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vaya-writes · 4 months

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The Wyvern's Bride - Epilogue

When Adalyn gets sacrificed to the local wyvern, she’s a little annoyed and a lot terrified. Upon meeting the wyvern, she discovers that he’s not particularly interested in eating people, and mostly wants to be left alone. In a plot to save himself from the responsibilities his family keep pushing on him, Slate names Adalyn as his human Envoy, and tasks her with finding him a wife.

2300 words. Cis female human x Cis male wyvern (slow burn, arranged marriage, eventual smut). firefly-graphics did the divider.

Masterlist - Previous

Thank you for your patience. It's only been (checks notes) almost nine months. If it's not fresh in mind, I wouldn't force yourself to reread. The style of this chapter is slightly different, doesn't require much coherency with the rest. Anyway, thank you so much for sticking with me this long, and I hope you enjoy the final installment of The Wyvern's Bride. No content warnings for this chapter. Unless PDA makes you uncomfortable xo

There are memories tucked away in each corner of The Wyvern’s Flock. The façade may have changed, but Adalyn can still see herself in the foundations of the building. She still knows the number of steps from the entrance hall to the doorways. The bakery where she’d received customers has been rearranged, a taproom in its place, but the kitchen remains, equipped with the oven her father had modified. She can see it, past the counter where Grace greets them and takes their orders.

Slate holds Adalyn’s hand when they enter what had once been her dining room. It’s still a dining room, part of her is glad to see. The fireplace still burns, and there’s a new clock over the mantle. But smaller tables and benches fill the area. Where once walls had hung bare, they’re now decorated with paintings and tapestries. Adalyn is taken aback by how much colour they bring to the establishment.

There’s a pause in conversation when they enter the room. It doesn’t quite fall silent, but people still stare as they sit by the window. Adalyn goes as far as to put her back to the room, to better blot out the distracting eyes. She’s not here to mind the gossip. Only to have lunch and spend time with her husband.

Word that a wyvern had settled in the valley had spread like wildfire, and people had come from far and wide, just for a chance to see him. It had started with the locals. People trying to sell their livestock. Craftsmen offering skills. The young and unmarried asking after serving positions.

Then word had spread further. Merchants had visited, scrabbling at the chance to trade from Slate’s hoard. Niche craftsfolk had come next. There had been sculptors (mostly turned away), glass makers (temporarily contracted), painters (generously commissioned). Then the jewel smiths, the weavers, alchemists, scribes and tinkerers, until Slate was referring them elsewhere, interested in single purchases and commissions, but not yet ready to hire every person with a trade who came to his door.

With all the skill and money coming to and from the valley, it’s no surprise when the area goes through an economic boom. The area flourishes. The trade festival becomes renowned. Northpoint and Tuscany both double in size as new folk migrate to the region.

The Wyvern’s Flock reflects this easily. The seats are full and the atmosphere is lively. Grace and Gwen have nearly finished paying off Adalyn, years ahead of schedule. As far as Adalyn is aware, the ladies have no regrets. Moving away from their families had been a boon to them both. Grace gets to run her own business, and Gwen gets to run her own kitchen. There’d been obstacles (refurnishing, family drama, local pushback), but things have settled enough that the women now run their business together without raising too many brows.

People stare at Adalyn though. Or perhaps Slate. He’s in his demi form, boldly grasping Adalyn’s hand over the table, sharpened teeth glinting as he talks. She used to shy from the attention. Feel judged by the stares; grow defensive at the scrutiny.

Adalyn squeezes his hand.

Slate pulls back to retrieve some papers from his bag. He moves his chair around the table, so they can pour over the blueprints side by side. She doesn’t flinch when his hand comes to rest on her thigh, though her cheeks do colour with blush. The gesture is under the table, hidden from public eye, and they are married. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the touch.

It still thrills her. A smile plays at her lips.

They chatter about their latest project. Adalyn’s first draft of the stable, drawn almost a year ago, had been cleaned up and heavily referenced in the newer blueprint. It always fills her with warmth, when Slate takes her ideas on board.

The project can’t be put off any longer. With the workers streaming in, they’ll need a permanent stable. A safe way to deal with the offers for work and commerce. Currently mail is left at Fleecehold for Adalyn.

The path through the Spires is steep and crumbling; twisting and incredibly narrow in places. Adalyn can’t help but admire those persistent and skilled enough to make it to the castle entrance.

Most don’t. The path is dangerous. People are attempting to navigate it with alarming regularity. It’s gotten to the point where The Wyvern’s Flock receives a stream of complaints about lost packages, twisted ankles, and near falls. She knows it’s beginning to frustrate Grace and Gwen, despite their assurances otherwise.

It only reinforces the need for a stable. One at the bottom for travellers to stow their horses and swap them out with mules. And one at the top for the animals that complete the journey. They’re considering hiring a guide too.

Because the couriers don’t stop coming. The work applications and correspondences don’t slow. Slate had built himself a castle. It needs staff to maintain it. And there is no shortage of offers.

Adalyn strokes the back of Slate’s hand with her thumb.

He squeezes her leg back, automatic, before stopping suddenly. He gives a rueful wince. “Was I getting off topic?”

She smiles. “No.”

“But I was rambling.”

Adalyn rolls her eyes. “I don’t mind. You know this.”

His cheeks tinge grey with blush, before he presses a kiss to the back of her free hand. “I’m sorry, I’ve spoken about nothing but work.”

She glances pointedly at the blueprints. “That was the plan.”

Slate shares a soft look with Adalyn, his eyes sparkling. “I love you.”

“Yes. I know.”

Slate straightens. Places his hand over his chest in mock indignance.

Adalyn relents, grinning again. “And I love you too.”

Slate puts away the blueprints. “We can revisit this again when the materials are ready. Will you tell me about your morning?”

Adalyn had worried that she’d be left with little to do when she sold her bakery. That the kitchen in the Spires would only keep her occupied for so long. That she’d finish reading Slate’s collection of books, and grow bored. She’d been wrong.

In the days passed she’s practically become Slate’s manager. And that’s just regarding how he handles construction. Half of her job is keeping Slate on task. Reminding him to finish buildings before starting new ones. Helping him prioritise. Making a hard copy of his mental to do list.

It takes patience and understanding. Slate tends to hop between projects on whim. At first she can’t fathom why he’ll be lengthening the servant’s quarters one morning, and then building a hunter’s lodge in the East Forest by the afternoon.

Sometimes he needs it. Needs that project rotation, to prevent him from falling to tedium. Other times he jumps tasks so he won’t forget his new ideas. It’s her job to learn the difference. To gently coach Slate back on track, to take note of his ideas so he can come back to them later. He seems grateful for the assistance. And she appreciates being deferred to. Doesn’t mind the extra work.

Adalyn’s tower had been left unfinished. A side project Slate returns to from time to time, in between other buildings. A servant’s wing had been higher priority. Their staff require a dormitory, a kitchen, a dining area, easy access to running water and a path to the mainway. Slate adds to the quarter every month or so, as more staff are recruited.

When she’s not helping Slate, Adalyn deals with administrative errands. Sorts the mail. Handles the budget. Manages staff. Somebody has to draft contracts and organise pay and give the hapless craftfolk wandering their halls some semblance of an orientation. Scatterbrained as he is, Slate tends to hire people first and ask questions later.

They’d first hired a goatherder, one who was willing to double as a poulterer. Adalyn didn’t want to head to Fleecehold every time she needed supplies, and having her own source of eggs, milk, and cheese (and somebody to mind the animals) is one of the first luxuries she put Slate onto.

While construction was still underway, Slate had started hiring crafters directly. Many he would source from the valley – several professionals, and the occasional apprentice. Others he sent away for. Until there’re a modest collection of people living part time in the Spires, commissioned to create and build at Slate’s whim before the next year passes. A smith busy with hinges, nails, and other iron fittings. Woodworkers and carvers to furnish the place. Niche workers from afar for the more lavish fixtures.

Then Slate hires artists.

Decorations are a must. If not for his rich tastes, then to help tell the many corridors and caverns apart. People to spin tapestries, depicting Slate’s family history. Tanners, to produce leather and fine furs from Slate’s hunting, working in tandem with an upholsterer to ensure that seats and lounges are adequately cushioned. Weavers, to create an ample source of bedding for the servant’s quarter, and spinners, to make and provide thread and yarn for aforementioned weavers and fibre artists. Until Adalyn is dizzy with the sheer number of craftsfolks wandering their halls.

Some of the art comes from further abroad. A handful of paintings and tapestries are commissioned. Slate hardly has the need for stonemasons and sculptors, but he still hires a few. He decorates the halls in limestone reliefs. The scales and wings of his family are repeated motifs. There are also hints at domesticity here and there. Designs featuring the valley; carved sheep in odd places, and crops and foods in others. Patterns peaking from a wall in the kitchen, or near the garden doors.

Mostly they’d hired serving staff. As Slate’s castle grows, so does the housework. There is too much floor space, too many oil lamps and braziers that require maintenance. Adalyn has enough on her plate without handling the laundry or the sweeping and polishing.

She’s still the only person allowed to wander the Tower. Slate had deemed his horde too valuable; hadn’t wanted anyone else handling their possessions. Adalyn figures he just doesn't want anyone fussing.

Next they’ll have to hire a stable hand. And look for a guide, to take people up and down the Spires. But those tasks can wait.

Grace arrives with their food. Cheese toast sprinkled with salt and rosemary for Adalyn – who makes a note to try cooking it at home. And a haunch of meat, dripping and rare, just the way Slate likes it. There’s wine too; the ladies had a trade deal with Ivar’s brewery, and Adalyn’s visits to The Wyvern’s Flock are a rare chance for her to indulge in his reputed winterberry wine.

Adalyn digs into her meal while her friend lingers, catching her up on the latest happenings. Adalyn doesn’t get to be social very often, and she’s grown to appreciate the comradery and tentative friendship that the Grace and Gwen have offered her.

They chat about Lindel. The woman had kept in touch with Adalyn, writing regularly. She still lives with her family, farming and spinning with the rest of the women in her village. Her life hadn’t changed much in the last year, but being the semi-final contender to marry Slate had bought her some respect amongst the others in her village. Even if she keeps the details of the trials to herself.

Errah comes up too. She’s still a bit of a recluse, shepherding in one of the smaller settlements. Neither does she write, though Adalyn suspects that has more to do with her ability, rather than her desire.

One of Slate’s cousins had been checking in on her, and the occasional sight of the silvery wyvern has been a fierce topic of gossip. Adalyn listens avidly. Lune hadn’t bothered visiting the Spires. It’s apparently poor etiquette for one wyvern to visit another’s territory and not declare themselves, but Slate doesn’t mind.

Adalyn decides to visit Errah. If Lune is attempting to court her, then she’d probably appreciate the hard earned information Adalyn could share about that particular experience.

Gwen wanders over, and conversation turns towards business. Repayments on the building. Mail collection. Food orders.

The sun sets and the stars wheel gently overhead by the time Slate and Adalyn leave. They walk the settlement for a while, and Adalyn is struck with the fond memory of when she’d given Slate his first tour of the area.

The night grows cold and Adalyn shivers.

Slate wraps his arm around her shoulders and steers her towards the courtyard. He transforms, without a care for who sees him. Adalyn can’t help but smile again, reminded vividly of the first time Slate had landed here in this form. The power he’d given her at his entrance.

What’s with that look?

Adalyn shakes her head. “I’m just feeling nostalgic.”

She brushes her fingers against his scaled snout. Smiles up at him, before leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.

He rumbles; a sound of contentment.

“I had a nice time tonight. Thank you.”

He doesn’t reply, nuzzling his face against her shoulder instead. His tongue flicks out across her neck, playful and affectionate. Adalyn yelps, before dissolving into laughter at the ticklish sensation.

Slate lowers his head further. Nudges her side, more forcefully.

Climb on already. I want to take you home.

She nearly flushes at his directness. Feigns shock with a hand over her mouth. “So forward, Slate?”

His huff sends a breath of hot air at her face, but he doesn’t otherwise reply. He’s familiar with the joke. It’s not the first time she’s made it.

Adalyn kisses him again before climbing up. Jests aside, she looks forward to getting back to the Tower. To whatever Slate might have in mind for the evening.

Once more, the shadow of a wyvern passes over Clearwater Valley.

#holy shit #im actually kind of emotional posting this #its finally done #woah #anyway #vaya writes #wyverns #dragons #monster romance #also i got so sick of the word smile while editing this

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the-californicationist · 4 months

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Granted (SanSan AU)

Sansa Stark inherited her family’s ranch after a series of terrible tragedies. Needing help, she hired Sandor Clegane - a washed out rodeo king. The two of them rescue a cow in the back pasture and roll around in the hay. Warnings: Modern setting AU. Pure smut propped up with the skeleton of a story. Anal. Outdoor sex.

He came in wet, the wooden door banging shut behind him, black hair plastered to his head under his beaten up cowboy hat. The rainwater was dripping from the tips of his hair and running into his worried eyes. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily from his exertion, chest heaving and ribs straining against his shirt. His jacket and jeans were soaked through and clinging to his skin, painted on his body in cold heavy fabric.

He stared right into her face, unflinching. It was as if he had a whole conversation with her in his mind, silently telling her the deepest secrets and fears and joys he’s ever known, asking her for more and more, begging her with his fiery gaze. She had never seen him attempt such deliberate and fearsome eye contact with her. He usually turned away, stared out into their open fields or down at his boots.

As if realizing his odd demeanor, when he spoke, none of the kindled flame remained in his voice. His question came out like a smooth, round stone: quiet, cold, unfeeling.

“Where do you keep the spare blankets?”

She didn’t answer him right away, instead raising an eyebrow to question his motives. He continued without her,

“Cow is stuck on the north corner, giving birth to twins. Vet says he’ll be here in the morning but they won’t last the night in the cold.”

She turned off the stove’s burner and grabbed her coat. Packing quickly, she grabbed her keys and headed to the backyard, leading him to the old barn they only used for storage these days. She flung open the side door and he put his flashlight above her head so she could see. He towered over her, eyes searching the dark barn for movement that wouldn’t be there. She flipped open two chests and hauled out the extra blankets, grabbing a canister of grain as she kicked the door shut.

Feet squishing through the mud and tall grass, they all but fell into his truck, tossing the blankets and feed into his covered bed. The engine roared to life just as a bolt of lightning split the sky apart. A threatening peal of thunder followed not long behind.

They rode in silence, and the rattling of the truck did little to fill the void. When her father was killed, and her brothers along with him, she’d been left with the Stark family farm, but she hadn’t had the faintest idea about how to run it, always preferring indoor activities when given the choice between that or shit-kicking. So, she hired Sandor Clegane, the washed up rodeo king of Wyoming turned cowhand. He was too good for the job he did. He fixed the equipment, mended fences, herded cattle, killed coyotes, and dealt with ranch barons who wanted to come in and buy her out for cents on the dollar.

The burns that scared half of his face and neck were objectively grotesque. The sheen of the healed tissue as it pulled against his jaw reminded her of cellophane, crinkled in all the wrong places. He was a master at crowd control - be it livestock or human beings. His imposing size and animalistic musculature made even the most hardened men think twice about even considering raising a challenge to him. All the better, because his attitude was that of a hungry copperhead.

He was her opposite in every way. Tough when she was fearful, strong when she was frail, bold when she was meek. But, he had brought out the wolf inside of her over the years, she had to admit. When he had first come to the farm, she could barely meet his eyes, but now she stood beside him as they stared down each challenge that wandered across their ranch’s path.

They had made more money together in the past two years than the farm had ever turned when her father had been alive, and that was why the other ranchers were trying harder than ever to make her sell. One had even sent his son over, pretending to be wounded, in hopes she’d care for him and eventually be inclined to his marriage proposal - all to find out it was a sham.

Now, looking at his hulking form across from hers in his truck, she couldn’t imagine waking up without Sandor in her life. She wondered, in more detail on lonely nights, what those huge, rough hands must feel like when they become wrapped around a person’s skin. Would they be rough and certain? Or would they be tender, knowing their ability to cause pain?

She hadn’t noticed how she was dressed for this excursion, but she was painfully aware of it now that she was shivering on the bench seat. Her yellow cotton dress, dotted with little embroidered daisies, clung to her belly and legs from the rain. Her dad’s old green sweater hung off one shoulder, the neck too worn out to fit right. A woolen shawl she had knitted years ago was wrapped around her chest. A worn pair of socks stretched over her knees, and her muddy duck boots kept her feet warm and dry.

She looked over at Sandor and caught his eye. He turned the heat up on the console and pointed his vents toward her.

“You cold, little bird?”

His voice was so dark and deep; it rumbled toward her like a landslide. He was always yelling at the hired hands and hollering at his horse, Stranger, so it was no wonder he sounded gravelly.

“It’s really coming down. Thought we were supposed to get a break,” she commented, gazing out the window across the flatlands.

“Gonna be a long night,” he lamented.

Forty minutes later and they made it to the lean-to where the cow was holed up and pleading with them through unhappy lowing. Sandor managed to fit a halter on her and keep her tied to the hitching rings, but she was in pain and they could tell.

“What’s keeping the vet?” Sansa asked him.

He patted the cow’s big neck and checked her for obvious injuries,

“Said something about going to the city for a big race horse with a broken leg. Probably heaps of money in it for him.”

She nodded, understanding but still sorry there was no recourse.

The lean-to was big enough for about ten head of cattle, and there was a small room off to the side for hay storage. She watched as the enormous cowboy pulled bales out of their storage with extreme ease and spread it across the floor for the cow to lay on. With the store room now empty, he put a hand on his hip and gestured to the wooden floor,

“Well. It’s not the Hilton. I’d offer to drive you back up to the big house but I know what you’ll say. You’ll chirp and whine about needing to be out here, so you might as well settle in.”

She turned away from the room and looked back at the tired cow,

“I know. I’m sorry, Sandor. I just don’t wanna leave her here.”

She had always called him Mr. Clegane, but after he snapped at her one night, she had finally agreed to go by first names because he was “nobody’s mister.”

He paused for a moment, thinking about something unseen, and breathed out a hard sigh. The sun was setting fast, so after he organized the cow’s tack, he ran back into the rain to grab their bags. Sandor hung the blankets and put their packs just inside the door. She sat on a hay bale and checked her phone for service.

“No bars out here, princess,” he said, dryly.

She powered it off and zipped it into her bag. The oats she took from the barn were still in the large container. She started up her small, beaten up Biolite and got a fire burning. She poured out some water from her pack and mixed in the oats with a little sugar. After a few minutes, she poured out two small cups and handed one to him. He took it carefully, but his big hands made it seem like a child’s teacup.

“Thanks,” he muttered, mouth full of porridge.

“You bet,” she returned.

“You got extra room on that bale?”

She scooted over and brushed away the top layer of straw, as if it wasn’t going to cling to him anyway.

“I brought you a dry shirt if you want it. I’m gonna change out of this dress.”

He watched as she dug in her emergency bag, admiring her quick thinking.

“I am gonna make the hands all carry those. They get stuck out here all the time with nothing but their jeans and a can of Skoal.”

She laughed brightly,

“Yeah. It was a trick I learned from dad. He always said you should be able to be what you needed to be when you needed to be it.”

She threw her hands up at Ned Stark’s family wisdom, showing her confusion and humor at her father’s unrefined lesson. To her relief, Sandor laughed with her.

“Smart man,” he chuckled.

She handed him the shirt folded. He traded her back the empty cup of oats and started to strip off his wet clothes. His jacket had almost dried but his button down shirt was still sopping wet. He pulled back button after button and she didn’t turn away at first. His undershirt hid most of the tanned, hairy skin that stretched across his huge, heavy structure. She knew he’d be hot to the touch. Sansa knew his skin would feel slick with rain and sweat. She wanted to reach out into the open pocket of his shirt and touch him and all of his scars, but she didn’t. She turned away from him when she realized her extreme rudeness.

He laughed again, crueler this time,

“Ain’t never been modest, little bird.”

She turned back to face him at that comment and shrugged,

“It’s fine. There’s just not a ton of privacy in here and I wanted to try and get you some.”

Sandor pulled the button-down over his shoulders with a quick tug. The shirt fell with a wet thud on the dusty floor and he hung it loosely on the wall. His undershirt followed it.

“Wouldn’t happen to carry my size jeans in that bag of yours, would ya?” He grinned, playing ungrateful.

“No, but I do have these,” She offered him a pair of joggers.

He eyed them in doubt. Still shirtless, he stepped over to where she was knelt down, forcing her to look up the length of him to meet his gaze. He took the pants and raised his eyebrows,

“A size medium? No way. I got too much goin’ on for that.”

“You could try them. They stretch,” she challenged, “I’ve seen you squeezing through those skinny fence slats. You might fit.”

“Oh, yeah? You been watching me crawlin’ through fences?”

She blushed against her will,

“No, you just- well, I mean you’re always-”

“I’m pulling your leg, birdie,” he winked, taking the cotton pants from her, “but this time you might wanna turn around.”

She turned back to her bag and pretended to look long and hard at her clothing choices. She could have sworn she had another set of pants but the only thing left was a big, long sleeve tee and another pair of tall socks.

“Damn,” she cursed under her breath.

“What?” He returned to her side, suddenly worried.

“No, it’s nothing. I’m just gonna change too.”

He didn’t move back as far as she thought he might, and as she began to pull off her sweater and shawl, she still felt his eyes on her.

Lightning and thunder screamed outside their sanctuary again, spooking the cow.

Sandor went over to her and petted her nose,

“Easy, girl.”

Sansa was just in her dress now and quite cold from being damp, but she took a handful of oats over to the cow and let her hand fall open. The cow put a big nostril next to her palm and then quickly took the oats into her mouth.

“She needs a better name,” she lamented, looking at the cow’s tag and then back at Sandor who was staring a little too long at the top of her sun dress, “because number 0557 just doesn’t have a ring to it.”

Her dark cowboy reached out a huge, rough hand and touched the hem of her soaked dress sleeve, feeling the raised threads of one embroidered flower.

“Daisy?” He suggested quietly, as if telling her a secret.

He didn’t let go, and she gave him a soft smile. She felt herself reaching out to touch his face, and before she could stop it from happening, Sansa was brushing back the water from his brow and wiping the drops out of his long hair. He grabbed her hand roughly and stood full height against her, making her step back until she met the wall. He pressed himself against her body, and she could feel her wet clothes soak into his borrowed pants. The rain came down in sheets outside the small barn, pounding into the earth.

“I’m going to get you wet,” she whispered, feeling awkward in the new, minimal space he created with his touch. His breath sped up at her obvious innuendo, the quaintness of it doing nothing to stop his blood from rushing through his legs to his cock.

He dropped her hand and she let it fall onto his neck and down his shoulder, still bare. His skin was heated and sticky from sweat, but before she could get very far with her exploration, behind them the cow loudly belted out a pained moo and shuffled into a prone position.

Sansa gasped from the shock of the noise and laughed. Sandor laughed with her, suddenly sobered up and now feeling entirely too close to her. She saw his doubt creep up into his face and put her hand back on his neck, curling around it, pulling at the charred skin with reassurance. His eyes returned to hers as they were before, searching her face like he was waiting on her to say something.

The pause went on for a breath too long, and Sansa began to doubt herself. Embarrassed, she bent to pull her boots off. Suddenly, like a snake strike, Sandor held her on both shoulders, giving her the same fierce expression he had displayed in her kitchen. Without warning, he grabbed the bottom hem of her dress, pulling it off of her slender body. Sansa trembled from the cold and from something else.

Her panties were wet, and her white cotton bra was soaked through, no longer concealing her pink nipples through the cloth. They ached against the cold, and as Sandor pulled the wet dress over her head, she knew he saw them, too. He bent to kiss her mouth without hesitation, almost forcing her to bend up to meet his lips due to his height.

He devoured her, sucking hard on her lips and finally on the length of her tongue. She moaned into him, and his hand wrapped around her small throat, begging to squeeze her breath tightly and make her cry out again. But he didn’t. He just held her there, kissing her skin and licking at her mouth like she was a melting popsicle on a summer afternoon. Sweet. Innocently delicious.

She found the elastic of the borrowed joggers and started to run her fingers along the length. He shuddered, his mouth pausing, interrupted by the shock of her touch. She knew he was as hard as a stone. She could feel the unimaginable length of him pressing against her belly.

She found his hardness with shaking hands, and just as gently as she could, she rubbed down his shaft with a slow, long pull. It was his turn to moan. Sandor put his head down by her neck and struck the wall with his free fist, slamming it against the wood as if he was in sudden pain. He pushed his cock through her hand again, his hips straining to get some relief. She let go of him, pulling down her panties and snapping her bra away.

“Seven fuckin’ hells,” he growled. His voice reverberated against her neck; he was bent so close to her.

He grabbed her hair at her nape and kissed her hard enough that she couldn’t breathe. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and moved his jaw against hers like he wanted to eat her alive. Then, without much warning, she felt his fingers between her legs, and when he found the wetness there, slicker than the rain, he moaned darkly again. Plunging a long, thick finger into her core, he began to fuck her in his hand, his other hand pumping his cock until it swelled even more than when she held it. His pants pooled around his knees, unwanted.

She hadn’t felt a man’s finger in her core in years. Compared to her soft, lithe ministrations, the ruggedness was so very welcomed. He seemed to know just where to look to find her most vulnerable buttons to press. And gods, did he love to press them. Sandor hunted down each one, digging into her folds and massaging the skin in hungry circles. Sansa cried out as she felt herself coming undone, unspooling like a loose rope.

After she came, Sansa felt a terrible emptiness within her as he gently removed his skillful hand from her body. But, it gave her a moment to drop to her knees and take some control. She reached out, almost as if not to spook him, and held his heavy cock, feeding him into her mouth. She worked hard to take as much in on the first try as she could. She heard Sandor gasp in a deep breath and let it out raggedly. He pulled himself out of her mouth with his hips and ever so gently pushed himself back in, softly and carefully as to not hurt her. She put her hands on his hips in reassurance, pulling him closer, even though her confidence didn’t match her actions.

Sandor’s body reacted without his input, his hips pushing his hardness back into her mouth with more force and more depth than what may have been polite. Sansa moaned and tried to suck him in, letting her tongue roll lazily against his soft head. Shocked by her eagerness, he sucked in cold air through gritted teeth. Hungry for her, he pushed himself into her warm mouth, deeper and deeper, until he heard her gagging for a breath.

He let her breathe and repeated the action. Pulling himself out, sliding himself back in. She felt undone, as if every time she swallowed him, his pleasure was coursing through her veins instead.

Sandor was a mess. He’d begged God, for many moons now, for just a moment of having her on her knees before him, sucking him, licking him, milking him into submission. And now, here she was. It was better than his manifestations had ever hoped to be.

He wanted to come in Sansa Stark’s rosy cunt. He wanted to feel her soft walls flutter and clench against his hardness. He wanted her to scream and scream until her pretty little songbird voice was lost.

Sandor reached down to cup her cheek, pulling his cock from her lips and kneeling down to meet her on the hay-dusted floor. He kissed her again, tasting the precome that she had collected from his body. He pushed a hand up to find her soft breasts and kneaded them desperately, tugging at her nipples and making her writhe beneath his hand. Sansa looked on in awe as he bent down to suck on her skin, leaving tiny bruises behind with his fervor. She was trembling from the need to come again. Unable to voice her desires, completely at his mercy, Sansa cradled his head, fingernails digging into his neck and back, all but begging him to fuck her.

“Please,” she whispered into his temple, “Sandor. Please. Oh, Gods, please.”

“Please what?” He growled into her neck.

“Please fuck me. I can’t -”

Those words, like a magic spell, were all he wanted to hear. As soon as he felt his length sink into her wet pussy, he could die happy.

“Granted,” he promised.

He pushed her down onto the hay bale they had been sitting on and knealt over her, pushing her legs apart and guiding himself into her pink lips. His head dipped into her gently, painting her clit with her own juices, and then he filled her carefully - inch by agonizing inch. With every breath she took, he went that much deeper. She thought he might go on forever when, finally, a fullness stretched her just that much wider. She had met the base of his thick, heavy rod, and she shivered from it, legs threatening to close together from the intensity.

He stopped her from closing herself off, forcing her long legs back down and pushing himself into her over and over, the wetness of her making delicious noises as he began to pound into her body. Her bruised, swollen breasts were exposed to the air, dress abandoned. Sandor grasped them tightly, pushing them together and pinning her down.

She thought she might be coming, but when a true orgasm hit her, she realized she had just been tingling from his girth. Sansa came hard around him, and he pushed into her as if he wanted to feel every pulse of her racing heartbeat in her core. He could feel her fluids coat the base of his cock, the stickiness soaking his skin and matting his hair. When she let out a long moan, he bent down to squeeze and suck on her neck, whispering dark secrets into her skin,

“Sansa. Little bird. My little bird. Fuck! What a good girl you are. Do you know how long I’ve begged the Gods to give you to me? You are the finest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. My soft little dove. This cunt was meant for me.”

He fucked her faster and harder, spurred on by her screaming his name, pleading with him to come inside of her. He listened to her mantra - come in me, come in me - and he started to lose it. Sandor was shocked to feel so powerless to her command. He started to feel thick bands of searing hot come burst into her pussy. He pushed into her body desperately, his seed leaking out of her from the pressure. He held himself fully encased in her, feeling her tremble around him, burying himself in her as deep and as long as he could stand it.

When he slid out, he marveled at the beauty of her come-filled hole and reached out to touch it. He smeared it onto her pussy lips and pulled it onto her clit. Rubbing it into her skin like a salve, pushing it into her asshole with a gentle finger, taking some and massaging it into her nipples and breasts, feeding her with his fingers. As she suckled at his index finger he wondered if he would come again right then.

He sat back on his heels and gazed upon her tired body. She had her eyes closed, hair braided but askew, pussy covered in his slick come, glistening with sweat. He felt like he had been in a fight. His body ached and yet there was a dark voice that told him to fuck her again. Fuck her and do nothing else. Don’t eat. Don’t sleep. Just keep on breeding her in this shitty lean-to until you die.

She stirred. Sitting up, she reached out and grabbed his face. Whispering his name she kissed him chaste on the mouth. He could smell his scent on her lips. That dark voice screamed inside him that he wanted her to reek of his come all the time. To bathe her in it. Make her yours. She belongs to you.

He watched her gather her strength and step into the heavy rain, letting it soak her long red hair, braids dripping rivulets down her back and ass cheeks as she experienced the shower.

Sandor followed behind her and pulled her to him, her ass pushed against his cock. He was nearly hard again. They were both fully naked in the field, rebelliously erotic. He wrapped a hand around Sansa’s pale throat and made her arch her back to him. He took two fingers and stretched her pussy again, pushing at her wet walls. Then he pressed one wet finger into her ass.

After quite a few gentle thrusts, she relaxed and cried out to him in a new pitch. He pushed into her farther, repeating his insertion - then out, then in, warming her up to this new challenge. The rain fell into his open gasping mouth. She screamed at his thrusting. He pushed a second finger into her, her hole now accustomed to his rhythm. Then, he pulled out of her entirely and she felt that terrible emptiness return.

Sandor tossed her on all fours in the mud, frantically kneeling behind her, muddy himself, and he began to stuff his head into her asshole. She felt full in a way she never had, and she noticed her body trying to push back into him and meet his thrusts. It was as if she couldn’t stand being without his hardness.

Finally, after an eternity of stretching out muscles that had almost never been used, he began to fuck her ass with a sure, slow rhythm. He watched the raindrops pool on the small of her pale back, poorly illuminated by the single barn light. She was grunting loudly, yelling with a deep guttural shout at each and every moment his cock slid into her. It made him crazy. He reached down and began to finger fuck her pussy again, filling her, splitting her, and he could feel the intrusion of his own dick through her skin. He watched as her hole stretched open to fit him. She screamed louder, unable to hold back from his assault, enslaved to the onslaught of his pleasure.

“Sandor, I want you to come in me. I want your come. I wanna feel you come again. Please, I’ve wanted you for so long. Sandor.”

He was thrilled to oblige. Sandor grabbed her hips and started to stuff himself into her ass with a new purpose. He was shouting at every thrust along with her. Her tightness and wetness and warmth was too intense for him to bear. When it was almost time, that shadowy voice returned, telling him to breed her again. To fill her womb with his seed and make her carry his come in her until they drove back to the house in the morning. He didn’t make it, as just the idea of it pushed him over the edge. Thinking about her full of his seed, smelling like him, full of him - it was too much. Her ass took his load from him, and as he removed his cock from her, he watched it mix with the rain and trickle from her asshole, falling into the dip of her cunt and into the cold mud below.

Sansa fell back against him, panting, needing him to care for her. He lifted her up and carried her back to the blanket, turning to grab a towel from his bag, originally meant for the cow.

Clean again, she used the towel to dry off and put on the long sleeve tee and new pair of socks from her bag. She did not put on her wet panties. Instead, she sat back on the blanket cross-legged, letting him watch as his come dripped out of her, laying back as she caught her breath.

“Sandor, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. If I had known -”

“I won’t wait any longer. Be with me, little bird.”

She smirked knowingly at him, crawling into his lap and promising into his ear,

“Granted.”

taking a break from our regularly-scheduled COD programing to celebrate these two menaces <3 <3 don't worry, john price will be right back, i swear.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #game of thrones fanfiction #asoif/got #asoif fanfic #asoiaf fanfic #sansan #sansan au #sandor clegane #sansa stark #house stark #ranch life

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medicdoodles · 9 months

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A mashup of IDW and Seige canon of Ratchet and Deadlock, meet and run his underground asylum.

Based on Dialogue trees you get from Futomimi and Sakagahi, when you do the Aferlife Bell quest in SMT Nocturne.

For Ratchlock day.

(Next Chapter) || (Last Chapter)

There's a stain shaped like a human.

Work hard, do your best, and eventually you'll get somewhere.

When Ratchet transferred from the highest ranked schooling from Vaporex to the political charged state of Iacon, he expected pointed comments. He expected turned up faces. What he didn't know was how much he would be pushed into being an engineer.

Sure he has some skill in the field, many of his professors have left comments on it but never has he imagined being one. However, Ratchet found that his study to become a medic was going nowhere. Everywhere he went all of the classes would refuse his application, but he didn't give up.

If he wasn't going to be an official student he could still go to classes. When other mechs would sneak out or skip lectures he would slip in. Medic trainees would pay him to do their homework and he took it. All this hard work pays off, he gets the top scores, his engineering career is going well too. When his colleagues get hurt he can repair them better than the campus doctors. Then he graduated...

He gets hired to work on ground bridge operations. It doesn't excite him but it was honest work, and he could save enough money to carry equipment for a first aid kit. Once he was shipped off to the outskirts of the Dead End, that's where he finds his calling.

Since all fast travel in the area was decommissioned, Ratchet was forced to drive out to all locations. It wasn't too bad, but since he was the only one willing to do this job he was on his own. That's when he sees in person just how much Cybertron has abandon.

Streets filled with broken mechs and ruined buildings. There's no hope here, and his white paint lights up against the ash filled air, stains the vision of the city. It was silent until a siren went off in the distance. Despite him knowing the police's pensions for brutality, seeing it with his own eyes still frighten him.

"You're going to be okay." He hears a bot the panic in his voice. "Just hang in there, I'm going to get you help. Just hold on." Ratchet makes it to the voice. It was two bots in the middle of the road, both covered in blood. However, one person is down, closer to death.

"I don't think I can...", said bot also coughs up more blood. "Just wait for me to pass on. Then you can scavenge my parts."

"It's not fair." The mech brakes eye contact, looking to the sky. Then he looks towards the siren lights driving away. "They killed the wrong bot..."

"Let me try to help." Ratchet walks up to two mechs. The back mind is yelling at him, he's a ground bridge operator, an engineer, never even picked ot study medic. He can't do this, but he also can't stand here doing nothing. "I can't promise anything, but please I want to help."

They both look at him with a befuddled faces. He knows they shouldn't trust him but something must have broken because they allow him to help. They let him operate, and by the end of it all they thanked him, and for the first time since he left his home village, he felt proud of himself.

That's when Ratchet knew the direction of where is life is going. He would make money fixing and maintaining public works, taking other jobs, and making as much money as he could to build a clinc. He set it up in the center of Dead End, chosen it to give it resistance the fastest access to him. He worked himself tirelessly between these jobs and for the first time in his life. He managed to find success and happiness.

Do you think my life was a success?

Yes

>No

I see... yeah you might be right.

Just when I thought I achieved happiness, my fortune collapsed like a house of cards.

Then the outside world gotten word about it. The Senate at first only saw the healing of Dead End's bots. That they would start to walk around and they would fix the left over peices of the city. Had enough energy to walk around and wanted to start working.

However, Ratchet soon discovered that this was unwanted. That if Dead End successfully pulled itself together and made it possible to be something, then the fundamental ideology of Functionism would be thrown into question. If that where to happen, what other mechs would go against the class systems set forward by them.

It couldn't stand, so they made sure it didn't, and so they set off a bomb. Framed as an accident during transit from the military bases, they had approved of it being set off. Then they approved of some police officers to do a quick sweep of firing rounds to hit what remained. They're mission wasn't to kill anyone but if the managed too, it wasn't seen as a bad thing.

At the time Ratchet was sent off planet to see if he could assist in fixing a space bridge from Lunar-2 to Tyger Pax. Of course when it played on the news he tried to ground bridge there, but couldn't. His first transporters where destroyed, when he did get back, his clinc as well. Then when he made it home, his house was raided too.

Nothing made him feel so powerless than when he was stopped at the front door. A mech had pinned him against the wall of his assigned room and warned him away from returning to Dead End. That if they found out he went back he wouldn't be able to keep his face.

Worse was when the said mech had his hands wonder all over his body, and said next time he gets sent out he has permission to do as he pleases with him. Ratchet also finds all of his funds were frozen out, and when he does get access to them all of the money had disappeared.

You should be careful. You never know what tomorrow may bring...

After all of that, Ratchet still tries to help. He still returns to assist all the mechs of the city. They still look at him with hopefully eyes, but understanding that they could never crawl out by their own strength. Many where mad at him for even letting them entertain the idea. Others where mad for him, after all it was one thing to steal from bots with nothing on them. It was another to kick the bot who tries to give a hand to someone who needs it.

Most bots however, joined the Decepticons. They believed that if the government had been threatened by their peaceful solution then they would coware at their revolution. All of this would lead to their planet dying, not that the blame could be one sided. The Senate and later the Autobots would fight them to standstill.

Ratchet would find himself in the middle of it. At first he tried to stay neutral but the bots of Dead End where quick to bring up the attack. Then it was shaking down his person and finally braking into his home and ransacking his equipment.

Traitor was branded on his door, then on his frame. When Ratchet returned to work with a still orange smelter on his left hip, his friend Wheeljack, help him join the Autobots. For a time he was safe, the squad he joined even allowed him to repair any bot whom he wanted, even Decepticons were allowed to be fixed.

Do you think my life was a success?

>Yes

That's what everybody else thought, too.

...until that one day.

That was until a superior officer had came down for a vist. When they saw Ratchet repair two mechs with purple badges, they made it clear to him this would stop. If he gets caught again they would charge him with treason and he would be place on the enemy list. That's when he knew he had to go.

Being a deserter was a lighter charge than being a traitor. With his life on the line again, Ratchet has to go, because he could never leave a bot to die. In his spark he could never leave a mech to die without trying. He gives Wheeljack his coordinates, he trust that mech to only uses it when absolutely necessary.

Or at least he did.

The next time he sees his former colleague the bot had brought in toe a former bailiff turned Assassin. They force Ratchet to hand over everything on his person. The bots he was traveling with where tied down and put into custody of the Prime.

For the first time in my life, I had the urge to kill.

He was left on the ground, one push away from the cliffside. Wheeljack had saved his life but at the freedom of others. That's when he tells him to never find him again. That if he truly is sorry, he would only give that location to mechs who need it. They both promised something that day and that would be the last time he would speak to him, or it seemed.

So much anger,

As the war went on, Ratchet would travel. He would make a portable ground bridge went to the next battlefields and collect both parts and bots left behind to die. Like a Grim Reaper, he walks the path of death. However, he wouldn't take life he would do his best to keep it.

Rumor about his presence as a super natural entity made it easier to avoid authority. Many bots who believed in apparitions would come with him quietly. When he repaired them all of them would stay by him. When two bots of different factions would meet, it was almost always up to him to keep them civil.

Then he ran into Deadlock. The bot he gained feelings for. At first he didn't recognize him, but in private the mech tells him about the time they first met. That he was standing in the middle of the road in his friend's arm about to die. Then he adimts about the time he almost turned him to Megatron.

But the only way he could place Deadlock to the incidents is when he spoke those words to him. "Come on Doc, don't think like that. Everyone has kindness in their hearts."

That's when Ratchet's spark drops. This was the mech who was sent to capture him. Who knew of his habit of helping injured bots and almost trapped him into the Decepticons. Whenever he looks at Deadlock now, all he sees is a bot who has changed course, and doesn't he deserve a chance at it.

Ratchet of course also has a bad habit of letting mechs who hurt him do it again. So they both come to an agreement, he repairs Deadlock and takes him to back. The mech agrees to help him out with his operations.

So that's what they did. Ratchet would travel around and Deadlock would follow in tow. Keeping him safe and holding down bots when their reflexes kicked in. Later when their party had gotten too big to travel around and the building became to full. Deadlock drove off without a word.

Weeks became months and when two years passed by the mech came back. He tells Ratchet that he managed to find a bombed down theater that still had functional power. It was large enough for housing and medical care. When he shows him Ratchet is so relieved that he kisses him on the spot.

Deadlock field goes haywire but he doesn't reject it. Instead he grabs Ratchet's frame and frags him hard and wild, places him on the stage. With his groveling voice yells into Ratchet's microphone pick ups that he can't wait when the crew comes in. That after a long shift of picking up bots and patching up frames they would do this again, and next time they will have an audience to perform for.

That was the only time they had. As most of it was being too exhausted with fixing the building. Making sure that it look destroyed from the outside, having to only fix the bottom floors without collapsing the building from the top proved to be difficult. Even with the mechs he saved helping out, many issuses of resources and planning was still too much to worry about.

So Deadlock planned to search again. He spends his last night just sitting next to Ratchet. Telling him not worry, and he will comm every day just to reassure him of his safety. Ratchet gives him his ground bridge. Tells him to come back immediately after he finds something he thinks will help and that he will pick up his calls even if he can't talk back.

That was the last time they speak together, because once Ratchet was properly situated he update Wheeljack of his location.

There's a stain shaped like a human.

That's when he finds Impactor and things spirals out of control. Between Wheeljack taking Optimus Prime here, their entourage raising tempers and talks about Megatron abuse of the Matrix. Ratchet has to leave.

Many of his mechs encourage him to stay. Prime has no power here and if they want his help he should force the Autobots to promise to leave them alone. He doesn't answer them, he knows Wheeljack has betrayed him before. That the army has force his hands, but something tells him complying is the best option.

He turns to Impactor, tells him to tell the bigger bots to take care of the sick. Ratchet knows that mech has turned himself around and regained his spark. So it comes to a surprise that the mech follows behind him. Defending him from Elita-One and even sacrificing his own frame by pulling his comm out.

They violated him and still Impactor smiles at him, stays with him and gives his life for him. He sees his spark give out, but never sees his new found love of life leave his body.

That mankin died. He died the instant he became human. You see humans cannot exist in the vortex world...

As he boards the Arc, Ratchet gets a call from Deadlock. When he reached to answer the distance is to far.

#transformers #transformers siege #transformers war for cybertron #maccadam #ratchet #Seige Ratchet #Deadlock #Siege Deadlock #ratchlock #Ratchlock Day #DRAtchet #dritchet #fanfic #valveplug

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coffeeinkwell · 2 years

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D&D Tutorial: The Iron-Arm Festival

Overview

The Iron-Arm Festival is operated by a traveling troupe of warriors, artisans, and other works. It can be located near any major civilization, and every structure from the wooden fenceposts to the carnival games themselves are designed to be easily deconstructed, transported, and rebuilt at a new venue. Although there are some games intended for commoners to enjoy, like a jousting tournament performed for a king it is understood that many of the challenges are intended for warriors to test their strength and contain a certain element of danger to them. However, none of the games are known to be particularly deadly.

The festival typically occupies a lot approximately 100 yards wide and 200 yards long, though the dimensions can be adjusted by the workers easily. The entrance is typically placed at the center of one of the shorter ends of the lot. The largest structure is the haunted house, which is on the opposite end of the festival from the entrance. The other games are wooden booths, typically two or three yards wide. At any location there will be one or two guards within eyesight, usually hired from a nearby town. If a fight breaks out, guards will shout for other guards, two arriving each round.

The entrance to the festival is a simple opening in the wooden fence with a sign above it displaying the name of the festival in common. A knight that travels with the festival, named Sir Chalask, stands guard and is prepared to answer any general questions the players may have about the festival. If a fight breaks out, Sir Chalask will arrive to put an end to it in 1d4-1 rounds.

Hooks

If the festival is being used as the introduction to a larger campaign, these example story hooks can be used to connect the festival to the next task for the players, and motivate them to explore the festival. The largest structure and "final area" of the festival is the haunted house, which is where the goal of the players most likely resides.

An informant or other ally of the players has invited them to meet at a certain location within the festival. This ally can possess information necessary for a larger adventure.

A reward promised for the completing of the haunted house is of particular interest to the players.

The worker that operates the haunted house is rumored to be an actual necromancer, and a reward is promised for his capture. In truth, he obtains the undead for his haunted house from a supplier of sorts, which could prompt the players to embark on a different quest.

A rival to the party insists they can obtain more prize tickets or perform better at a particular game than the players.

Prize Booth

The prize booth is located in the center of the festival, and should only become visible to the players after they complete a couple of the "simple games". Prizes can be exchanged for a certain number of tickets, which are awarded for completing festival games:

1 Ticket: A "mystery box", which contains a random trinket. (See pages 160-161 of the Player's Handbook)

2 Tickets: Simple tools or basic adventuring gear. Thieves' Tools, other kits and tools, equipment packs, and inexpensive weapons can be used as prizes.

5 Tickets: Common magic items. Any item from pages 136-140 of Xanathar's Guide to Everything are suitable, but I recommend Cast-off Armor, Cloak of Billowing, Clockwork Amulet, Dread Helm, Horn of Silent Alarm, Orb of Time, and 3 pieces of Walloping Ammunition.

10 Tickets: A potion of healing.

Simple Games

These games are immediately visible to the players from the entrance. They are intended to teach players basic mechanics. These games are not dangerous, and are frequented by commoners. After the players complete a couple of these games, the prize booth and the "advanced games" should become visible to them as they venture deeper into the festival grounds.

Test of Strength: A "high striker", or strength tester, game, played by striking a lever with a mallet hard enough to send a metal puck up to a bell. The player makes a strength check. Getting a 10 or higher sends the puck up halfway, and the player is rewarded with 2 tickets. Getting a 15 or higher rings the bell, and the player is rewarded with 5 tickets.

Hypnotism Stage: A gnome stage magician invites audience members to climb onto the stage and attempt to resist his hypnosis. A participant must make a DC 15 wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, the hypnotist commands them to do something embarrassing, such as cluck like a chicken or tell the crowd a secret of theirs. On a successful save they resist the hypnosis and are awarded 5 tickets.

Unattended Lockbox: Near the hypnotism stage, an audience member is not paying attention to a small metal lockbox by their feet. If a player possesses thieves' tools, they can attempt to open the lockbox and steal its contents. A DC 10 stealth check is necessary to avoid notice, and a DC 10 sleight of hand check is necessary to pick the lock. If opened, the box contains 5 tickets.

Guess the Weight of this Chicken: This game is more open-ended in how players can solve it. A local farmer with a chicken dares visitors of the festival to guess the weight of his prized chicken. Someone guessing must make a DC 15 perception or nature check. It's much easier to ask the chicken its weight using a spell such as Speak With Animals, or use some other spell to either measure the chicken's weight or extract the information from the farmer. Successfully answering with the chicken's weight rewards 5 tickets, but the farmer should close the game for a while or replace the chicken to avoid every party member giving the answer repeatedly.

Shell Game: A con artist with a small table challenges visitors to guess which of three shells a small bead is under after he mixes them around. The bead is enchanted, and is magically guided into his sleeve as he mixes around the shells. A Detect Magic spell or similar magic will identify the con, otherwise it requires a DC 15 perception check to notice the bead being hidden in the con artist's sleeve. When the con is revealed the con artist will give the player 5 tickets to keep them quiet, or up to 10 if a DC 10 intimidation check is met.

Advanced Games

These games become visible to the players after they complete a couple of the "simple games" and walk deeper in the festival. These games involve more complicated mechanics, and are more dangerous games played by warriors who visit the festival to test their skills. After completing one of the advanced games, the players have ventured far enough into the festival to see the haunted house at the back.

Sparring Arena: An introduction to combat. In the center of the festival is a raised arena, much like a boxing ring. A mountain dwarf with a wooden club challenges visitors to a sparring match. Challenges are only allowed to use a club to spar. Use the statistics of a guard for the dwarf, but replace their spear with a club that deals 1d4+1 bludgeoning damage on a hit, and reduce their armor class to 11. A player that wins against the mountain dwarf is rewarded with 5 tickets. Alternatively, you can have players spar with each other if you wish.

An Injured Man: A man who failed the challenge of the sparring arena lies injured nearby. If he is healed by one of the players, such as with a spell that restores hit points, he rewards the player with a number of tickets equal to the number of hit points he was restored. Only one effect that restores hitpoints can be used on the man, and after he has rewarded tickets he will leave to play another game at the festival.

Target Practice: An introduction to ranged weapons and armor class. A wooden stand contains targets of varying difficulty that festival visitors can try and hit with a shortbow. There are two rounds of targets, and for each round three arrows are provided to the challenger. The player chooses which target to aim for, makes an attack roll with the shortbow, and successfully hits the target if their attack roll meets or exceeds the target's AC. The player can choose to aim for any target as many times as they wish, but they are limited to three arrows per round. More difficult targets reward more tickets on a successful hit.

The targets for the first round are a small goblin (AC 10) (1 ticket), a thief (AC 13) (2 tickets), and an armored knight (AC 16) (3 tickets). There are two targets for the second round that both have AC 10, a target of a goblin restrained by rope (attack roll has advantage) (1 ticket) and a goblin drawn in outline to represent invisibility (attack roll has disadvantage) (3 tickets).

Haunted House

On the opposite side of the festival is the haunted house, which looks like an old dilapidated manor from afar but when approached was clearly constructed hastily out of thin planks of wood. A man named Gravesly, a gaunt and clammy human dressed in clothing that looks valuable but not well maintained, emerges and explains to the players that in order to complete the challenge of the haunted house, they must collect three keys necessary to enter the mausoleum to claim their prize. He also explains that the challenge of the haunted house is a deadly ordeal in which they must do battle with the undead.

If Gravesly is a wanted man or is otherwise pursued by one of the players, he may deliver this message through a skeletal servant. If the players have rivals at the festival who wish to compete with them at this event, they can be waiting outside.

Upon entering the front door of the haunted house, the players see two doors: One that says "Ballroom" to the left, and one that says "Kitchen" to the right. Each room contains a key, as well as an entrance to the third room, the garden. If competing with rivals, when the players pick either the ballroom or the kitchen to enter, the rivals pick the opposite room and complete that challenge themselves, and then race the players to collect the final key in the garden.

Ballroom: A 40 ft. by 40 ft. room designed to look like an expensively decorated ballroom. On the opposite side of the ballroom is a door to the garden. In the center of the ballroom are a number of skeletons equal to half the number of players, each wearing suits or dresses that look appropriate for a royal party, and each extending a hand as if expecting a dance partner. One of the skeletons has one of the three keys to the mausoleum hanging around their neck. If the players accept the skeletons' invitation to dance, each player that partners with a skeleton must make a DC 12 Performance check. Each skeleton partnered with a player that fails on the performance check becomes hostile and attacks the players. They key can be retrieved if the skeleton wearing it is not hostile, or if it is destroyed. If the players attack any of the skeletons before attempting to dance with them, all of the skeletons become hostile.

Kitchen: A 40 ft. by 40ft. room designed to look like a kitchen. On the opposite side of the kitchen is a door to the garden. On one side are pantries and appliances used for preparing food, but appears to be stocked with the dismembered limbs of humanoids. In the center of the rooms are three pedestals. On the pedestal on the right is a plate of spaghetti with a small sign that says "Poisoned Pasta". On the pedestal in the center is a plate of mushrooms with a small sign that says "Scaring Shrooms". On the pedestal on the left is a plate of berries with a small sign that says "Blinding Berries". An opened cookbook propped up on the center pedestal reads, "To Earn The Key, Eat These Three".

A player that eats the Poisoned Pasta must make a DC 10 Constitution saving throw or become poisoned for 1 minute. A player that eats the Scaring Shrooms must make a DC 10 Constitution saving throw or become frightened by all undead for 1 minute. A player that eats the Blinding Berries must make a DC 10 Constitution saving throw or become blinded for 1 minute. Even if the three items are consumed at different times, they all take effect as soon as all three are consumed.

As soon as all three items are consumed, the severed limbs animate and combine to form a number of zombies equal to half the number of players. They are all immediately hostile and attack the players, and one zombie has one of the three keys to the mausoleum hanging around its neck.

Garden: The garden is a large room in the center of the haunted house with a glass ceiling that looks like a garden of dead and withered plants. The room is 40 ft. by 60 ft. The door leading to the ballroom and the door leading to the kitchen are on one side of the 40 ft. walls. Alongside the 60 ft. walls are rows of dead shrubs. In the center of the room is a withered tree that initially holds the third key in one of its branches when the players enter the room. Along the opposite wall is a 10 ft. wide trench of miscellaneous bones, and on the other side of the trench in the center of the wall is the door to the mausoleum. The door is large, painted to look like gray stone, and has three locks that can be unlocked with each of the three keys holding the door closed with chains.

When the players enter the garden, the tree in the center animates and drops the key into the trench of bones. In order to find the key, a creature must dive into the trench of bones and search for it. The trench is difficult terrain, and a creature submerged has full cover and is blinded. The creature can use an action to make a perception or investigation check to find the key. The DC for finding the key is initially 23. However, a check of 10 or higher lowers the DC by 1, and a check of 15 or higher lowers the DC by 2. When the DC to find the key is lowered by a creature searching for it, the DC is also lowered for any of that creature's allies.

At initiative 20, 1d4 twig blights animate from the dead shrubs along the walls at locations of your choice. On their own initiative they will advance towards the trench to try and stop creatures from finding the key, but will stop to fight any creature that stands in their way. Being blinded in the trench does not require twig blights to attack with disadvantage due to their blindsense. When any creature finds the key, the twig blights cease to be animated and fall to the ground unless the key is somehow lost again.

Mausoleum: Gravesly is waiting at the mausoleum to give players their prize. The mausoleum is a small room, 40 ft. wide and 20 ft. long, and painted to appear like a dimly-lit stone gravesite. Standing behind a table that looks like a coffin is Gravesly, along with two skeleton servants. On the wall behind him is a door that has the words "Employees Only" painted on it. If Gravesly is a wanted man or is otherwise attacked by the players, he can hypothetically attempt to escape through that door and alert guards in the festival. The door is locked, requiring Gravesly to use an action to unlock, and leads to a 20 ft. hallway that needs to be crossed before a creature can leave the haunted house. If Gravesly needs to fight, use the statistics for a thug to represent him. He will order his skeletons to attack in melee range in order to gain advantage through his Pack Tactics trait.

The prizes offered at the haunted house can be whatever you intend the players to utilize for a further adventure. I recommend offering each player a choice between 500 gp or an uncommon magic item. This choice can offered using a magic balance scale that instantly destroys whichever item is not first grabbed by the player. (If a creature attempts to grab both at once, they take 2d6 lightning damage as the scale shocks them and both items are destroyed). If you are feeling risky (or don’t plan on continuing this adventure further), this choice can be between 500 gp or a single card from the Deck of Many Things.

#d&d #dnd #d&d one shot #dnd one shot #dnd homebrew

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queenofcats17 · 2 years

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Interview #4 Cordelia Bell

Inspired by the banners in the BATDR trailer hinting that Nathan Arch made a documentary about Joey and the studio, I wanted to write out a hypothetical interview with Cordelia for said documentary.

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

“Thank you so much for coming, Miss Bell.”

The camera focuses on a woman seated in a chair at the far right of the frame. She’s in her 60′s, with wrinkles around her eyes and mouth and her hair almost completely white. She’s dressed rather conservatively in a long-sleeved white blouse and a long blue checkered skirt. She wears pearl earrings and a gold necklace in the shape of the treble clef. She sits upright, hands folded primly in her lap.

“I wanted to be able to tell my side of the story,” she replies. Her voice is soft and her smile is gentle. There’s a guarded edge to her, however, as though she’s expecting trouble.

The room she’s being interviewed in is a spare conference room at Archgate Films. The walls are painted a deep green and a large wood table takes up most of the room. It’s been pushed to the side a bit so that the interviewer and his crew could set up their equipment.

Cordelia’s chair is close to the wall, with a potted plant to the left of her and a floor lamp to the right. The floor lamp is turned off, leaving her lit by the overhead lights.

“Let’s get started then.” The interviewer sits down in the frame. He’s seated in the left corner of the frame, his back to the camera. “How did you start working at Joey Drew Studios?”

“Well, I was 19,” Cordelia begins. “It was 1930, the Depression had just hit the year before. Money was tight. I saw an ad in the paper advertising a secretary position and I thought, ‘what do I have to lose’? The worst they could do was tell me no.” She pauses, a look of fondness crossing her features. “But they didn’t. Mr. Drew hired me on the spot and I was made the secretary to the great Sammy Lawrence.” She makes a grand gesture as she says his name, letting out a little giggle.

“And what was that like? Being Sammy’s secretary?”

Cordelia’s laughter dies and her lips twist, her brow furrowing. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about him. He could be hard to work with, yes, but he was far from the madman everyone says he was. He just...” She stops, letting out a long exhale and fingering her necklace. “He didn’t do well with people. He would have been much happier if Mr. Drew hadn’t made him the department head. He just wanted to do his work and be left alone.”

The interviewer shifts, leaning forward. “Why do you think Mr. Drew made him the music director if he was so unsuited for it?”

“I couldn’t say.” Cordelia shrugs slightly. “There were...quite a lot of decisions Mr. Drew made that I didn’t understand. But then again, I don’t know much about running a business.” She smiles apologetically.

The interviewer leans back in his chair, sounding a bit disappointed by her straightforward response. “What sort of decisions are you referring to?”

“Springing deadlines on us without warning, forcing us to scramble to meet them,” Cordelia answers, beginning to count on her fingers. “I’m sure our work suffered for that. Wasting money on grand publicity stunts when he was struggling to pay us. Refusing to fix faulty pipes even after it became clear they weren’t going to last. Cutting corners on studio maintenance even after people got injured. Things like that.”

“That sounds rather frustrating to deal with.”

Cordelia stares into the camera with a haunted look despite her polite smile. “You have no idea.”

“Did you enjoy working for Joey Drew? It sounds like it was a taxing experience.”

Cordelia’s silent for a bit, her frown deepening. “I liked the studio. The people I met working there were people I think I’ll remember for the rest of my life. But working for Mr. Drew was....difficult. It wasn’t all that bad at first, but the more time that passed, the...harder things got.” She’s clutching at her skirt, her knuckles going white with how hard she’s holding the fabric.

There’s silence in the room for a minute as Cordelia seems to try and calm herself and the interviewer gives her the time she needs.

He is the one to break the silence once it seems she’s calm again.

“....There are rumors that Joey Drew was dabbling in the dark arts in the later years of the studio. What do you have to say about that?”

“I never saw anything like that while I was working there.” Cordelia forces a smile. “But I don’t know what sort of things he was doing behind closed doors. I’d rather not speculate, though. I may not have been terribly fond of Mr. Drew, but I don’t want to add to the rumor mill.” She pauses before adding, “I know how they can hurt.” A sharpness enters her eyes. This might be a sore point for her.

“Like the rumors that you were sleeping with Sammy Lawrence hurt you?”

The interviewer seems to have hit the nail on the head as Cordelia’s smile grows tight. “Yes, rather like that.”

“Was there any truth to those rumors?”

Cordelia uncrosses and recrosses her legs, daintily refolding her hands in her lap. “No. There was not.”

“I see.” The interviewer shifts in his seat again, clearing his throat sheepishly. “Moving on. What were your duties as Sammy’s secretary precisely? Other interviews we’ve done seem to indicate you did much more than an average secretary.”

“Well, I fielded his calls, kept track of his schedule, organized the sheet music.” A pause and another sigh. “Got him out of his sanctuary whenever he got stuck.”

The interviewer stifles a laugh. “Did that happen...often?”

Cordelia lets out a soft, breathy laugh as well. “More often than I think either of us would have liked.”

“Did you enjoy working for him?”

“I...” Cordelia falters, her gaze lowering to her lap. One hand reaches up to finger her necklace again.

“...I did,” she continues after a moment. “Frustrating as he could be at times...He was my friend. We trusted each other. And he did make such wonderful music.” She smiles sadly. “He could be awfully pretentious sometimes, but he cared so much about music. He was so passionate about every part of it. He made me want to love music as much as he did.” Her smile fades as she continues to rub circles on the necklace.

“Do you know what happened to him?” The interviewer’s voice is softer now, perhaps a bit tentative.

Cordelia shakes her head. “I wish I did. I never got to say goodbye to him. Not properly at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time I saw him he was arguing with the head of the art department, Ms. Lambert,” she explains. “I couldn’t defuse it so I just...let him storm away. I thought I’d let him cool off and we could talk about it later.” Her lips twist, tears welling up in her eyes. “We never did.” She ducks her head, trying to wipe away the tears starting to escape down her cheeks.

“We can stop if you’d like,” the interviewer suggests.

“No, I’m alright,” Cordelia tries to insist, even though she’s losing the battle to keep herself from crying. “I’m sure you have other questions you want to ask.”

“It’s alright,” the interviewer assures her. “We can continue when you’re feeling more comfortable.”

“I...” Cordelia sniffles. “Thank you.”

The camera is turned off.

“What do you think, Mr. Arch?” The interviewer asked, pausing the film.

Nathan Arch sat behind his desk, studying the stopped frame on the projector screen before him. He was still rather pleased she had agreed to be interviewed. Most of the major players at the studio had either disappeared, like Lawrence, or refused to talk about their time at the studio, like Connor. Which left the average worker, who didn’t have too much to say. But the secretary of Sammy Lawrence, who had been close enough to him to spawn rumors the two had been in a relationship? Now there was a story he needed to have for his film.

“Very good,” he said. “I think it will make a fine addition to the film. I would suggest you cut the last bit, though. After she says “we never did”. That seems a good place to end her segment.”

“Of course.” The interviewer nodded, beginning to collect his equipment.

Nathan Arch leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself. He couldn’t wait for this film to be finished.

#bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the dark revival #fanfiction #cordelia bell #nathan arch

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translationindia21 · 21 hours

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The Growing Trend of Silent Conferences Worldwide: Revolutionizing Meetings with Advanced Equipment

In today's fast-paced and increasingly virtual world, the need for effective communication in conferences and meetings has never been greater. Enter the innovative concept of silent conferences, a trend rapidly gaining popularity across the globe. Silent conferences leverage advanced technology to create a unique, focused, and interactive environment that significantly enhances participant engagement. At the heart of this revolution is the importance of quality equipment, making it essential for event organizers to hire silent conference meeting equipment to ensure a seamless experience.

https://inobee.com/read-blog/231941

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samedaypestcontrolvic · 7 days

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The Importance of Detailed Termite Inspections Before Buying a Home

Are you about to purchase a new home? Before you finalize that decision, there's a crucial step you shouldn't overlook: a thorough termite inspection. Termites are notorious for their ability to cause extensive damage without detection. Even in a home that appears pristine, these silent destroyers could be lurking. Therefore, scheduling a termite inspection in Caroline Springs is essential to ensure your new home is completely termite-free.

Top Reasons to Schedule a Termite Inspection Before Buying a Home

Protect Your Investment

A termite inspection is critical in safeguarding your investment. These pests can cause significant structural damage, impacting the value of your property and leading to expensive repairs. Termites can compromise the foundation, furniture, and various parts of your home. Hiring pest control experts in Caroline Springs ensures that your new property is free from these destructive insects, giving you peace of mind and protecting your financial investment.

Limited Insurance Coverage

Most homeowner insurance policies do not cover termite damage. This exclusion means you would be responsible for any repair costs or treatments required to deal with an infestation found after purchase. By identifying these issues early, you can minimize the financial burden and protect your property from extensive damage.

Hidden Activity

Termites can remain undetected within a home's structure for years. They often leave no visible signs like mud tubes or damaged wood, making them difficult to spot. A professional termite inspection can reveal hidden termite activity, allowing for timely intervention and preventing further structural damage.

Prevent Future Headaches

Early detection of termites can save you from future problems, including extensive damage and costly treatments. Addressing termite issues before they escalate can help you save time, money, and stress. It's better to handle these problems proactively rather than dealing with them after they've caused significant damage.

Why Hire Professionals for Termite Inspection in Caroline Springs?

Specialized Training

Professional termite inspectors undergo rigorous training in termite detection techniques. This training equips them to identify subtle signs of infestation that might be overlooked by an untrained eye. Their expertise ensures a thorough and accurate inspection.

Advanced Technology

Experts use advanced technology, such as moisture meters and infrared cameras, to detect termite activity hidden within walls and other structures. These tools provide a more precise and comprehensive inspection, ensuring no signs of termites are missed.

Local Knowledge

Professionals have a deep understanding of termite behavior and infestation patterns specific to your area. This local knowledge allows them to tailor their inspections and treatments to effectively manage the termite species and environmental factors present in Caroline Springs.

Access to Treatment Options

Professional termite inspectors have access to a variety of treatment options, including environmentally friendly and low-toxicity solutions. This range of treatments allows them to customize their approach to meet your specific needs and preferences, ensuring effective and safe termite management.

Can You Inspect for Termites on Your Own?

While it's possible for homeowners to conduct their termite inspections, there are significant challenges and limitations to DIY efforts. Professionals possess specialized training and extensive experience that enable them to identify signs of termite activity that non-experts might miss.

The Trained Eye

Professional inspectors are skilled at spotting subtle indicators of infestation and have access to advanced equipment like moisture meters and infrared cameras. These tools help detect hidden termite activity that DIY inspections might overlook. Misidentifying or missing signs of termite activity can lead to ineffective treatment strategies and further damage.

Avoiding Further Damage

DIY inspections can sometimes disturb termite colonies or inadvertently damage the property, exacerbating the problem and increasing repair costs. Professional inspectors ensure accurate assessments and comprehensive solutions, preventing further damage and effectively addressing infestations.

The Bottom Line

Hiring a professional for a termite inspection is essential to ensure you are fully aware of the condition of the home you plan to buy. This clarity helps prevent future problems and protects your investment. If you're searching for a reliable pest control company in Caroline Springs, we are here to help.

Same-Day Pest Control Caroline Springs offers prompt, hassle-free, and affordable termite inspection services. We understand the importance of your investment and provide customized solutions to eliminate termites and safeguard your property and health. Contact us now to learn more about our treatments, pricing, and procedures.

#Caroline Springs #Same-Day Pest Control Caroline Springs #Pest Control Caroline Springs #termite inspection in Caroline Springs

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silent123456 · 4 months

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Silent Conference In Hong Kong

A silent conference in Hong Kong is an innovative and unique event where participants use wireless headphones to listen to the speakers or presenters, eliminating the need for traditional loudspeakers. This technology allows for multiple presentations or discussions to occur simultaneously in the same space, without sound interference. It's gaining popularity in Hong Kong due to its ability to adapt to various event types, from corporate seminars and workshops to outdoor festivals. Attendees can switch between different audio channels to choose the content they want to engage with, making it a flexible and interactive experience. Silent conferences in Hong Kong are not only a modern solution to noise pollution but also a testament to the city's embrace of cutting-edge event technologies.

#Silent Conference System In Hong Kong #silent conference system rental #Silent Headphone for Conference #silent meeting equipment hire

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silentconference · 8 months

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Silent conference in Colombo

A silent conference in Colombo, much like its counterparts around the world, offers a remarkable and novel approach to gatherings and events. By equipping attendees with wireless headphones, it transforms the way people engage with presentations and discussions. In a bustling city like Colombo, where noise pollution can be a challenge, silent conferences provide an ideal solution. Participants can tune into their chosen channel to listen to speakers or content, creating a customized and immersive experience. This technology is being increasingly embraced for various occasions in Colombo, from educational seminars to music festivals, making it a versatile and forward-thinking choice for event organizers. Silent conferences in Colombo symbolize the city's commitment to innovation and ensuring a quieter, more enjoyable event experience for all.

#Silent Conference System In Colombo #Silent Headphone for Conference #silent meeting equipment hire #silent meeting system rental #silent conference system rental

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best-way-cleaning · 11 days

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5 Hidden Benefits of Hiring Office Cleaning Services in Sydney

Keeping an office clean isn't just about tidiness; it's about creating an environment where productivity thrives and impressions are always positive. But beyond the obvious advantages, there are several hidden benefits to hiring professional office cleaning services in Sydney. Let's uncover these lesser-known perks that can transform your workplace.

Enhanced Employee Productivity

Cleaner Environment Boosts Focus

A clutter-free and clean environment can significantly enhance employee concentration. When desks are dust-free and the office smells fresh, employees are less distracted and more focused on their tasks. Think of a clean office as the foundation of a productive day; without the nagging clutter, the mind can focus better.

Reduced Sick Days

Another hidden benefit is the reduction in employee sick days. Professional cleaners ensure that common areas, restrooms, and kitchens are thoroughly sanitized, minimizing the spread of germs. Fewer germs mean fewer sick days, keeping your team healthy and your productivity high.

Professional Image

First Impressions Matter

When clients walk into your office, the cleanliness of the space forms their first impression. A spotless office reflects professionalism and attention to detail. It's the silent message that speaks volumes about your business standards.

Client Perception

Clients and partners notice everything. A clean office can improve their perception of your business, making them more likely to trust and engage with you. It’s akin to dressing well for an important meeting – your office needs to look the part too.

Cost-Effective Solution

Reducing Overhead Costs

Hiring a professional cleaning service can actually save you money in the long run. Instead of paying for in-house cleaning staff, with associated benefits and overhead costs, outsourcing can be a more cost-effective solution. You pay for what you need, and the cleaning company takes care of the rest.

Long-Term Savings

Regular professional cleaning can extend the lifespan of office furniture and carpeting. Dust and grime can degrade materials over time, but with consistent cleaning, you can avoid premature replacements and save on long-term costs.

Access to Specialized Equipment and Expertise

Advanced Cleaning Tools

Professional cleaning services come equipped with advanced tools and cleaning products that ensure a deeper clean than typical office supplies can provide. From high-powered vacuums to industrial-strength cleaners, they have what it takes to keep your office in top shape.

Expert Knowledge

Professional cleaners are trained to handle various cleaning challenges. Their expertise means they can tackle tough stains, high-traffic areas, and specialized surfaces with the right techniques and products, ensuring optimal results.

Customizable Cleaning Plans

Tailored to Business Needs

Every business is unique, and so are its cleaning needs. Professional cleaning services offer customizable plans that can be tailored to suit your specific requirements. Whether you need daily cleaning or just a deep clean once a month, there's a plan that fits your needs.

Flexibility in Scheduling

Professional cleaners work around your schedule. They can clean during off-hours to avoid disrupting your operations, ensuring your office is always in pristine condition without affecting productivity.

Healthier Work Environment

Improved Air Quality

Dust, allergens, and pollutants can accumulate in an office, affecting air quality and employee health. Professional cleaning services use HEPA filters and other advanced methods to improve indoor air quality, creating a healthier workspace.

Prevention of Germ Spread

A thorough cleaning regimen helps prevent the spread of germs, reducing the likelihood of illnesses spreading through the office. This means fewer disruptions and a more consistent work environment.

Conclusion

Hiring professional office cleaning services in Sydney offers more than just a clean workspace. It enhances employee productivity, projects a professional image, saves costs, provides access to specialized equipment and expertise, and creates a healthier work environment. By investing in a clean office, you're investing in the overall success and well-being of your business.

#office cleaning #commercial cleaning services #cleaning services #commercial cleaning

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caranelguild · 24 days

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February 18 - March 12, 2IY 1

After securing funding, collecting equipment, and spending vouchers on a slew of magical items, our adventurers promise to meet Gilderoy and his expedition team on the southern border of that great and mysterious wilderness known as the Lost Forest.

Roughly two weeks later, in the curious settlement known as Bolgi, home to a community of wood elves who slowly turn into trees as they age, the UFO gang meets Gilderoy's party: Drakon the dragonborn, hired muscle, and Neptunus A.T. Hunny-Quintinius-Wildbare, gnome recordist, along with Albrecht, Cyndy, Sage, and Glorp the axbeak, packgoat, mule, and horse.

The expedition journal from twenty years ago relates that Gilderoy's uncle began his perilous trek north of a solitary hill on the fringe of the jungle, so our adventurers ask around and locate a likely hill a day's journey to the east of Bolgi.

From here, the party heads north into the trees. On their second day in the jungle, they come upon the second landmark from the journal: a curious clearing lush with tall grass. Locke Ullmark observed some sort of floating, perhaps conscious spear-beings in this clearing and avoided it.

Our party strides boldly into the grass.

Before setting eyes on any slender monsters, floating or otherwise, the party is assaulted by magical force. It turns out they are surrounded by these spear-things, which are camouflaged in the thick grass and unified in some sort of oppressive spell!

Various members of the party attempt to engage with the spears, but the grass makes it difficult enough, before factoring in the monster's incredible speed: they disappear as soon as anyone lays an eye on them.

As Brindhelga begins dropping molotov cocktails from her flying broom, the rest of the expedition party hastily exits the grass. Soon enough, the whole of the clearing is aflame, and our party leaves it behind.

Most of two more days have passed, traveling north, when our adventurers encounter a wood elf stumbling through the trees. It becomes clear that he has been driven mad, and our party attempts to discover how.

Through empathy and mind-reading magic, the story unfolds: the wood elf was once a traveling merchant who roamed the forest's fringe with his wife, collecting curious from just inside to sell to villages along the route. One day, they found a strange egg in the woodland, and thought it might sell: its iridescent shell was quite beautiful.

Alas, some days later, the wood elf woke up in the morning and discovered his wife, gone - and the broken pieces of a hatched egg near her bedroll. He has been searching the forest for her ever since - and it has likely been many, many years.

Our adventurers are at a lost of what to do with him. His mind is far gone: when they try to tell him that his wife is likely dead, the only cognition he exhibits is a desire to join her, before he slips again into his tragic madness.

Though Roy purchased a helm of teleportation from Azzimar and its store of magic refreshes every sunrise, therefore meaning it would cost him nothing more than an hour to get the wood elf to Bolgi, where he might be cared for and slowly rehabilitated, and back, he keeps silent as the others deliberate.

Ultimately, our adventurers cannot figure what to do. They can't take him with them, and he shouldn't be left to roam insane. He did intimate a desire to die, didn't he? Brindhelga steps in and kills him painlessly in a moment.

Wood elf naming conventions are quite curious: they form close-knit communities, and believe a person should be known by their recent actions, learned by others in the community through gossip and conversation. Therefore, their "names" are temporary things: She-who-didn't-clean-the-trash-from-her-doorstep, They-who-served-delicious-toast.

Brindhelga tells Neptunus to call the wood elf He-who-loved-his-wife in the record.

The next day, Arlex eavesdrops on a pair of birds who had been looking sideways at her with a spell of tongues, and hears them discuss whether or not to kill or abduct a child - or so the subject appears to Arlex.

The birds are slain and eaten for dinner.

The next landmark in Locke's journal is impossible to miss: a deep ravine hundreds of miles long, home to gigantic centipedes that Locke's expedition had to flee.

This time, our adventurers turn away from the path. They are more interested in the return journey landmark a few days to the east, encountered by Locke's party when they aimed to avoid the centipedes: an area wreathed in mysterious fog that, according to the journal, provided the expedition members "answers to questions they didn't know they had been asking."

So they travel east along the top of the canyon, occasionally observing the movement of a centipede far below them in the muck of the ravine bottom.

It's as they are traveling this path, on open rocky ground out of tree cover, that they first experience the reason they didn't just fly the UFO into the woods: the shadow of the Great Dragon covers them. This immense creature roams the skies above the Lost Forest and is one of the major reasons this region of the continent remains so unexplored.

It takes a full minute for its shadow to pass, and not everyone in the party is bold enough to look up at what cast it: Gilderoy runs immediately for the trees. Arlex's wyrmling companion has a particularly profound experience, looking up at the physical pinnacle of his species.

Two days pass on this path before Zilybar, scouting ahead, is first among his peers to encounter the fog: ultimately, the others have to come find their pathfinder, because he ends up lost in the fog for a few disorienting hours. He leaves the fog wreathed in the formless tails of meaningful truths; all he can grasp onto, however, is the knowledge that his sibling had once lied to him using a euphemism that he took as truth until this moment.

The party camps a stone's throw from the fog bank.

#augleth #a scattered throne #dnd #d&d #chapter 41

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