. And although you were not looking back at him, you could feel his eyes on your body. Looking at the grey dirt and the purplish bruises and the big reddish-brown wound where the arrow had struck you. His face scrunched up in an angry scowl at the sight of it.

Licking his lips, he reached out to the table next to him. There he picked up a piece of cloth and slowly dipped it into the water. The young man hesitated for a second as if he were encouraging himself. Pushing away his doubts, Ivar started cleaning the dirt off your back.

To say Ivar’s sudden moment of care surprised you, would be an understatement. As soon as the cloth made contact with your skin, you straightened your back, trying to escape his touch. Ivar grumbled, biting his cheeks to hold back his snarl. In an effort to calm you down, he placed his hand on your arm, rubbing circles with his thumb on your skin. And to his amazement, you relaxed at his touch.

Still, the silence felt heavy where in Ivar, with the biggest care and love in the world, washed the dirt and dried up blood off your skin. Never reaching lower than what the water revealed to him. Never pushing your limits.

“Shouldn’t you be outside?”

Your raspy voice made him look up. You had lifted your head up. One of the leaves in your hair fell out and landed in the water. Although you still were not looking him in the eye, the small step was enough to lift his spirit. Ivar reached out and took the remaining ones out, while thinking about his answer.

“Do you want me outside?” He questioned, rolling one leaf between his fingers, watching how it crumbled under the pressure.

“No.” You breathed out.

Ivar nodded to himself. Dipping the cloth back in the warm water and wringing out the excess. He bit his lip as he watched to bloodied water fall into the tub. And involuntarily, his eyes went to the wound on your shoulder again. He had tried his best to avoid looking at it too much, focussing more on your healthy side. But for the third time his gaze fell on it. It was almost as if it craved his attention. To make him see what happened.

Ivar felt lost. For normally, he would not care about anyone else getting hurt. It was their problem to face. But now his heart clenched. A terrible feeling formed in his gut, one that he could not shake off. Even if he tried his hardest not to care.

“Stop looking at it.”

Ivar winced, retreating his hand. “At what?” He answered.

You laughed bitterly, not ready to cope with his stubborn behaviour.

“You know what, Ivar” You snapped back.

Ivar breathed out through his nose, his eyes rolling back as he let the cloth fall out of his hands. He did not like this. Before him sat a broken woman. Too stubborn to work along. He had made the wrong choice and left you here in the camp, alone. And he paid the consequence for it. He had collected all his nerves to come here. He felt ashamed with how things had gone. Not for the fact that the Christian prince had ravaged their camp. Nor for the fact that a some were still taken. But for the fact that he had lost you and had not been the one to get you back.

Ivar gripped the side of the tub; his anger was slowly getting the best of him. He felt the monster so many feared crawl out. His breathing quickened while he kept on staring at your back. The wound was mocking him now. The sight of your still body being dragged towards the healer haunted his mind.

Without thinking, the man reached out and let his hand wander over your skin. You flinched, but yet again made no verbal protest. Ivar’s hand travelled from your arm up to your neck. Eventually, he ran his hand through your hair, messing with it until the end covered the angry mark. With that, Ivar withdrew his hand again. But this time, he was stopped as you grabbed his hand. His eyes flickered up towards yours. Finally, you had turned towards him. Allowing him to see you probably. If asked, the young prince could not describe the feeling that overcame him as he looked into your eyes. Even if they were filled with tears and one of them seemed slightly red, they still held the warmth and love he had missed. Leaning back, Ivar looked at you. Blood, dirt, bruises, and small scars decorated your face and neck, as if they were painted on by someone. Ivar opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

A heavy voice coming from behind Ivar startled the both of you. Ivar closed his eyes, turning sharply to look at the opening of the tent, where a man stood. The man shuffled on his feet, obviously extremely uncomfortable. However, to Ivar’s annoyance, his eyes were solemnly focussed on you.  

Ivar rumbled, pushing himself up using the tub beside him. The sudden movement made him grunt, his face forming a painful scowl. But he kept himself upright, shielding your body from the man’s hungry stare. Ivar kept his eyes on yours as he shouted out at the man.

“Who allowed you to enter?”

The man shuffled back, the reason of him marching in seemed so important only moments ago, but the dark tone of Ivar’s voice had made him forget everything. His mouth opened, but no sound left his lips.

Ivar grew impatient as he heard no answer. Meanwhile, you had wrapped your arms around your knees again, hiding your head. Trying your best to stay out of the stranger’s vision. Ivar’s knuckles became wide with how hard he griped onto the tub. His veins were boiling as the man just kept on standing there, staring at your naked back. Not noticing his prince shaking in anger.

“I asked you a question.” Ivar hissed, looking over his shoulder.

The man fumbled with his words, slowly stepping backwards. Not a single clear word passed his lips as he eventually stumbled out of the tent, leaving well before Ivar could hit him with the pot he had grabbed from the table. As he was sure the man had left, he sighed and put it back. Letting himself fall in the chair with a loud groan.

“You may come out of your hiding spot now…”

Lifting your head up, you looked to the side. Ivar snickered at you, but his smile did not seem genuine. Your eyes were still red, and the blood and dirt made the fear run through his veins again.

“Promise me something.”

You looked up, smiling softly at him.

“Never try to be the hero ever again.”

His request made you laugh. But the man in front of you did not find it humorous. His eyes pleaded with you to say yes. Aside from the pride that filled him as he looked at your bloodied face, fear filled every fibre of his body. He had never felt so vulnerable as when he returned to the camp and found it almost completely burned to ashes.

You breathed in deeply through your nose. Not breaking eye contact, you nodded your head at him. Ivar groaned.

“No, no. Say it.” He muttered.

“I promise, Ivar.” You whispered softly, to which the man breathed out in relief. He nodded his head to himself and looked to the side. The edge of the tub still clutched tightly in his hand.

“It is good to know that you’re still defending my honour, Ivar”

Ivar grinned, staring ahead of him for a moment before he answered. “They follow my command.” He said, pride filling him and making him lift his head up high. “And my command… My wish, is to get revenge on those that tried to hurt what is mine.”

You shook your head, ignoring his words and the warm feeling they brought to you. “What about the others? Ivar, I was not the only one captured…”

Ivar nodded his head. He should have known your thoughts would be with those that had not been able to escape. Guilt had struck you the moment you woke up, safe and in the presence of a gifted healer, while back in that castle men and women were held captive. Sighing, he stretched out his arm, softly stroking his thumb over your cheek. He paused for a second as his eyes focused on a reddish bruise on your chin. “They shall be rescued.” He promised.

You let out a breath, looking up at him through your lashes. Ivar looked back at you, his intense blue eyes staring back. And you knew he was telling the truth.

“I will not let him get away with this…” Ivar mumbled; his jaw clenched as he wiped some of the blood of your cheek. His intense stare and dark tone made a shiver run down your spine. But his hand was soft, careful, as if you were made of glass. “No one hurts what’s mine.”

The words that left his lips were almost inaudible, nothing more than a faint whisper. And yet, you heard them loud and clear. It made your heart jolt; your cheeks became warm. Probably having a rosy colour now under all the dirt and dried up blood. The young man just sat quietly in front of you. Letting his thumb wander over your cheek to your chin, and then back to your cheek. He did not know what overcame him, but he did not regret his words. He enjoyed being this close to you. Having you in his hands. Only for him.

“Do not feel guilty for being here.” Ivar narrowed his eyes as you dropped your gaze to the water, “Don’t… Little warrior”

You scoffed, silently pushing his hand away. Although you tried to fight it, you could not hold back the big grin that formed on your lips. Ivar sat in front of you with his eyebrow raised and a confident smirk, any fear or doubt long forgotten. His eyes now travelled down for the first time. From your face to your shoulders, to your chest and then back to your face. You sniffed, lifting your knees to hide yourself, frowning as the young man tsked.

“Don’t” He said. And his demand made you comply instantly. Grinning madly, you nodded your head at the cloth lying on the table next to him.

“Give me that, I need to get this off me” You said, pointing at the blood on your face.

Ivar smiled softly, clutching the small piece of fabric in his fist. He had no intention in handing you that cloth just yet. Perhaps the blood and dirt that covered your face were unbearable for you. Or perhaps you wanted to find another way to shield yourself from him, but then again, there was no way he would give you that opportunity.

He loved it that he had the power to make you flustered. Besides, he did not see the faults. He did not see the pain. No, all he could see was a strong woman. And the red liquid was like warpaint to him. It showed how no one could mess with you. It proved him wrong. And for once… he was glad to be wrong.

---

Thank you for reading! xxx

Tag: @fairyofvoid @pieces-by-me @youbloodymadgenius​ @xceafh​

[beerecordings]

If Anti was like usual, manipulating little thing who hurts others, but there is one of the egos he does not necessarily hurt, maybe manipulates but like, treats well kinda like how a normal relationship between the other egos. Who would it be and how would everyone feel about it? Like, what would be the difference between treatment and like, if Anti did it for a good reason what would it be? Like he actually kinda cares for that one ego.

oh my gosh!!! this is a great question yes!! it’s so interesting because i feel like i have so many ideas for it like i could come up with hundreds of different aus and fics and stuff just based on the idea of Anti sort of maybe liking one ego and not the others. because no matter who you choose or why or how Anti sees them it’s such a unique perspective every time and completely different! like maybe JJ is the obvious choice, right? he’s the one we know Anti actually does have his hands on, but does that mean he’s just a meatsuit or does Anti kind of like having him around? he got JJ when he was so young. he must have been so naive to everything that Anti was and he wouldn’t expect anyone to save him. that makes him unique to Anti, makes him his in a way none of the others could ever be. or maybe he’s obsessed with JJ’s time powers, doting over his puppet because he’s so powerful, so valuable, so important!

Jameson fights like hell at first, but he doesn’t know anything but Anti, and after Anti’s used him to kill a few times, the fight is really going out of him. he’s so tired of being terrified and locked up all the time!! he do anything for a few minutes out of this box! Anti starts letting him out a little if he promises to be good, training JJ to follow his rules, and suddenly he’s actually coming to heel, actually doing what Anti tells him to, and oh, oh, Anti LOVES being the only one Jameson has in the world, the one he has to come to when he’s upset or hurting. he loves that. Jameson gets more and more reliant on Anti’s affection and companionship to keep him company. he feels a need to repay it. he has stockholm syndrome. he loves Anti. he loves Anti. Anti is delighted. he’s being so good!! he’s so affectionate and obedient these days! the others can be Jack’s, fine, but JJ? JJ is HIS. and Jameson learns that as time goes on. Eventually he’s totally devoted to Anti, understands now that his place was always beside him. the others think it’s a fucking tragedy, but he’s probably past saving now. they never even got a chance to know him…

or maybe after nine months Anti just thinks of Henrik as his and it doesn’t really mean anything at first, you know, it’s just fun to torture him. but Anti’s getting bored of it so eventually he just lets Henrik out of his cell to wander, knowing he’s well-trained enough now to not try and escape. but Henrik is still his snarling, sarcastic, sassy self, which Anti still finds really entertaining, and if he gets the craving he can beat him anytime. Henrik’s random attempts at killing him and funny insults really keep life interesting for Anti and he’s glad for it. he was getting so bored, so despondent. nothing entertained him anymore. but Henrik’s still his snarky self, it really makes Anti laugh. there’s an angry sort of camraderie between them now that Henrik is realizing Anti’s never going to kill him. wait, is Anti kind of fond of him? he slaps Henrik just to check and geez, yeah, watching him stagger away and try to hold back tears and sniffle and clutch at his face isn’t half as fun as it used to be. this sucks. Henrik goes running off back to his room - cell - and Anti decides he wants to try something new. he starts actually… giving Henrik the things he needs?? like feeding him more than spam and canned corn? letting him have water? giving him a MATTRESS?? what is this? Henrik is so fucking confused but you know what, he’s not going to complain, not even if the mattress is next to Anti’s work space and the food’s probably poisoned and he knows this won’t last, right? but it does, Anti keeps feeding him and even giving him presents and stuff, giving him warm clothes and even books, books, Henrik has had nothing to focus on for months and now he devours his reading so vigorously it makes Anti laugh. he’s been trying to survive for so fucking long and now gratitude wells up inside of him and he can’t stop it no matter how hard he tries, especially because Anti isn’t even holding it over him or crowing about how he’s broken him or anything. he just kind of lets Henrik be. makes him sleep next to him and sometimes has him work on projects - physics shit, time travel or whatever, and Henrik is happy to do it, delighted to do it, to have something to work on. he’s still so fucking snarky, keeps making sly remarks at Anti, but now Anti just jokes back at him, and they snipe at each other all day and try to hide the fact that they’re laughing. Anti calls Henrik the biggest disaster of a man he’s ever met and Henrik, before he knows what he’s doing, is playing with Anti like he used to with his other brothers, pushing on his shoulder in vengeance, and then, when that only makes Anti smile, fussing over him and reprimanding him when he comes home hurt, stitching him up gently, making sure his caretaker is taken care of. Anti thinks he probably loves him and it stops him short. he gets Henrik lots of presents, loves picking weird shit out for him. Henrik becomes his greatest secret because he’s so territorial of him. no one can know he’s here. no one will take him away. Henrik is his now and he’s happy to be here. his head is so messed up after months of torture he can barely dream of freedom anymore anyway. he doesn’t really remember much of his life before this, like his head decided it was too painful not to have it. This is the only thing Anti regrets - Henrik’s fragility. He went too far with him for months on end and now his puppet is weak in both body and mind, often shivering through illnesses at Anti’s side on his mattress in the workspace, letting Anti stroke his hair.

or hey, maybe Jackie, right, the hero, the protector, the big brother. see some of them Anti thinks are just pathetic, but Jackie? alright, he has a respect for Jackie even from afar. and he hates him more than anyone else, because Jackie, more than anyone else’s, is Jack’s, Jack’s perfect defender. fuck, but Anti wants to squash that. Anti wants to see him crumple into a million pieces. Anti wants to turn him into everything he is not, just to mock Jack. the others start to get scared as they see Anti’s focus intensify on Jackie, warning him to stop going out so much, begging him to be more careful, terrified of what’s going to happen, but he just flashes a smile and promises he’ll be fine, don’t worry - and then, one day, he’s just gone, and Anti has him, and they can’t get him back, can’t find him. Anti’s hatred upon him is terrible, worse torture than Henrik’s, because it’s more personal than simple entertainment. and Jackie, fuck, who can blame him when he shatters? human beings aren’t meant to bear treatment like that. he starts begging, he starts crying, he starts throwing himself on the ground when Anti comes into his cell and sobbing for mercy, half out of his mind, frantic and spitting blood, staring up at him with pupils blown wide with terror, and Anti thinks it’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen, almost too much power for him to bear. Jackie gives up secrets, gives up his brothers, gives up everything, partly delirious but mostly just desperate and dying, and Anti lets him drop to the ground once he sees that he’s broken him as much as it’s possible for him to be broken. and then, after that, oh - now he can be Anti’s instead of Jack’s! Anti’s protector, Anti’s attack dog! he builds Jackie back up careful, careful, gentle, gentle, disciplining him every step of the way to make sure that hero’s ferocity never comes back to bite him. look, it’s easy, there’s a method to the madness now! don’t talk without being asked a question and he won’t get shocked! don’t cry too loudly and he won’t get burned! be obedient and he can have food and sleep! oh, fuck, he catches a sight of himself in a puddle of water and feels horror, but Anti triggers his shock collar and he yelps and it’s gone again. he gets wilder and wilder, except for Anti - for Anti he is calm, trained to be protective and obedient, trained to be quiet and patient and waiting for orders. pretty soon he’s doing what he’s told, going where he’s taken, and killing whoever Anti points him at. he’s missed the thrill of a fight so fucking much and he’s being good!! he’s being rewarded!! it’s okay! who’s blood is this? was that JJ he just chased through the streets of a city like a hound after a fox, was Marvin the person he beat into unconsciousness last night while he screamed for Jackie to remember who he was, is it Chase he can hear crying? doesn’t matter! Anti’s happy with him. he laughs hysterically and goes crawling back to his master, and Anti is SO happy with him. Anti doesn’t love Jackie in the slightest, but he’s hugely affectionate for the idea of him broken like this. he buys him chew toys and brings him people to fight with so he has something to entertain him. Jackie becomes ferociously, wildly over-protective of Anti, growling at anyone who gets close.

or Marvin, Marvin! he’s so interesting, he’s bold and flashy and clever and talented and magical. maybe Anti just thinks he’s fun to play with, or maybe he’s interested in controlling that power. but Marvin isn’t like the others, he isn’t going to go down like that, isn’t going to respond well to flattering and comforting and syrup no matter what Anti does to wear him down. DON’T touch him, DON’T try to warm him up, DON’T call him your fucking brother!! doesn’t matter how much Anti does to him, Marvin will spit up blood and shove presents back at him, Marvin will curse him out and kick at him, Marvin DOES NOT WANT anything Anti has to give. he knows more than the others about how these things go and he knows the SLIGHTEST kindness he thanks Anti for is an irreversible foot in the door for the demon to get deeper in his head. Anti tries to tell him, “I just want to be friends, I want to be brothers, I just want - ” NO. FUCK. YOU. NO. NO. NO. HE KNOWS WHAT YOU ARE. well, says Anti, that’s fine. he has other ways. Marvin ends up hypnotized so far out of his mind he forgets his own name. in days of world-spinning, complete confusion and amnesia, Anti preys on every single one of his own insecurities. You’re like me. You know you are. You never belonged with the others. You’re like me and you’re going to do what I tell you because you want to, not because I subdue you. Marvin begins to come around, though he fights for weeks and weeks against even this. Anti is fascinated. look at how he fights! nothing wears him down! nothing breaks him! his strength is… fuck, does Anti admire him? he wants Marvin more than any of the others now. it’s a power play, but he also just likes his spunk, his courage, his strength! eventually Marvin is so warped he’s just this furious, hateful thing, not even sure where all the anger comes from, just blindly dedicated to Anti, who lets him do whatever he wants as long as he stays loyal. Marvin dresses up every night and never looks anything less than perfectly put together and totally in control, to make up for the fact that his head is a whirlwind. he doesn’t have anything but Anti and he tells him absolutely everything, ranting and sobbing, trying to cope with the confusion and the loss inside him. Anti strokes his hair and promises him everything he needs. he worries, sometimes, that he took it too far, but it had to be done, it had to be done. eventually Marvin starts engaging in really self-destructive behaviors and it’s only then that Anti realizes how attached he’s become to him. he starts controlling Marvin more to take care of him, treating him like a fussy little kid, and Marvin is too sick and exhausted to fight anymore, just presses his face into Anti’s chest and lets him take away his knives and alcohol. he doesn’t remember anything but Anti and he hates himself, so he lets Anti’s darkness devour him whole.

or maybe plain Chase, the protagonist. i’ve always felt that Anti would have a certain disgust for Chase - childish, suffering, tearful Chase. Jack’s friend, ugh! but he can’t just kill him, no, no, no. that’s far too easy. he stalks Chase instead - stares at him from the backseat of the car, imitates him in the mirror just imperfectly enough that it makes the hair on Chase’s arms rise, sitting at his kitchen table and making him scream just before he disappears. it’s so fucking funny, at first, it’s the funniest thing Anti’s ever done, and he’s living for it, driving Chase absolutely out of his mind with terror. but then Chase just… Anti doesn’t know, he… really wants to die. it’s kind of… scary, actually. Anti retreats a little, starting to feel nervous when Chase screams and throws things and wails for the monster to leave him alone, leave him alone, leave him alone! oh, fuck, he can’t fucking take it anymore! eventually Anti stops thinking it’s funny. he’s tired of the games. he appears in full force and this time, doesn’t glitch away or disappear, just grabs Chase and drags him away. Chase screams the whole time, but his neighbors are used to it, so nobody comes. nobody is coming. nobody is watching. he ran far away from Jackie and Marvin and Henrik. they don’t know he’s here and won’t notice he’s gone. Chase is terrified out of his mind, hysterical, and he thrashes like he’s rabid for days, concussing himself against the wall he’s chained to, bruising himself black on the chains, and Anti’s just like you know what?? this is fucking horrible. i should just put this thing out of its goddamn misery. but he can’t quite do it… he’s watched Chase so long now, sometimes just in the quiet, staring at Chase while he slept or invisible beside him while he sat on the couch and drank. Chase is like a feral animal to Anti, and he’s fascinated by the way he acts. so okay he brings him a snack.

Chase is like what the fuck my withdrawal hallucination just brought me Cheetos

honestly… it’s easy after that. Chase is so, so tired, and Anti takes care of him. he doesn’t know why this is happening and he doesn’t care. it’s kind of ideal, he figures! everybody will assume he’s dead! no more responsibilities and complete absolution for dropping them! the demon starts to sit down with him sometimes and feed him himself, grinning when Chase says please and thank you. his smile is too big but his eyes are nice… really nice… really, really nice… Chase is so sleepy. he falls asleep on Anti’s chest and the demon rocks him and it makes him cry, because no one’s held him that gently in a long time and he’s well past caring about things like “dignity” and “being trapped in a bunker of some kind by a supernatural creature.” Anti only talks to him for the first time after several weeks of teaching Chase to be quiet and docile, and even then, Anti’s voice is very gentle and pleasant, and Chase feels sleepy and comfy and safe. eventually he’s let off his chains and he can move around a little if he’s quiet. Anti renames him and dresses him the way he wants, cutting his hair and giving him tattoos and stuff, and Chase just sits quiet, dozing against his thigh. Anti never once hurts him - Chase, he finds, can be disciplined just fine through isolation and stern warnings. he’s simple like that. Anti gets to be incredibly fond of him. he thinks of Chase as very stupid but likes him very much. sometimes Chase gets really upset as memories come rushing back to him and he realizes just how far he’s fallen, but it’s easy for Anti to just draw him back in, use a little hypnotism, soothe the worries away…. Chase hugs him and feels grateful Anti stole him. he understands by now that Anti is a very bad person - he’s seen him do horrible things - but he doesn’t care. Anti loves him and no one else, Chase believes, is going to do that. eventually Anti lets him have hobbies like cooking and gardening and stuff! Chase knows he’s a pet but he doesn’t have the willpower or a strong enough sense of alarm to try running away. it will probably be years before the others find him at all… whether or not they get him back, they’ll be heart-broken by what he’s become and completely confused as to why he’s so unscarred and healthy and apparently loved by Anti, and Chase won’t want to go back to them.

AND IT JUST GETS SO INTERESTING CAUSE THEN YOU CAN PUT DIFFERENT BOYS TOGETHER AND HAVE DIFFERENT THINGS HAPPEN AND THEIR RELATIONSHIPS WITH ANTI AND EACH OTHER ARE ALL DIFFERENT AND EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT AND INTERESTING AND AHHHH I LOVE PUPPET BOYS SO MUCCHHHHHH

[gaygwenpool]

give me literally All Headcanon for that post for Mysterio p l e a s e (also, for the one of my choosing, whether or not you hc he commentates movies while watching them or insists on ABSOLUTE SILENCE)

:D!!! my sweet boy, BLESS you nonnie! 

◉ whether or not you hc he commentates movies while watching them or insists on ABSOLUTE SILENCE IS A FANTASTIC QUESTION IVE BEEN LITERALLY LAUGHIN ABOUT IT ALL DAY THANK YOU

   Both actually! if you try to comment on the plot or react to an actor, immediately you get rudely shushed with the most scorching glare because how DARE you, focus on the ~ART~ you heathen!!! but also the Moment a slightly more advanced special effect takes place, he is all hoppin on his seat excitedly explaining how it’s done and how genius that is, how would he improve on it and how another movie dealt with it, the dialogue for the big plot reveal goin on the screen be damned :’D Also as the movie advances, he starts gettin more and more into long passionate rants either complaining about the lack/surfeit of respect the creators got, how arrogant this one actor is and how he doesnt respect his cues and so on….. lots of the stuff he says is actually pretty interesting but yeah, if you counted on just enjoying the movie, tough luck 

   He really likes watchin movies with people but prefers to see the movie first on his own at least once, to really focus on it. Often, he will watch a movie in the livin room while others do their own thing and he will comment on the good scenes, however if you agreed to actually watch somethin with him and got distracted during screening or worse, was on your phone?? you are dead to him. (and you can expect some …unpleasant surprises in the upcoming days)   

im gonna put the rest under the readmore cuz this is gettin long ^^;;

[ask meme]

☾ - sleep headcanon

Beck is the UGLIEST sleeper, he is the worst. He snores loudly, drools, moves, KICKS, mumbles and has the most vivid wildest dreams. (it happens rarely but sometimes he’ll dream about somethin, wake up and for a while be convinced it actually happened, you know like when you dream about arguing with your friend and being mad at them the next day etc) On the other hand, sometimes, all his features relax, he loses the scowl and looks surprisingly peaceful and happy… oh and he hogs the blanket.  

His sleep schedule is a fuckin mess, he is able to go like the whole week on few hours of sleep total when he is workin on a project but other days he gets grumpy if he doesnt get his 10h of beauty sleep every night.. 

★ - sad headcanon

uhhh i dont actually have much sad stuff for this boy yet, he brings me so much joy that i dont have the heart for that :’’’D (also i like him and chameleon team ups and Dmitri brings enough angst to the table for the both of them)

He really actually died that one time and went to hell (though in Patchwork, im not gonna keep everythin about that Daredevil plot, i really like Mysti being dangerous and actually a worthy opponent but most of it was too fucked up for my tastes…) and well… it wasnt great :’D  it mostly targeted his insecurities about his own talent he buried so deep he almost stopped believing them, the lack of respect and recognition and him willingly throwing away any chance he had at those by becoming Mysterio and of course everything that happened with his ex Brick Johnson…

☆ - happy headcanon

blease consider: autistic Quentin !!!!!!

☠ - angry/violent headcanon

he doesnt have a hair trigger temper like Ock or Electro but Damn does this boy holds grudges over literally everything :’D lots of overcomplicated, carefully crafted revenge plots just for eating the last yogurt in the fridge… He gets frustrated easily, getting snappy and rude, especially if people are not listening to him, but it’s often about the pettiest things, the bigger stuff doesnt affect him as much.  

He doesnt enjoy violence for the sake of violence but he is not above it either, everythin is allowed for his big performance…… he can be quite a good n friendly boss if you listen to his orders and work well but can just as much set you up to die in an explosion, all while smiling and patting you on the back… 

✿ - Sex headcanon

my Mysterio is gay as hell but also somewhere on the ace spectrum… not sex-repulsed but definitely not a high drive either (he feels oddly smug about that, like look at those fools trying to get into each others’ pants, how pathetic, *I* in the meantime have time for things that Truly matter, like recreating every Xmen battle ever with only straws and gum.) 

■ -  Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

listen, i basically grew up on those “the entire villain team lives in a single place - shenanigans ensue” fics so im not givin up on the Sinister Six HQ, okay. (Chameleon usually finds them a suitable house with enough rooms, as luxurious as their current fonds allow, and he prides himself in putting in lil personal touches that he knows the sin six members would enjoy, for Quentin it’s often very obscure movies, rare memorabilia from his favorite ones, stuff for his illusions, a stolen Oscar…) 

 When these are unavailable (aka superheroes got them busted) or when he aint in the middle of a crime job, he usually stays at one of the Cham’s safehouses (with or without him) and in a few of them, he already has his own dedicated room with some of his fav old tricks on display. Speakin of which, he has a BIG warehouse with most of his setups and stages or at least models. He doesnt really plan on reusing them but he likes having them all together 

♡ - romantic headcanon

((jakjgkfajga im a loser and ended up shippin him with Chameleon and everythin i’ve thought off so far is EMBARRASSING AND CHEESY AS FUCK :’’’’D so im gonna leave those for another time))

Beck being an Extra Bitch he is, lives for the Big Romantic Gestures like in the movies and he often gets so caught up in the prep he.. kinda disregards the person he was makin it for, the making of the effect means more for him than  the actual sentiment behind it… 

(ok maybe One mysteleon hc, while it pains him, Quentin knows Chammy Would Not Enjoy being a target of such grand display… he gotta be more subtle, creating a scene where he could play in disguise and dupe some superheroes mayhaps…) 

♥ - family headcanon

like 99% of the villains and their grandma, his family wasnt great, mum left when he was very young with another guy, his dad considered his passion for movies a great waste of time and let lil Quentin know how disappointed he was at every occasion both vocally and physically.. After the first few broken models and ripped tapes with stop animations that took weeks to complete, Quentin stopped tryin to impress and convince his father about the greatness of special effects.. He joined a boxing club and learnt some other martial arts but as soon as he could, he left to join a proper film school which led to his father dropping both financing and all contact with him. 

☮ - friendship headcanon

Im not even gonna start about Chameleon’s and Mysterio’s friendship because that shit is canon and i cry about it on a daily basis. 

Despite his penchant for Dramatics, the constant Need for Validation and Backstabbing and other Throwing Shit in the Fan just cuz it was narratively better, Quentin actually has quite a few friends? He gets along quite well with everyone from the Sin Six and many other villains and even has some ‘normie’ pals from the film industry or just neighborhood… 

One of his most surprising is actually Doc Ock with whom he gets along even outside of business partners/partners in crime basis. Though maybe not so surprising, Mysterio is quite vocal with his praises when he feels like they are deserved and Doc as well actually admires and recognizes Beck’s talent while it is still enough specific for him not to feel threatened in his superiority (once he tried to improve them and show them to Quentin with his usual arrogance and flair and that was the biggest fight they ever had and they werent on speaking terms for a loooong while after that… Oct cant stand not having the last word so he still modified some of Mysterio’s tricks even after that but he actually cares about their friendship enough to not tell Mysti about it.. Not like he would ever admit that to Quentin’s fishbowl face) 

♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon

like 99% of everythin Mysti does is Somehow related to special effects/film or the Drama in general but my boy is a nerd in general, theater, books, comics, manga, roleplaying games, you name it. He especially likes flashy stuff obviously. 

He really enjoys learning new techniques and figuring out how to make something happen. When he was younger, he was viciously against CGI but later he started to sorta respect it as its own category that needs talent and effort… he still prefers to use the traditional techniques of course :’D (…as traditional as HYPNOTIZING PEOPLE WITH NEURAL GAZ IS) 

☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon

He has a very Complicated relationship with the film industry……. on the one hand, he loves the behind the scenes, the rush, the Action…. but on the other hand, he hates it with a fiery passion, everythin from how you get treated like dirt and the pretentious prizes being awarded just for the Big names and hollywood and everythin turning around the money an-…., he has a very long list and it is alphabetized. (While he has a point for many of those complaints, the fact HE himself never got any pretentious award remains probably the main issue…) 

he absolutely despises people making fun of D-grade shitty movies in the “this shitty horror is so cheesy and dumb it’s funny and i love it” way, either because the people workin on it were good and trying their best but the money or the producers etc ruined it (his experience) and then it’s an unfair critique or because the creators just didnt try hard enough and that’s even worse in his books and this movie should not get Any Attention much less a positive one.. 

he likes complaining and being snarky :’D he enjoys the challenge Spidey sets for them and loves playing tag with him (even when he loses..) He loves the prep before his big shows both alone or with help, the adrenalin when actually pulling it off and when he discusses it with Cham in details. He lives for the applause and recognition and ~Fame~ 

▼ - childhood headcanon

not as much as hc as adopting the Webspinners’ aproach: he spent most of his childhood daydreaming, hiding himself behind the stories and special effects….. not many friends aside from Betsy but he didnt really need them, he wanted audience not pals.. In the film school he started to be more social and communicative, he met Brick there and they started goin out… 

∇ -. old age/aging headcanon

hhhhh im conflicted, there are like 3 comics where Q is retired because he has enough of superheroes beating him up and he Really doesnt want to go back to it.. I cant see him actually givin up on it totally tho… idk idk

♒ - cooking/food headcanon

Like with sleep, it oscillates wildly. He can forget to eat when he is hypefocusin on a particular project (one single chip suffices as nourishment) or he just subsides on ramen for a month but on the other hand he is quite a capable cook. Nothing Extraordinary but he can make enough diverse simple meals. When livin with Chammy, they both enjoy eating out so they do that as much as the budget allows (so not that much, illusions arent cheap…) 

☼ - appearance headcanon

im still thinkin about that one post that described Quentin as a “toenail of a man” and i couldnt agree more :’D very short, pig nose, hairstyle à la Spock, stocky built and weirdly beefy, like this guy’s thigh is bigger than some heads… (for a nerd he is surprisingly strong what the fuck) 

All Mysterios are Good Mysterios but my preferred ones have a bigass ROUND fishbowl, the longest cape and somethin as a belt, preferably sash.. 

ൠ - random headcanon

he actually isnt….. that great of an actor nor director nor creator………………….. (im sorry baby i love you but it’s tru….) he unconsciously copies a lot of stuff he has seen elsewhere, he follows overused tropes, his work is packed with cliches and cheesy over the top pathos… his special effects mastery n creativity with workin out his illusions is absolutely INCREDIBLE dont get me wrong, it’s just… the plot/ideas……..  at first he lived in denial about this still believing 100% his work is Wonderful and Perfect and he is just a misunderstood author… later he decided to embrace it and he is livin the life now :D

[jakkosisle]

Career Change

The first six months of the Battle for Azeroth was essentially one long stalemate.  The Horde burns down Teldrassil, so the Alliance lays siege to Lordaeron.  The Horde tries to recruit the Zandalari Empire, so the Alliance tries to recruit Kul Tiras.  The Horde opens up a new front in the Arathi Highlands, so the Alliance opens up a new front in Darkshore.  Back and forth, blow for blow, the Alliance and Horde competed with each other endlessly, with neither side really getting a leg up over the other.

Until now, that is.

Jakko looked around the Hot House.  What was once his favorite restaurant in the Zoccalo was now a makeshift hospital for wounded soldiers.  Waiters and waitresses suddenly having to play nurse to dozens of injured orcs, tauren, elves, and of course trolls.  Similar medical outposts had been set up all over the city, to treat the wounded from the battle.

The Alliance had sacked Dazar’alor.  First, they faked an attack from Nazmir, luring away the bulk of the Zandalari and Horde armies, leaving the harbor nearly defenseless.  Second, they somehow destroyed what ships remained in the harbor - witnesses say the ships just blew up for no damn reason, leading most to suspect sabotage.

The Alliance made landfall in the harbor, slaughtering anyone and anything that was too slow or stupid to get out of their way as they stormed their way up to the pyramid.  There, they did the unthinkable.

They killed King Rastakhan.

By that point, the Horde had finally returned to the city.  They were able to chase the Alliance forces back out to sea, but the damage was already done.  The God King was dead, and the Golden Fleet had been gutted like a fish.  The Alliance now stood with the superior naval force, and the Horde’s odds of winning the Battle for Azeroth just got a lot slimmer.

Jakko reached checked his watch.  She’s late.  That didn’t surprise him.  Punctuality had never been Spritzie’s strong suit, and that was back when they were on speaking terms.

Ever since the Battle for Lordaeron, Spritzie…changed.  That sweet, cheerful young goblin was gone.  She lost too much that day.  She became harder.  More ruthless.  Started picking up bad habits like drinking and picking fights for no damn reason.  Her bad attitude got her kicked out of two guilds, and the last time they spoke was months ago, and that wasn’t so much speaking as it was yelling and screaming.

I’m sorry, Rikko.  Jakko promised his brother, minutes before his death, that he would look after their family.  Lately, he was failing.  Miserably.

Jakko’s ears twitched as he heard a voice he hadn’t heard in weeks.  He looked over and saw Spritzie outside the Hot House, instructing a devilsaur and a large spider to stay put outside while she went in.  Gone were the goblin’s childish pigtails and in their place was a sweeping hairstyle held in place with a skull pin.  She wore armor that was black as night with a skull emblem on the belt.  Jakko was sensing a theme.  Strapped to her back was her old sniper rifle, a wolf-slayer model, souped up to double as a shotgun through the miracle of goblin technology.  She didn’t even look at Jakko as she took a seat next to him at the bar and ordered a drink.

“Surprised you showed up.” Jakko said.

“I was thinkin’ of blowin’ you off.” Spritzie replied.  “But your letter made you sound so fuckin’ pathetic that I had to come and see for myself just how deep in the gutter you are.”

That surprised Jakko.  He had kept the letter brief.  He only said that a lot had happened in the last few weeks and that there were some things that Jakko and Spritzie needed to talk about.  Spritzie must’ve inferred Jakko’s desperation from the simple fact he bothered to reach out at all.  It unnerved him, seeing how perceptive she really was.

The troll tapped his finger on the table as an awkward silence hovered between them.  “So…what’ve you been up to lately?” he asked, unsure of how else to begin the discussion.

Spritzie paused in thought, taking a moment to digest Jakko’s question.  Then she smiled like a cat in a canary cage.  “Well, lately I’ve been in Darkshore a lot.  Guess those night elves didn’t quite get the message the first time we kicked their asses.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like destroying their city pissed ‘em off or somethin’.” Jakko quipped.  You fucking dumbass - you need her help and you think NOW is a good time to be a snarky dick?

“In that case, YOU should be as pissed off as they are.” Spritzie pointed out.  She jerked a thumb outside.  “Don’t know if you noticed, but the Alliance kinda kicked your race’s ass in a major way.  Don’t tell me you’re not itchin’ for a little payback.”

Jakko had to admit, Spritzie had a point.  Jakko remembered being awe-struck the first time he set foot in Dazar’alor.  A living, breathing, thriving city of trolls.  He never thought that such a thing could exist outside of history and legend.  Seeing the City of Gold in all its splendor made him think that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the troll race.  Hope that they could one day become something more than just a collection of survivors stubbornly clinging to the edge.

Hope that the Alliance tried to destroy.  He was there, with his mate Vorz’ka, in the Zoccalo when the Alliance attacked.  Mole machines erupted from the ground and Dark Iron poured out, terrorizing the people, looting anything that wasn’t nailed down and setting fire to anything that was.  It was a miracle the Horde showed up when it did to take back the Zoccalo before Alliance forces could do too much damage.  From what he heard, the docks weren’t as lucky.

The Zandalari didn’t even do anything wrong.  Not this time, at least.  Their only crime was asking the Horde for help.  For the first time since this stupid war started, Jakko found himself truly, genuinely angry at the Alliance.

But he was even angrier at Sylvanas.

“If Sylvanas hadn’t started this war, the Alliance would’ve never attacked Dazar’alor in the first place.” Jakko growled.  “The Alliance killed Rastakhan, but she was the one who put the target on his back.”

“Oh, don’t even TRY to spin this to make it look like Sylvanas’s fault!” Spritzie snapped.  “The Alliance kills trolls so often, they use troll sweat to grease their war machines!  Dazar’alor was just another Tuesday for them!”

“Then how come they didn’t wanna attack Zandalar until WE came here?!” Jakko snapped back.  “Everything the Alliance has done was because SHE pissed THEM off!  SHE’S the reason we’re in this mess to start with!”

“The Alliance hate us!” Spritzie ranted.  “Remember Stormheim?!  The Burning Legion was lookin’ to destroy BOTH factions, but that wasn’t enough to kill the Alliance’s hate boner for us, judgin’ from the way they merrily bombed our fuckin’ fleet!  THEY’RE the reason we went to Zandalar - because we needed a new fleet to replace the one THEY blew up!”

“Oh, they hate us.  Okay.  Well.  Here’s an idea.  LET’S BURN DOWN THEIR WORLD TREE!  THAT’LL MAKE ‘EM NOT HATE US!  GREAT PLAN, SYLVANAS!”

“War was inevitable!  Ever since we figured out what Azerite was, it was only a matter of time until war broke out over the stuff!  Sylvanas was just smart enough to get in the first punch!”

“War was inevitable?  Really?  With Anduin ‘Let’s all just hug it out’ Wrynn as High King?  Gimme a break.”

“Two things - first off, Anduin’s not as much of a goody-two-shoes as he lets on.  Call it a gut feelin.’  Second, look at all the Alliance leaders who DO hate us!  Greymane!  Whisperwind!  Fuckin’ Proudmoore!  And you think they’re all gonna lay down their arms just cuz some teenage pretty boy tells ‘em to?  That’s NOT how it’s gonna go down and you KNOW IT!”

Jakko groaned.  “Fucking…okay, look, I don’t want to argue with you on this.”  Political arguments like these were part of the reason Spritzie cut communication for so long.

“Ah, so you’re giving up then?” Spritzie asked with a smirk.

“No, I’m-“

“You said ‘I don’t wanna argue with you on this.’  Which I know is Jakko-speak for ‘I’m wrong and you’re right, I just don’t wanna admit it.’”

“Can we PLEASE just-“

“No!” Spritzie snapped.  “Not until you admit that I won the argument!”

“Look, I just want-“

“Oh my gold, you can’t even admit that YOU’RE WRONG!!!”

Spritzie was now standing on top of the bar stool, giving Jakko the most hateful glare he’d seen since…well, the last time they had an argument like this one.  “…THIS is why I cut you out of my life.  THIS is why Akivani left you, and it’s why Vorz’ka’s gonna leave you too one day.  It’s because you’re arrogant.  It’s because you think you know what’s best for everybody.”

She paused, then shook his head.  “I came because I thought maybe you finally swallowed some of that fuckin’ pride of yours.  I shoulda known better.”  With that, she hopped off and began storming her way out.

Nice going, you stupid asshole.  You just couldn’t do it, could you?  You just couldn’t NOT be a piece of shit for five fuckin’ minutes, huh?  The fuck is wrong with you?  How many times do you have to do this shit before you realize that doing this shit is a bad idea?  You are letting EVERYONE down, you STUPID, SELFISH, WORTHLESS-

“Vorz’ka’s pregnant!” Jakko called out before Spritzie could reach the exit.

The goblin turned around and looked over her shoulder.  “…What?” she asked.

“…Vorz’ka’s pregnant.” Jakko said again, quieter this time.  “I…I need your help, Spritz.”

Spritzie turned back towards Jakko and stared him down.  “…Help with what?”

“Shiverblood’s not payin’ enough.” Jakko said.  “Not enough to feed three.  I…I heard you was with Firebrand now, right?  Pay’s good?”

“Yeah.  So whaddaya want?” Spritzie pressed, running low on patience.

“…I need you to put in a good word for me.  I need a job with Firebrand.” Jakko said.  “Please.”

Spritzie stared down Jakko for a good few seconds.  She then sighed.  “…I’ll talk to the boss about it.” she said.  “If I get you an interview, it’ll probably be at our office in Orgrimmar.  Ask for Tamani Tightclamps, she’s our hiring manager.”

“Thanks, Spritz.” Jakko said.

“Don’t thank me.” Spritzie replied.  “I’m not doin’ this for you.”

On that note, she turned and left the Hot House.  Jakko sighed as he rubbed his face with his hands.  Okay.  He’ll have an interview.  That’s…something, he guessed.  All he had to do was not fuck it up.

Good luck with THAT.  Stupid asshole…

[ramblingsthebookblog]

Book Review: The Whispering Skull by Jonathan Stroud

Why do I want to get pints with the skull 

Five Stars

‘The Whispering Skull ‘ is the second book in the Lockwood & Company series. Named so for the mysterious skull that George stole from the Fittes agency when he left. At the end of ‘Screaming Staircase’ Lucy discovered that not only can the skull talk, she can communicate with it.

The book opens with the gang doing what they do best...investigating hauntings. 

 Lockwood, Lucy and George are good at what they do and are better than all their rivals because they can think outside the box. In saying that our trio are, to use an irish phrase, incredibly cack handed. It’s part of the reason why the characters are so great. They’re brilliant at what they do but they aren’t slick.  Let’s go tackle a haunting at a spooky house? Feck it, burn the house down. Is that a wraith? Throw ALL the shit at it. I love them. 

After George messes up a bit of research, the trio lose an investigation to Kipps and his minus craic gang of ghost hunters at the Fittes agency. 

Have I talked about Kipps? He’s in his twenties and is an adult supervisor to the child investigators at Fittes. Because he’s an adult he no longer possess the Talent needed to investigate and fight ghosts. It’s obvious that, at one point, he was quite a talented investigator himself. 

Despite the fact that Kipps is in his twenties, and a grown ass man, he is incredibly hung up on boosting his fragile male ego by getting into fights with teenagers. Unlike most millennials he’s got a job for a life, a secure income and will never have to work a zero hour contract job in his life. Some might dine out on that for life but no, the man insists on being a douche. 

 Slightly humiliated from their loss, George issues a challenge to Kipps. The next time they go toe to toe they’ll fight it out for the top spot. The loser must post an advert in the newspaper saying the other agency is the best agency. Kipps, still not mature enough to just say ‘No, mate, I’m going home to watch Netflix. You carry on,’ agrees. 

All the action kicks off when the trio are on another job to help seal a mysterious coffin. There’s a bit of mishap and George gets sight of an object in the coffin that spooks him cold. The same object is later stolen by grave robbers. When it comes to pass that the stolen artifact is incredibly dangerous, DEPRAC tells Lockwood & Co and Fittes to work together to find it. Because of their bet...that doesn’t happen. 

In Whispering Skull Stroud does a great job of balancing humour alongside horror. The back story made my stomach turn a wee bit. The ‘Bone Glass’ is genuinely creepy. It was a great plot device to introduce us to the wider world around Lockwood & Co like DEPRAC and the smuggling underground. 

We get introduced to some brilliant new characters in this book.  Who loves Flo? Raise your hand. We stan a girl who spends her days hunting through mud in the Thames to find dead bodies for cash. She’s a great addition to the series and I hope we get to see her again. 

Indeed, Whispering Skull’s biggest strength is its focus on character development. Poor George is at the heart of this. It’s obvious that Lucy’s presence in the gang has left him feeling a bit left out. His mishap with Kipps leaves him questioning his abilities. Lucy and Lockwood, too caught up in themselves, don’t seem to notice that their friend is suffering because of his incident with the bone glass. 

Our girl Lucy is settling into Lockwood & Co nicely. She’s still as kick ass as ever and just as brash. Because of her new found ability to talk to the skull, we really get to see just how powerful she is. 

It’s so obvious that Lucy has it bad for Lockwood. And that Lockwood is completely oblivious. Those two.  I ship it, reader. I was delighted to discover the existence of #lucewood the other day. Like all YA books I fully expect this romance to be a slow burn that will drive me mad. Big shout to George, who obviously ships it too. Every time his mates play dumb he does the literary equivalent of looking at the camera 

Lucy though...I adore her, but we need to acknowledge her flaws. She’s head strong, brave and tough. She also needs a clip round the ear sometimes. Thanks to her insecurities, and her own lack of confidence, she is incredibly stand offish when it comes to new characters, particularly girls. She admits herself that she has no female friends. It’s disappointing to see. 

Listen, internalised misogyny is a thing. Society teaches girls that there’s only one way to be a woman while at the same time telling them that girls are stupid, silly and pathetic. Girls learn to hate themselves from a young age and we often turn that hate on each other. I was a little like Lucy when I was a girl but, thankfully with age, learned to wise up. I really hope Lucy gets over this. 

And as for Lockwood, I spent most of the first book going, ‘You are hiding something boo boo’ and, thank goodness, Whispering Skull tackles that head on. I find it hard to pin down Lockwood. He’s a genuinely likable character but he’s so mysterious that, at times, he comes across a insincere. I was glad to see the skull ( my new fav), quite blatantly point this out.  

So, the Skull. We finally learned its back story, though what it is and what it’s up to is still up for debate. The skull seems to be able to predict the future and....give relationship advice? It’s like a haunted Dear Deidre with sass. Thanks to Lucy’s abilities the skull has become an permanent addition to the Lockwood team, coming with them on hauntings and helping them out with investigations. Its quips lead to some of the books funniest moments. While the gang try and figure things out it hangs about in the background like a snarky commentator. Its depressing outlook on life coupled with its hilarious desire would make me book a second date. It would be great craic down the pub. More please. 

Despite its rather ominous warning at the end of book one...the skull didn’t elaborate any further on the whole ‘death thing.’ The book ended on us all learning something more about Lockwood but he’s still just as mysterious as ever. 

This is an excellent follow up to The Screaming Staircase. I need more adventures with my ghost hunting babies. On to the Hollow Boy.

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The Mark of Oxin: Chapter One

A narrative retelling of the RPG by Phillip Michael Lester.

Read it on fanfiction.net or archive of our own

The castle was worthy of filling any onlooker with awe. It rose so high its turrets blocked out the blaze of the midday sun; its solemn, grey brick exterior stood in sharp contrast with the candy-green grass and gumdrop-coloured flowers growing along the side of the dirt road just outside. The gigantic, gaping doors stood like a lethal dare—a seemingly unprotected entrance to those who overlooked the sharp slices of sunlight glinting off the steel spears and armour of the royal guards; to the extraordinary observer, eyes could be glimpsed in secret windows in the turrets and in large nooks in the weather-worn bricks, always ready to shoot down intruders. The structure almost gave the impression of an adult looking down on a group of children; a figure of power amongst a crowd of naive followers.

Even Alex, well-travelled though he was, could not bring himself to come any closer. He stood in the shadow cast by the edifice, grateful for the escape from the blistering summer heat. Sweat idly slid down his temples and pooled at his collarbones; at the nape of his neck, it dripped down his back and gave the tickly sensation of crawling spiders until he angrily batted the droplets with his hand, and they absorbed into his threadbare cloth armour.

Everything about Alex was thin: his clothes, his blade, his tattered shoes, his bony limbs. To anyone who dared point them out, he would readily admit to these shortcomings with his signature smirk, hands on hips, and snarky remark ready on his tongue.

But the thinnest thing of all, he could not bring himself to think about: his reason for being in this town.

A recent graduate of his local military academy, Alex had been nothing but confidence when he’d packed his backpack with the bare essentials and left his aunt’s house in the mountains without looking back. Although many, many people had tried to talk him out of his plans of becoming a private soldier for the king, he’d scoffed and dismissed them all without much thought. As far as he knew, he was the only soldier alive capable of casting magic, so that gave him a special edge for a royal profession. And what was more, going on adventures and fighting in important battles was his childhood dream—was he to abandon that for a practical life of herding goats with his cousins?

The time in his life when doubt had started to seep into his mind was when he started having the dreams. Strange, vivid visions of places he’d never seen before. They’d seemed burned into the back of his eyelids each time he woke up in a cold sweat, hurrying to his sketchbook and stick of charcoal to preserve the memory: a snowcapped mountain, a field of pink and yellow wildflowers, a threadbare rope bridge swinging across a chasm. And, finally, a giant grey-brick castle.

The path to the kingdom’s capital.

It was a sign, surely. God wanted him to travel to the capital and become the King’s Chosen One, his right hand man. Alex would have riches; he would have fame; people would tell stories of his victories for generations. In retrospect, he’d probably been babbling like a madman after those dreams, and his aunt’s concerned tone when she spoke to him had been quite justified.

“Alex, are you sure about this?” she’d asked, fidgeting with the lilac scarf round her neck. “I thought you were going to join the War first, get some military experience, maybe get a higher education at university.” she’d given a nervous chuckle then, and the unhappiness of her smile had hammered little cracks in Alex’s resolve.

“Auntie, I can’t delay it,” he’d answered gravely. “I know I’m young, but I have this feeling!” he’d opened his hands emphatically then, like little starbursts with his fingers. Explosions of an idea. “I need to be there now. The time has come for me to prove myself.”

So Alex had left his childhood home and trekked the familiar, treacherous path across the mountain range. There was no road to the capital from his village, so he’d relied on accounts from travelling merchants and his dream sketches to slowly make his way there.

He’d seen the snow-capped mountain. He’d smelled the wildflowers. He’d reinforced the bridge with rope he’d pilfered from his uncle and crossed it.

And he stood now, right next to the castle, and he couldn’t help but feel that doubt and fear had clawed at his willpower for too long; it felt as worn through as the clothes on his back.

Sliding his sweat-slick hair out of his face, Alex once again braved the glare of the sun as he left the shelter of the castle’s shadow and continued down the road. He didn’t know where he was going; in fact, he was barely looking up, his travel-weary eyes continually dropping down to his shoes, watching them make crunching steps on the dry earth. He was procrastinating, and he knew it. He should be looking for a royal envoy, or writing a letter to the castle, or trying to think of some other way to meet with the king. But with every step, he convinced himself that he couldn’t start if he had so few weapons, such shabby clothes, and absolutely no money to do anything about it.

So enveloped in his self-pity was he that Alex didn’t notice the little boy until he literally bumped into him.

“Oof,” went the mousy haired child as he staggered back a step from the impact.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” stammered Alex, guilt prickling his skin, but the boy just gave a wide, gap-toothed grin.

“I found this on the ground,” the boy explained, holding out in his chubby hand a bulging burlap sack Alex hadn’t noticed before. “I want you to have it.”

The bag was half the boy’s size and was apparently too heavy for him to carry, given the suspicious depression in the ground which continued for several hundred feet and led directly to it. Without thinking, Alex bent down and gripped the top of the bag. The boy immediately let go and sprinted away, laughing.

“Wait—stop!” Alex yelled, preparing to run after him, but the bag really was heavy, and Alex’s arms were already shaking from the effort to hold it.

The boy whipped his smiling face around at Alex. “See you soon!” he called, and giggled as he continued to run away, kicking up dirt in his wake.

Red-faced, panting, and a little embarrassed at his inability to run with the extra weight, Alex stopped and held the bag open to peer inside. His jaw dropped even as his cynical mind immediately jumped to doubt the validity of the dozens of gold coins the sunlight illuminated within.

His head whipped to either side of him, brown ponytail flying behind him, as he checked for onlookers. A couple strangers who hadn’t paid him any mind before then looked up, curious about his sudden, strange behaviour. Alex mentally reprimanded himself and searched for a place to test the coins in peace.

Repeatedly chanting act natural in his mind, Alex made his way over to a nearby peach tree, where any passersby would think he was just collecting fruit or something. He flopped down in front of the trunk and fished out a coin from the bag, proceeding to inspect it from every possible angle. It was smooth and a bit warm, the edges ribbed, the sides engraved with an official-looking seal. Alex bit down hard on the coin and was astonished at the dents made in the yellow metal.

It really was gold.

As quickly as he could, Alex dumped the contents of the bag onto the grass beside him and began the meticulous process of counting each one. With every coin, giddiness rose up in him like a tidal wave.

Two hundred gold coins.

With a snap like a broken elastic band, Alex leapt up from his spot by the tree and made a beeline for the nearest weapons store, a gigantic smile stretched across his face.

His wonderful momentum was abruptly halted by a girl with a shock of lime-green hair pushed away from her scowling face by a thick red hairband. With his tunnel vision, Alex hadn’t even seen her until she grabbed his wrist. Not good soldier practice; his general would be disappointed in him.

“The king needs to talk to you,” she declared baldly. The contents of this unceremonious notification dawned on Alex slowly, like sand settling in water. The king wanted to talk to him? Perhaps the monarch was psychic.

“Hmm, I wonder what for?” Alex murmured, more thinking aloud than he was speaking to the girl in front of him. Reprimanding his previously unobservant behaviour, he gave her a second glance, noticing that her dress had the name Carol stitched into it in plain black thread before she turned around and walked away from him. He considered calling after her and demanding more information, or perhaps better closure to their conversation, but he had other things to do. His mind was buzzing from the possibilities and revelations of an already exciting day.

He really should have gone to see the king immediately—it would be rude to ignore a royal request—but he did look quite pathetic in his current state, so he made his way over to the weapons shop first.

“Good day!” greeted the owner with a commercial smile and wave as Alex all but flew in through the front door in his enthusiasm. His jaw dropped as he analysed the walls above his head: shelves lined with battle axes and swords and spears, the blades all gleaming with newness, the handles of soft, pristine leather. Alex had been in his share of weapons shops, given his training as a soldier, but he’d never been in a position to actually afford stuff before. But even as he felt his spirits soar, he knew that two hundred gold wasn’t enough to buy him anything on the higher shelves.

With a slightly narrower grin, he focused his attention on the shelves in front of him: row upon row of palm-sized potion bottles, the glass refracting the sunlight and making the purple liquid within seem to sparkle; haphazard piles of bright crimson apples; a few Phoenix downs draped casually over dusty wooden crates, the fiery colours glinting in the light, reincarnation magic emanating from every fibre of feather.

Alex decided to empty his coffers and buy a Phoenix down (which he attempted to fold before balling it up and stuffing it into his backpack) and two bottles of potion. He probably should have heeded his sage General’s advice and saved some money in case he came across a better shop later, but he never had been the frugal type.

With neither a regret nor a care in his heart, Alex whistled as he jogged down the dirt road to the castle for his audience with the King.