#please pardon all the tags i just like being thorough :]

[seawardboundsammy]

thinking about fh dnd classes and here's my list (some homebrew is used, dw its linked :] ) (also this is about them as people, not who they would play in a theoretical game)

Ortega: Battlemaster Fighter. I briefly considered monk for their hand to hand combat style but the tactical techniques of battlemaster and how some of them allow you to help your teammates fit much better

Chen: War Cleric. HERE ME OUT OKAY. Obvious fighter fits him and all but war cleric are incredibly strong and have a ton of buffs. Specifically the fact that his armor was the only thing that could power the dampeners during heartbreak feels like a war cleric. Also the fact that Ortega was marshal instead of him. This doesn't mean he's weaker though, if you've ever played/played with a war cleric you know they're BUSTED

Anathema: Acid dragonborn Barbarian, Path of the Favored. I considered sorcerer but i felt that barbarian fits their tankyness better. One of the abilities is "Favored Presence" which works well with their charm and how people tend to be endeared to them.

Herald: Paladin, Oath of the Crown. This one's from the swordcoast! Shout out to my dear @radioactive-mouse, this one's all him. It's the devotion and the being a hero and being nice but honey when you look at the contract, you work for the government, not the people.

Argent: Barbarian, Path of the Mutant. Kind of a weird one (we did consider eldritch knight) but this one fits her intensity in battle and incredibly impulsive choices (bailing from the party, chasing you down in the sewers, the bridge fight). Also how motivated by anger she can be and how absolutely relentless she is. Path of the Mutant allows you to modify your body during combat to gain an edge, which she literally does its great. (also it fits her backstory and shit)

Dr. Mortum: Armorer Artificer. Come on, what were you expecting? I could have gone with wizard, probably transmutation, but this one is just so perfect.

Finally Sidestep is kinda a weird one, cause it really depends on the step. A very sneaky tactician step might be an arcane trickster rouge, whereas a bombastic and flashy step might be a champion fighter out of pure style. Hell, they could even be a paladin considering the training heroes route and anarchist route!

those are my general ideas but if you have others or disagree, please share them! i would love to here what other people think of fh dnd classes

[shini--chan]

Pardon me if you are busy but may I please have headcannons on what would the allies/axis+Prussia do if the reader insulted them, such rubbing their worst historical moments and calling them degrading names? I am sorry if this is too long, just Prussia would be alright too.

Well, I have a character limit, so I’ll be going with just Prussia.

Yandere Prussia – Reproachment

“You know that acting all macho won’t disguise just how insecure you are on the inside”, you quipped, sitting on the bench by the door with your arms crossed. You were being spiteful, nose in the air and a very unbefitting sneer on your lips. It was the sneer a duchess would carry should she be lectured by  a tutor and in Gilbert’s opinion, such an expression didn’t belong on the face of a decent person.

He decided to ignore your jab, knowing from his military days that a person with common sense would not dare venture further if it didn’t provoke the rejection they wanted and even apologize.

“Yeah, yeah”, he commented, stripping off his drenched jacket and running a hand through his wet hair. “Take off your clothes and get yourself something dry. Won’t do to have you catch a cold.”

As it was, he had found you at the bus stop nearby, or more accurately, in the bus trying to convince the driver to let you tag along even though you had neither ticket or money or manners. Therefor, it had been easy for Gilbert to convince his long-time acquaintance that you were merely hysteric and confused because your life had recently been upended. Which was the genuine truth.

You abruptly stood up, fists clenched at your sides and eyes wild. The fact that you were soaked from head to toes and your shoes squeaked robbed you of any intimidation factor that you could have had.

“Don’t play that game with me. You know exactly what I mean. All this, keeping me locked up, commanding me about, not allowing me to leave, claiming to love me. It is all compensation. You want to feel powerful again and you do that by controlling me”, you ranted, spittle flying when you hissed out the harder letters.

Prussia glanced at you, an eyebrowed raised to indicate that he was very unimpressed by the little speech you were delivering. Francis had once remarked that it was the exact same expression that Rosbif always wore when he was scolding somebody, yet Gilbert couldn’t bring himself to care. It was of the stern variety and got the point across, making the person it was targeted at feel pathetic.

However, it only seemed to spur you onwards. Raging, you hissed at him, an index finger raised threatingly:

“After you were rightfully crushed by Russia during the Second World War he took you in and held you under his thumb. Did his best to fashion you into a good comrade. Although, I heard you actually liked the whole thing. I bet you begged him to beat you up, to reopen your wounds on pour alcohol inside. I bet you got hard from…”

You didn’t get the chance to cap your tirade off. A resounding crack echoed as he slapped you firmly, causing you to fall over. Your cheek glowed an angry red and you let out a yelp of surprise. Meanwhile, Gilbert turned his back on you, preventing you from seeing his fury.

“Tomorrow, we’ll be having a few history lessons on East Germany in the latter half of the 20th century. Afterwards, we’ll see if you’ll still be so keen on spreading such misinformation”, he gritted out and stormed away into the kitchen.

At first, Gilbert would brush off your petty insults, chock them up to you being frustrated and deciding to let your anger out on him. Something that wouldn’t sit well with him yet he would be lenient and give you that chance to back down. In anger, a person often says thing that they regret later. He would probably just view you as having to blow off some steam. Which would be why he would laugh off most of your cutting words and lock in your room until you would have calmed down.

However, should you persist and insistent on dragging him through the mud, then he would get rough. Depending on the severity of your defamations, he would either give you a slap on the wrists or wash your mouth out with soap and give you a few thorough history lessons.

Of all people to be at odds with, Gilbert would be one of the worst. I see him as having worked for the Stasi during the DDR-era, and that would mean he would be very skilled at demolishing a person’s psyche. You’d be best advised not to go to war against him.

[thecoffeelorian]

questions...questions that need answering (1)

...Please pardon this post if you would rather not deal with any possible head-scratching/thorough examinations about the Bad Batch, as I know there’s some bickering going on and I really don’t want to add to it.

For those that do, please check everything under the cut...

@nimata-beroya​

...First things first, what this post ISN'T.  It isn't me pointing fingers at anybody, or publicly trashing them all over their own blog pages, or posting repetitive hateful messages in a certain tag because how dare they dare to like anything without my permission, omg.  That's not what I hope to do here, so I'll be looking over every post in this bit just to make sure I don't ever come off like that.

Second, on the other hand...what this post/series of posts is, is that I...really have no idea what the takeaway of this first season was supposed to be, because the comments made about it in the past don't seem to add up at all.  I mean...there was family, but only for one/two characters while the rest were either pushed into the background for whatever reason, almost torn apart because the rescuers refused to act, or else one more character had to be forcibly taken away and then brainwashed, manipulated, and eventually taught to hate their siblings just to make a permanent place for the newcomer.  That, and even though that same character did save the newcomer in the end, it's too freaking late because their siblings now hate them right back and won't ever trust them again.  For all that the newcomer claims that they are as a group, it...just doesn't seem to apply any longer.  They're permanently broken up, the end...so why do they even bother trying to refer to the abandoned person as their brother, if they don't care any more and seemingly never did?

There might have been good choices and bad choices, but the bad choices are seemingly paying off a lot more than the good ones, i.e. leaving your abducted brainwashed sibling, even hating them for their own abduction/manipulation/etc, is perfectly acceptable because you don't have to share your specialized medicine, high-tech toys, bonding moments, comfy ship, etc. with them.  Inversely, trying to bring them to some kind of medical resolution/safety/conflict resolution is considered bad, because it only gets you closer to being spoken of in the past tense (slang term mine).  If this is really the case here, what good are the truly good decisions going to do for anyone, since only the bad decisions matter?

So...at the moment, roughly, there's just no positive takeaway for this title cast/title cast with one character permanently shut out for the lulz...unless we do a slow 180-degree turn and look a certain Imperial dead in the eyes, which in that case...Rampart's won.  He's succeeded in making two halves of a family hate each other, which seriously makes me start to wonder if he's going to repeat this action on a much larger scale next season. 

In other words, the clones that got sent to that mountain facility will be told by the clones who were ordered to blow up Tipoca City that the (incomplete) Bad Batch did it, thus earning the revenge mode of 10,000+ soldiers/cadets who will then be sent out into all corners of the galaxy to terminate them.  This is my rough guess for season 2, but feel free to take this with a grain of salt as it's all just speculation rather than fact.

I'll add more posts to this series once my head's cleared and I can focus on more specific points throughout the season, but for now, this is my overview.  In the meantime...have a happy picture to offset the depressive anxious ramblings I just spouted out:

[petglue9-blog]

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Police officer primarily stems from the 1500s English word 'cap', indicating to seize, from Middle French 'caper' for the exact same word, and possibly linked additionally to Scicilian and also Latin 'capere' implying to record. The full form Copper is partially derived as well as use reinforced via the metallic copper badges put on by very early New York cops sergeants. By the way the patrolmen had brass badges and the captains silver ones. cloud nine/on over the moon - severe happiness or euphoria/being in a state of severe joy, not necessarily however possibly due drugs or alcohol - cloud seven is an additional variation, yet blissfulness tends to be the most popular.

Words and also language may transform gradually, yet the noise of a fart is just one of life's more sustaining attributes. consume crow - recognize a mistake, suffer embarrassment - the expression's origins are American, from imagery and also mythology from the late 19th century. Crow would certainly have been considered an instead distasteful dish, similar to the original English Umble Pie metaphor from the 1700s. According to etymologist James Rogers, eating crow ended up being the topic of a tale reported in the Atlanta Constitution in 1888, which informed the tale of an American soldier in the Battle of 1812, that fired a crow during a ceasefire. A British policeman matched the bear up his shooting as well as asked to see the weapon, which when handed to him, he switched on the soldier, reprimanding him for trespassing, and also compeling the soldier to consume a piece of the dead crow. However, on having the gun returned to him, the soldier quickly transformed the weapon on the policeman, as well as made him consume the rest of the crow.

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Hoag paid off the authorities to get away prosecution, however eventually paid the rate for being also creative when he tried to reduce the police out of the offer, resulting in the pair's arrest. In explaining Hoag at the time, the police were allegedly the initial to use the 'wise aleck' expression.

If you have very early recollections of use or ideas of exact origins or authors of any one of the above expressions please let me understand, and I'll release the searchings for on this page in the main listing. Let me recognize additionally if you desire any mysterious expressions contributing to the list for which no published origins seem to exist. Can you help discover the earliest beginnings or precise resources of some fairly current expressions and numbers of speech? Below are a couple of interesting sayings for which for which completely pleasing beginnings appear not to exist, or existing explanations welcome growth and even more information. The primary advantages of using these lotions like rapid virgin spray is that they are made from entirely natural herbs hence lack any type of kind of type of adverse results. Older people with even more thorough photo-ageing, serious skin laxity, or exceptionally droopy skin on the neck aren't terrific prospects along with might need surgical procedure.

The basis of the definition is that Adam, being the first guy ever, and also therefore the farthest eliminated from anybody, symbolizes a male that any person is least likely to know. Out of passion, an 'off ox' would have been the monster drawing the cart on the side farthest from the motorist, and for that reason much less recognized than the 'near ox'. This expansion to the expression was American; the 'off ox' as well as various other expansions such as Adam's brother or Adam's foot, are just created to exaggerate the distance of the acquaintance.

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Dosh appears to have originated in this form in the US in the 19th century, and afterwards reappeared in a lot more preferred use in the UK in the mid-20th century. doss-house - harsh resting accommodation - the term is from Elizabethan England when 'doss' was a straw bed, from 'dossel' meaning package of straw, in turn from the French 'file' meaning package. Before c. 13th century the word was dyker, from Latin 'decuria' which was a trading system of ten, initially utilized for pet hides. dead pan - expressionless - from the 1844 rhyme (' The Dead Pan') by Elizabeth Browning which told that at the time of the crucifixion the cry 'Terrific Frying pan is dead' swept across the ocean, and 'the responses of the oracles ceased for ever before'. dandelion - wild flower/garden weed - from the French 'dent de lyon', indicating 'lion's tooth', due to the jagged shape of the dandelion's fallen leaves. According to Chambers the plant's name came into English in the late 1300s originally as French 'dent-de-lyon', progressing with dandelyon, additionally generating the surname Daundelyon, before reaching its present English kind.

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London meteorologist Luke Howard established the first extensively approved cloud name and classification system, which was published in 1803. The system is essentially still in use today, albeit raised from Howard's original seven-cloud framework.

Names of blossoms are amongst numerous other usual English words which came into English from French in the late middle-ages, the reason for which is discussed in the 'pardon my French' beginning. In much of the expression's common usage the meanings seem to converge, in which the hybrid 'really feel' is just one of domination/control/intimacy in return for payment/material reward/safety/protection. Using the expression as a straight insult, where the significance is to examine an individual's parentage, is found, but this would not have actually been the beginning, and also is a much more current retrospectively used definition. dachshund - short-legged dog - the dog was initially a German breed made use of for hunting badgers. Words appears to have pertained to England in the last 19th century. cop/copper - police officer - Some recommend this is a phrase from 'Constable On Patrol' however this is a retrospectively applied description.

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ciao - Italian greeting or farewell, and also typical English colloquialism meaning 'goodbye' - noticable 'chow', is derived from Italian words 'schiavo vosotro' indicating 'I am your slave'. Chambers and also OED are clear in showing the earlier Latin complete type of 'carnem levare', from medieval Latin 'carnelevarium', and that the derivation of the 'val' element is 'doing away with' or 'getting rid of', as well as not 'saying goodbye, as some recommend. OED as a matter of fact states that the connection with Latin 'vale', as if claiming 'goodbye to flesh' results from 'preferred' etymology. by and large - generally/vaguely/one way or one more - one of a number of maritime terms; 'typically' literally implied 'to the wind as well as off it'.

An additional analysis, and also certainly a belief when held by some, is that sneezing expelled ghouls from an individual's body. A contributory element was the organization of sneezing with the Black Death which ravaged England as well as specifically London in the 14th as well as 17th centuries. In more current times the expression has been connected to the misconception that sneezing creates the heart to stop beating, further strengthening the Bless You personalized as a protective superstitious notion. blarney - persuasive yet vacant words - from the spoken laziness tactics of Cormack MacCarthy, 1602, in holding the castle of Blarney in Ireland, near Cork, despite consenting to commend the English as component of the surrender terms.

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Keep in mind that a wind is described according to where it comes from not where it's mosting likely to. Sailing 'by' a South wind would suggest cruising essentially in a South instructions - 'to the wind'. box and die/whole/hole box and pass away - see see 'entire box and die' feasible meanings and beginnings listed below. Bars and also drinkers familiarized this method as well as the customized of alcohol consumption from glass-bottom flagons began.

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[sylvanauctor]

Kuenr Deacht is a member of the powerful Translators’ Office of the Imperial Radch. Six months into the annexation of Shis’urna, she is sent to Ors to aid the new administration, documenting the local dialect for surveillance and diplomacy. During her scientific mission, she learns about the struggles of annexation for Radchaai and Orsians alike. Featuring Awn Elming, Skaaiat Awer, Justice of Toren, the Head Priest of Ikkt, and more.

So I’m posting the whole chapter under the Read More, but hopefully I can link once my AO3 account gets set up. Could I wait? Sure, but I love the Radch and I wanted to get this out soon. Without further ado:

A Just and Proper Interpretation: Chapter One

“So tell me, Translator, how does a reeducator of cultists become a field linguist? Quite a stark jump.”

“Begging your pardon, Captain, but I left for reasons that are sufficient to me. And besides, I hardly find the details proper teatime conversation.” I took a deep drink of my tea to redirect the conversation as quickly as possible. “Exquisite leaves,” I said. “May I properly ask how you came by it?”

“Flower of Sarrse,” Captain Teksyf Geir said. “Direct from Athoek. Best that money can buy.”

I admired the color of the tea, deep and pure in the white porcelain, and mused, “Flower of Sarrse, direct from Athoek. Remarkable.” The sentence was an upper class shibboleth, a subtle but deliberate test of my standing. If Anaander Mianaai were to say Sarrse direct from Athoek, her dialect of Radchaai would produce a string of sounds that were vanishingly rare anywhere else. It was the dialect that grand houses like Geir and Denche learned from the cradle, but daughters of lower houses did not benefit from such immersion. Captain Teksyf smiled. I had passed my first test in the social strata of this particular annexation. Satisfied that we both knew where I stood linguistically, I said, “Have you been down to Ors, Captain?”

“Yes. Not the best post, I’m sorry to say, Translator.”

I gestured resignation to fate. “As Amaat wills, then. Warm, at least.”

Captain Teksyf and I made small talk for some time, until she cocked her head to one side, receiving some message via implant. “Ship tells me your shuttle is here. Safe travels, Translator Kuenr.” She stood and opened the door of her dining room, handing me off to the care of one of Justice of Toren’s ancillaries, One Esk Fifteen by its uniform tags.

“If you would come this way, Translator,” the ancillary said, and escorted me down the hall, into a lift, and down another hall to where the shuttle was docked. We strapped in and I accepted a pill to keep down the microgravity nausea. Some minutes later, we landed in the city of Ors. Humid air, heavy with the stench of marsh, poured into the shuttle in an oppressive wave.

No wonder the natives eschew gloves, I thought, palms (and everywhere else) beginning to sweat the moment I stepped out of the shuttle. We had set down on a hilltop platform with a clear view across the marshes to the dilapidated city.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing across to the most prominent building there.

“The temple of Ikkt,” Esk Fifteen said. “The Shis’urnans’ idea of Amaat. Their high priest has been very helpful to Lieutenant Awn.”

Odd, I thought, for Justice of Toren to volunteer that about the priest without my asking. To my shame, I had not made the best impression on it during my last visit. But then, I had been a different person.

Fifteen led me through Ors by a circuitous route, avoiding the great many flooded streets and walkways. It gave me a thorough surveying of the city, which appeared mostly untouched by the annexation. Any damage here was decay, not the results of Radchaai weapons. Good. It would make my job easier.

We arrived soon at the residence of Senior Esk Lieutenant Awn Elming, with whom I would be staying for the duration of my assignment. Esk Fifteen escorted me inside, to a wood-walled room floored with tightly woven reed mats. Two lieutenants sat at a low table, and stood upon seeing me. They bowed slightly, and I more deeply in return.

“Translator Kuenr,” said one. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to Ors. I am Lieutenant Awn, and this is Lieutenant Skaaiat Awer, Justice of Ente Seven Issa.” She motioned to the other lieutenant, a darker skinned person with more aristocratic features. “Will you have tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” I had dropped my pretentious accent in favor of my own first dialect, one with a rather more provincial drawl. I preferred to speak comfortably during my assignment. “Is there a space immediately available for me? I’d like to begin work as soon as possible.”

“We have a room for you here in this house, with a desk and writing materials. One Esk is bringing your things up as we speak.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Begging your pardon, Translator, but Captain Teksyf was rather vague in describing what it is you actually do,” Lieutenant Skaaiat interjected. “I heard something about you not being a normal translator, which at first I took to mean Presger, but you seem Radchaai enough. Can one properly ask?”

I laughed and gestured that I was not offended. “No problems, Lieutenant. My job is to document the Orsian language to better our communication here.”

“But everyone we work with already speaks Radchaai,” Skaaiat said.

“If conflict were ever to break out again here on Shis’urna, it would be important to have translators whose loyalties were certain, no? Insurgents will not be so considerate as to pass along their plans in-” and here I switched back to my aristocratic accent- “proper, civilized Radchaai.” Certainly an awkward reduplication, to say civilized Radchaai, but it made my point.

Skaaiat nodded. “Thank you for explaining.”

I switched back to my normal speech. “Of course. With whom may I speak to coordinate interviews with the Orsians?”

“That would be the Divine of Ikkt,” Awn said. “I meet with her later today. You’re welcome to join. Ship, please tell the Divine that Translator Kuenr Deacht will be in attendance today, and explain why.” Esk Fifteen gestured assent.

“Has the annexation been too hard on you, Lieutenants?” I asked.

“Not at all,” Lieutenant Awn said with a slight smile. “We’ve managed in these six months what could take years.”

“Nothing like Valskaay,” Lieutenant Skaaiat added.

I hid my grimace behind a long sip of tea. “So Captain Teksyf has been spreading my whole life story around, then.”

“Pardon, Translator, I only meant to reassure you,” Skaaiat said.

I drained my tea bowl. “Thank you, Lieutenant. If you don’t mind, it’s been a long day. I’ll rest in my room until Lieutenant Awn and I meet the Divine. Might Ship wake me when it’s time?”

“Of course,” Lieutenant Awn said.

Esk Fifteen showed me to my room. I flopped down heavily on the fungal-smelling mattress, stripped off everything except my pants and slept.

Comments? Questions? Did I accidentally drop a masculine pronoun? Don’t be afraid to sent me an ask!

-B.D.K. Corrigan

[astudyinimagination]

The Heir, Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of my WIP fic The Heir. Prologue can be found here; chapter one here; chapter two here; description here. Still need a tags page for my fics (somebody pester me, please!).

This chapter does not have a title yet, but it’s probably one of the most interesting thus far, and starts to dip into the Victorian legal system which I have yet to properly research. (In all seriousness, I expect there will be quite a few mistakes and spaces that will be fixed and filled later when I have a better working knowledge of the legal system.)

Feedback is much appreciated! (But gently, please, dear reader: yours truly is a fragile creature.) Also, any aid, insight, or corrections you can give to real life facts would be extremely appreciated!

An average Monday morning at New Scotland Yard typically consisted of several new prisoners from arrests made over the weekend and mountains of paperwork. Lately, however, every day had an extra layer of chaos due to the impending move to New Scotland Yard on the riverbank. With the move scheduled in two months, December, the pressure was enormous. Detectives and constables alike were expected to do their part on top of their normal duties, and the fact that the Criminal Investigation Department was expected to move last did not make things any easier.1

Lestrade had started his day by questioning the arsonist from Sunday morning, and after a fruitless and mostly one-sided conversation with the surly prisoner, he had to fill out some paperwork and see if he couldn’t sort a few more stacks of old papers into boxes.

Naturally, Sherlock Holmes appeared in the doorway of his office when he was about to start packing. “Good morning, Lestrade.” The amateur detective didn’t look as though he thought it was a good morning—the dark circles under his eyes and paler-than-usual skin told Lestrade the younger man had been awake through the night.

Conclusion: Mr. Holmes had found something very important in Clay’s flat.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said blandly, resisting the urge to haul the younger man by the collar out the door to the nearest cab and send him back home. The man was going to burn himself out young yet—Watson had only delayed the inevitable, not stopped it altogether. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you spoken with the arsonist yet?”

“He refuses to talk. I even made him the offer of a lighter charge if he would tell who put him up to it, but nothing. He looked scared.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mr. Holmes said sourly. “Is Jones in his office this morning?”

“No, he won’t be back until this evening. New development with John Clay?”

The sour expression deepened. “Yes and no. It’s nothing provable.”

“Ah. Do you mind if I pack while you tell me about it?”

“Not at all.”

Lestrade rose and moved back to his boxes. “Take a seat. Smoke a cigarette. If you don’t mind my saying so, you look as though you could use one.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Mr. Holmes said dryly. But he didn’t continue until he was seated with a lit cigarette. “Well, you know that I’ve been chasing after evidence to convict the elusive Professor Moriarty for years now.”

Lestrade nodded. “If it’s any consolation, you do have me convinced. The problem is convincing a jury.”

“Of course. And what I’ve found will not do that.”

“And that is?”

Mr. Holmes exhaled smoke. “Letters to John Clay. From Moriarty.”

Lestrade snapped upright and stared at Holmes. “And how is that not condemning?”

The amateur’s smile was bitter. “They are only signed ‘The Professor.’ There are no personal details, other than revealing an apparently close relationship with Clay.”

Lestrade frowned; that did not sound good. “Do you mean to tell me Clay is some kind… protege? For Moriarty?”

Mr. Holmes hesitated. “I… have no proof, Inspector.”

“Be honest: that’s never stopped you. You’ll go fifty miles on a hunch and prove it right in the end. Do you think think that John Clay is Professor Moriarty’s protege?”

The younger man looked down for a moment, then met Lestrade’s eyes again. “Yes.” He took a long drag of his cigarette before continuing. “Going by the content of those letters, I believe that Clay was intended to inherit Moriarty’s criminal empire. This robbery was just the beginning, meant to incite tense relations with France which would then be resolved to their satisfaction. Clay would then have travelled to France himself to expand Moriarty’s reach—a sort of foreign minister, if you will.”

Lestrade dropped the stack of files he’d been holding into a box. “Good God above,” he breathed.

“Indeed.” Mr. Holmes studied his cigarette. “What charges are being brought against Clay, Lestrade?”

“I don’t know—haven’t spoken with Jones yet today. Fraud, certainly, for the Red-headed League… but I’m not sure how he’ll be charged for the attempted theft, particularly since he was probably after the French gold.”

“The gold on loan from the French government,” the younger man clarified. “Intended to provoke tension between their government and ours. Inspector, I do believe the Treason Felony Act of 18482 could be invoked.”

Lestrade just stopped himself from whistling, and ran a hand over his hair, instead. “You could be right about that. He’s certain to be convicted—he was caught in the act, for goodness’ sakes!—and charging him with that would send him to prison for life.”

“Thereby putting him out of the reach of any grand schemes of his employer.”

Lestrade raised both eyebrows. “That it would.”

Holmes snubbed out his cigarette. “I would like to see Clay.”

Lestrade nodded slowly—he’d been expecting that. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

“Thank you.”

Although, studying his amateur colleague just now, Lestrade wasn’t sure that was a good idea—there was something in Sherlock Holmes’s eyes that looked troubled, and altogether too personal.

For years now, he had carried on a quiet crusade against the master criminal the CID knew as “the Professor,” and Holmes was certain he knew by name. Years of frustrated efforts: verdicts of “innocent,” prisoners dead in their cells, no names, no records, tracks covered as thoroughly as any criminal could wish for. Too thorough even for the man people were now calling “the Great Detective.”

Letting him talk to someone so close to the root of this trouble did not sound like a good idea, but he couldn’t just refuse him now. Moving to lead Holmes to the holding cells, Lestrade hoped the man had a firm-enough grip on that impassivity he valued so much; he was going to need it.

Jail seemed to have done Clay very little harm, Holmes noted. The man’s face was no longer clean shaven, but he himself looked clean and well-rested enough. So much for “no rest for the wicked”...

Clay stood as the warden unlocked the door and let Holmes and Lestrade in. “Oh, hello again, Mr. Holmes.” He bowed to Holmes, then turned to Lestrade. “And I believe I have not had the pleasure.”

Lestrade gave the man a terse nod. “Inspector Lestrade of the CID. So you’re the infamous John Clay.”

Clay spread his hands in a gesture of modesty. “I do beg your pardon, Inspector, but I had hoped that if I got the chance to speak with Mr. Holmes, I could do so in private.”

Holmes shook his head; that kind of condition never boded well. “There is nothing you could say to me which you could not say before this man.”

“Perhaps not.” Clay smiled faintly. “But I’m afraid I will not talk unless he leaves—it’s nothing personal, Inspector, you understand.”

Lestrade snorted.

Clay arched a challenging eyebrow, and Holmes’s eyes narrowed. Not looking away from the prisoner, he said softly, “Lestrade, would you be so kind?”

He almost saw Lestrade suppress a sigh without actually seeing it. “If I must. I’ll be out in the hallway if you need me.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Lestrade rapped on the door, and the warden let him back out and closed the door again.

The two men were left staring at each other, sizing each other up. This is the man Moriarty replaced you with? Holmes’s mind hissed. The polish was a veneer; Holmes could just see the traces of a coarser personality. Of course, only Clay’s grandfather was royalty; his mother had married far down in rank, leaving her son with few privileges and a commoner’s surname.

Nevertheless, privileged upbringing or no, Holmes could also see a mind active and clever enough to match his own.

Clay finally broke the silence, smirking slightly. “So. You are the celebrated Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective.”

“And you are the man to whom Professor James Moriarty wishes to leave his criminal organization,” Holmes returned evenly.

“I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Clay said with exaggerated innocence. Holmes stared, and the other man chuckled. “Very well. Do you know the reason, Mr. Holmes, why I wanted to speak to you in private?” He leaned in conspiratorially, and murmured, “Because you cannot repeat what I say outside this room. It’s my word against yours.”

Holmes frowned. “I think that a jury is hardly likely to believe you over me.”

“Perhaps, but perhaps I can bring a little more weight to my words, when the time comes.” Clay grinned fleetingly. “I can see why he likes you, you know. You remind me of him.”

Holmes just stopped himself from taking a step forward. “I am not like him,” he gritted out.

“Why, of course you are! Similar family background, similar interests, similar intellect, similar polish. I may be the heir apparent, but you’re the prodigal son.”

“James Moriarty,” Holmes said, practically spitting out each word, “is nothing to me.”

“Oh, he’s everything to you, even after all this time, and you still are to him, trust me. If you went to his office right now to reconcile, you would be back in the will and I’d be out in the cold. But your morals are too strong for that, so it looks as though my position is safe, for the moment.”

Holmes shook his head. “There is nothing safe about your position, Clay.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You of all people should know: you can’t outmaneuver him. You try, and then you find out he had five contingency plans waiting and since the first didn’t work, he’ll use whichever did.”

Holmes shook his head. “No one is omnipotent—or omniscient. And I’m wasting my time if fruitless banter is all you have to offer.”

Clay laughed. “What did you expect? A full confession, signed and sealed? Just admit it, Holmes: you envy me, and you miss him. You miss the closeness, the warmth you two shared.”

“My dear boy, I am not a man given much to sentiment; however… could I ever have had children, I could not wish for a better companion in them than I have in you.”

“Whatever was between myself and the Professor is over,” Holmes said coolly, “and it is our own business—none of yours. In any case, I can see that his standards are slipping, if he was willing to take as his heir a man as petty as you.”

Clay snorted as Holmes moved over to rap on the door. “Give him my love?”

“Tell him yourself in hell,” Holmes hissed as he stalked out, Clay’s scornful laughter following him down the hall.

After Holmes had all but stormed out of Scotland Yard, Lestrade sent a telegram, a specific message he was to send out only in an emergency. Supper is laid out. Will you come?

He was wrapping up his work for the evening when the answer finally came, in the form of a visitor. The man strode slowly into the office, limping ever so slightly, and settled into the empty chair. “You do realise, I have work to do. I had a hell of a time getting away.”

“I understand that,” Lestrade said evenly, taking out his cigarettes and handing the man one. Smoking for the sake of calming one’s nerves was required when having conversations with this particular Detective Inspector. “I’ve been undercover, too, don’t forget.” After lighting the other man’s cigarette, he lit his own. “But there’s a new development regarding your target; you want to hear this, trust me.”

“Well, then?”

Lestrade took a long drag. “What do you know about Moriarty’s plans for the future?”

The other man shrugged. “Little enough, just like anyone else who’s only close enough to know his name. International politics? Beyond that…” He shrugged.

Lestrade nodded. “What about a replacement? If anything were to happen to him.”

“Well, everyone knows it would be Colonel Moran; he’s the man’s second.”

“What if I told you Moriarty had an heir?”

The other man leaned forward in his seat, blue eyes alight. “Son? Or protege?”

“Protege.”

“Must be keeping him very close to his chest. Who is it?”

“John Clay.”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you sure? Clay’s had some dealings with the Firm in the past two years or so, but he seems to prefer working as a loner, and in the short-term. Leading that large of an organization would not be his style.”

“Perhaps not his style as we know it. You know he was just arrested?”

“Yes, I’ve heard about it.”

“He was working a long-term job to steal money from the Bank of France. What was that you were saying about international politics?”

The other man took a minute, puffing on his cigarette in silence. “I think,” he said slowly, “we may have stepped on a hornet’s nest without realizing it. I think it’s time we assembled that team we drew up three years ago.”

Lestrade nodded slowly. “I’ll get on that first thing tomorrow.”

“Good. Things are going to escalate quickly; there’s no chance they won’t. If Clay is Moriarty’s replacement, he won’t give him up without a fight.”

Mycroft Holmes was rarely troubled at work by the domestic goings-on of Scotland Yard; it was typically only when cases took an international turn that he was apprised as to the situation. As soon as Inspector Lestrade had informed him of the arrest of John Clay, Mycroft had been expecting a certain visitor. Once the news hit every single paper in London, he knew that it was only a matter of time.

And, most unfortunately, the Duke of Essex3 did not disappoint.

“This is an outrage, sir! A scandal!”

Mycroft resisted the urge to massage his temples. “Please, sir, do take a seat.”

“I shall not!” The older man’s face was red with indignation. “How dare you sit there so calmly when a member of the royal family at this moment resides within the holding cells of Scotland Yard!”

“With all due respect, sir, your grandson is not, strictly speaking, a member of the royal family.” The older man opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft dared to continue in spite of him. “I understand your feelings, sir, but the simple fact is that Mr. Clay was caught in the act of breaking into a bank with the intent of robbing it of its French gold. I trust you understand the implications of that act. We are in an economic recession.4 However, the City and Suburban Bank was holding its own well enough that the Bank of France entrusted it with a loan, and now, I am receiving messages from the French ambassador that speak of betrayed trust. Our relations with France are now strained. Forgive me if I do not concern myself so much with the current status of your grandson, but the Prime Minister and I are doing our best to clean up the mess he’s made.”

“There must be a mistake—John would never betray his country!”

“Perhaps, but if there is, he had best explain it to the police. I understand that, thus far, he has refused to talk with them.”

“He was waiting for his attorney!”

“As is his right,” Mycroft soothed. “However, he had best clear up any confusion soon; his case may go to the Crown Court next month.”

The old man’s dark eyes widened. “The Crown Court!”

“I’m afraid, sir, there is a strong possibility that your grandson will be indicted under the Treason Felony Act by 1848.”

“Not if I have a say in it. I refuse to allow my grandson to be tried for treason! If you will not act on his behalf, I shall! Good day to you, sir!”

The Duke swept out of the room, and Mycroft sank back in his chair with a sigh. “If I were to act in this affair,” he murmured dryly to the empty air, “I would have your grandson drawn and quartered for the trouble he’s caused.” The next few weeks would be long, indeed.

1 The London Metropolitan Police moved its headquarters from the original Scotland Yard to New Scotland Yard in 1890, specifically December 1890. The CID moved two weeks after the rest of the force.

2 Treason Felony Act of 1848: “If any person whatsoever shall, within the United Kingdom or without, compass, imagine, invent, devise, or intend to deprive or depose our Most Gracious Lady the Queen, from the style, honour, or royal name of the imperial crown of the United Kingdom, or of any other of her Majesty’s dominions and countries, or to levy war against her Majesty, within any part of the United Kingdom, in order by force or constraint to compel her to change her measures or counsels, or in order to put any force or constraint upon or in order to intimidate or overawe both Houses or either House of Parliament, or to move or stir any foreigner or stranger with force to invade the United Kingdom or any other of her Majesty’s dominions or countries under the obeisance of her Majesty, and such compassings, imaginations, inventions, devices, or intentions, or any of them, shall express, utter, or declare, by publishing any printing or writing . . . . . . or by any overt act or deed, every person so offending shall be guilty of felony, and being convicted thereof shall be liable . . . . . . to be transported beyond the seas for the term or his or her natural life . . . . . ." (The treasonous bit relevant to John Clay in bold.)

3 A royal dukedom of Essex has never, to the knowledge of the author, ever existed. Within this story, the Duke of Essex would be a cousin of Victoria Regina, 

4 Need to research this more, as it appears that the very real recession may not have begun until November 1890... and right now, we’re still in October in the story.