#plus size just seems. conciliatory

[padfootastic]

My unpopular opinion is that if Peter weren’t fat and ugly then Sirius/Peter would be an extremely popular and mainstream ship, while Wolfstar would be a rarepair and Prongsfoot would stay as it is now - because i see prongsfoot as a ship for people who love to see Sirius in a healthy and balanced relationship. Wolfstar and Sirius/Peter are/would be for people who love the drama and the emotional turmoil.

dude. DUDE. i fully agree with this. i think a large part of how peter is treated/used/characterised stems from his physicality. it's almost like a woke parallel to jkr's beauty morality politics.

i literally cannot even tell u how often i've been annoyed by the way peter gets treated by the marauder fandom, specifically. because yeah, i get not everyone's gonna like a snivelling rat but--the corner of the fandom that operates purely on fanon and has changed everyone's character? yeah, zero excuses there.

not just the fact that peter often gets zero romantic/sexual attachments (and lets not even talk ab the 'ace/aro hcs bc hes fundamentally unloveable/so ugly no one wants him') even in spaces where's he's redeemed, but even if he's still a bad guy, so what? this is the fandom that's casually redeemed regulus black, barty crouch, all the other assortment of DEs. i dont get why peter's always the one who gets left behind. (i mean,,,,i kinda do,,,but yeah, idk what their rationale is)

and then theres also the peter art oh my god. it just. there's nothing technically wrong with any of it, but the way peter--a canonically fat guy--is drawn (often very infantilised and non-sexually, even wehn everyone around him is thirst trapped up) vs say, lily--who's the hot new 'plus size' rep--who always gets to be slim-thicc, very fkn sexy, and just overall fun. it's just. it icks me out, ykno?

and then the relationships, of fucking course the ship would be more popular, dude. like, its classic enemies to lovers, classic passion and intensity that can fall on either side of the coin. u can play around a lot with it. and honestly, peter & sirius had way more interactions/moments/chemistry than remus/sirius, like that's my unpopular moment right there lmao

overall, yeah, i get what u mean and i second it. fat characters are not written the best bc its often just a facsimile of how irl fat people are treated and we all know how that goes.

[absintheandtextbooks]

Ok so I haven’t posted like a proper potentially controversial deep dive here but I need to say some things about this season of Bridgerton. Before I do here are some qualifiers

1. I am not plus size but I am on the chubby end and wear typically a size large.

2. I come from a long line of people who are plus size

3. I think every comment about Nicola’s weight besides the ones she chose to make without pressure to make them are just simply not our business and pretty shitty

4. I want this to be a discussion this is not a hill I need to die on but I think peoples opinions can change and two things can be true.

Ok here we go buckle up

I was incredibly excited when I saw that the new season of Bridgerton was going to have Polin. It actually is what got me to start watching it in the first place, however I noticed a couple things with “the discourse” happening around the show.

Firstly, people were really excited to see a larger actress as a romantic lead which I agree is fantastic! The second is that these same people were very vocal about the height difference between the two of them. In fact how “tiny” she was in comparison was brought up a lot. I’m sure if this post has stumbled across your page a bunch of those did too.

Like some of the comment pieces on the above Forbes article mention, the media seems to have an allergy to “mixed weight” relationships when the woman is heavier-set or bigger in general than the man. What we talk about less is that height is also a factor. Society doesn’t just want women to be thin, it wasn’t them to be small.

I don’t mean to write about this in a “the tall girl movie from Netflix cringe way” but I think there is a nuanced discussion to be had about how we want women to take up less space and how femininity is tied to being small and delicate.

To me, a 5’ 6” ish queer person I’ve been taller than a lot of girls I’m friends with and a bunch of the men and enby or trans people I know. That, personally, has always made me feel bigger and ganglier and less feminine than the other femme presenting people I’m around. I get automatically stuck in a different category. Gaining weight, however, intensified this feeling. It feels as if I am perceived differently because of the combination of these two factors not just each on their own. Everything around us says it’s ok to be tall if you’re super thin and it’s ok (but less ok than being tall and thin) to be bigger if you’re short and dainty. It feels very conciliatory and condescending like a woman can’t take up space if she wants to be loved.

In Bridgerton, the conversations circling Nicola’s weight and height like vultures prey on this idea. It’s not acceptable just because she’s not sample size and that should be normal but because she’s little next to him even when she’s bigger. She can be a romantic lead because the man they show her to be in a relationship with is still bigger and stronger in different ways.

This also puts pressure on masc presenting people too. They need to be taller and often bigger to be accepted as “masculine or manly” which is its own problem I don’t feel as qualified to write about.

I’m sure this has its own complications for people who are non-binary or trans but I just needed to get this out there because it’s been BUGGING me.

Cheers,

Absinthe

[pedros-mustache]

convenience

summary: he was within arm’s reach. that’s all.

warnings: suggestions of harassment, alcohol consumption, language, innuendo

a/n: no thoughts, frankie morales and his broad shoulders only. poorly edited so forgive any mistakes you find. i’ll go back and fix soon.

you rarely come to the bar alone. tonight is an anomaly.

grabbing drinks after a long work week is more enjoyable with friends by your side, and you frequent this particular watering hole what feels like every friday but can’t be more than twice a month. life is busy for you and what friends remain from your college days. babies and partners and jobs—it keeps everyone running to and fro like chickens with their heads cut off. (for you, of course, it’s just the job that’s got you strung out. no husband, no babies. that shouldn’t matter, but sometimes it does.) still, despite hectic schedules, there’s a standing date a few times a month: friday, eight o’clock, the booth with the cracked-plastic seat coverings in the far right corner.

you like the noisy atmosphere of this place, and it’s easy to lose a few hours while gossiping over cheap margaritas, a whitney houston song thumping over the tinny loudspeakers. the air smells like cigarette smoke—that’s your only qualm—but the drinks are cheap, the food is passable, and it’s a chance to let loose and really enjoy yourself after a five days of business boredom. 

of course, that’s what “the hot bird” is like most of the time. today is different. today is tuesday, it’s six-thirty, and you really shouldn’t be here alone.

you twirl the thin plastic straw around your drink and risk a glance over your shoulder. there’s a guy in your regular booth—red-faced with alcohol, tie loosened, dress shirt two sizes too big. you know he’s staring at you because you can feel his eyes on your back, your hips, your ass; he’s anything but discreet. his stare hurts like a healing sunburn: itchy, uncomfortable, hard to ignore. even from across the bar, his focus is unyielding, and you doubt he’s one to be easily dissuaded, not with the rabble-rousing friends at his booth, jostling drinks and shoulders alike. you imagine he’s biding his time, waiting for you to feel comfortable so he can strike. which is exactly what you need after being passed up for promotion (again): a drunk asshole bent on making your shitty day worse just for the hell of it.

the bartender—josh—says your name and sets a cocktail down on the counter in front of you. “here,” he says. he jerks his chin forward, indicating the back of the room. “it’s from the guy in the back.”

“oh god.” you resist the urge to look over your shoulder again. the muscles in your neck twitch, scream at you to turn and appraise the self-satisfied smirk on this guy’s face, but you hold still. you are nothing if not resolute in your determination to mind your on business, wallow in self pity, and get home without much of a fuss. “what the fuck is this thing?”

josh cringes. “it’s a b-52, our least popular drink.”

“it looks like spilled motor oil and congealed grease had a baby.”

to your right, in the barstool two over from yours, there’s a snort of amusement. your eyes snap to the side, but don’t register the other patron before josh is tapping your wrist. you hold your breath, stomach clenching at the conciliatory look on his face.

“don’t look now. i think he’s coming over.”

“of course he is,” you mutter, dropping your forehead to your palm. fuck, you really do not want to cry right now, but tears prick the corners of your eyes anyway. traitorous bastards. it’s been a long day, and you aren’t sure you have the mental fortitude to tactfully tell some guy to piss off without causing a scene or bursting into a blubbering mess.

“i can tell him—”

a smooth, unflustered voice cuts josh off mid-sentence. “no, let me.” 

a half-filled pint of beer and a plastic basket of fries slide across the counter, and then a man, shoulders broad and trucker cap pulled low, drops to the stool beside you. you gape at him, jaw hanging. the guy from two stools over—eavesdropper.

“unless,” he continues. “you want to tell him to fuck off yourself. i’m sure you can—you look like a capable woman—but i know men and sometimes...” he trails off, but you catch his drift well enough. you know men too, and the men who frequent this bar are often of the seedier variety.

except maybe not this guy... he seems nice enough, willing to lend a hand, and after the day you’ve had, you’ll take any help you can get. plus he’s easy on the eye, and it’s been awhile since anyone with such a handsome face paid you any mind.

you twist slightly in your stool, turning your body to face him. you open your mouth to offer your name, but he beats you to it, sliding his hand over the low, curved back of your stool. his presence—so masculine yet so gentle—crowds you, and you fight the urge to suck in a sharp breath. mouth hovering over your ear, he lowers his voice, and his opposite hand, long fingers splayed outwards, settles on the counter. you’re boxed in, an arm on either side of your body, but, strangely, it feels... good, safe even.

“i’m frankie,” he says. “just follow my lead, and we’ll both be out of your hair in no time.”

you turn your face to meet frankie’s eyes. he’s so near you can feel his breath on your cheeks, could kiss his plush lips if you dared. his smile, small but encouraging, eases the clench in your stomach. your gaze drifts from his warm, brown eyes to the thumb-sized spot on his chin absent the fine layer of scruff otherwise covering his jaw. god, he’s handsome.

“uh—excuse me? i couldn’t help but notice you ignored the drink i sent over.” the man from the back of the room leans against the counter, his gaze tight on your face, elbows poised casually on the bar. his voice belies none of the uncertainty he should probably feel when confronted with your obvious disinterest and frankie’s breadth. “picked my favorite for a sweet thing like you.”

gritting your teeth, you turn your head. “thanks, but i don’t think—” your resolve wavers when the man’s fat lips spread into a grin. shit, he likes this doesn’t he—how uncomfortable you are? he reminds you of richard, the guy who got the promotion you deserve: smarmy and entirely too good at weaseling. your stomach sours.

“you can’t turn me down until you at least take a sip of the thing.” reaching over his chest, the man picks up the cocktail. the three distinct layers jostle in the small shot glass.

perhaps he sees the fine sheen of tears that rush to your eyes or perhaps it’s just to make a point, but frankie’s hand drops to your thigh. the warmth of his palm filters through the mesh of your tights. without thinking, you twine your fingers through his and squeeze. 

“she said no, man.” 

for the first time, your would-be-suitor’s stare slides to focus on frankie. he arches a thin eyebrow. there’s no mistaking the way his chest inflates as frankie straightens his spine. “yeah? and who are you?”

frankie speaks without hesitation. “her boyfriend.” 

the man huffs, incredulous. “well, you didn’t claim her before now so i’m just taking my shot. free pick, ya know? first come first serve.”

frankie slides from the stool to standing. he’s near the same height as the other man, but there’s something about the clench in his jaw and the way his fingers tighten around yours and the way he moves to grip your shoulder than has you leaning into him despite the anger rolling off him in sharp waves. your shoulder pushes against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and you hold your breath.

“say that again and i’ll crack your skull open on the counter.”

the man blinks, stunned, then laughs. it’s a harsh, nervous bark. his eyes flit to the back of the room then return to frankie. “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. what are you? some macho man?” 

“no—retired special forces. i can and i will make your life a living hell if you don’t crawl back into the hole you came from. leave my lady alone.”

“shit.” the man shakes his head before tossing the rejected cocktail down his throat with a cringe. “ain’t fucking worth it anyway.” he slams the glass down on the counter and, heeding frankie’s advice, returns to sulk in the back booth, tail tucked between his legs.

frankie waits until the asshole is sat snug in his booth before returning to his stool. he pops a now-cold fry in his mouth then tags a long swig of his beer. you watch him and decide you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in your entire life. 

“thank you,” you breathe. “i—fuck, i didn’t realize you’d be so... intimidating.” 

frankie shrugs, eats another fry. he avoids your eye. “hate to see you treated like that. least i can do.” 

you hum in approval, tracing the curve of his nose with your gaze. “i got passed up for a promotion today,” you offer. “put me in a real tailspin. i don’t normally go out in the middle of the week.”

fry dangling between his pointer finger and thumb, frankie finally returns his eyes to yours. “i’m sorry to hear that. if it makes you feel any better, i got stood up. i don’t normally go out in the middle of the week either.”

“guess we’re just a couple of losers then.” when frankie’s eyebrow lifts, you visibly cringe. you grab his forearm and squeeze your eyes shut. “no, wait—that’s not what i meant. i meant that... in the grand scheme of things, we aren’t... i mean...” squinting, you risk a peek at him. “shit, i’m sorry.”

after a moment, frankie smiles—and your heart leaps to your throat. he motions to josh at the other end of the bar. “what drink do you like?” he asks. “we can make it a real date, if you want? you know, to keep up appearances.” 

“a real date?”

he nods. “yeah. i’m not big on fate and shit like that, but... well, maybe i’m big on fate tonight.” his eyes roam your face, and you wonder if he’s drinking you in, memorizing your features. unlike before, his stare is kind, appreciative, reverent. your cheeks heat under his gaze, but you don’t look away.

the corner of your mouth pulls into a grin. “okay.” you smile at josh when he appears. “i like mojitos.” 

“really?” at your nod, frankie’s smile widens. “me too.” 

you reach for a fry in his basket. “must be fate then,” you say with a shrug.

“yeah.” his hand falls to your thigh again, squeezing the flesh around your knee. you look from his hand to his face, and anything you once thought shitty about the day turns rosy with possibility. “must be fate.”

.

.

.

taglist:

@ezramando @frannyzooey @spvce-cowboy @writings-of-a-hufflepuff @sofsoftheloaf @salome-c @aphr0d1te5 @anu-simps @softermina @spideysimpossiblegirl @mummifymecaptain @sleep-tight1 @thewayofthemandalorian @greeneyedblondie44 @darthpapi @salome-c @just-another-fangirl-22 @stevie75

if your handle is crossed out, tumblr would not let me tag your blog.

[thiswasinevitableid]

54. I’m not sure what you think I said, but you start calling me an asshole and whip a ruler at me and somehow, we both end up in detention

Indruck, sfw, please?

Here you go! Content note: spiders appear at one point.

I based some of this AU--namely the concept of the Crucible and how magic is channeled--on the Carry On series by Rainbow Rowell. And Duck is trans in this, because any good wizarding school is inclusive.

After three years at Amnesty Academy, Duck is used to the objects being magically propelled through the air. But a ruler zipping through the air and smacking the back of his head is a new, unpleasant experience.

He tracks it to two chairs to his left, the new third year with the silver hair. He hasn’t even been here a day, what the fuck the is his problem?

“Hey, what the hell man?”

“You know very well what.”

“Uh, no I don’t, and I don’t appreciate bein hit with a fuckin ruler!”

“The maybe think before you insult someone next time!”

“I didn’t fuckin insult you! I don’t even know your name!”

“Ahem.” Ned, their Charms professor, looks down at them reproachfully, “gentlemen, while I know the review of Zone of Truth is rather dull, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t entertain yourselves with mindless conflict.”

“Sorry, Ned.” Duck mumbles, sending his pencil shooting below desk level to whack the other guy in the leg at the exact same moment he whips his pen at Duck’s hand.

“OW!”

Ned sighs, “I hate to do this, but-”

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

“Detention! Lovely, my first day here and I’m in trouble. Thank you so much, Duck Newton, for landing us here.”

“You started it!” He growls as they take their seats. God, he hopes this isn’t one of Woodbridge’s days.

“Huh, only two.” Mama wipes her boots on the mat, closes the door behind her, “Afternoon, Duck. And…”

“Indrid.” Says his nemesis, “It is nice to meet you Professor C-” he cocks his head, “you really prefer I call you ‘Mama?’”

“Yep. Never could get behind that more formal stuff. Let some of the first years call me ‘Ms. Mama’ if they really need to feel like they’re showin some deference.”

Mama is deputy Headmistress of Amnesty. The only reason she’s not fully in charge is that she’s not a witch and some families object to that. So The Quell technically runs the school while Mama does most of the actual day to day work. She also teaches a course of non-magic practical skills because, “some things you can’t magic your way out of. Like taxes.”

Duck loves her class and, while he doesn’t understand why someone would opt into this weirdness, he admires the guts it takes as a fifteen year old human to walk into a wizarding school and declare that there was plenty you could learn there even though you couldn’t so much as send a spark from your fingers.

As he and Indrid watch the clock tick down, Mama pulls a bag from her satchel. The contents are cookies, which she offers to each of them.

“Barclay tryin’ out new recipes?”

“Course he is. Kid is gonna be the best damn kitchen witch in the country by the time he graduates. Guess he’s plannin to spend the summer drivin around and learnin the food magic of different regions.” She smiles, “bet you’ll never guess who’s goin’ with him.”

“Joe?”

“Bingo. Apparently he wants to study niche cultural magic.”

Duck’s pretty sure there’s another motive; sharing a van bed with Barclay. It sounds fun, roving the country, discovering new places with someone handsome by your side.

All that’s by his side is a glower hiding behind red glasses.

“Mama? I, ah, would it be possible for me to leave five minutes early? I’m supposed to get my pairing from the Crucible tonight.”

The older woman looks between the two of them, “Better tell me how you landed here first. Ned just said it was an argument.”

“He threw a ruler at me outta nowhere.”

“It was not, you know what you said.”

“The last thing I said before you hit me was ‘“nah, man’ when Billy offered me a pizza roll from his lunch.”

Indrid goes still, “Oh. I, ah, I misheard you. I thought you said 'mothman.' I apologize. I ought to have given you the benefit of the doubt.”

He seems so suddenly downtrodden that Duck shrugs, “Yeah, you should have. But it ain’t the worst thing that’s happened to me here. Not by a long shot.”

“No kiddin” Mama leans back on the desk, “Two of you can go at five til.”

His evening turns uneventful after that; dinner, hanging out with Juno and Aubrey, half doing homework and half fucking around on his phone in his room (the agreement between the school and the government is that a long as the students don’t post vidoes of themselves doing sick stunts with magic, the government will ignore any explosions and/monsters in the vicinity of the school).

He’s never had a roommate; when the Crucible spat out his name in fire on his first day, there was no other name with it. Almost everyone else rooms in pairs or trios. So his belongings are strewn about the tiny cabin that makes up his home away from home. Which is why, when the door creaks open at ten p.m, he sits up and prepares to fire off a spell.

Indrid stands in the doorway, one bag over his shoulder and another in his hand. He looks tired.

“Hello, Duck. Ah, I guess that one is my bed, then.”

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

The class schedules for Amnesty are generated by the heart of the school itself. Indrid isn’t entirely sure what that means, but the heart must not be terribly creative. It stuck him in divination class. He’s been seeing the future since he was five, managing it with his drawings since he was eight. Even the professor has no idea what to do with him, since the images come in like a garbled T.V signal when he uses a crystal ball and the cup shattered when he tried to read tea leaves.

At least Barclay gave him a conciliatory caramel while they swept up the shards. It made him feel a bit better, though whether that’s due to enchantment or Barclay being exceedingly good at cooking is hard to say.

And now he has to go to “Magical Weaponry.” Magical Defense he understands; there are still lots of malicious forces out there, or even just everyday evils that it’s good to be able to ward against. Plus, Vincent is a good professor, enthusiastic and understanding.

Professor Minerva is just as enthusiastic but twice as loud. This is their first day in the actual gym, as opposed to at a blackboard, and his visions suggest it’s going to go poorly for him. As it should; he’s not a fighter, he’s a disaster.

At Amnesty, magic is channeled through objects. Most people use wands or their hands but some, like Aubrey, use jewelry (a necklace from her mother) or another accessory.

Duck Newton uses a sword. Or he’s trying to. The sword seems to be winning.

“Exert your will on him, Duck Newton, he answers to you!”

“I answeeer to only the capable.”

“Shut up, Beacon.” Duck adjusts his grasp, but nothing happens until he drops the sword and sends a spell through his fingers. The target explodes. Indrid suddenly feels a bit better about his own probable performance.

Duck notices him, indicates the practice area next to him is clear. While they started off poorly, his roommate is doing his best to demonstrate southern hospitality. He invites Indrid to eat with him, helps him when his visions offer no help in navigating the grounds, and even lent him a blue and green shirt (Amnesty's colors) for his first Spirit Day. Duck is the best thing to happen to him in his first month here.

By the time class is over, they have six broken targets, a shredded mat, and a knife that is now a very confused frog between them. They manage to laugh about it, even as Duck scoops up the amphibian and tucks him into his shirt pocket.

It’s then that Indrid realizes he has a crush.

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

“You comin to the game tonight?” Juno measures her sapling.

“Assumin nothin comes up and nobody’s tryin to kill me, you know I’ll be there.” He loves cheering Juno on during her soccer games (hey, not everything has to be magic based, even at a wizarding school).

“Drat.”

The hissed frustration draws his attention to the far end of the work table. Indrid is trying to coax his Venus Flytraps to perk up, but they remain brown and limp.

“Need some help?”

“Please, as you clearly know what you’re doing.” Indrid tilts his head towards the sapling pine tree Duck is working on. If he does his growing spells right, he’ll be able to take it home as a Christmas Tree during winter break.

“You tend to picture words or, uh,pictures when you do your spells?”

“Images work best. The trouble is that the futures sometimes make it difficult for me to picture a spell clearly.”

“What if I try describing how I’d see it and you picture what I say?”

“It’s worth a try.” Indrid closes his eyes.

“Okay. Think about the roots drawin water up from the soil, about the traps absorbin nutrients from prey. That brown is goin green as they do, they’re stems are growin stronger…” he grins as the plant turns bright green, it’s mouths open, “hey, ‘Drid, look”

“Oh!” Indrid flaps his hands, “it worked! Now I can keep them healthy and big andohno, nono not again.”

The table cracks and collapses as the plant turns gigantic, blocking out the light from the greenhouse roof.

“Holy fuck, that’s great!”

“Language, sport, but I agree.” Thacker, the head of the magical Horticulture classes, whistles as he looks the plant up and down, “this is mighty impressive Indrid. Wonder if we could use it on some pumpkins come fall…”

“I don’t recommend it, unless you want them to chase people.” Indrid points to one of the heads, which is swaying in the air and lowering closer to him. It snaps and he leaps back, falling to a pile of potting soil. Thacker raises his walking stick and the flytrap returns to its proper size.

Duck helps Indrid up, but his friend stays quiet through the end of class and on the walk back to their room.

“You know it ain’t anythin to be ashamed of, right?” Duck flips on the light, “we all fuck up spells now and then. Hell, Aubrey is on track to be the best spellcaster this school’s ever seen and she still has trouble.”

“But mine go haywire constantly” Indrid flops, dejected, onto his bed, “forget mastering my powers, I’ll be lucky if I graduate able to keep them in check. If I graduate at all.” His hand searches the bed blindly; Duck sets the weighted, plush bat into so Indrid can set it on his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never lasted more than a year at a magical school. Or a non-magical one. I started at Mt Vernon when I was fifteen. Tried Deep Hollow and Shasta the year after that. I’m powerful but I can’t seem to channel it well, and three different schools decided I was more trouble than I was worth.”

“Bullshit.” Duck rests a hand on Indrid’s knee, “you’re strugglin with somethin; that means you need more help, not less. And if anyone gets it into their heads to kick you outta Amnesty, I’ll raise a goddamn ruckus.”

Indrid chuckles, quiet and disbelieving.

“I’m serious. You know Aubrey and them would side with me, and Joe knows school policy well enough he could probably find a reason why them tryin to get rid of you was against the rule.”

“Thank you.” Indrid’s smile is a rare flower, fragile and stunning.

“You want one of those calm-down caramels Barclay made?”

“Please.”

Duck grabs the box from the cabinet of their little kitchenette, then snags a Coke and a pineapple soda from the fridge. Indrid is no longer horizontal, is instead sitting with his back to the wall so Duck has space to join him.

Under the fizz of fresh bubbles, his friend murmurs, ‘“Have people really tried to kill you?”

“Yep. Someone sent an assassin after me my first year, and there was a Dire wolf on the grounds last winter that was clearly locked on to my scent. Perk of bein a Chosen One.” He grumbles as he swigs his drink.

“...Who on earth sends an assassin after a fifteen year old?”

“Right?! Fuck if I know, they never got any information out of the guy. Fuckin prophecy I swear, I didn’t even want these powers, let alone to be some kind of hero.”

“I sympathize.” Indrid rests his head on Duck’s shoulder, “there are prophecies around my birth as well.”

Duck clunks their bottles together, “To bein’ fucked over by stuff we can’t control.”

Indrid drains his soda, then perks up, “Oh! Oh dear, you should go if you want to be there for Juno’s match.”

“Come with me?” Duck can’t get the image of the two of them sharing a giant pretzel while smushed thigh to thigh on the bleachers out of his head.

His friend grins, “Of course.”

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

Duck hoped, after his not-great time in middle school, that a magic academy would be asshole free. But no, there are assholes everywhere, and these ones have even more tools for tormenting their targets. He’s never been one, nor have any of his friends. The one time someone tried to bully Barclay, Dani sicked three spectral hummingbirds on them until they apologized.

Indrid, odd and new, is an easy target, though he seems to hold his own just fine (and his proximity to the most powerful witch in school does scare off many potential antagonists). But three guys in their Magical Defense class have zeroed in on him.

They’re standing in line to practice against an evil eye when Indrid’s glasses, the ones he doesn’t take off even when he sleeps, hit the floor by Duck’s feet. Duck scrambles to grab them before they get stepped on, wondering why everyone is making such a fuss. Then he turns and backs up in alarm.

An eight foot tall moth creature is where Indrid should be, red eyes wide and claws clicking together anxious.

“Who let that thing in here?” Someone yells from behind him.

Indrid’s antenna flatten.

“Fuck, wasn’t expecting him to be that big a freak” one of the bullies scoffs.

Black wings twitch.

“Newton, give him the glasses back so we don’t have to look at him!”

Indrid trills, upset, and leaps into the air at the same moment Aubrey yells, “that’s enough” and Vincent shouts a reminder about no flames in enclosed spaces and also detention for you three. Duck is to busy climbing out the window Indrid flew through to pick up the details.

One two-story fall later, he’s chasing a dark shape into the Monongahela forest. While the parts of the woods near his hometown of Kepler are non-enchanted, this chunk is magic down to the moss (he plans to write his final year project on how those halves of forest mesh on an ecological level). One of the worst aspects of the enchanted portions is their tendency to re-shape around travelers. His usual way around this is to have an unwavering sense of where he’s going and pretend the woods are giving him an unchanging path to get there. But that trick does fuck-all when he doesn’t know his destination.

After two hours of searching he’s no closer to finding Indrid, it’s getting dark, and he’s debating heading back to the school for help. He hasn’t been this deep in the woods since he fled the Dire Wolf, and he knows the deeper you go into the trees, the wilder the magic becomes. Bad news for him, even worse for his friend who's out there somewhere, upset and alone.

Eight gigantic eyes glitter at him from the dirt, and he quickly rearranges who has it worse right now.

Throwing a burst of light into the trapdoor spiders eyes buys him enough time to bolt to a tree and climb. As soon as it crawls free of its burrow he freezes; if he’s remembering right, they use vibrations to locate prey.

Fuck, that thing is the size of a VW Beatle. Why is that even a thing? No spider needs to be this big!

In spite of his stillness, it spies him and sets its forelimbs on the tree-trunk. There’s nothing else for it; he draws Beacon, pictures the spider shrinking, and casts his spell.

A soft crunch of leaves signals it hitting the ground, now an unremarkable size for an arachnid. Just as he steps down a branch, a second trap door opens and an enraged spider bursts out, looking for it’s friend. When it can’t find it, it turns and snaps its mandibles at Duck. This time, Beacon does nothing, no matter how Duck commands and curses as his eight-legged doom gets closer.

A crackle of electricity and then this spider disappears as well. On the other side of the trunk, red eyes regard him with worry, “are you hurt?”

“Nah, all in one piece thanks to you.” He holds out his hand, “you wanna head back?”

“Yes, please.” Indrid flaps to the ground, Duck following him on foot and then turning them towards campus, “you did not need to come look for me.”

“Course I did, not gonna let my friend get swallowed up by the forest. Oh, here” he holds out the red glasses, “you want these back?”

“Not just yet. That is, if this form is not too alarming to you.”

Duck takes in the glossy feathers, the charming ruff, the way the face is still obviously Indrid yet excitingly new, “I’m good.”

Light flickers from black claws, stars and flowers spinning out with ease, “It’s so much easier when I’m like this. I never foresaw my disguise charm being an issue, but the older I’ve gotten the more it seems to influence my ability to control my spells. But, well, you saw how people reacted. Even you were startled.”

“In my defense, I thought you’d been eaten by, well, you.” Duck casts the same spell, vines of light chasing the red flowers, “I’m still sorry, though. You ain’t horrible like this, ‘Drid; you’re fuckin stunnin. Never seen anyone as incredible as you.”

Indrid stops, looking down at him, “Do you truly mean that?”

Duck rises on his toes, pecking his cheek, “Yeah, I do.”

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

The Halloween Formal is the most elaborate event at Amnesty. Indrid feels that if there’s any day he’s within his rights to be in his true form, it’s when everyone else is dressed as monsters.

He doesn’t have a date. He thought Duck was in the same predicament. Then his friend left before he was half-done grooming his feathers, saying he needed to get flowers for his hot date.

Ah well. At least Indrid will get to see him there and spend some time with his friends.

He checks his reflection in the gleaming black walls, orange and purple lights glowing and jack’o lanterns floating above his head. He adjusts his robes, the nice red ones his father sent him, and prepares to enter the ballroom.

“Hold up.”

When he turns, Duck is standing there in his black dress shirt and green tie, looking for all the world like he’s alone.

“You got one more thing to put on” He holds out a bracelet of flowers, sized to slip perfectly over Indrid’s hand. There are matching flowers pinned to one side of Duck’s hair.

“Oh. Oh my. You really-”

Duck uses a small spell to bend Indrid into a kiss; it’s a bit messy, since their mouths aren’t meant to fit together, but Indrid would not trade it for all the magic in the world.

“Yeah, ‘Drid, I really do.” With that, Duck offers his elbow and they walk arm in arm into the great hall.

[ineffably-good]

Changes (2/3)

Summary: In which a small, pet snake is determined to be faking his death, an angel's sleep is rudely disrupted, and Frederick makes peace with what he now knows about Crowley. 

Chapter one is here

..............................

Chapter 2

“What’s wrong with him?” Aziraphale shrieked as Frederick went limp in his hands. “Did he faint? Did he have a heart attack? Oh, Crowley, is he dead?”

Crowley shifted back to human form, shaking his head clear from the unpleasantly quick transition, and knelt over to peer at the motionless snake. He picked him up and laid him on the coffee table where he could take a closer look. The angel, near hysterics, snapped and called down a beam of heavenly light to illuminate the snake more clearly.

“No, I don’t think so,” the demon said after a moment. “He looks dead, but I feel like he’s breathing.”

“We broke him! We are the worst pet parents ever!” Aziraphale sobbed, clearly beginning to panic. His breath got faster and faster and he began to look unusually, frighteningly pale.

“Angel!” Crowley growled, putting some demonic anger into his voice in order to firmly get Aziraphale’s attention. He took an insistent hold of his shoulders and kept his voice forceful. “Calm. Down. You are NOT going to faint on me, are you? Because so help me, if you leave me with two unconscious drama queens, I am NOT going to handle it well!”

It had the desired effect, he noted – Aziraphale looked startled, then embarrassed, and then attempted to settle down a little. He didn’t seem to trust himself to speak, but instead waved his hand in a sorry-please-go-ahead fashion and stared at Frederick, clearly trying to still his wobbling lower lip.

“We did <i>not</i> break him,” Crowley said consolingly, laying a hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “I think he’s just being a little dramatic.”

Aziraphale frowned for a moment. “You mean…”

“Some snakes play dead when they face a big, overwhelming threat,” Crowley said. “Makes predators think they’ve been poisoned or something, so they won’t eat them. In this case, makes their owners feel bad. Either way, it’s a win for the snake.”

Aziraphale took a deep and calming breath and looked at Frederick consideringly. “He’s just scared,” he breathed, wonderingly. “I think I read about that in one of the snake books…”

“Fred, my friend,” Crowley cooed softly. “I’m <i>not</i> going to eat you. Also, I know damn well you’re not dead.”

Frederick resolutely ignored them both and continued to do his best corpse impression.

“He won’t,” Aziraphale confirmed helpfully, “eat you, that is. I promise. He barely eats anything.”

Crowley rolled his eyes at this super helpful interjection.

Read the rest on AO3 or continue by clicking below!

“I wouldn’t eat you even if I <i>did</i> eat. It’s just that when I was made, I was made a serpent in form, and something else on the inside” Crowley said. “Actually, I’m THE serpent. The first one in all the world.” He touched Frederick gently on his belly scales and petted him. “You were made in my image, so to speak.”

Frederick moved a tiny fraction of an inch.

“Think of me as your big brother,” Crowley said. “At least, when I’m in that form. We can--” he scrambled for words, “--hang out. Do snake things.”

Aziraphale gave him a dubious look. Really? Hang out?

Crowley mimed a shrug. What? I’m trying.

Frederick lifted his head a half centimeter before flopping back down with his best dramatic shiver, but he snuck an appraising look at Crowley as he did so.

“Oh, you melodramatic, manipulative little noodle,” Aziraphale said in intense relief, picking him up and holding him to his chest. “You’re fine. You know no one here is going to eat you.”

Frederick sighed and slithered a tongue out, tentatively.

I MIGHT FEEL BETTER IF SOMEONE WOULD GIVE ME A MOUSICLE, he thought.

Crowley again frowned for a moment, then shook his head and hopped up to his feet. He headed back to the kitchen. “Let’s give him a mouse and let him take it out on something smaller than him. He just needs time to think it over.”

Frederick hissed in relief as they placed him back in his cage and began to work on swallowing his treat. At least he was bigger than <i>one</i> creature in this strange place.

 ..

<i>Do I have wings?</i> Frederick thought later that night. That would certainly even the playing field a little bit. If the huge snake had wings some of the time, he didn’t see why he shouldn’t be able to manifest some too. He curled up and concentrated as powerfully as he could, wriggling his back a little bit, and tried his hardest to make some big, black and red wings unfold out of his back. To his disappointment, nothing happened. No pop, no poof, no whoomph of air.

He curled around and investigated his back. Just scales. Scales from tip to tail.

Apparently, he thought disconcertedly, the fluffy one could be fluffy or could be a bird, the pointy one could be his usual pointy self or a bird <i>or</i> a snake, which just seemed a little excessive and show-off-y now that he thought about it, and he, well he was just – just a small, black snake with no special powers.

This hardly seemed fair.

He settled down to sulk about it until morning.

 **

Crowley laid in bed that night unable to drift off. He turned to Aziraphale, who had gotten rather noticeably better at this sleeping thing all of a sudden, and reached over to gently fluff his pillow. Then he fluffed it a little harder. Then, when that failed to work, he pulled it out from underneath the angel entirely.

“Wha-?” said Aziraphale, coming to rather quickly.

“Oh?” Crowley said, the picture of innocence. “You’re up? Oh good.”

Aziraphale frowned at him, not fooled in the least. “You needed something?” he said flatly.

“I was just wondering,” Crowley said, aware that he was about to sound a little crazy, “if you ever get the feeling that Frederick is trying to tell you something.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Well certainly, my dear. He communicates quite well with his coils and his posture and the state of his fangs and all the various noises and facial expressions he makes –”

“No, no,” Crowley said, “that’s not what I mean at all. I mean, I feel like he’s actually talking to me sometimes.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said firmly, “you’ve been watching too much Harry Potter. Go to sleep. There’s no such thing as parseltongue.”

Crowley swatted Aziraphale’s arm semi-gently. “Very funny. But I’m serious. I’m starting to hear words sometimes when he looks at me.”

“Such as?”

“Well, today I had the strongest sensation that someone said ‘oh for fuck’s sake’ when you first told him I needed to show him something.”

Aziraphale made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a laugh. “You must be imagining it! Besides, Frederick wouldn’t curse.”

Crowley fixed Aziraphale with a flat, disbelieving look. “Have you <i>met</i> him?”

“All right, point conceded,” the angel said. “He is rather a grump. But honestly, is that possible?”

“I’m not sure,” Crowley said. “But it happened a couple times today.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley into a loose hug. “We can experiment tomorrow and see. For now, will you please just go to sleep?”

Crowley let himself be lulled into the night, at least for a while.

++

Crowley woke up early the next morning – well early for a demon, which was near lunch time for most of the rest of London. Nonetheless, it was early enough to feel almost virtuous, a thought that made him consider diving back under the covers for another hour or two. He managed to fight it off. He slithered into his clothes and headed down the stairs to see what mischief he could cause.

Aziraphale was out, to his chagrin, but had left a note on the desk that he was attending to some business in Notting Hill and would be back after lunch. Crowley, with nothing better to do, pulled an armchair over into a sunny spot. He then gathered up Frederick’s reed basket, in which he was currently snoring, and sat down with the basket in his lap.

“Oi, snake,” he said softly, “wake up.”

Frederick roused himself with a hiss of surprise and then looked up at Crowley with a bit of alarm in his eyes. Sure, he was person-sized right now, but would he stay that way? He still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what he thought about all of this. His emotions were at war between worried and impressed, between fearful and intensely jealous. He stared at Crowley and kept his mind blank, flickering his tongue out nonchalantly to cover for his nerves.

Crowley leaned down and fixed him with a gaze. “We okay, then, buddy? Still friends?”

Frederick took a long moment to consider the pros and cons of various answers to that question. If he refused to be okay with Crowley, he’d probably get lots of extra attention from the fluffy one for a while. It would be lovely to be coddled and pampered and overindulged for a few weeks. Plus, it was always enjoyable to lord it over the pointy guy when <i>he</i> was the one being petted and fussed over by Aziraphale. That was tempting, to be sure.

However, if he made peace, he could gain the unique opportunity to hang out with a really, REALLY big snake. And, given certain assurances that no one was going to be eating anyone else, that could be pretty interesting. He could learn some things he didn’t know right now, like how to better bring down the next bird he tussled with, and what to do about the fact that his scales itched sometimes, and what it meant to be venomous versus poisonous. (Was he either? Frederick had no idea, so he blithely assumed he was both.) Plus, the pointy one obviously had some magical powers, after all, and who knew if he couldn’t fulfill Frederick’s fondest wish, if he so chose – for wings of his own? It was possible.  

Frederick steeled himself to act nicely for a moment. He uncoiled to the top rim of the basket, made eye contact with Crowley, and booped his hand with his forehead in a conciliatory manner.

“All right, Frederick, good decision!” Crowley said, looking pleased. “Because you and I have a <i>lot</i> to talk about.”

++

When Aziraphale came home two hours later, he was startled to find not one but two snakes in his bookshop, curled up together by the right-hand shop window, angled exactly right to bring the sun directly down onto them, bathing their scales in a soft, golden glow. Crowley was pooled up in various loops on the armchair with a few hanging off of it down to the ground, and curled up in the midst of the pile was Frederick, happily snoring away with his head coiled over part of Crowley’s back and his eyes gently unfocused.

“Well I see you two made up,” Aziraphale said wryly, just to cover the way that his heart was almost bursting at the sight.

Crowley-the-snake focused his gaze on him and hissed quietly. “S-s-s-s-sh,” he said. “He’s s-s-s-s-s-leeping.”

“I can see that,” Aziraphale said, fondly. “You two are adorable.”

“Not adorable. We’re s-s-s-snakes.”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale said, “we’re going to have to disagree on that one.”

He leaned down and laid a kiss on the top of Crowley’s coils, cast one more fond look at his little Frederick happily snoring away with his new friend, and went off to put his things away.

“No pictures-s-s-s-s,” Crowley called after him. “I mean it.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Aziraphale replied airly, with absolutely no intention of adhering to that particular edict. This was, of course, too good to miss. He just needed to wait until they both settled back down again.

Whole work (and a lot more, including Frederick’s origin story, available on AO3!

[assenavlp]

V’s Hot Takes - 5

Another Sunday. Another week in lockdown as the third wave commences because impatient f*cking people keep trying to rush through this process. So another day for me to piss and moan about things that don't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. ;) It's a tough, thankless job, but someone's gotta do it. I guess.

That's right, A$$holes, it's time for another installment of 🔥V's Hot Takes🔥™!

#5 Holy Sourdough, Batman!

Okay, I don't want to waste anyone's time, so I'm just gonna come right out and say it. No prevaricating about the bush, as Wallace would say before tucking into some fine Wensleydale cheese. No stalling for time, drawing people further and further in...Where was I? Oh, yeah...okay. Here it is:

The current trend for grossly exaggerated holes in sourdough bread is simply bad bread-making bullsh*t, popularized only through privilege. Boom.

  Bread. Since the dawn of civilization, the milling of grains and the baking of bread has provided the basic sustenance of life. 

What do corrupt leaders provide their deprived masses when they want to keep them happy/distracted/apathetic? Bread and circuses! 

What is classically the least prisoners are fed? Bread and water. 

Bread is hearty and filling. Bread is "the staff of life". 

When we peasants can't afford to eat anything, at least there's bread. 

Such an important thing is bread, that being able to buy it pre-sliced is still synonymous with being the best one can be. 

But with that automation came, too, the decline of bread. In North America, in particular, we lost our taste for good, hearty foodstuffs, favouring instead highly-processed, bleached, light and squishy, air-filled breads (and cakes, for that matter). Cheaper, and quicker to produce, and less nutritious (despite so-called enrichment), but all the better to feed the working classes.

Now don't get me wrong...I love that stuff, too. A classic grilled cheese made with Wonder Bread and Kraft Singles; there are few finer nostalgic comfort foods. I'm no damned food snob as far as that and a lot of other things go. But it's not snobbery to acknowledge that no matter how tasty, mass-produced bread that is readily squished into a compact, heavy ball is not quality foodstuffs. 

Despite its ubiquity, though, smaller baking companies continued to bake traditional breads; hearty, dense sourdoughs; rye breads, pumpernickels, and so on. Eventually, smaller-still bakeries started producing niche items, and that horrible word "artisanal" was introduced, and a whole world of bready elitism was born. 

And then the pandemic came. And people who had never baked bread before decided now was the time. (Which is awesome! Seriously. I'm not being facetious, for once. Ha!)

And then the yeast disappeared, along with the toilet paper.

So then there was sourdough. Everywhere. 

And yeah...I was a sourdough newbie, too. Getting the starter down was a bit of a process. I won't lie. But my previous experience with commercial-yeast bread-making held me in good stead, so once I got that down, I was pumping out quality loaves in no time. I prefer to knead by hand, and I was achieving a delicious, tightly crumbed loaf with little to no big air holes...one of the cardinal sins, from over-proofing and/or not punching the dough down enough, in between stages. Some breads have a more open crumb, which I have absolutely nothing against, but that's not what I was after. If I was making a nice French baguette, I'd want an open crumb.

After some time I thought it might be fun to seek out other sourdough bakers, newbies and otherwise, and see what they were up to, and to share and show off my own loaves. In fairly short order I realised there were two sharply-divided camps. A small, quiet, tight-crumb camp; people I can only assume, who are familiar with old skool bread. And then, not just an open-crumb camp, but this odd sort of very enthusiastic, extreme-lacy-crumb-plus-giant-"ears" camp. I found it baffling. So eager to avoid any sort of density in their bakes. And I don't  mean gumminess or other signs of poor proofing or uneven baking. Simply, bready size queens trying to out-do one another. And when they want something "for sandwiches", they revert to some sort of fluffy milk bread. 

I grew up eating sourdoughs and ryes and not one of them ever had a giant phallic ridge extending off the top of it. In fact, one of my first loaves had had a corner sticking up, and I was quick to think back at how I might have scored it so that I might prevent such an error the next time! Ha! Little did I know.

Nor were there any holes. Well, maybe the odd little one here and there. But no giant holes. Let alone a series of holes comprising the entire f*cking loaf. But now there were people oohing and ahhing these giant holes. These things I had always known to be signs of poor preparation. And yes, I know these holes are different than the tunnels in otherwise even bread, that even they seem to know are bad form.

Awhile back, I made the cartoon, below, as a commentary on this phenomenon. Of course it was an exaggeration. Or so I thought. A satirical response. But it wasn't long before I realised, like most satire these days, it seems; I didn't take it far enough. My drawing was even closer to the absurd reality than I might have dared imagine. 

I'm sorry, but the staff of life is not built on long, glutinous strands of f*cking air.

 Mmmm, let's dine on connective tissue. 

They may look cool and all on your Instagram, but holes do not feed the masses. It seems that may be the point.

March 28, 2021 

Somehow I didn’t go far enough:

Exactly! Though they're still a little too conciliatory, IMHO. ;-) :

Mmmmmm, strandy air:

At least they can tell this ain't right:

[laurenewhitlow-blog]

South Korea Head Of State Winner Moon Promises To Unify Hurt Country.

SEOUL julietblog-gymexcercises.info (News Agency) - Lavish public servant Moon Jae-in emphatically succeeded South Korea's presidential political election on Tuesday, television systems proclaimed, an assumed victory finishing virtually a years from traditional policy and also bringing a much more conciliatory approach toward North Korea. It is always fantastic to find out just how other peoples as well as lifestyles perceived the moon over the years. Lifeware Solutions provides Moon Period Apps to discover moon effect on our lifestyle. LIttle gastropods (curled layers unharmed) can be an excellent locate along with bumps and swirls from shade, including the Common nutmeg, moon snail and cowrie. Throughout any kind of such eclipse, takes place at absolute best merely in a close tract on the surface from the Sunshine that is actually determined by the activities from the Moon and Planet. Pair of even more white colored as well as dark plus sized Heathen handfasting dress are listed below for those that really feel that the colour code matches them completely. Close to these items is a water container, emblematic from the sun (yang) and also a bowl, representing the moon (yin). I aim to maintain my crystals and jewels left open to the sunshine and moon on a continuous base. Then along with Moon in Libra our emphasis changes in the direction of the people, pals, companions or loved ones in our lifestyle. I adore the remarkable shade (and scent) from the blue moon increased, I'm unsure about a 'true blue' rose, that does not seem to be pretty ideal. The moon beamed vibrantly, and also the white pebbles which lay in front of your house glimmered like real silver money. Moon in Sagittarius - If moon is actually useful at that point indigenous can possess a tough build however if Moon is weak in astrology at that point native could have to suffer from liver and nerves conditions. The moment in a blue moon reaching a higher score, there is no factor in going out and also scoring operates in thirties and forties and also. The add-ons that can be worn along with the Jackie moon costume are even sold individually. A Taurus Moon sign pertains to the moon in an individual's horoscope and also are going to define the mental party from their individual. Unfortunately, the wind fully died near the AGC buoy, Full Moon coasting to a cease among a substantial set of boats going no place. Additionally, if she or he looks at eco-friendly and white colored lightings, (the right wingtip as well as rear), the aviator is checking out the ideal edge of the aircraft, which is traveling from the aviator's delegated the captain's right. For your eyes, grab a set from significantly well-liked white calls to make your eyes resemble those from other villainous beasts of the evening. Stopwatches are actually more correct as well as will definitely provide you a lot more reliable details for potential moon photography shoots.

[kitsunegamer]

Conversation in a Lantern-Lit Tomb

Aster steps forward in front of the group as he addresses the man. “What’s your name?”

“I am Percy,” the pale figure whispers.

“Are you the blacksmith’s son?”

“Yes, my father is a blacksmith,” Percy trails off, clearly confused as to why this should have any bearing on the situation.

“We came here at your father’s request - to find you - among other reasons,” Aster explains. Percy begins to step out from behind the tomb that shelters him. He’s not in the best of shape. I can see several long cuts and gashes along his arms and across his chest. On one of his fingers, though, glints the twin of the ring in Bearington’s pouch. I say nothing, but start pulling out bandages from my bag.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Aster reassures him. “Consider us something of a ‘rescue party.’”

“I tried to leave,” Percy says quietly. “I was blocked off by goblins, so I just kept running the other way until I ended up here.”

“There aren’t any more goblins down here. We took care of them.”

“No,” Percy says fervently, passion born of terror coming into his eyes. “There is something else here too. I can’t describe it. It’s a monstrosity. It… commands them,” he trails off, the fire leaving him all at once.

“What exactly is ‘it’?” Aster asks patiently.

“I don’t… I can’t… it’s… large. I’ve seen dire rats before, but this is the size of your riding bear over there.”

“That’s not a riding bear, that’s Bearington,” Darwin corrects.

“Oh, your companion then,” Percy amends.

Bearington puffs up his chest, offended to have been mistaken for a mount. “I am a member of the party. I am the strongest of the party!” Percy cowers a bit at the display. “Plus, I can talk! Given that fact, I don’t think they’d be willing to ride me.”

“Apologies,” Percy croaks, choked by fear. “I didn’t mean…”

Aster places a conciliatory hand on Bearington’s shoulder. “If we run into whatever this thing is, we’ll take care of it. In the meantime, I promise we’re going to get you out of here.”

Percy’s eyes shine with gratitude, on the verge of tears it seems. “You mean we can leave now?”

“Well, not quite yet,” Aster prevaricates. “We do have to take care of investigating the source of this vine problem. If possible, we’ll fix the problem. That’s the other reason we came down here.”

As Percy’s face falls in disappointment, I step forward with the bandages and salves. “Will you let me dress your wounds, Percy?”

I clean and bandage Percy’s wounds as Aster and the others discuss a plan of action. They convince Percy to stay with us instead of risking the trip to the surface alone and unaided. After all, there was that second entrance to the Underdark in the dungeon. There might be more goblins filtering into the citadel.

When I finish the bandaging, Darwin helps Percy back to his feet and hands him back his broadsword. Bearington silently offers him a second weapon, but Percy shakes his head. “I will serve just fine using the sword that my father has passed to me. It is the only weapon I have knowledge of.” Bearington shrugs and sheathes the extra knife.

We turn toward the deep purple light radiating from the darkness and step forward, hoping we are prepared for whatever we are about to face.