#rip value village hastings

[sungkist]

August 2022 pt 8.

[brent-sunborn]

Shadow Savior

(( Follows The Attempt / Co-written with @kidcatgemini​ ))

“This how y’ thought y’d be fucked t’night, lass?”

Syrielle had no time to react. Hardly any time to blink! She moved to bring her hands up to try and block the blow, but one of them was held down. The other came up much to slow, as Alteris brought the jagged piece of glass down. She screamed!

But rather than the sharp pain she anticipated, she felt Alteris pull away from her entirely! She sat up quickly, and saw why. Another elf had come up behind Alteris and pulled him back off of her! The two grappled a moment, before Alteris was thrown - behind the counter, into a large cabinet of fine porcelain dinnerware. Plates, bowls, teacups and shelves all shattered, coming crashing down atop the would-be assassin! 

Syrielle gasped, and looked to the other elf. Gattius? No. Another Void Elf. Dark leathers, long hair… familiar blacksteel daggers and a plated face mask…

Alteris brought his legs back up beneath him quickly, seeming stunned! He narrowed his gaze at the other ren’dorei, seeming just as shocked as Syrielle to see him here! It didn’t last long. The elf lunged for Alteris, slamming him back into the shattered cabinet with one hand, and stabbing him without a moment’s hesitation with the other. Alteris let out half a gasp, unable to breathe for the moment… before his body disappeared in a plume of shadow. The other elf grunted, gripping his side with his free hand as Alteris vacated it. He braced, tensing as if he had expected the random jolt of pain to shoot through him as Alteris’ body vanished from sight. It was over… Alteris was gone. And the other elf turned his narrowed gaze to Syrielle. 

The Cryomancer was frozen with fear, recognizing Brent Sunborn as he turned his deadly gaze towards her. This was the first she’d seen him in his ren’dorei form, much more threatening than his Sin’dorei one had been. Last time she’d seen him, he’d abducted and delivered her into Tharinel’s hands; an event that left her well traumatized. 

Panic set in and her mind went blank. Pupils dilated and her pulse increased as adrenaline flooded her system. She wasn’t even thinking about Alteris or what had happened to him. All she could concentrate on was getting away. She scrambled off the counter, but let out a pained cry. Her bare feet landed in the mess of whiskey and shards of glass now covering the floor thanks to Alteris’ improvised murder weapon. Pain shot up her legs as the shards implanted deeply. Worse yet, she slipped as she tried to move forward, landing hard on her hip.

Tear filled eyes looked up as the threatening figure brought a knee down in front of her. She couldn’t find her voice to scream or cast a spell, so frozen by fear she was at the sight of him. 

“Relax.” he said, tone curt - irritated. “I’m not here for you.”

His ebon-steel dagger slipped silently back into its sheath at his hip, reinforcing his claim. With a bit of a light scoff, Brent took hold of Syrielle’s foot and began to pluck shards of glass from it. His gaze parted from hers, instead intent on the task at hand. He would’ve preferred not having to deal with her at all; collateral was always so messy. But at the same time, he couldn’t let Alteris kill her. Despite having delivered her into such dangers before… things had changed. 

Nepen’thea had still cared for this one, after all.

So instead of silencing another witness, the Ghostblade set to helping her out. At least, enough so she wouldn’t bleed out all over the floor in her pathetic panicked state. The larger chunks were removed easily enough, and the smaller ones hadn’t set in too deep. He ripped at the hem of her nightie to retrieve a length suitable enough for a bandage - so paralyzed in fear, she did little to oppose him. Fear… or perhaps confusion, at this point. He didn’t seem concerned either way.

“He’s not dead yet.” he informed her - because revealing that the elf who had just tried to kill her was still out there seemed like a smart thing to say to the fear-struck cryromancer. “But he’s far from here. Trapped. He’ll be dead soon enough.”

The makeshift bandaged tied tight and snug at her foot, before Brent stood. Halfway. He still hovered over Syrielle, offering her a hand up from the floor. Brow still knit in agitation, he waved a few fingers quickly at her, beckoning her to make haste.

“Get up.”

By now, Syrielle seemed to have regained some basic functions. She blinked up at him in confusion. What was he doing here? Why had he saved her? Why would he care to help her at all? Was this a trick?

Still, her hand took his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She winced as she put pressure on her damaged feet, but the makeshift bandages made it at least possible for her to stand upright.

“Wh-what’s going on?” She finally managed to find her voice, small as it was, “Why are you helping me?”

“--I’m not helping you.” he snapped back, almost defensively.

He eyed the Cryromancer, gaze lingering as he turned. She seemed okay… now, at least she wasn’t sniveling and flopping about. He sighed slowly as he stepped away from her; it was the least threatening thing he could think to do, at this point. Instead, Brent looked over the shattered porcelain and shelves that broke during the brief altercation. He gotten Alteris out of hiding, now he only had to get back and finish the job.

“... Not intentionally, anyway.” he elaborated. “Came to kill Alteris. He just… happened to try to kill you, too. Almost let him, honestly.”

He shrugged, glancing back to Syrielle.

“But Thea liked you for some reason.”

Alteris had mentioned pissing some people off when he’d requested to lay low. Obviously, he’d lied about not being traced back to the Starfrost manor. He’d also conveniently forgot to mention that Brent Sunborn was one of the people hunting him. Syrielle’s hands balled into fists as she realized the dangers Alteris had purposely put them in. Gattius has trusted him, so Syrielle had trusted him as well.

And once again, trust nearly got her killed.

Her ears flicked, and perked up as a Brent made mention of Nepen’thea. The Cryomancer had wondered for some time if she’d survived the Void explosion as well. Now she knew that she had.

—but then, why was Sunborn speaking of her in past tense? Her ears lowered at the implications.

“...liked?” She repeated, hoping she was reading that wrong.

Brent was quiet for a moment - but the silence spoke volumes to confirm it. He looked once more to the cabinet, where his quarry was last seen. Subtly, he tilted his chin up in that direction, as if to motion to it. To point it out.

"Her killer." he practically whispered, though pain and anger both rang through loudly in his words. "She'll be avenged."

Syrielle’s ears wilted and she leaned back against the counter. She closed her eyes and lowered her head. Nepen’thea had been an enemy of the Phoenix Guard… a cultist playing with ancient dark forces. Surely, her death was a good thing for Azeroth, but Syrielle only felt sorrow at her passing. She remembered the beautiful, friendly elf that helped her get her bearings when she’d first arrived in Dalaran. Her best friend and lover. What had happened for her to turn onto such a dark path? Could Syrielle have somehow done something to stop it had she noticed her friend slipping away? Had she been too wrapped up in her studies to notice the signs?

And Alteris… anger flared. She’d allowed him into her relationship, into her home. And he repaid her by attempting to end her life. The selfish fool clearly didn’t care for anyone except himself.

She took in a deep breath, swallowing down the lump in her throat as she looked up at Brent. She gave him a nod. She had no doubt that he could get the job done.

“Thank you.”

“Hmph. I’m not doing this for you.” Brent replied, coldly. “I’m just running down Thea’s killer. Don’t get it twisted.”

The Ghostblade exhaled sharply out of his nose, a scoff stifled by his metallic mask. He really would’ve preferred not to have to interact with anyone at all during all this. But if it had to be someone… someone Nepen’thea valued was probably the best he’d get. He shook his head, before looking to Syrielle once again.

“Don’t forget about her. I know what you meant to her. Even after Suncrown Village…” he trailed off, letting the pause linger for a moment. “She never bore you ill intent. Your friends, sure, but not you. And… she had nothing to do with when I…”

Another pause - he knew she remembered that well enough. It was true, though; Nepen’thea had nothing to do with the deal Brent had made with Tharinel. He wanted to make sure Syrielle knew that. It was a sobering realization that, of any other living being on Azeroth, this weepy, dorky, Cryromancer was probably the only other person Nepen’thea truly loved.

“... Just don’t forget her. Because once we start forgetting her… that’s when she’s gone for good.”

He fidgeted, uncomfortable with the vulnerability that hung over him. But it had to be said.

“I know I, of all people, don’t have a right to ask anything of you. But if you really wanna thank me for this…”

He nodded once. More than enough words had been spoken. Far more than he’d planned to say to anyone at all tonight. 

“I could never forget her,” Syrielle shook her head, “Never.”

She brought a hand up to wipe at the tears. She couldn’t quite hold them back. Knowing Nepen’thea was truly gone now. Knowing she had nothing to do with Syrielle’s capture and torture. Answers to questions that had kept her awake over the past year and a half. There was closure now. Relief.

Now, she could truly mourn the loss.

“Stab him a few extra times for me, yeah?”

It seemed like a good place to end the conversation. With a final nod, Brent stepped into the shadows… and out of sight.

(( @nepenthea​ for mention ))

~*~

[btgalaxy]

Berlin (m)

masterlist

» a/n: there’s literally not a fluff thing even remotely about this fic, and from now on every friday we will be updating with new stuff! - admin lottie

» genre: angst

» word count: 6.9k

warnings (for this and upcoming parts): assault, drugs/alcohol use, violence/gore, profanity. this is purely fictional and not intended to reflect the members’ true personalities. otherwise enjoy!

Part 1:

The smell of cigarette butts danced in the air in wanton puffs of smoke, reaching the blue-pink of your lips grotesquely quick. You drained your glass of brandy with unrelenting haste, delving into a fantasy of old-time Berlin, with your feet on the table and liquor burning like ashes in your throat. You’d arrived but four days prior to your retreat to the sombre tavern in Lichtenberg, the feeling of youthful excitement still fresh on your fingertips, now tracing the outline of a German proverb carved with a knife into the table top: "Nur die Harten kommen in den Garten."

You were naïve. You didn’t believe in the atrocities that could take place over 96 hours and how mercilessly fast the pace of city life is. You came from a small, everyone-knows-everyone kinda village, and never experienced the bitter cold that bit at your skin when not hidden by your cushty fireplace and friendly farmer next-door. The realities of demise and decease and other such perturbation were concealed from you for years and years, under the segregation of country life. You didn’t know how a person could leave you feeling empty and worthless. You didn’t know the haze of marijuana could send you into a spiralling attack of anxiety and terror and pure hysteria. You didn’t know that the blood drained from a corpse to the lowest body part and pooled there till it stained the skin only a few hours after the death, and you didn’t know that the foul, rotting smell could linger on your clothes and your flesh and around the house for days afterwards, no matter how fervently you may wash yourself, skin raw and bleeding. You didn’t know it clung to you like moss on a damp wall. You didn’t know any of this.

It was drugs you were first exposed to, the pungent green smell invading you from the bench of a run down bus stop by Brandenburg Flughafen, foreign to you and so incredibly exciting. You’d never even seen any popular narcotic, bar on the tv shows you watched on your phone down in the local café in a corner booth away from any wandering eyes — your mother hired a technician when you were in your pre-teens to censor any ‘explicit’ or ‘inappropriate’ broadcastings, and the whole town of 267 knew of your credulity and innocence, thus seemed to have a silent agreement not to allow you to experience anything ‘harmful’.  You had to hide to try and experience things; it’s no wonder you left for a scene of sex, partying and amphetamines.

“You smoke?” A voice rasped from beside you, sucking in a breath through his teeth after choking out another huff of the joint.

You barely flickered your eyes to look at him, so far out of your comfort zone you could barely form a coherent sentence. He looked brazen, with luminous mint hair and hooded eyes, drained of life beneath the tendrils of smoke scorching through his nostrils like handmade clouds. Between his fingers was the thing you were most scared of, there, right in front of you. It was finally real, finally happening. There was no friend of your parents to switch the channel or take away the book or suggest you research a different subject, he was there, in front of you, real, happening.

“Sure.” It tumbled from your mouth before you could consider any further, hand effortlessly lunging slowly forwards to pry the smoke from his hands, and you held it between your thumb and your forefinger, as if you’d done it a million times before.

You remembered the first time you discovered drugs exist — Pulp Fiction, you believed it was. Mia Wallace inhaling some white substance up her nose? You couldn’t fathom at the time that someone would react that way to a powder. It intrigued you, beyond belief. Then at school in year 10, that assembly where you were taught of all the gruesome effects drugs can impose on your organs, and all the side effects they could have. You know how when you’re forbidden from something, when you’re constantly instructed not to do something… you know how it makes you oh so more desperate to do that very thing? That feeling was stirring inside of you.

The blunt felt scary in your hands, scarier than you imagined. It was strange the way it rolled down to the crease of your knuckles so easily, the sound of the rolling paper ruffling slightly and resonating through you in a chorus of anticipation. It came even easier to your lips, closing them around the filter and gently sucking in for a few seconds.

You ripped it from your mouth and began coughing violently.

It was like it was burning down your throat, your voice deepening as you tried to cope with the feeling of it coating your oesophagus like hot wax being poured generously into your mouth, gliding down your tongue and plugging your windpipe. It didn’t ease up for at least a minute, gunk rising up into your jaw relentlessly, and you spat it out in desperation to rid yourself of the scorching it brought.

“So you don’t smoke then?” The man smirked, retrieving his joint back from your curled digits and holding it back between his own lips. He took a stainless-steel lighter out of his pocket, engraved with the acronym MYG on it, relighting the end and promptly puffing out again, the smoke tapering into the air to form other strange shapes.

“I wanted to try,” you choked, finally regaining the ability to speak with a still coarse throat.

He tilted his head slightly, “Why you in Berlin?”

His question unnerved you. You didn’t answer. You instead burrowed through your hand luggage for the scarce remains of a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and letting the meagre sips trickle onto your tongue to offer some brief soothing to your dizzying head.

He laughed, “You run away from home or somethin’? You don’t look like the typical Berliner.”

“I didn’t run. I left,” you exhaled, wetting your lower lip with your tongue, eyes fluttering shut, breath heavy.

He laughed, again, “That’s what they all say.”

Looking back on your first meeting with Min Yoongi, you didn’t ever really like him. It wasn’t that you were scared of him — well, you were a bit scared, but even after everything you felt the same way. You didn’t like the way he spoke, and you didn’t like how he acted like some nonchalant, borderline careless druggie with no real feelings or emotions. He was an effortless liar, and you valued honesty. He could be condescending and cruel and manipulative. He wasn’t someone anyone should trust.

He sat next to you on the bus. You didn’t ask him to, but he did. He didn’t speak to you, just sat there smoking his joint till it burnt out and he rolled another. God, he made it look so easy. Like it didn’t singe the pink flesh in his cheeks, or like he couldn’t feel the way it thrusted down him into his lungs, just waiting there, or how it drove into his brain and made him high as hell. He would’ve certainly excelled in a career of acting, with that beautiful façade he employed. He pretended he felt nothing. Later, you would find that was not the case.

You were travelling to Kreuzberg. Apparently, there were lots of cheap hostels there to put you up during a measly financial situation, popular to other youths that went to Berlin with little to no money. It was the perfect way to blend, to be the typical traveller that was relatable and approachable. You wanted to make new friends, meet new people. You thought Min Yoongi might be your first, at the time, and perhaps he was, perhaps you did consider him your first friend.  You glanced fleetingly over at his side profile, admiring the way he grit his jaw and the curved slope of his nose. He was handsome.

You never had a boyfriend back at home. You had friends that were boys, sure, but they were shy and most were strictly catholic and didn’t want to risk any undue temptations. You especially, because you hemmed your skirt a couple of inches higher than the rest of the girls at your school — a scandal at the time, you were labelled as a slut for at least a week which speaks a lot of the town’s standards. When the headmistress did her rounds at the end of the week, she made all the girls kneel to ensure their skirts reached the floor. Yours didn’t, and the subtle scarring left on your hand from the thin cane certified you were to carry on hemming all your skirts till the teachers gave up. You liked a thrill like that, you liked being able to defy those condemning rules that society set. It felt freeing.

Kreuzberg wasn’t what you expected, as you gazed out the tinged window onto the paved roads, onto the buildings painted with colossal street arts; a worthy canvas of such mighty works. You briefly wondered how they managed to paint a few stories high, slathering colour onto the otherwise miserable red bricks, but you supposed that could be a good conversation starter for later. Instead, you tried to digest everything you were seeing; the people sat in cafés smoking, photographers on the street, backpackers, young people, old people, tourists, natives. Some you couldn’t identify if they were actually native Berliners or not, and others you could.

You got off at a stop in the heart of the city, and Yoongi followed. Of course, you didn’t know his name at the time, you only knew that he smoked and knew that you didn’t. You strode over to a nearby map of the tramlines to find a decent hostel.

“They’ll all be booked, y’know?” He commented, sighing as he finally put out his cigarette without pulling out another, “It’s summer in Berlin. It’s packed with people like you.”

You ignored him, unwilling to accept that was the case. You couldn’t book anything prior to your trip; it was all a bit last minute. You’d just decided you couldn’t stay it that damned town any moment longer, so booked a flight, packed a bag and there you were at the heart of Berlin, the city of new starts. Of your new start.

“I know a place you could stay,” he remarked, piquing your interest, “I gotta friend down by the Spree. He’ll put you up if you’re nice to him.”

You grazed your teeth over your lower lip in contemplation, conflicted with feeling like that was cheating, like you weren’t really doing it for yourself. You didn’t want other people to still be controlling you, like at home.

“I don’t even know your name,” you quipped, making eye contact briefly before diverting them away, finding yourself struggling to look him in the eye for longer than a few seconds.

He pulled his lighter from his pocket, pointing to each letter as he spoke, “Min Yoon-Gi.” He sounded out each syllable with an amused glint in his eye, and you thought it was strange the way he became suddenly much seemingly friendlier.

“I’m Y/N,” you responded, glancing around awkwardly. You didn’t like that introduction. You felt uncomfortable.

“He lives by the bridge.”

You really were so naïve. You allowed a man who’d given you a joint at a dodgy bus stop to take you to his friend’s place to stay for a few nights, and you barely questioned it. God, you couldn’t have imagined what kind of a hell hole it really was. But at the same time it was exciting, it was new. It was everything you’d never experienced and craved like a captive desperately labouring for an escape. So you got on a tram to the river with Min Yoongi, and you followed him to a worn down terrace house on a street corner, both thrilled and terrified; you’d never felt more exhilarated.

The bricks were dark crimson, stained with mould and the rotting pieces crumbled away like ashes. It was lifeless and cold, and it felt as though it had been lived in over a thousand years and seen a hundred deaths. There was a bra hanging out one of the windows, and the other was smashed and covered with a strip of cardboard that had a picture of a blender on it. Yoongi ambled down the front path like it wasn’t the most harrowing place you’d ever seen, like it didn’t tell you to go back and find a hostel, or even as far as to travel back home and live your life the way it was. But that’s what made you follow him.

His knuckle rapped against the ivy oak as green paint chippings fell to the doormat that had an image of a cannabis leaf in the centre, with cigarette butts smothered into the bristles as well. He kept knocking, till a man with silvery hair pulled back the door.

“Fuckin’ stop, I was tryna roll, you prick,” he spat in Yoongi’s face as he spoke bitterly, immediately stalking off back down the corridor towards an archway.

Yoongi trudged inside with his shoes on, “I’ll find Jimin.”

You thought Jimin sounded like a nice name. Like someone happy and energetic; you thought you could make another friend.

The interior of the house was nothing less than expected; barren of any decoration or paintings or even some basic household items. It felt so vacant, like the people that lived there never really lived there — perhaps that’s because they were never really living. Everyone in that household was dead from the moment you got there, and maybe that’s why you don’t feel sick at the thought of what you did, rather just that it happened. And it was done and a part of history that couldn’t be changed.

You followed Min Yoongi to the kitchen, piled with dirty dishes and cutlery, empty packaging strewn across the cheap surfaces and abandoned beer bottles on the table. It smelt like weed, and the silver-haired man that opened the door to you sat on one of the counters with a filter amid his teeth, pinching the rolling paper between his thumb and index to bring it into a skilful turn.

“Where’s Jimin?” Yoongi asked, pulling back the off-white refrigerator door to take out a beer as you hovered uncomfortably in the doorway. It’s a horrid feeling, standing in a stranger’s house in a strange city with a strange person you’ve only just met. You felt like you were in a movie.

The man nodded his head in the direction of upstairs, focusing his gaze still on the tobacco in his hands.

“Stay here,” Yoongi ordered, making you grimace as his figure stalked back past you into the corridor.

You looked back at silver-hair, sliding the filter into the tip of the roll. Honestly, he didn’t look like a smoker. But then, what would you know of what smokers looked like? He muttered a curse when he patted his empty pockets, looking back at you.

“Got a lighter?” He inquired, and for a second you were taken aback.

You told him, “No. I don’t smoke.”  He groaned at you, jumping down off the counter and began rummaging through all the drawers. You could see inside they were all filled with junk, spilling out onto the floor as the man whipped each one out and left it open as he went onto the next. Your parents would’ve hated someone like him in their house. They used to lock you in your room without food or water until it was immaculate, and only then were you permitted to eat. You remember you tried to defy them once, refuse to do it, but after six hours in the blazing heat of summer and no water you were beginning to feel dizzy from the dehydration and submitted to their order.

He found a lighter on the table under a newspaper. You didn’t expect anyone in that house to pay attention to the news, let alone buy a paper. He leant against the counter and lit the end of the fag, putting the lighter down with a sigh.

“How’d you know Suga?” Silver-hair asked, head lulling back to breathe up towards the ceiling.

“Suga?”

“Yoongi.”

You remained uneasy beneath the doorframe, “He told me he knew a place I could stay.”

“You wanna stay here?” He laughed all of a sudden, holding the lit cigarette unnervingly close to the wooden counter.

“I’m Y/N,” you announced, pursing your lips.

“V.”

“V?”

“Or Taehyung. Whichever.” It fell quiet between you both again, and you enjoyed the brief escape.

He trudged over to the table to shake the beer bottles, seeking one with a little liquid left inside, “You drink?”

You shrugged. You’d never drank before. The teachers at school told you drinking was a temptation that brought about sinful consequences that would never be suitable for young girls like you. Drinking was limited to a sip of wine during Mass and should not otherwise be pursued. You didn’t really like the taste anyway, but you were curious what drunk felt like, what such sinful intoxication felt like. It at least sounded dramatic.

Silver-haired Taehyung found a fuller bottle, bringing it up to his mouth to take a sip before smacking his lips together and passing it to you. You retrieved it cautiously, sloshing about the stuff inside before having a taste yourself. You discerned a yeasty and bitter flavour, but you continued to drink. It was better than smoking.

“You speak German?”

“Not really, no.”

“But you wanna live in Berlin?”

“You speak English.”

“You think you’re gonna be hangin’ around with me?” He laughed, making your face flush with embarrassment, and perhaps a little of the beer now stirring in your stomach. You took another long gulp.

“You look like a nun.”

You didn’t own any revealing or fancy clothes. Your parents wouldn’t even let you wear jeans for a few years, deeming them improper. It’s one of the things that had seem to stuck with you; your apathetic attitude towards your own attire. You’d just learned not to care, so a baggy, waffle-knit jumper and black trousers was just something you put on to leave the house, really. Something that covered you up and your parents weren’t going to question as you left them.

“How long you gonna be stayin’ here?” He quizzed, taking another long drag.

You shuffled awkwardly, “Only a few days I think. As soon as I can find someplace else, and some work.”

A voice resonated from behind you.

“You can stay here as long as you like, babygirl.”

The first thing you thought was: Park Jimin was short. Shorter than your average thug. But a thug nonetheless.

His hair flamed orange like a fox and his teeth were slightly stained. And the tattoos were everywhere; inscriptions across his bare chest; Aztecan patterns looping around his arms; playing cards littered across his shoulders; a tiny diamond inked just beneath his left eye. He wore black sweatpants that hung low on his hips to reveal a tiny trail of hair and small looped earrings in his lobes. He scared you from the second you met.

Although short, he still had a good few inches on you. And a hell of a lot more muscle. You immediately felt an anxiety begin to consume you.

He sauntered towards you with his crotch forwards as you looked at him, coming to place his hands on your waist. He seemed to look you up and down with an insatiable look, or maybe it was amusement, you couldn’t tell. It was a fierce gaze, that you naturally desired to squirm away from as he pressed himself closer to you, lips curling up into a smirk.

“Babygirl, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” His Cheshire grin reached his eyes, crinkling up at the corners, “You wanna stay here wi’ me, huh?” One hand crawled to your arm, tracing his fingertips up and down the skin making you shiver.

You swallowed, “I don’t have anywhere to stay.” Your voice wobbled uncontrollably, as did your entire being in his predatory arms.

“That’s no problem at all,” he pulled the hand from your arm and up to your chin to bring your face towards his, “No problem at all.” You screwed your eyes shut and held your head as close to your chest as possible as he pressed a kiss to your lips, uncomfortably softly to make you quake. You wanted to scream in his face for him to get away from you.

He pulled back, chuckling, “I think you’ll get along just fine here, babygirl.”

He and Taehyung left promptly after that without so much as a second word to neither you nor Yoongi, only leaving you with his musky scent in the air and phantom touch on your lips. You were glad he was gone.

The floor of your room was carpeted, but you didn’t want to take off your shoes due to the questionable stains that were sprinkled across it. You had a bunk bed, but Yoongi told you nobody would come in to share without warning, and there was a chest of drawers with a Yoda Bong on it, just sitting there, staring at you. You had an en-suite too; the bottom of the bath was stained yellow and the toilet had no seat, blackened with mould around the rim. The sink was clean enough in comparison.

You swallowed, lifting up the duvet of the bottom bunk to peer underneath, eternally grateful that it seemed rather untouched.

“Nobody really used this room,” Yoongi told you, arms folded across his chest, “Nobody wants a bunk bed.”

“I don’t mind,” you countered, plonking your backpack and hand luggage onto the floor beside the bed. “And he’s not going to make me pay?”

“He has parties most nights anyway, so it’ll be noisy. You won’t be able to get much sleep,” he admitted nonchalantly, turning to pick up the bong on the side.

You sat down on the edge of the mattress, the springs inside prominent and digging into your behind. You’d not expected much when you left, but you had hoped for something better than that. There was no cushioning, nor did it resemble in any way the duck feather mattress you slept on at home. It was entirely new.

You pushed your mouth to the side awkwardly as Yoongi lingered, “Do you stay here too?” Your meagre attempt at small talk seemed to be enough of an invitation for him to come and sit next to you on the bed.

“I crash with Tae most of the time,” he said, slumping down beside you and falling onto his elbows as he gazed onto your back.

You could feel the way he stared.

You turned to look at him, “How do you know Jimin?”

“Everyone knows Jimin,” he said, with his shooting eyes still unwavering, but now focused on your chest, “He and I- we have a mutual agreement.”

“Agreement?”

“You a virgin?” Your eyes widened at Yoongi’s curt interrogation, blunt and outright, making you feel embarrassed enough to squirm away, swallowing back the discomfort with crimson cheeks. He laughed, loudly, unbelievably amused with your mortification.

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” his chuckling faded out into a piercing look, and you felt it burn on the side of your face and in your peripheral, “Are you scared?”

“No.” Yes, you were, actually.

“You’re sure?” He leant forwards to sit upright, a smirk pinching the corners of his lips as his hand landed on the outside of your thigh, moving inwards.

You turned to look at him, now somewhat adamant with whatever the hell you thought your intentions were, “I’m not scared.”

He licked his lips, before he leaned in to kiss you. He tasted like the beer you’d just been drinking, and he was quickly laying you onto your back and pressing on top of you into the springs of the bed before you could protest.

There was a brief few seconds where you didn’t realise your eyes were open, watching Yoongi’s head rock back and forth as his tongue delved into your mouth, but then you squeezed them tightly shut, trying to follow with his pace. It was fast and intense, and you could barely keep up when your lips began to dry out.

Moments later and the reality of what could happen suddenly hit you, and you shoved him off of you with all the force you could muster. The back of his head hit the wall with an ominous thud. You wanted new, but you didn’t want whatever this was.

With one hand now holding the back of his head, his eyes immediately snapped up to look at you, blazing with fury, “The fuck?”

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered, breathing heavily, “I couldn’t.”

You could see his nostrils flaring slightly. For a moment you were really scared. Like really scared. Of what he might do.

Thankfully, he shuffled to the end of the bed, readjusting the crotch of his trousers slightly.

“Whatever,” he grunted, “Shit kisser anyway.”

It reminded you of your first kiss with a boy on holiday. You met him on a cruise ship. His name was Tom. You were both 14 and he said you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. You swooned instantly- rather charismatic for a spotty teenage boy. He kissed you on the last day, and he said he would keep in touch. But, of course, he didn’t. Maybe if he had things might’ve been different.

As Yoongi left the room, you heard him grumble, “Fuckin’ virgins.”

“Mornin’, babygirl,” Jimin sang as he strolled into the kitchen, entirely bare except for his skin-tight grey briefs, outlining his crotch. He came over and kissed you uncomfortably slowly on the cheek, then sauntered over to the fridge to take out a beer. It seemed all they did was drink and smoke. But that was what you’d left your home for. You wanted these experiences. Didn’t you?

“Good sleep?” He asked, perching against the counter with his Cheshire grin.

You swallowed a mouthful of Honey Cheerios you were surprised to find in a cupboard beneath the sink, “I slept well.” You didn’t try to continue the conversation, you didn’t want to.

He did anyway.

“You gonna go sightseeing today or some other shit you religious girls like to do? Go to a fuckin’ church or some shit?” He’d seen the crucifix necklace you wore and was a million times more intrigued by you; and by intrigued you mean humoured.

“I wanted to go to the town and eat Bratwurst.” It was the first to-do on your agenda. Your parents were vegetarians, so you only ate meat when alone with your friends or other relatives — quite frankly, not very often at all.

He nodded, “I assume you need a tourguide, babygirl?”

You froze for a moment, before slowly tracing your lower lip, “I don’t- I think I-“

“We already have plans,” Yoongi interrupted you, buttoning up his plaid shirt as he ambled carelessly into the kitchen. Jimin glanced at you, looking thoroughly entertained, before returning to watch Yoongi, taking another gulp of his beer.

“Suga, I gotta job for you later.”

“I left my wallet upstairs,” Yoongi ignored him, jogging off till you heard his footsteps on the stairs.

Jimin sniggered from the side, watching you with his slanted eyes taking another mouthful of cereal. He loved to look at you, watch you. It was like you were his own personal form of entertainment, and he couldn’t get enough. You weren’t like the usual travellers that came through him, usually aggressive or a druggie or an alcoholic or- or just anyone considered some kind of a delinquent. But, God, you were pure. You were naïve. You were untouched. You offered something different to his usual girls, something new.

Suddenly, he was behind you, hovering above your shoulders.

“I saw him go into your room last night, babygirl,” his hands slithered malevolently down your biceps, skin rising into goosebumps at his touch.

He began to whisper in your ear, “Did you like it when he fucked you?”

“He didn’t,” you insisted, frozen in place staring down at your bowl of cereal.

He hummed, amused, “Babygirl, don’t lie to me. I’m not a man you lie to.”

“I swear,” you gulped, the fear beginning to churn in your stomach.

He nudged closer, his hand slinking down further and onto your waist, but as he inched closer you snapped your hand down to stop his arm, even surprising yourself.

There was a second where he just scowled at your hand, attempting to cease his advances, but then he violently ripped his arm back, yanking you up by the chin to bring you close enough you could hear the way his teeth grit in his jaw, dirty breath wafting up your nostrils and you had to repress the gag biting at your throat.

“Babygirl, if I can’t have somethin’, nobody can,” he snarled out, shoving your face to the side and leaning in to clamp his lips over your throat where he sucked the skin red and raw, as you held your lips tightly shut and tried to repress any tears.

Crybaby. They’d called you crybaby. When you were about ten you suddenly lost the ability to hold back your tears. At films, books, being scolded, being praised — even over things that had nothing even remotely to do with you. You’d cry. And you were inconsolable for hours. So all the kids at school started to call you crybaby. Then, when you were about sixteen you suddenly found a new emotion inside you — a stronger one — anger. So whenever you wanted to cry, you’d get angry. Anger didn’t need tears, anger needed a scream into the pillow and a punch to the wall and it was enough. Everything was channelled into this unrelenting fury towards your parents, your school, your friends. Even the word crybaby was enough to set you off. When you wanted to cry, you’d become angry instead. So as Jimin sucked a deep magenta bruise into your flesh you clenched your fists and you squeezed your eyes shut; angry.

He retreated seconds later, still grimacing as he took his thumb starkly across the raging bruise, “Don’t fuck anyone in my house.”

It’s a shame your anger didn’t fuel your confidence. You nodded meekly in response, fists still quietly clenching as he stalked out of the room, leaving you emptily.

“I’m not paying for you,” Yoongi announced, waiting behind you in the street stall line as you held your hair next to your neck, attempting to conceal the large, unwarranted bite.

“I have money,” you countered, nervously tightening your lips as you took another step closer.

You didn’t know why he even offered to go out with you. He was miserable.

“You seriously wanted to come all the way here for a fuckin’ sausage?” He groaned, pulling a cigarette box from his pocket and fumbling to open it before resting one between his teeth.

You cowered slightly, “I wanted to try it.”

“Such a cliché,” he mumbled, fag still between his lips as he patted his jeans in search for something.

“Shit, I didn’t bring my lighter.” He wrenched the small pipe from his lips, “Get your damn sausage, I’ll be in Maysie’s.” You didn’t know what that was, but you still nodded as if you did.  

You didn’t like the Bratwurst. You thought it tasted too… too meaty. And it was a bit spicy too.

Maysie’s was a bar that was open 24 hours and filled with mainly young people sat around circular tables drinking. There wasn’t a bouncer, and IDs weren’t checked. Yoongi was sat with a girl with a pixie cut and a bald man with sad eyebrows.

You approached them wearily.

“Yoongi…,” you murmured, in a futile attempt to pry his attention away from the bong that sat breezily on the table, as if it were the most normal thing.

He coughed a bit as he pulled his lips away from the tube, covering a hand over his chest with his chin lowered slightly as he fought the rising phlegm, “Sit.” You sat on a chair next to the girl, and it felt comfortable to be next to her. At least, more comfortable than you had been since you arrived.

“This is Y/N,” Yoongi remarked uninterestedly, immediately bringing his attention back to the pot on the table.

The girl offered her hand, “TK, and this is Sadly.” She gestured to the bald man with the slanted eyebrows.

Sadly. What an apt name for his features.

You shook back, “Do you live in Berlin?”

“Only as of recently. Sadly’s a native,” she smiled warmly, “You come here to get away from your parents?”

“To get away from my life.” You returned her smile, liking the way she spoke to you.

She shook her head understandingly, “I get it.”

You spent the day with your two new friends and it couldn’t have been more exciting. You went to Checkpoint Charlie and the art gallery then sat and ate pretzels by the Spree. You drank black coffee and they offered you a smoke, which you politely declined. You felt you could with them, they didn’t pressure, and you weren’t scared. Yoongi moped nearly the whole time, and you felt angry that he kept trying to ruin the day and cut short your time with them.

Sadly taught you some German, predominantly the phrases “Kann ich das kaufen?” and “Ich hasse Pferde”. You didn’t really know what the second one meant.

The two of them shared a house together, and they lived in Lichtenberg. They’d only come for the day to visit Checkpoint Charlie and buy some drugs off of Yoongi. It was at this point you understood why his nickname was ‘Suga’. You didn’t think he looked much like a drug dealer — he didn’t have any tattoos.

“I heard Jimin’s having a party later,” TK said, biting off a chunk of her bread.

“He always does,” Yoongi responded, curt and dismissive as you’d only ever seen him be.

“I imagine Y/N’s invited, with that big-ass hickey on her neck,” TK laughed, and your hands automatically split to your neck, covering the bruised side. You’d forgotten.

“At first I thought Suga had done it, but Jimin’s far more likely to have,” she carried on, and you couldn’t look anywhere except for your lap. You noticed that Yoongi stayed quiet, and you couldn’t decipher what it meant. What any of anything meant. If he liked you, if he didn’t, what happened yesterday. You just didn’t know.

The air was so clogged it was suffocating. You dizzily made your way through the people crowded in the kitchen towards the cupboard with the cereal, aka the only food you knew was safe to eat in that house, and tried to shove your way back through the sweaty bodies when Jimin spotted your retreating form.

“Babygirl!” He laughed, happily.

He trotted over to you with his Cheshire grin, “Babygirl, I haven’t seen you since this morning.” He smiled, pushing your hair off your shoulder to admire your bruising.

He leaned into you, “Won’t you join us for a drink?”

His breath smelt like whiskey this time, like an old man. He sneered at you, burying into the crook between your neck and shoulder.

“I’m quite tired,” you responded, subtly turning away from him.

Unexpectedly, he nodded his head, pursing his lips slightly, “Course’ you are. Had long day, huh?” He ran his tongue slyly over his lips, eyes unconcernedly wandering to your chest, peaking out a bit from your vest if you peered over at the right angle. Which, of course, he did.

“It was,” you exhaled, “I’ll go to bed.”

“I might see you later, then.” God, you hoped you wouldn’t. You nodded docilely.

In bed, you couldn’t shut your eyes for longer than ten seconds in fear that drunk Jimin would stalk in and pin you to the mattress when you weren’t looking. He’d already been drinking, and only God knew what he became when he was drunk.

You wriggled and switched positions infinitely, but sleep never came. Instead just the writhing urge to pee, which you attempted to suppress in fear of the bacteria on the loo, but your bladder was about to burst. You knew you’d never fall to sleep needing to go this bad, so you eventually succumbed and got up to your feet from the bunk.

As you approached the en-suite, the sound of soft moaning resonated. Soft moaning and quiet grunts from behind the door. You could only hear it muffled, so you pressed your ear gently to the wood. It was squelching and slapping and other vulgar noises that vibrated through your eardrums like a coffee mill. You let out an uncomfortable breath.

The scream that pierced through the air was all instinctive. The door had opened to reveal Taehyung holding a woman on the sink with her legs high and parted, and himself situated between them, pounding into her turbulently. Of course, they immediately stopped and began frantically covering themselves as you looked on, frozen.

“Fuckin’- fuckin’- Y/N get the fuck out!” Taehyung roared, but your feet remained planted on the ground, as if vines had wrapped around your legs and held you to the floor, immobile. The pair were fervently picking up the strewn articles of clothing as footsteps approached behind you.

“What- what is-“ Jimin’s voice ceased when he pulled the door back further to see into the bathroom, with Tae and the stranger now relatively covered.

His chuckle rang like poison, “Babygirl, you scared me.”

“She fuckin’ scared us!” Taehyung shrieked, eyes wide and nostrils flared. He looked livid.

Jimin simply laughed again, “She’s a baby, V. Don’t yell.” You wanted to be sick. You thought you might be.

As the two of them sprinted past you and out of the room, Jimin smiled, “I think you need that drink, huh? How ‘bout that?” His voice was mocking and you felt like a child, but you still agreed. You were too shaken to do anything else.

He guided you downstairs to the lounge, with battered blue sofas and a coffee table with a lamp and nothing else, except for the people sat on the floor passing round a joint. He made them move aside so you could sit near the door, and you didn’t want to look at the brunette beside you, guzzling down vodka like water.

“Babygirl, you ever smoked?” Yoongi chuckled from the other side of the room at that, looking darkly amused. Jimin squinted his eyes back, making the diamond tattoo on his cheek crinkle.

“How about a brandy first?” There was a plastic cup on the table which he passed to you, with burnt orange liquid sloshing about inside. He smirked a bit as he ushered it to your lips, and you instinctively held his wrist as he tilted it upwards, pouring a generous gulp into your mouth.

Why did everything burn?

You struggled to swallow it, and as soon as you did you were gagging embarrassingly. The small crowd laughed at your straining, face contorting with disgust. Your grandfather loved a glass of brandy at Christmas, and he always considered it a treat, so you’d expected it to be sweet and warm, as he’d described to you as a child. You thought it tasted like perfume you’d sprayed the wrong way.

“Good girl,” Jimin coaxed the cup back to your lips to make you finish the rest of it as you continued to gag and nearly spit it up. It came as a relief to see the liquid was finished when he pulled it away, entertained as if you were a showcase.

“Babygirl, you really are somethin’, eh?” He smirked, “Now, hows about a smoke?”

He taught you the way to do it. He said: inhale for three, hold for three, then exhale. You still weren’t very good at it, but you felt it this time. You felt the lethargy hit you hard enough that your head began lulling side to side, back and forth uncontrollably as the group fell into laughter at your disorientation.

“There we are,” Jimin cooed, before turning to look at Yoongi with a satisfied grin, “Suga, what do you mean she can’t smoke?”

Yoongi grunted, “It’s all an act. She isn’t a virgin anyway.”

You straightened up your head with significant struggle as Jimin responded, “She isn’t?” He looked you up and down with a frown, as if not being a virgin made you worth less.

“She fucked me yesterday.”

“No I didn’t,” you denied, shaking your head slowly, eyes squinted in your drunken haze.

“Don’t lie, Y/N. Jimin doesn’t like it.”

“I don’t lie.”

“You’re a fuckin’ slut, Y/N. Stop playing the virgin.”

You couldn’t find the anger in you to prevent it, the tears. The fucking endless tears that just streamed from your eyes relentlessly and unstoppably. They were all laughing. All the strangers laughing at you as Jimin frowned and you felt scared; so so scared, and you didn’t want to breathe or be seen, you wanted to hide and cry. You wanted to cry and be away from there.

You left, jaggedly and disturbed.

[hollowedrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, LINDSEY! — You’ve been accepted for the role of Arthur Weasley. I’m so happy to have an Arthur again so soon. He’s extremely important for some upcoming plots, and you do him such justice. I loved the way you write his relationship with Molly, and I can’t wait to see Arthur on the dash. 

Thank you so much for applying. Please create your account and send in the link, track the right tags, and follow everyone on the follow list. Welcome to Hollowed Souls!

ooc.

name: lindsey

age: 24

preferred pronouns: she/her

timezone: cst

activity: to be honest, i’m not completely sure. i graduated from college (LITERALLY!) yesterday. lol so i can say that i will probably be extremely active as i have a ridiculous amount of time on my hands all of the sudden

how do you feel about your character dying?: i’m fine with it as long as i’m not getting the boot! although i would absolutely love to see molly’s return/discover that she’s actually dead before that point

anything else?: my graduation trip starts tomorrow and i will be gone until the 14th, but emily referred me here and i wanted to apply for arthur before he got snatched up! i can be around on mobile in the evenings until i return, and am happy to. i hope this doesn’t hinder my acceptance at all, but of course i completely understand if it does. if you need to, you can wait to make the decision until the 14th. thank you for understanding either way!

ic details.

full name: Arthur William Weasley

He admired his father from afar, struggling his whole life to feel heard and valued when his tongue always seemed to feel thick and twisted in his mouth. Their relationship was never perfect, but when Arthur had his first son, it seemed natural to pass down the name that was also his.

date of birth: 6 February, 1952

It had been snowing the day Arthur was born. He knew this because in the haste to get his wife to the hospital, William Weasley left their house without shoes on his feet. “Almost lost a toe, I did.” It was a story he grew up hearing, met in later life with eye rolls and sighs of irritation. It wasn’t until he experienced his pregnant wife going into labor in the middle of the night himself that he empathized with the panic he knew all too well.

former hogwarts house: Gryffindor.

Until he met Molly Prewett, Arthur would tell you it never completely made sense to him - why he was sorted into Gryffindor. He couldn’t get words out under the slightest amount of pressure, why would anyone think he could Roar with the Lions? Perhaps it was a sort of Grandfather Clause. He did, in fact, come from an exceedingly long line of Gryffindors. Did the Sorting Hat take pity on him and place him where his parents could finally feel some pride in their only son? Maybe. But then the day came that he tried to voice this fact and the response he got was instant. She came through a crowd like a bolt of lightning (shoving a few innocent bystanders to get to him) and looked up into his face with a look of angered determination. She told him he didn’t have to be loud to be brave. He pointed out the truth that she was quite noisy, herself. To this, Molly Prewett broke out in a grin that (though maybe a tad dramatic) Arthur would swear changed the course of his life indefinitely, and called him funny. And bold. Bold to call her, the argumentative eleven year old than she was, noisy. “See,” she’d said. “A Gryffindor.”

sexuality: straight, but with a jealous admiration for his sex.

gender/pronouns: cisgendered male, he/him

face claim change: no change! Sam Claflin is a lil peach.

more.

how do you interpret this character’s personality? how will you play them? include two weaknesses & two strengths.

Arthur is a quiet man with many thoughts, but few words. His intellect says nothing of his verbiage and though he doesn’t say much, his eyes tell all. There is a slight wonder that had he not been cursed with an abnormal tongue, he might not have had such telling looks. It is just that, however, a mere curiosity for he has no lasting desire to change who he is. Despite his earlier insecurities, he has come to accept himself for all his faults.

The true Gryffindor in Arthur Weasley came to light when he became a father in a world ravaged by war. He wanted to fight for his children, the woman he loves - the family that never questions his worth but sees him as wholly better than he could ever see himself. Everything clicked into place the first time he found himself face-to-face with someone who knew him from their days in school, someone who knew the jibes that would hurt him, and that he had a wife and children back home. He couldn’t place them behind the mask, but they knew his youngest son’s name. “Charlie, was it?” And something in Arthur snapped. He hadn’t realized just how protective he was of the things he considered precious until that moment, but it made perfect sense. What good is a father if he’s not willing to kill or be killed for his loved ones?

Part of the consuming love Arthur has for his family comes from the love he never really had for himself. In his youth, he didn’t care about it. He never focused on self-loathing, but neither did he see any good within himself. That is, as it always is, until Molly came blazing into his life, cementing her position to his left side. When he discovered that she reciprocated his love for her, he admired her all the more. How could she? But she was the smartest person he had ever met, so he wouldn’t dare question it - lest she realize she could do so much better than little old him.

The worry is consuming. He spends his entire day thinking. The gears in his brain churn faster than they ever have, taking his soul and ripping it to pieces. Is Molly still alive? Is she being tortured? Is she at peace, wherever she is? Did she realize how grand her life could be a simply fly the coop that disastrous day? He knows that last one is a bit off the rails, but when his mind is going, Arthur is lost to stop it. Bill might be off safely tucked inside Hogwarts Castle but the rest of his children are with him in Godric’s Hollow. At ten-years-old, Charlie, his most adventurous spawn, gets restless and likes to run off at odd times, causing Arthur’s heart to skip furtive beats. He’s never that far off, usually closely examining stray animals that want nothing to do with him, but Arthur fears one day he’ll be just beyond his reach in the midst of a tragedy (not unlike his mother was). Percy, who is six, is wise beyond his years and stays close to his father as if he can sense the anxiety distance brings. It is young Percy’s help that keeps Arthur from losing his mind over his rambunctious twins, who are barely four and already rebellious. His youngest song, Ron, who has entered the Terrible Twos, clings to Arthur whenever he is awake, making it rather difficult to give his six-month-old (and only daughter) the proper attention she needs. The worry never stops, the change in his daytime routine doing nothing to change that. The only time the young but aging father feels an ounce of serenity is when all the kids are asleep.

how has the war affected this character, emotionally and otherwise?

In her absence, he sees her. Like a ghost, she hovers beside him in his loneliest moments. Molly, the greatest love of his life, reduced to a figment of his imagination. When he longs for her uplifting presence the most, she appears. The first few times, she didn’t say anything. She simply left him stunned, staring at her like he really had seen a ghost. These little visits left him haunted for days. He couldn’t sleep but neither could he bring himself to leave the bed they once shared. His mother stayed with the kids, taking care of them in both their parents’ absences. He thought it meant that she must be dead, but a bigger part of him refused to believe that. This wasn’t her genuine ghost. They had been so connected for years. He knew how she was feeling before he even entered the house after work night after night for years. Surely if she was really and truly dead, he would feel it in his soul. Then he’d managed to ask her what to do aloud, and suddenly she replied. He peered up from the deep pit of sheets their bed had become and took in the insufficient image of his missing wife. “Get up,” she had said, and though it didn’t sound exactly like her, he knew what she wanted. Even as a sad duplicate of the real thing, she wouldn’t let him neglect her children - their children.

where does this character currently stand? with those who wish to hide in godric’s hollow until the war ends, with those who wish to rebuild the order and continue fighting the war, or on neither side? why?

With Molly missing, how is Arthur managing taking care of his children and continuing to be a part of the Order? Does he feel like he should remain a part of the Order?

These questions go hand-in-hand, so I grouped my answer to one longer explanation; I hope that’s okay!

Arthur gathered up his children, said goodbye to his quickly aging parents, and moved to Godric’s Hollow. Lupin had a point. They’d be hiding in plain sight because no one in their right mind would expect them to go where so much darkness remained. Dumbledore promised there would be Hogwarts-level protection on the village to ward off any more disaster. It felt like the smartest thing to do. The draw to continue fighting is there, but he has to think of his kids first. Their safety comes far before his own and the more his soul tells him to fight, the more he considers doing the hardest thing and sending them somewhere far away where they wouldn’t have to be a part of any of it. Time isn’t healing her absence, it is making it harder for Arthur to keep himself together. If he fights, will he finally find her? Will he uncover the truth, that maybe (God willing) she’s alive somewhere? And if she is, what torture could she possibly be enduring? Perhaps it’s better to hope that she’s dead, but the selfish side of Arthur knows what a fighter his wife is - and how lost he might be without her permanently. He remains a part of the Order in the hopes that he will be the first to hear of her whereabouts, determined not to give up just yet. He stays so that the concern and the kids don’t consume him completely. It’s not out of duty anymore. It has nothing to do with wanting a better life for his children. He needs to be the first to know when they finally reveal his biggest fear - that Molly Weasley is dead.

extra.

An extension of the Worry weakness;

Arthur tucks Percy into his sheets and lays a kiss to his sons head, says goodnight to Charlie who doodles in a journal in his adjourning bed across the room. As he leaves the room, he shuts off the light and pulls the door until it is almost closed. Through the crack in the door, he can see the dim yellow light of Charlie’s flashlight. He smiles because he can see his son in his minds’ eye, light tucked beneath his chin, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on drawing whatever strange animal he’s dreamed of the night before. In the next room, Arthur has to tell Fred and George to lay down and go to sleep, as he catches them playing in the dark. Fred leans over the top bunk, his small head upside down as he tries to grab the stuffed animal his brother, who is still laying on his back on the bottom bunk, has in his outstretched arm. Ron, in the lowered crib on the other side of the room, stirs restlessly. Arthur tucks the twins in tight, thinking he might invest in restraints - a joke that would’ve made Molly laugh boisterously, had she been there to hear it. He crosses the room to Ron and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, tucking his stuffed rabbit into his small arms. His hand lingers on the warmth of his sons forehead - does he have a fever? If he does, they all will by in the morning and then Arthur will be dealing with six sick children for the next week. If Molly were there, they’d take it in stages, letting the other rest in the interim. It’s nearly impossible to deal with that many sick kids at one time, each needing something at different times through the day and night until they are back to normal. Arthur heaves a sigh and wanders out of the room, hoping the warmth came from a deep sleep and not an impending epidemic. He goes into his own bedroom at the end of the hall where a crib is pushed against the end of his bed - they couldn’t afford a four bedroom house, especially not with Arthur working half the time he used to.

He plops down on the corner of the bed, sleep pulling at his brain, begging his eyelids to close and he hears it. From inside the crib comes the slightest gurgling noise. He peels his eyes open and leans sideways to look over the bars. His small daughter is awake inside her bed, quite content with chewing on her wet fist. Her small feet kick at the air, her eyes blinking up at the mobile above her. It has little twinkling stars with reflective mirrors and colorful ribbons hanging from it. Arthur feels his throat tighten at the sight of her. The slight hair on her head curls like her mothers, her big, almond-shaped eyes are Molly’s precise color. She’s beautiful. Arthur heaves a deep, exhausted sigh and lays back on his bed, legs bent at the knees with his feet still on the floor. For the briefest of moments, he hadn’t been worried. He said goodnight to all of his children and reveled in the quiet. But the thought of Molly brings on a whole new wash of agony and he closes his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into them. He would fall asleep just like that, sleeping deeply until the twins awoke him in the early hours of the morning already full of energy and ready to take on the day. But for a moment before sleep and a minute after waking up, he’d stop worry and simply lived.

[pauperpedia]

Tuesday Brewsday 30: Rakdos Cult 101

It’s not often Pauper gets a card that screams BUILD AROUND ME. However, when I first saw the card First Day of Class and folks from discord and reddit pointed out that it works with persist creatures, I got hyped. No longer do you need to rely on green for Ivy Lane Denizen if you want to play a sacrifice deck with combo potential. SteelOsprei, MrMeatzombie, and myself from the same discord immediately began throwing some deck ideas around. We ultimately came to the untested realization that you could build a deck with three different ideas in mind based around Putrid Goblin & First Day of Class. You could channel your inner Caleb Gannon, famous combo deck and storm brewer, and build a glass “Gannon” version that could potentially win on turn 1 or 2. You could build a combination aggro-combo deck, but being 2 colors makes that difficult to pull off. The last option, which I like the best, is you could go more in on the potentially grindy value plan. There is even a Rakdos version of goblins being brewed out there being dubbed Moggwarts (be sure to keep your eyes open for that one). Although that deck looked tempting, I thought it was best to write about my original plan. Without further ado, here’s my carnarium!

MAINBOARD:

4 First Day of Class

4 Carrion Feeder

2 Skirk Prospector

1 Lampad of Death's Vigil

1 Thoughtpicker Witch

4 Putrid Goblin

2 Rendclaw Trow

4 Mogg War Marshal

2 Crypt Rats

1 Goblin Matron

1 Flamewave Invoker

4 Merchant of the Vale

2 Night’s Whisper

3 Unearth

2 Reaping the Graves

4 Chainer's Edict

4 Sulfurous Mire

10 Swamp

2 Witch's Cottage

2 Rakdos Carnarium

2 Mountain

SIDEBOARD:

3 Pest Summoning

2 Mesmeric Fiend

4 Red Elemental Blast

4 Trespasser's Curse

2 Flaring Pain

First Day of Class will become pauper legal once Strixhaven comes out. This card, which can be cast at Instant speed for one generic & one red source of mana, gives will creatures that enter the battlefield a +1/+1 counter and haste until the end of the turn. It also has the Learn mechanic which lets you grab a lesson from your sideboard and put it into your hand. Thanks to our persist creatures Putrid Goblin and Rendclaw Trow, we could take advantage of unlimited triggers. So what do we do with these unlimited triggers? Carrion Feeder can get unlimited +1/+1 counters, or Skirk Prospector can create unlimited amounts of red mana if we sac Putrid Goblin to it. With unlimited red mana you can use endless activations from Thoughtpicker Witch, Lampad of Death’s Vigil, Flamewave Invoker, or Merchant of the Vale to churn through your deck. I still don’t know if I prefer Thoughtpicker Witch or Lampad of Death’s Vigil, or maybe I just want more Flamewave Invokers. I would love to see and hear your thoughts about this one.

The one glaring pitfall with the deck is First Day of Class can only be used efficiently on your “combo” turn. I can see the problem where you have a hard time finding pieces for the combo in the face of removal and then get your FDoC countered when you finally have the creatures. This is why I went for more of a resilient grindy deck that can combo off out of nowhere if given enough time.

So the key for this deck to work is how often you can recur your creatures. The deck hinges on Unearth being able to bring a combo piece back to the battlefield so that it can go off, but sometimes just getting a huge Carrion Feeder early on can be enough. The deck is running 3 Unearth since it’s never a dead card thanks to its cycling ability, 1 Reaping the Graves to bring everything back and start over, and two Witch’s Cottage. Since I wanted to play Crypt Rats as an answer to go wide decks or as a finisher, I needed to play a lot of swamps which makes perfect sense to run Witch’s Cottage. It can be reused thanks to Rakdos Carnarium as well. Having this much creature recursion can help you win in the face of abundant creature removal. Sometime you just need to be patient and play the deck like a true combo deck, and sometimes you just need to apply as much pressure as you can.

Goblin Matron is a great value tutor and could possibly even deserve more spots in the deck. Most of the time it will grab a combo piece like Skirk Prospector, Putrid Goblin, or Flamewave Invoker and help you set up for a combo turn. It’s also Unearthable so don’t be afraid to discard it to Merchant of the Vale’s adventure mode in Haggle and gain value in a later turn.

Since I decided to run Merchant of the Vale over Faithless Looting purely for the upside of churning through the deck with unlimited mana to try and find a finisher, the deck needed some form of actual card draw. I could have gone with Village Rites, after all I’m running the appropriate creatures for it, but I wanted something I could always use in case I don’t have the right creature(s) out. Night’s Whisper will remain my card draw of choice, but if Village Rites is more your style, then I think that is perfectly acceptable as well.

One thing I hate losing to is Hexproof. That’s why you see the deck is running four copies of Chainer’s Edict. Alternatively you could run snow lands and play Skred since the deck is already utilizing Sulfurous Mire, or you could run Cast Down. However I don’t like leaving things up to being a race, which is what I foresee the Hexproof matchup being The combination having a playset of Chainer’s Edict & some Crypt Rats can help improve that matchup.

The sideboard is a work in progress for now, I’m still keeping an eye on what Strixhaven will grant us in the form of lessons. Till then I’m taking advantage of the Learn mechanic from First Day of Class. I’ve devoted 3 slots in the sideboard to grabbing a lesson, maybe even just 2 is the correct amount, but grabbing Pest Summoning from FDoC is perfectly acceptable. With Pest Summoning you put two 1/1 black and green pest tokens that gain you life when they die. Sounds like perfect sacrifice fodder to me.

Trespasser’s Curse is the deck’s tech against anything trying to do the same in the mirror, Elves, Flicker decks that are continually looping creatures, and go wide decks. The mirror will be an interesting matchup for sure and might just come down to who has the biggest Carrion Feeder or the most Curses on the battlefield. That sounds horrible actually, nonetheless it’s an important sideboard card to have in my opinion.

Mesmeric Fiend is this deck’s Castigate in creature form. I like Mesmeric Fiend in conjunction with sac outlets because it lets you permanently exile the card you ripped from your opponent’s hand, so long as you sacrificed Mesmeric Fiend with the ability trigger on the stack. Mesmeric Fiend can be brought back with all of our recursion made available to us which hopefully poses a constant pain for the opponent.

The more typical sideboard choices can be found here as well like Nihil Spellbomb and Red Elemental Blast. REB is there for anything running Counterspell or relying on blue cards resolving or staying around on the battlefield. Nihil Spellbomb can be brought in against a variety of decks like Cycling, TortEx, Exhume, Fog, Boros Bully, or the mirror.

It’s not often the Rakdos gather it’s cultist for lessons, but when they do you better believe it’s something about sacrificing the members for the greater good. So murder away and use those endless Putrid Goblin triggers to create some mayhem. I do hope you have enjoyed these blogs/articles. I’m always open to feedback and simply want to provide the best content I can. I’m always open to collaborate on a deck as well. Please visit and like/follow me at http://facebook.com/pauperpedia a fan page dedicated to bringing you links to daily articles, videos, and podcast from other content creators covering Pauper. You can also email me at Pauperpedia@gmail.com if you have deck submissions you want me to cover as well. Till next time folks, have a happy Brewsday!

[vylanthas]

It was a cold night within the realm of Eyrien’dor the winter’s bite leaving a blanket of snow across the thick forests in a sea of white. The main roads had been closed from the storm that lingered over the north barricading most within her grasp. The embers from fire’s coals cracked upwards catching the gaze of the Ranger-Lord every now and then as it trailed downwards falling into ash. The Winter’s Veil brought many surprises to his lordship, the arrival of his daughter and the moments shared forever burned into his memory for centuries to come. Now the estate stood in a silent calm that was usually found in the stillness of the early hours before the suns rise. In the wake of the festivities that were still to come many had stolen solace that eve as the winter’s chill had bitten into the castle itself offering little relief from what stormed outside.

Silence was a gift rarely afforded to the Ranger-Lord as his duties of late had stretched him thin, on this occasion he spent it within his private chambers studying over a manuscript a colleague had sent over to be revised before its publication in the spring. Since he was a young man Vylanthas learned how to read and write by correcting the grammatical errors placed within the texts of many tombs, and scripts sending his discoveries to their creators. With quick strokes of his quill, or added notations to the sides of paragraphs the Ranger-Lord drank in the wealth of knowledge he was learning from this particular piece. Reaching for his gold trimmed tea cup that was patterned in a grey rose pattern Vylanthas sipped on his bitter tea that he blended himself contemplating the last exert he finished remarking on.

Three raps were placed against the heavy wooden door each an exact second apart booming through the room causing the man who was in deep thought to startle spilling the contents of his cup down the sleeve of his shirt. “Damn it.” He whispered onto himself quickly placing the china set down and moving the parchment aside to not see the wealth of knowledge ruined by his carelessness. “Yes?” Vylanthas asked sharply with little patience in his tone as he reached for his handkerchief patting himself dry.

The footman entered swiftly carrying a decorated golden tray with a matching letter opener, within the center a singular unopened letter that had arrived from house Blackwood. The document had been carelessly overlook in the morning as the Lord Stewart was away on business until the late hour of that evening. “Thank you.” The Ranger-Lord had nodded to the footman silently dismissing him as he took the letter from the tray.  Breaking the seal with a swift slide of the sharpened blade to open the contents within Vylanthas was able to catch the Greenseer’s scent within the threads of the parchment she penned over.  

Though we have been unable to partake of tea, I wished to inform you that I have been delivered of twin boys, slightly early. Though there has been no announcement, the Lords Laevir and Cyrwin are thriving.

Juniper eyes drank in her words as the light from his smile quickly grew over his lips touching every lined feature of his dark contours. The joyous announcement to be a mother once more touched the man’s heart in a way he would never explain to another. To have a secure line of succession offered a security few households could enjoy these days, it was a gift to both herself and the High-Lord. Not one but two he thought again before whispering aloud “Sons…” a word that had not passed his lips since his owns passing.

 I write to you however because I dearly need your help. For the present, I       have a wet nurse and nannies to tend the babies, due to the fact that I am     suffering under the presence of the Nightmare. It is not known publicly, thus, as ever you know I value your silence. Your grandmother is the only one I  know skilled enough to rid me of it. Else, I do not know what to expect next. 

 Please, write back when you can. I am on bedrest for the present, at home. If   you are able to aid, I can send a conveyance with guards

Continuing to take in her words the brightness that reached his juniper gaze faded as his expression grew grim and his stomach stirred with unease. “Send for the Lord Stewart.” Was all the Ranger-Lord found himself able to muster out at that moment, the tone of his voice was strained however it masked the sense of urgency. Wishing he could scream aloud as if a boy in his youth to demand the attention this specific matter called for he knew better of himself. A certain delicacy had to be taken with this as silence was demanded. Everything had been ripped away from him within a single paragraph, could his family save her?

 The footman was quick to disappear from the confines of the room and away from his lordships sight. To call on his personal Stewart at any late hour was never a good sign for whoever it concerned and at that moment the footman prayed it was not him. Remaining seated in his leather chair Vylanthas read over every word she had penned over and over again to ensure he did not miss a single detail, searching for any hidden messages that could have been thoughtfully placed within. Confident that there was nothing more and that he had memorized the entire piece verbatim he folded the letter as neatly as had been received. Placing his lips to the wax seal a silent prayer was breathed out onto the house emblem for her ladyship before tucking it away within his vest pocket.  

Arriving within minutes to his lordships request the Lord Stewart found his master dressing for travel with leather satchels stretched across the bed while the Ranger-Lord himself gathered the belongings he required for such a journey. “Vylanthas?” he breathed out in quiet frustration looking over the room in a silent horror to the thought of him risking his life in such a storm. He dared not comment to the younger man having already made his decision one the Lord Stewart would respect no matter how much he silently protested. “Lord Rha’veran, you summoned me?”

 The Ranger-Lord barely looked at the man who entered there was no time for formalities when there was so much to do, “Send word to my grandmother that she is to prepare for travel and that I will arrive within the hour to escort her to the Blackwood estate. Inform her that she is to prepare to help a young lady within her court medicinally as we have been summoned by her Matriarch to aide in a matter that is beyond her expertise. We will be leaving upon my arrival as there is no time to wait out the storm.” Motioning towards his desk there was a sealed letter that’s wax was still soft over top of emerald in colour with gold accents parcel to be received. “Ensure the magi deliver this to the Blackwood Estate that the letter was received from and that it has been placed within Lady Blackwood’s hands within the hour. I will not forgive excuses or tardiness with this personal matter, am I understood?”

“Yes.” The Stewart declared so that there was no misunderstanding between the two. As ordered the Lord Stewart took the letter and parcel to the magi of house Rha’veran ensuring its swift delivery. Making his way down to the stables a single stead was ordered to be prepared for a night’s journey. The snow had been coming down heavily for hours giving no sign for remorse as the northern winds howled against the castle. Unable to see the house across the lane in the village the journey to his grandmother’s estate was more likely to prove fatal and fruitless. The Lord Stewart dwelled on the contemplation to talk his master out of such a dangerous expedition. Had he not been by his side for over eight centuries and learned to trust in his decisions his voice would not have been as easily silenced. Whatever contents were within that letter they were pressing enough to muster such a decision at this late of hour, it was not something to be overlooked in the least. This was a feat he had not seen since the passing of his beloved wife and sons, he dared not strip away Vylanthas’ sense of urgency this matter called for, not after everything they both had seen, not after he had done so at the unknown cost of his master’s family.

A parcel would have arrived in the middle of the night to the Blackwood Estate with the messenger requesting it be delivered into her ladyship post haste. The contents within were two silver rattles that had been engraved with a rose and thorns as well as two pairs of hand knitted socks for the pair of boys. Along with the gifts for her children was one for herself a single arrow handcrafted from the forest of Eyrien’dor a symbol of the promise that was held in the words scratched across the parchment with the received gift.

 Gracious Lady

 I am overjoyed and saddened by what I have received this night, may I firstly offer my mine and my houses blessing onto you, the High-Lord and your children. To be bestowed not one but two treasures in just one night is miracle in its own. Secondly with your private matter … Just know that I will be there, no matter the summons or call my house will always be at your disposal.

 Currently there is a storm that has blanketed my entire lands, they say it is to last several days however once you’ve received this I will have already ridden out to collect my grandmother at the estate she is staying within at this time. It will take me two days’ time to reach you as I am unwilling to risk the life of my magi in this weather, I beg for your forgiveness that I cannot make it within a timelier fashion as such a request demands.

 I can not begin to pretend to understand what this Nightmare can fully do to a druidess such as yourself beyond the plagued lives I have witnessed on the isles themselves. I ask that you hold on just a little longer, I know you have been strong in your silence for some time now but please for everyone’s sakes grasp onto what you can and we will be there shortly.

 It is my will and grace to see you live so that your children do not need to grow up and learn of their mother from another’s lips, but to only know her own from the love and affection you will adorn onto each of them. To have that chance stolen… It would be unforgiveable to not know the gracious lady that I have come to cherish, and one of the very few I call friend.

 Ranger-Lord Vylanthas Rha’veran

[xenodross]

Out of the Cavern

Eleasis 1489 DR , 20th -21st Day

The stars look strange tonight - early morning I should say. I stare up at them and they seem to have changed, a little brighter but more hazy? Perhaps it is only the oncoming dawn that makes them seem so unlike themselves.

I am troubled, but also flush with contentment at the same time. We have been successful in a great part, but I have seen much that has left my mind whirling, running my hands along the spines of my books for comfort.

Ah, forgive me Scholar of Tomorrow. I left you in some haste in my previous entry and perhaps in some concern as you turn the pages of this time-ravaged journal. There was barely a spare moment to breathe in the past many hours, and only now have I the time and ink to record the events that have transpired. I will endeavor to be swift, but exacting in your enlightenment.

The captive kobold after our battle at the bend of the western road, proved of some utility. The creatures speak a sort of fractured ‘pidgin’ version of Draconic - my family has always insisted on a fluency in the language since the days of my great grandmother, so I was able to have a halting sort of conversation with the creature. His name was ‘Hask’ - and he and his compatriots had been the ones ambushing the caravans coming along the road, then taking any cargo of value along with the passengers to some sort of base or village some miles off the road. We also soon thereafter discovered a small canyon where dozens of wagons had been disposed of most summarily - a drop of a few dozen feet resulting in shattered wood and scattered cargo. My heart fluttered thinking that my delivery could be somewhere down there (as what value could kobolds find in the written word!) but I knew a thorough search would have to wait. We believed that the most recent victims of the kobolds’ crude ambuscade were within our reach so we did not tarry. We left the creature, Hask, bound until we could reclaim him and deliver him to proper justice back in Greenrest. The only words that creature shared that gave me true pause were of the leader of his band - a name of strange guttural intonation: KLAARG. If I had known then what I would learn in the grips of the night and the cavern’s dark, I would have had a great deal more trepidation about that name!

A steady gallop across the plains soon brought us within reach of the captive travelers and their foul escort of kobolds. Some quick martial action by Master Bellamy and Mistress Mouse - along with some, shall we say, more acrobatic exertions by Master Binderwall made short work of the creatures. We barely paused to take in the traveler’s names, only learning that they were twice blessed with good fortune. They had won a grand sum in the Amn and now were saved by our intervention - some words were offered about a reward, but I found it most distressing. They departed on horseback towards the road and safety and we continued on.

We arrived at the place where the captors’ path and Hask’s words had lead - the mouth of a cave set into a low hill. A stream emerged from its mouth and terminated in a small pool -- odd, the water was utterly still, unmoved except by the occasional breeze. Some kobold scouts nearly surprised us at the entryway, but my comrades dispatched them handily. Mistress Tambledorne enacted a most clever ruse, summoning a small, illusory dragon-form - no larger than a sparrow, that so confounded the kobold guards that they were easily overwhelmed. I have read somewhat of the religious fervor that kobolds have for their greater wyrm-kin, but even I was surprised at how fully it seems to envelop their senses.

Master Binderwall scouted ahead, removing the danger of some rudimentary traps. I felt some concern watching him disappear into the dark mouth of that cave - but it fortunately prove unwarranted. The sun set behind us as we entered, lit only by my staff and my uninspired but serviceable illumination cantrip. 

Our first discovery was a side room that contained many harsh brushes and some sort of industrial cleaning agents made of some reagents and chemicals that I am familar with. We could not glean the purpose of the room, but did discover a coin from Neverwinter of some age (1420 DR was my estimation). Something about the cleaning agent brought to mind the vaults of my family’s banking institutions - but I was again at a loss to determine why kobolds would have any need to clean their ill-gotten treasure. A mystery to be sure- but not what we sought! On we plunged, deeper into the caves. The room terminated in a passage that had been blocked, through which we could hear odd sounds - but none of us could identify them, no even our bard with her sharp musician’s ears.

The main passageway followed the unmoving stream. Mistress Mouse found a side passage that had also been, blocked - but we did not devote much time to the noisy process of unblocking it. We yet hoped to have the element of surprise! 

Out of the dark, a lone kobold scout! A swift arrow from Master Binderwall took its life, and  swift boot from Mistress Mouse disposed of it’s mortal form into the stream. A bit rude to be sure, but I was beginning to see the utility of such actions in sitiuations such as these.

We passed underneath a wooden bridge of dubious construction that seemed to lead to a further part of the cavern, but for the moment we continued to follow the stream - where it terminated into some iron slats that seemed to create a crude, but functional sluice gate and dam for a natural stream within the cavern. We later discovered a simple control that would open the water’s flow - but we were soon distracted by another pack of kobolds feasting on a horrid meal of squealing rats.

Mistress Tambledorne’s musical slumber rendered three of them immediately defenseless - but it fell to the rest of us to dispatch the remaining one, of a most voluminous size. I have perhaps spoken briefly of Master Binderwall and his deeply genial nature - it is with some trepidation that I must report I am less certain of this after witnessing the startling manner in which he eviscerated that final kobold. I was honestly glad that the poor creature’s three companions slept and did not witness the horror.

We bound the (living) kobolds and put them aside, our attention already drawn to one final chamber up a small set of tiered stone steps. Within we witnessed such - it is difficult for me to relate, but I will enter it here for your eyes SoT. If my research journal also endures the ravages of time, you will can cross reference there with the same date and my musings on ‘ABERRATIONS’ on this date and the possible ways that two disparate animalia could be forced into an unspeakable fusion.

Within we witnessed four iron cages  - the last empty and open, but the other three occupied by beasts that filled me with astonishment and alarm.  For lack of a true taxonomy, I will describe them as ‘dragon-dogs’. Some unknown method had combined the canus with the genus draconus and we were gazing upon the results. They were safely bound within the cages, despite their agitation - but Mistress Mouse and Master Binderwall soon discovered that at least one of these creature’s draconic progenitors gifts was theirs to employ - the legendary dragon fear. A seemingly insurmountable wave of psychic and spiritual terror that emits from the Great Wyrms like steam from a mug of hot tea.

I will note for the record, that the dragon dogs, also learned the foolhardiness of attempting to cow our Arboreal Knight Mistress Mouse!

Once again, we did not tarry - though the hope was fading in my heart at least, we had some hope of still finding survivors of the ambushed carvans somewhere deeper within the caverns heart.

Up a small rise, across the crude bridge, then a tight squeeze down a low tunnel deposited us into the ramshackle ‘dining room’ of the cavern and a final bevy of kobolds. They had fashioned broken barrels and crates into tables and benches and were none too pleased at our sudden arrival. After the past few hours of battle, we had little fear of their might - only the cramped quarters and the ferocity they showed when fighting as pack proved obstacle. Even Mistress Tambledorne at last drew blood, skewering one of them that was flanking Master Bellamy. She seemed somewhat awestruck by the act, staring at her hands and the creature’s blood. I realized at once that this, perhaps, was the first time she had ever done any thing of the sort. A bit of old doggerel came to mind:

Farewell to kith and farewell to kin we go forth into the Forest hunting monsters

I fear that there may be no returning to her old life and the cozy tavern she speaks of  for Mistress Tambledorne, if there ever was such a chance--

At once, a shock! The occupant of the fourthcage - a dragon-dog leaped into view. The dragon fear ripped through us all, but to my even greater horror it spoke. The same pidgin Draconic as the kobolds, but understandable enough to me. It said it was eager to eat us all and that it was the one known as KLAARG.

This stunned me, to the point where the next moments are difficult to relate. The shields of Bellamy and Mouse flashed, arrows flew - my Energy Extraction spell filled the cavern with golden light. But my mind reeled. My hypothesis had grown that some more intelligent force ruled the kobolds - the ambushes, appearing in daylight, the sluice gate, whatever purpose the ‘cleaning room’ served - all of this seemed beyond their simple minds. And when I saw the three caged dragon-dogs, I was near convinced that we would find a powerful sorcerer or even a fiend of some potency waiting - but to discover that KLAARG was one of the dogs did not fit any of my suppositions! Surely all four had been caged until recently - the leader and driving force of this foul band would not accept such a thing, none of the other aberrations had spoken. I grasped for theories - could some dark force be possessing the mind of this beast? - but no answers have I discovered as yet. The beast known as KLAARG fell to the might of my comrades, though not my anxiety at some shadow lurking behind all of these events.

Ah - my watch is nearly over, a few hours of sleep would be beneficial. But I will not leave, I will complete this recollection while the ink is wet and my memory fresh. There is not much more. A small altercation with one final kobold who we discovered held the lone survivor - an older adventurer, the one hired by Governor Nighthill, named Sildare. I negotiated a simple release of the hostage in return for the the creature’s swift departure unmolested - I doubt it can do much harm on its own out in the wild, these things only seem truly potent in packs.

At the urging of my concern about the aberrant dragon-dogs and Sildare’s assurance of the danger they could pose, we dealt swiftly with the creatures and dispatched them. We did however leave alive the remaining three kobolds in their cell - and some swift interrogation revealed the existence of a man they only know as ‘Master’. A black robed figure that fills the foul creatures with a near-religious awe and dread - this is the shadow that stands behind the ambushes, the aberrations, and the abductions!

The adventurer Sildare snores across the glade even now - recovering from his wounds and the rough treatment he experienced in captivity. We have seen no sign of any other captives, so I fear that the worst may be true : that no survivors remain from the raids on the Western Road. I pray that we may find some clue that stands in refutation of this conclusion - but I fear the chances are slim. We depart at dawn following caravan tracks and the vanished ‘Master’ of which the kobolds whispered.

I must sleep now, with my troubled mind nonetheless. We have much to do with the sun, dealing with the remaining aberrations and searching for that vain clue--and any sign of my missing book as well!

Good night - or good morning, Scholar of Tomorrow. I wonder what the stars will look like when next I see them?