#so even if though there are many difficulties in life. as long as i stay true to myself. i will find and claim what i seek.

[irritablepoe]

I'm a joke. Just ridiculous. A laughing stock.

[okay-babe]

Imagine alastor thinks his wife is just the most perfect, angelic being he’s ever met, so he’s downright shocked to fight out she also ended up in hell going “yeah I killed a man once” (he falls even more in love)

A Good Thing, Indeed

tags: alastor x fem! reader, established relationship, alastor and reader are married, angelic reader, protective/possessive alastor, brief human alastor x human reader, fluff, very mild angst note: I went a little overboard with this one, but I hope you enjoy, anon <3 Find a sequel (of sorts) to this fic, here.

Alastor had never quite understood how someone like him had ended up with a woman like you.

You were soft and understanding, utterly ceaseless in your kindness and love of near anyone who crossed your path, a true saint to be sure.

Alastor on the other hand, had always been quite the opposite.

Where you were soft, your lover was unyielding, where you were understanding, he was impatient, and when it came to the capacity for kindness and love within his heart, many would have gone on record stating that there was much to be desired in that regard.

Yet, even still, you chose him, and he, you.

Every. Single. Time.

It was as if the two of you were meant to be.

The proud and charismatic up and coming host of a brand new radio show, and the modest and soft spoken kindergarten teacher that was ever present upon his arm.

To Alastor, you were everything and more, and whether he was willing to admit it aloud or not, he all but worshiped the very ground that you walked upon.

There was so very little worth caring for in a world like the one that he lived in, and yet there you were, a shining beacon of light and hope to keep him from losing his mind over it all (well, at least in part, though he knew deep down that a portion had been missing since long before you'd made your way into his life).

For all of this, Alastor praised you and your love ceaselessly, his appreciation for your union a vast and endless thing that filled him with a sense of pride stronger than any other he'd felt before.

And how could it not?

You were his wife.

You!

The beautiful kindergarten teacher who worked in the public school just down the street from his broadcasting station, the one with the smile that lit up a room and the laugh that could make a man blush.

The one with the students who sung her praises to their parents during pick up and the coworkers turned friends who would utterly gush about her at even the briefest mention of her name.

You.

The woman that no one believed had gotten New Orleans' most prominent radio host to settle down after only just a year of courting, and whose stunning church wedding had been the talk of the town.

You were perfect, you were lovely, and the sweetest part of it all was that you bore his last name.

And oh, what whiplash that must have caused for those who hadn't known of your courtship earlier on. It nearly sent Alastor into a tizzy just imagining it.

The sweet, adoring woman that your son calls his teacher is also the wife of the ever unreadable and notably cold radio host from just down the street that scarcely any could say they truly knew?

How scandalous! Whatever is a woman like her doing with a man like him?!

Well, the answer, quite honestly, was being doted upon nigh endlessly.

If you wanted for even the smallest of things, it would be yours in an instant, and if you desired even the most useless of luxuries, he would have spared no expense to have it in your hands by the end of the day.

And even beyond that, there was the persistent desire to stay by your side, his presence always guaranteed the very moment you mentioned want for it.

An ice cream social at the school where you'd be meeting your new students and their parents? Alastor was there, conversing politely with a few mothers on the difficulties of parenting (in spite of his notable lack of children), making nearly everyone wonder what the hell a famous radio host was doing at the local elementary school.

Visiting Mimzy at her slightly sleazy little lounge in the shadier side of the city? Alastor was there, dressed to the nines, looking immensely out of place as you danced the night away with your friends (and him of course) to your little heart's content.

His love for you was nearly as endless as yours was for the very world beneath your feet, and in spite of himself he couldn't help but fall deeper and deeper in love at every borderline naive action you took.

You want to buy that man a drink because he looks lonely? Certainly darling, your husband would be happy to scare him off all night as the fool tries to make unwanted advances at you that he thinks are warranted thanks to your kindness.

You want to pick a fight with the burly man whose house is on your walk to work because he's been shouting cruel things at his dog nearly every morning for the past several weeks? Oh of course, just let Alastor prepare to use his most unsettling smile while he reaches for the leather sheathed knife he keeps attached to his belt so he can wordlessly threaten the oaf without you ever even realizing.

And so, knowing all of that and having lived such a love-filled few years at your side, how could Alastor ever have believed he might one day see you again once he came to in Hell shortly after his demise?

The short answer was, he couldn't.

And though he would never have been willing to admit such a thing aloud, it utterly shattered a portion of his heart to know he would never see your sweet smile or hear your perfect laugh ever again.

And to imagine what your reaction may have been once the police had informed you of all that he had done?

Well, he tried his best not to.

Because while he couldn't bring himself to regret those he had killed and the things he had done, he did regret having been left with no choice but to keep such a thing from you and leave you with such a mess upon his death.

Certainly you had deserved better, that much he knew.

But there was absolutely nothing he could do about that now.

Or, at least, that's what he had led himself to believe.

Until one day, he'd been broken out of his typical morning routine of brewing his black coffee and digging into a freshly caught deer by the sound of knocking at his door.

There were very few people who knew of where Alastor lived at this point, with him being multiple years removed from life and having firmly cemented himself within society as a powerful and merciless overlord, so honestly it hadn't come as very much of a surprise when he opened the door and found an old friend waiting rather impatiently on the other side.

Mimzy.

Having arrived in Hell not very long after the radio host, the former flapper, (who he had actually met through you), had become a familiar face throughout the past few years as he'd tried to grow accustomed to life without his darling wife at his side.

It was nice, in a way, to have that reminder of you near when he wished for it to be, and so he allowed the sinner to call him something like a friend and offered her protection when it was convenient enough for him that it didn't prove to be a hassle.

Although, today of all days the overlord was certainly a little less than pleased to see Mimzy's familiar face at his doorstep, and he was reasonably certain that she knew why that was.

It was your former anniversary after all, and today would have been your tenth year of marriage had he only lived long enough to reach such a landmark achievement with you.

A smile, strained and thin, descended upon his lips, and, in spite of his feelings, Alastor remained as cordial as ever, albeit rather cold with his words.

"Mimzy, my dear! How wonderful to see you! Whatever could possibly be so important as to have you at my door on a day like today?"

There was a certain level of threat to his tone that no doubt left the woman standing before him floundering for a few seconds, before finally, she mustered up her reply, her smile ever so slightly less confident than before.

"Alastor, just the fella that I was lookin' for!"

The sinner began, placing her right hand upon her hip as she inspected the condition of the nails on her left,

"Now I know ya like to be left alone and all on days like this, but I've got a surprise for ya back at my place that I promise you're gonna wanna see a-s-a-p."

She said with her typical air of confidence, immediately causing the Radio Demon to roll his eyes in response, his facade of interest slipping ever so slightly before he seemed to catch himself once more, ever the gentleman.

"Oh do you now? Well, as utterly transfixed as I am over this little mystery of yours, I'm afraid that I just don't have the time to stop by today. Lot's of things to prepare for the upcoming broad-"

"Alastor."

Mimzy said sternly, cutting the overlord in question off rather uncharacteristically with a glare of her own.

"I know damn well that you don't got nothin' planned for the day, so don't you start fibbin', mista, I can see right through ya!"

She began, quickly changing the subject when she seemed to recall exactly who she was talking to at the increasing sound of static.

"Look, I didn't come here to argue with ya or nothin', so you do whatever it is that you wanna do. I just wanted to come over and warn ya that if you don't come by for a visit by the end of the day you're gonna feel like a real fool, okay?"

She emphasized her warning with a dramatized raise of her brow before she grinned rather wickedly and stepped down off of his doorstep, wiggling her fingers in a teasing little wave as she climbed into the back of the very same taxi she must have used to get to his dwellings in the first place.

"I'll see ya around dollface!"

She called out as the car pulled away, leaving Alastor with quite a few more questions than he'd had upon her already unplanned arrival.

What a fantastic start to one's day.

By the time that Alastor made the decision to actually stop by Mimzy's lounge, it was already dark outside, the subtle chirping of crickets reminding him briefly of home as he walked toward his destination, ever a fan of the more simplistic methods of transportation.

He thought of the sounds of crickets and all of the moments with you that their seemingly endless chirps had backed until their sounds faded away with the increasing sounds of the busier section of the city, wherein Mimzy's place was located.

Just as sleazy and sketchy as it had been above, so it was below, and Alastor felt a sudden sense of longing and familiarity as he stepped inside, the smell of cigarettes and the sound of ever so slightly out of tune jazz music reminding him of his days of swing dancing with you on the cracked dance floor of the place Mimzy had owned and operated in life.

The Radio Demon had only just begun to contemplate what you might have thought of a place like this one when suddenly, he heard a familiar voice call out his name, and he turned to find the lounge's owner walking quickly toward him, a wide grin that nearly rivaled his own splitting her cheeks.

"Well would you look who it is, Alastor the Radio Demon here in my lil' lounge, what a lucky lady I must be!"

Mimzy teased as she shouted over the obnoxiously loud music, immediately forcing the man in question to hold back another instinctual roll of his eyes.

"Oh, nonsense, I should think that luck has very little to do with it, my dear."

Alastor drawled, dragging his gaze downward to find his friend standing there, all but vibrating upon her feet, clearly excited by something, though he couldn't quite fathom what in Hell it could possibly be.

That is, until he heard another familiar voice pipe up from somewhere behind him, this one far less anticipated than the last, and by a rather significant margin at that.

"Mimzy?"

It called, an edge of stress to it that had the corners of the overlord's smile twitching downward ever so slightly for the briefest of moments.

Alastor watched as the ex flapper standing before him grinned widely in response to his barely noticeable reaction, her eyes shining as she allowed the person speaking to continue with their question.

"Who did you say the whiskey on the rocks was for?"

The lounge's owner hopped up onto a stool beside where she had been standing, gesturing to the space at the bar near where Alastor was still firmly planted, the ears atop his head twitching ever so slightly as they took in the sound of a voice he'd never thought he'd hear again for the very first time since he'd awoken with them camouflaged within his hair.

"Right here, doll. Speakin' of which, why dontcha c'mere and meet one of my regulars, huh?"

She asked as casually as she could manage, gesturing slightly for the still reeling sinner standing beside the bar to take a seat, which, to her surprise, he actually did, eyes seeking out the source of the voice he was hearing as if in utter disbelief.

And then, much to his shock, there you were.

Sure, you looked different as a sinner, but he would recognize you anywhere, and it certainly helped that your beautiful smile was the very same as he remembered it to be whenever he closed his eyes and found you there waiting for him.

Busy with what was likely a fairly large number of orders that your fellow bartender seemed to be doing very little to try and keep up with, you didn't seem to notice him at first, walking quickly toward your old friend with a glass of whiskey in hand, moving to place it down in front of the ever so prominent Radio Demon absentmindedly when suddenly, you froze, your hand still wrapped around the chilled cup.

The two of you stared at one another for several long moments, eyes widened and breaths halting entirely, until finally Mimzy spoke up from Alastor's right, her laughter obnoxious beside his ear, though he could scarcely bring himself to care with his gaze locked so heavily onto yours.

"Happy anniversary, ya lovebirds! Didn't expect that, didja?!"

She all but cackled, causing you to break eye contact with your husband to gawk at your friend.

"Wait a second, you knew he was here the whole time and didn't tell me?!"

You cried, hand flying to your mouth as Alastor began to regard the woman sitting beside him with a hugely threatening glare, the frightfulness of which was only increased by his unyielding grin, which was beginning to appear more and more malicious by the second.

"Woah woah woah, hold your horses!"

Mimzy shouted, waving her hands all about as if in surrender as she looked back and forth between the two of you nervously,

"She only just got down here this mornin' I swear!"

She explained hurriedly to the overlord beside her, causing the man's eye to twitch with effort as he struggled not to tear his old friend limb from limb while her entire bar watched on in horror.

Alastor tapped one clawed finger against the bar in front of him, his sharpened teeth appearing even more threatening than usual at his apparent anger over the situation at hand.

"And you didn't think, my dear,"

He began, his voice low,

"That I may have wanted to know sooner?"

The sound of static overtook the lounge as the sinner's anger increased with each word he said, causing everyone, including those hired to play the live music, to flee out the front door, leaving the trio to their own devices within the confines of the now empty space.

This fact worked extremely well for Alastor, who was only growing more enraged with each passing second as he considered the implication of Mimzy's actions further.

Not only had this woman, someone who had dared call him a friend for so many years, betrayed him by keeping your presence unknown, but she had also clearly employed you at her poor excuse for a lounge, and was now acting as if she had done him a favor by allowing him to be in the presence of the very woman he'd married.

The urge to rip the sinner to shreds with his very own claws was immense, and perhaps he even would have done so had it not been for a gentle hand coming to rest upon his forearm, the weight of it felt even through his shirt and coat.

Immediately, he stiffened, the familiarity of the touch so jarring that his previous thoughts of murder ceased within an instant as he turned his head to face you properly.

There, illuminated by the dim and yellowed lights of the bar, stood his wife, a woman who he had never expected to see again after all that he had done.

What good deed must he have committed in life to deserve such a blessing as this?

Surely there was some kind of mistake and someone would be descending from the heavens to collect you soon, an angel sent to Hell on accident by way of some great failure on Saint Peter's fault.

Your husband stared at you for a few moments, as if afraid you might disappear if he so much as blinked, before finally, you spoke up, your lips curving into a slightly nervous smile.

"Let her explain?"

You asked gently, taking up the very same tone you used to when asking your beloved to make an exception to one of his many strict internalized rules for your benefit.

'Stay home with me?'

'Give him a chance?'

'A slightly less violent solution, perhaps?'

(the latter of which he'd heard more often than he was willing to admit).

And this time, as always, he caved almost immediately, giving a rather stern nod of his head before looking toward Mimzy with an obviously strained smile on his lips.

She didn't have long, that was for sure.

If she wanted to explain, she'd better do so quickly.

And that much must have been clear, because the ex flapper started talking just about as fast as she could manage while still remaining intelligible.

And what a tale she spun, indeed.

With hurried words and a remarkably nervous expression the likes of which neither you nor your husband had ever seen Mimzy wear before, the sinner apologized profusely for not telling either of you sooner, promising that she had only been trying to make it a surprise in celebration of your anniversary.

Apparently, she had vastly overestimated how persuasive she could be, and had assumed (rather incorrectly) that Alastor would be much more urgent in his arrival to her lounge after she'd paid him a visit, meaning she hadn't exactly intended to have kept the two waiting so long for the "grand reveal" of her surprise.

And, slowly but surely, as Mimzy explained her thought process, your confusion and your husband's apparent anger all but melted away, both reactions coming to be replaced with something located somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

How very like your friend it was to meddle in such a manner, after all.

You'd missed this.

(Alastor wished dearly that he could say the same, but having been stuck alone with it for several years, he couldn't quite relate.)

Still, even he had to admit that Mimzy's actions were something far more similar to misguided kindness than intentional ill will.

Though, there was still one issue that was still bothering him...

"Mimzy."

Alastor interrupted the sinner in the middle of her ramble, watching as she immediately shut her mouth and looked up at him, a familiar bout of nervous laughter falling from her lips as she wrung her hands together.

Seeing that she was paying attention, the overlord continued,

"I understand what you were going for with your..." He trailed off for a moment before hearing you pipe up from where you stood on the other side of the bar,

"Efforts."

How amusing, it seemed that even after years of separation, not even death could sever the almost supernatural ability you had to understand what your husband was trying to say before even he truly did.

Alastor nodded,

"Exactly. But that being said, I struggle to understand one thing."

He leaned toward his old friend slightly, watching her eyes widen as he did so, clearly unsure of what was going to happen next.

"Why, pray tell, my dear, is my wife spending her precious time working at your lounge if you had every intention of returning her to me?"

The possessive tone to his voice made you blush, eyes moving to the ground as you awaited Mimzy's response.

She was quick to answer.

"Great question, dollface!"

She laughed nervously,

"I uh, I guess I kinda figured she'd know if she was down here then you would be too, so I wanted to give her a little bit of a distraction... and maybe get some extra help for a few hours in the meantime."

She admitted quietly, though by the time she was finished speaking, Alastor wasn't paying her much mind anymore, his mind now occupied with what he considered to be a far more pressing issue.

Because now that Mimzy mentioned it...

"Dearest,"

He began, immediately catching your attention as he turned to face you fully, allowing you to take in the sight of him and his new "look" for the first time since your arrival.

You would be lying if you said you weren't a fan, as different as it may have been.

"Speaking of 'down here',"

Alastor continued, amusement dancing within his eyes,

"What exactly are you doing in a place like Hell?"

Your gaze moved downward once more at that, and you cleared your throat awkwardly as you tried to find anything else to focus on.

Eventually though, you gave up, and forced yourself to meet your husband's gaze once more.

"I uh, I killed a parent..."

You muttered under your breath, immediately causing Alastor's eyes to widen slightly in surprise, one of his ears twitching slightly atop his head.

"Pardon?"

He asked in utter disbelief, unable to even begin to comprehend what he was hearing.

You, his beautiful and darling wife, had killed a parent of one of the children you taught?

Utterly unbelievable, perish the thought.

You sighed, crossing your arms in a mix of embarrassment and frustration,

"I killed a parent, Al. Lucy and Arnold's father. He was beating on them and their mama something fierce, and I saw the opportunity to put a stop to it one night when walking over to the station after work... He went down the alley between the grocers and the tailor to take a shortcut home or something like that, and I just followed him before I even knew what was really going on..."

You sounded hesitant as you spoke, eyes downcast once more until without a word, your husband pressed his gloved index finger to your chin, raising your gaze to his own once more so you could see the utter awe present there.

He was positively enamored.

"You killed Harry Wells?"

He asked, shock still coloring his tone as he watched you for your reaction.

Slowly, after a few seconds of contemplation, you nodded, cheeks still pink as you did your best to keep from trying to avoid Alastor's heavy gaze.

"I uh, yeah. I did."

The overlord sitting across from you chuckled softly, a sound that slowly grew in volume and exuberance until he was laughing outright, the familiar sound music to your ears even as he sighed and wiped a tear from his eye afterward, something he had done often in life.

He grinned even wider at you than before, the pride in his eyes obvious as he shook his head as if still in disbelief.

"And to think,"

He began, reaching across the counter to grab both of your hands so he could pull you closer, your forearms resting against the bar countertop.

"I hadn't thought it possible to love you any more than I already did."

You laughed at that, pressing your forehead against your husband's with a sigh,

"Well in that case, I suppose it's a good thing that I have all of eternity to prove you wrong, huh?"

Alastor chuckled softly, humming as he took in the sight of you, as if trying to commit each individual detail to memory.

"A good thing, indeed, dear heart."

[smuttysabina]

Lessons on Impregnation with Jihyo

(Jihyo x Idols x Fans, 4.6k words) Tags: Breeding, Fat Juicy Creampies, Some Lesbian Action, Even More Breeding, Pseudo-Science Regarding Idol Breeding, Preggo Jihyo, Mass Fucking, Blowjobs, Tittyfucking, Anal, Some Bizarre Sexual Techniques, I Dont Think Enough of These Girls are on Birth Control

Idle chatter fills the air, rebounding off the walls until the room is a cacophony of noise. Idols from three generations of Kpop cram themselves into the space before the podium, occupying a plethora of clashing furniture scrounged up from throughout the building to seat them all. All of the girls eager to hear what the host of the main event would have to say; the woman who had been a pioneer in idol breeding for years, Jihyo. It had long been an ill-kept secret that idols often had... difficulties when attempting to conceive children, many had even used this to their advantage when leading highly hedonistic lifestyles. But when the time came to settle down, problems would ensue, that would often only be solved with the passing of time. Until of course, that great matriarch Jihyo made her breakthrough and had gotten enormously pregnant; while still an active idol no less! And now she is hosting a class, open to any idols who would be interested in learning her secrets; and the resulting audience is nearly bursting through doors in their enthusiasm. Almost all of the 4th Gen girl groups are in attendance, with a smattering of 3rd Gen girls as well. Of course, those too young for the... hands-on training portion had been discretely shunted into a separate break room filled with snacks and games; though they had been given a bland, if rather informative, printout detailing sexual matters. Jihyo was a keen proponent of forthright sexual education.

Jihyo beams as she enters through a door behind the podium, surveying the packed crowd with maternal pride; so many had shown up! Nayeon hurries over to update Jihyo, idly rubbing at her stomach that was already starting to swell up with the first signs of pregnancy. Jihyo touches her own bloated belly in sympathy, she was so proud to see Twice starting to follow in her footsteps and embrace motherhood! The other members were spread throughout the audience, and what an audience it was! The voracious sluts of Itzy lounge next to the preening, spoiled brats of Ive; the languid free-use members of Le Sserafim reclining near the perverse whores of Everglow. The entirety of Loona is in attendance, looking exhausted from the fans' fanatical lovemaking. The shy newcomers of New Jeans mixing freely with NMIXX and a rather haggard looking Kep1er; all of them keeping in a tight pack with other young groups as they warily observe their seniors. Aespa relax nearby, recently returned from their scandalous stay at some rich fop's mansion; the girls seemed to be in good spirits, so evidently they had not been subjected to anything too depraved. The outspoken femdomists of G-Idle prattle happily with Mamamoo, who eye the other group with something a bit more than casual interest... Jihyo's dear friend Lisa had even deigned to show up, though that sex goddess was unlikely to be impregnated any time soon. Dozens of other groups occupy the throng, from the new and lascivious ladies from Kiss of Life, to the more mature seductresses of Dreamcatcher; even the soloists had joined their brethren. All gathered together to learn how exactly they would be able to fill their bellies with a child (and enjoy some pants-down learning).

After a soft cough into the microphone, Jihyo gently, but firmly shushes the assembled audience until the din has quieted to a more tolerable level. Now that she has their mostly undivided attention, she calmly begins her presentation after introducing herself; and giving a little background information about her crusade for motherhood. Then Jihyo gets into the meat of the matter; due to the rigors of their training, idols commonly have a decline in fertility due to an increased difficulty in sperm penetration in female subjects. Male subjects' sperm suffers accordingly as well, allowing them to freely creampie hundreds of squealing fangirls without the worry of dealing with dozens of alimony requests. Mutters of agreement arise from the crowd, many of them had friends from the 2nd and 3rd generations who still dealt with such issues. But, through meticulous testing, Jihyo had discovered a solution to the problem; at least for the ladies. A video of her Impregnation Event flickers to life on the screen behind Jihyo, as she smoothly narrates the experiment; as well as the obvious results of her findings. The audience murmurs as they watch the recording of Jihyo getting mounted by scores, and then hundreds of adoring fans; until her sex is literally gushing with turgid semen. Jihyo joyously declares that quantity was the solution, they simply required a much greater volume of sperm to weaken the egg's shell enough for impregnation to occur!

The audience breaks out in excited chattering as they take in this news, their reactions running the gamut of emotions, from happiness to confusion to disgust to anger. Once the din has died down enough, Lisa lazily raises her arm to indicate that she has a question. Jihyo nods at her friend in permission, and Lisa smoothly rises to her feet.

"If quantity was all that matters, then why am I not pregnant? Why is Jennie or Yeji or Hwasa or any other of the more," she licks her lips, "needy girls not pumping out babies like mad? All of us fuck like rabbits, and we aren't pregnant; so how does this help? Do we just need to fuck ten thousand guys and hope that there will be enough jizz pumped into us to knock us up for once?"

Jihyo nods enthusiastically at her friend's complaint as the crowd mutters, explaining that while being bred by uncountable fans does have its appeal, there are other factors to consider as well. The quality of the load was as important as its amount, there was no point in forcing out watery loads devoid of sperm! The idols' lovers had to be milked thoroughly, lovingly pleasured until their ejaculations were so thick with sperm that they were like yogurt! Of course, such love-making could be... difficult to undertake, so Jihyo had devised an expansive breeding lesson to teach the girls how best to undertake such activities. Lisa cocks her head at Jihyo's response, a playful smile upon her lips; and Jihyo knows that while the nymphomaniac is not entirely convinced, she will assent to her plan. After waiting for a few moments, to see if anyone else had any questions, Jihyo takes a breath to announce the next portion of her seminar when she notices a thin arm shyly wiggling from the herd of newer girls. She squints to figure out who exactly the limb belongs to (the girls are cuddled up in an almost indistinguishable puddle), before she finally recognizes its owner and encourages her to speak.

Trembling slightly, the nubile Danielle of New Jeans hesitantly asks, "But what if... they um- love you a lot and... their c-cum is special?" The older girls in the audience sigh at such a romantic notion, some of them eyeing the floor sorrowfully as they remember past failures. Jihyo though responds with the utmost kindness, gently informing Danielle that while in some cases people may be more... compatible, it was rare, and should not be relied upon. Judging by the girl's expression, she still had confidence in finding her one true love, but Jihyo was not cruel enough to destroy her hopes. After all, love was such a enjoyable state to be in...

Clapping her hands to dispel the sudden heavy mood, Jihyo cheerfully announces that the next, and most exciting, portion of her presentation was about to begin. Pressing a button on her lectern, evenly spaced holes at waist-height in the wall begin to hiss open; the hubbub of eager conversation emanating from the space behind them. The younger idols stare at the portals with benign curiosity, while their more experienced peers are already biting their lips in recognition. Cocks, of all shapes and sizes, rigidly hard and shyly flaccid, are shoved through the holes; eliciting a chorus of squeals and laughter from the assembled idols. Jihyo happily starts directing the groups towards their designated testing areas, informing them all that members of Twice would rotate through to teach them the best methods of breeding. The...material provided was pre-sorted so that only the groups' most fervent fans would be the ones unloading their sticky love for their idols. Jihyo gives the girls some time to settle in and relax, the more inexperienced ones may never have used glory holes before! She feels herself dripping slightly at the thought of such beautiful idols all getting impregnated together... pregnancy truly does rev a woman's sex drive.

Jihyo prowls for a time, slowly making a circuit through the rim of the room, greeting each group as she strolls past them; enjoying the sight of their lovemaking. Through her unhurried observation, she is able to pick out the most notable members who required her direct attentions; some issues were too complex for the rest of Twice to handle. But first of course, Jihyo stops to visit her voracious darlings, her beloved Itzy; who are naturally making an absolute mess of their fans. Yeji viciously draining cock after cock, Lia warbling about perversions as she gets fucked, Ryujin panting in heat as she watches the others, Yuna squealing with sickening love as she falls for every new fan, and dear Chaeryeong quietly enjoying herself to the side. Jihyo knows just the trick to settle her rambunctious girls! Chaery receives naught but a loving kiss, Yuna is adroitly handcuffed to the wall to reduce her frenzied attentions, Ryujin is given a thorough spanking for being so naughty (she squirts multiple times from this), Lia is soothed to allow her fans more regular thrusts inside of her, and Yeji... Yeji gets her cunt fisted until her burning lusts are somewhat slaked; she really must be more considerate towards her lovers if she wants to milk out a load potent enough to inseminate her! Leaving her favorites suitably adjusted, Jihyo merrily continues her journey, confident that Itzy would be practicing their imminent impregnations more carefully now.

Next along her route is Loona, reunited once more in carnal activity, their section of wall a cacophony of fierce fucking. Jihyo notes with pride their positioning and techniques, all of them instinctively moving their bodies to milk the largest loads possible out of their fans. The girls do appear exhausted however, each of them flushed and whining from the forcefulness of their fans' love; even by idol standards they were taking a solid pounding. Jihyo pauses, intrigued, crouching by Yves's quivering waist as her latest lover pulls out of her clogged pussy. She samples what little seed leaks out of the girl, roiling it in her mouth as she tests its potency; her eyebrows raising in bemusement. Judging by the impeccable quality of the cum getting pumped inside of Loona, Jihyo is surprised that the twelve of them have not been popping out babies for years now. So she puts Haseul to a purring interrogation, and between jerky gasps is informed that Loona had been on birth control for years; and that even then many of them had gotten pregnant anyways and had been forced to give birth in secret... Jihyo pats Loona's leader sympathetically, hopefully with the changes in public opinion all of Loona would be getting knocked up soon, and be telling their fans of the joyous rewards of all their hard work! Haseul's response to this stirring encouragement is hard to judge, as she gets creampied while Jihyo is in the middle of speaking. She drools as the semen is forced into her womb, clutching at Jihyo as her ovulating pussy is swamped once more with Orbit jizz. Jihyo sighs with pleasure at the sight, lovingly hugging the girl's head against her breasts; it's obvious that somebody's birth control is also simply not up to the task...

After the delightful experience of watching Haseul getting knocked up, Jihyo is greeted with the altogether less enjoyable view of Everglow in action. Of the six, only Mia seems to be properly fucking her fans; Onda and Yiren appear utterly indifferent to their fans' affections, while Aisha and Sihyeon are having great difficulty in coaxing their lovers to orgasm, meanwhile E:U is apparently being used as a urinal. Choosing to ignore the perverted disaster that is Everglow's former leader, Jihyo instead decides to focus on the two pillow princesses first. Her fingers skillfully tease and touch Onda and Yiren, slowly building up the lust within them before more directly stroking at their pussies. Jihyo soon has the pair gasping and moaning, eagerly impaling themselves on their fans' cocks as they greedily pleasure themselves. Licking her fingers clean, Jihyo nods in satisfaction before turning her attentions to the other two standouts; she blissfully chooses to ignore the fact that Mia is now currently pissing on E:U while getting fucked. She frowns as she inspects Aisha and Sihyeon, noting the loose grip their holes have on their lover's shafts. Upon deeper inspection, wrist-deep, that is, Jihyo comes to the unfortunate conclusion that both of the girls' pussies were utterly blown out from overuse; drastic measures were required. After giving the two some detailed instructions on tightening exercises to perform, Jihyo quickly moves on to more extreme techniques. She teaches the two perverts (a touch unfair in Sihyeon's case) the bizarre art of womb-fucking; which Aisha takes to with sultry gusto, and Sihyeon with desperate energy. Satisfied that the pair were now milking their fans' cocks more swiftly, Jihyo calmly steps over the blubbering form of E:U as she lays quivering in a puddle of filth. With an ex-leader like her, it was no wonder Everglow has such... odd sexual interests.

The youthful sluts from Kiss of Life are a refreshing palette cleanser for Jihyo after the depravity of Everglow. While they might not have as much on-cock experience, their enthusiasm for sex nearly makes up for their lack. The four of them loudly and messily make love to the cocks sticking out of the wall, oftentimes stopping to suck them clean after they've emptied themselves inside of the girls' pussies. Jihyo beams to see such passion, and happily squats to join the girls on their knees; sharing a still-dripping cock with Natty as they lick her juices off of it. Then a fresh member is pushed through the hole, and Jihyo eagerly prepares it for her junior with her mouth, slurping on it until it is twitching desperately for release. She indulgently guides it inside of a moaning Natty, and is overjoyed to see its balls begin to pulsate almost immediately. She is getting ready to move on when Julie endearingly offers Jihyo a turn or two at her own gloryhole, surely she could take a little break... Jihyo is swayed by the adoring looks the idols of Kiss of Life give her, how could she possibly let them down? So she fucks seven cocks in quick succession, her slick and experienced pussy draining them with confident ease; while the girls look on in awe and suckle lovingly upon Jihyo's swaying breasts. She sighs with pleasure as each fresh spurt of semen fills her, slowly rubbing her clit as she takes some time to relax and enjoy herself. Giving the girls an appreciative fingering, which leaves the four of them shuddering from explosive orgasms, Jihyo kisses the Kiss of Life a cheerful goodbye as she moves on to the next section.

The haughty chaebols of Ive await Jihyo there, selfishly pleasuring themselves with their fans' sore and ignored cocks. They bitchily ignore the needs of their fans, fucking them until they grow bored and whimsically demand they switch out for a different partner; oftentimes they don't even bother making them cum. Rae even refuses to allow fans inside of her pussy, using her ass to drain them instead; while the stuck-up Wonyoung rebuffs any attempts to ejaculate in or on her at all! This, of course, could not be tolerated, and Jihyo moves quickly to set these spoiled brats straight. But when she cheerfully announces to the five princesses (Leeseo having been directed to the break room) that their first lesson would be servicing their poor fans with their mouths, outrage ensues. Sniffing with disgust, Ive arrogantly declare their opposition, refusing to demean themselves by tasting their lowly play-toys. Jihyo merely smiles, such unruly girls they are; they could use some discipline! By the time she is finished, the five idols are rubbing their bruised butts, whining piteously at the rough treatment they had received; they had never been spanked like that before! Suitably chastened, the girls get on their knees and duly begin to suck off their fans, unenthusiastically pleasuring them with snobbish reluctance. Jihyo rolls her eyes at their petty defiance, and squats beside Ive to... help them along. She jackhammers Liz's head against the dick she is sucking, forcing Liz to be throat-fucked until semen splatters out of her nose. Jihyo then moves along to the rest of them, who quickly get the message and put some more effort into their blowjobs. She claps her hands, instructing them to keep sucking even after they've drained their first cocks; while forbidding them from pleasuring themselves until they had finished off a score of fans each! The arrogant chaebols complain as they are forced to put some effort into their lovemaking for once, their over-indulged pussies dripping needily as they go untouched. Ive soon find some glimmers of interest in their fans' pleasure, as they desperately try to milk them as swiftly as possible so they can resume satisfying their own lusts. Jihyo beams as the idols finish their assignment, all of them now looking hungrily at the fresh cocks sprouting from their gloryholes. She tells the girls that they were now allowed to have sex, but that they must make sure to allow their lovers to finish inside of them! Ive immediately throw themselves upon the dicks with abandon, eagerly impaling their greedy cunts upon their fans' cocks and fucking them. Their slick holes are soon awash with sticky semen, though Wonyoung is quick to complain about how disgusting it feels to have cum inside of her. Jihyo sighs, one step at a time... she assigns Chaeyoung to watch over the little princesses; a brat to deal with the brats.

The next group Jihyo passes by hardly needs any help at all, Dreamcatcher are quite experienced in milking fat loads out of their fans. Sultry Siyeon massaging their balls while she fucks them, earnest Jiu making sure that not a single drop is wasted, slutty Yoohyeon grinding her perky cheeks against them in a frenzy, smirking Handong playfully teasing them until they explode inside of her, lustful Sua performing all sorts of acrobatics to find the best angle to drain them, mischievous Gahyeon purring as she bounces so ardently her weighty breasts clap together, and cruel Dami tormenting them until they have no choice but to empty themselves. Jihyo's advice therefore is mostly technical, some slight adjustments to positioning, some small improvements to movements, the exact tightness used while their fans' are cumming. The initially dominant Dami is like a puppy with Jihyo however, and is quite eager to worship such a beautiful goddess... Jihyo happily allows her to, groaning as Dami devours her soggy pussy, her tongue scooping out the loads deposited inside of Jihyo when she frolicked with Kiss of Life. After several extremely messy orgasms, a somewhat breathless Jihyo moves on to more needy girls; though not before joining Gahyeon to double tittyfuck some lucky fans, none of them lasted more than a minute with their cocks squished between the two idols' voluptuous breasts!

Jihyo strolls in a more distant manner now, her fellow group mates of Twice having done a splendid job teaching the more capable groups the art of breeding. Momo had whipped the lazy sluts of Le SSerafim into shape, turning the ordinarily placid girls into salacious whores bent only on seeing who could get the most cum pumped inside of them. Sana had been dispatched to keep the rampant lesbians of Mamamoo in line, and though the group seemed to spend most of their time fisting one another, there were at least some creampies occurring. And gentle Nayeon had done a wonderful job helping out the younger groups, though the perverted bunny still did go into heat whenever she smelled an unmilked virgin dick. Jihyo hums as she passes by a plethora of lovely idol girls, all of them having steamy raw sex with their adoring fans; she wondered how many of them would end up getting impregnated today... Then she passes by Purple Kiss, and Jihyo spots her current favorite engaging in rapturous sex. Swan's hefty breasts sway and jiggle as she lovingly drains her fan's cocks inside of her; slowly pampering their members until they erupt with thick, potent seed. Jihyo moans a little as she watches, her lust fired by the sight of a girl so much like her younger self making love with such passion. The thought of them getting bred together sends Jihyo's heart racing.... their breasts squished together, kissing intensely as cock after cock unloads inside of them, their bellies swollen to bursting with creamy semen, every inch of their curvy bodies adoringly used for their fans pleasure, holding hands as the supreme moment finally arrives and their eggs are quickened together... Jihyo is dripping wet as she blinks away her fantasies, she would have to wait to indulge herself with Swan; it would be unbecoming to show so much favor so soon. So she hurries along, thighs damp with juices.

Luckily for the matriarch of Twice, the next section over is solely occupied by her dear friend Lisa; as well as the unconscious body of Tzuyu. Lisa gives an apologetic smile, the poor girl had tried to match her and well... she shrugs. Semen plasters every surface in the area, Tzuyu is practically drowning in it, Lisa is literally painted with it, her holes overflowing with it. Jihyo gives the mischievous slut a pointed glare, before descending into giggles, she could never stay mad at Lisa. Who teasingly pats the wall beside her, inviting Jihyo to join in the fun, to let loose a little; she does deserve it after all. With Jihyo all buttered up from her enticing fantasies of Swan, she is in no condition to refuse the offer to play with hedonistic idol; so she agrees, reaching out for a fan. Just a little fun...

That had been an hour ago, and the two idols showed no sign of stopping their carnal rampage. Cock after cock are shoved through the holes, only to be slammed into gushing holes moments later, and squeezed dry within a minute. Jihyo and Lisa fuck side-by-side moaning to one another and sloppily kissing as they slake their lusts upon their fans. They stroke throbbing members to either side of themselves, hungrily readying them for insertion, or simply working the turgid loads out of them by hand. It's still not enough for the veteran sluts however, the sex is simply too impersonal to truly satisfy them. Jihyo has a solution however, but she first glances around to take stock and make sure her absence would not imperil her seminar... She needn't have worried, almost every girl group was now solely focused on the primal act of fucking, mixing together and socializing as they received creampie after creampie. With a sleazy smirk, Jihyo produces a key that she slots into the wall, a quick twist of the wrist makes a section of the wall open up. Grasping her friend by the hand, Jihyo pulls her into the dreary half-light of the room beyond. The hidden door hisses shut behind them, and Jihyo and Lisa find themselves confronted by a corridor packed with fans waiting for their turns at a glory hole. They stare in shock at the seductive sight of two idols, drenched with semen and juices, entirely naked and more than willing. Lisa lets out a little squeal of delight and squeezes Jihyo's hand, this was going to be such fun! She stalks forward, hand on her hip, and gives them her most salacious glare, "Well what are you waiting for, boys? Fuck us already." They trip over themselves to comply.

Jihyo and Lisa find themselves on their knees, back-to-back they slurp at the cocks surrounding them, stroking as many off as they can. The crowded fans spurt their jizz all over the idols' smiling faces, gifting them with a fresh layer of sticky goo. They remain crouched there until their lusts grow unbearable, sticking their asses out they demand to be fucked, which they quickly are. The pair are spit-roasted next to one another, as fan after fan frenziedly mounts them from behind, uncaring of what hole they shove their dicks into. The girls suck dry any cock that is forced into their mouths, sometimes even sharing a lucky fan between them as they lick up and down his shaft. Jihyo's huge swaying tits are groped and squeezed, constantly played with even as she pleasures as many fans at once as she can. Soon enough the idols are on the ground in a growing puddle of sexual fluids, legs spread wide as a train of fans take their turns to pump between their thighs. The two get separated for a time after that, both Jihyo and Lisa having all of their holes filled at the same time in a variety of positions; orgasming continuously as they are buried beneath piles of sweaty, thrusting bodies. Jihyo's hefty boobs are constantly getting mounted, the flesh between her breasts are as popular as her pussy to her lovers. Lisa's meanwhile outdoes her friend when it comes to cramming as many cocks inside of her at once; forcing two or even three into one of her holes while screaming for more. The pair are passed around for what seems like hours, their vision filled with a seemingly endless supply of dripping cocks glistening in the dim lighting. Then suddenly it's over, as the final fans groan loudly and spend themselves inside the idols, leaving them panting and exhausted in a pool of cum several inches deep. They stagger to their feet, hugging one another for support, as they slowly walk towards the door, giggling like naughty schoolgirls as they consider what they had done.

Matters in the main room seemed to be winding down as well, with wearied idols sprawled atop toppled furniture throughout the lecture hall. A few lusty girls remained active by the gloryholes, but it was obvious that the supply of fans was swiftly running out. Leaving a trail of glue-like semen, Jihyo languidly reclaims her place at the lectern. Cheerfully ignoring the stinking mess she was making, she taps the microphone once more to get everyone's attention. A chorus of groans and whimpers arises from the prostrated audience, but the murmuring and squeals subsides enough for her to speak. Jihyo merrily thanks the girls for their participation in the seminar, and informs them that the Q&A session would be held... tomorrow. The girls were welcome to stay as long as they needed to recover however, and she hopes that they had an instructive day. She gives Lisa a particularly knowing smile, Jihyo had made sure those Blackpink fans were extremely potent.

Jihyo looked forward to seeing idols waddling around onstage with bulging bellies...

[greghatecrimes]

Okay. Buckle up babes, it's finally Foreteen time and I wrote an essay.

Foreman and Thirteen are so interesting to me in so many ways. You have Foreman, who thrives off of control, and Thirteen, who refuses to be controlled in almost every aspect of her life. In the sense of them as individual people, they both have a lot of their own issues going on. Hot messes, the two of them. But in the sense of them as a couple, I think Foreman specifically is the only one who has issues with the relationship. (Or rather, Thirteen's issues aren't being projected onto the relationship and causing difficulties at the end of s5/beginning of s6, while Foreman's are.)

Foreman's biggest thing, at least in the latter part of their relationship, is control in regards to emotions. After they found Kutner, he coped with everything by isolating himself. A huge part of me thinks that's because this terrible thing just happened, the floor just fell out from both of them in so many ways, and Foreman feels like he doesn't have a grip on anything anymore. The only thing he can control is himself, and how he reacts. So Thirteen? Even though she's his girlfriend and he's worked with her for two years, her emotions and reactions are fundamentally beyond the scope of his control; she's still a wild card. She's not safe. So instead of letting himself lean on Thirteen, letting them grieve together, letting them comfort each other, for his own stability, Foreman chooses to cope (and thus reject Thirteen when she reaches out for support) by retreating into an environment that he's intimately familiar with. He surrounds himself with only variables that he can confidently predict. It's his gut instinct. It's always worked before, so why wouldn't it work this time? Why would it have any reason to cause problems?

In season four and the first half of season five, Thirteen was very much the same way. When things became too overwhelming for her, she repeatedly dealt with them by running, by hiding; by trying to isolate herself from the people who care about her and want to help her. The same base principle drives them both at this point: "what's out of my control is dangerous in some way or another. The only one who's safe to be around is myself, because I am the only person that I can control." But by mid season five, Thirteen has come a long way from that. Slowly she's becoming much more of a "recovering control freak". She's starting to be okay with the fact that she's not always going to have the amount of control that she has right now. She knows that all of it is something she has to come to terms with, and slowly she's getting to a point where she's accepting her diagnosis and working on all the baggage that comes with it.

Thinking about that– the fact that, by mid season five, Thirteen is approaching a point in her life of letting go, of learning to 'go with the flow'; while Foreman is very much still on the side of "I thrive and keep myself safe by controlling every aspect of my life possible"– makes them fundamentally incompatible as a couple from the get-go, even with all of the chemistry they had. Because the moment they get together (the Christmas party in 5x10 "Joy to the World") is right after Thirteen's decided that she doesn't want to die; when she's just starting to process her diagnosis instead of running from it.

Do I think there was/is love there? Yes. They absolutely care about each other, both during and after the relationship.

Do I think they would have worked out long term? The simple answer is "no".

The more complicated answer is that if they had been able to avoid the fiasco of Foreman running the department and then firing Thirteen after House quit, I think they could have made it work. But it would have been rocky, and it would have been especially rough for Foreman. Extremely so if it were to reach a point where they've stayed together for years and years, and Foreman is with Thirteen when she really starts to decline with her Huntington's.

Foreman is Thirteen's friend; he's also seen people slowly wither away from degenerative disease (his mother, with Alzheimer's), and he's a neurologist (and so he knows exactly how she'll decline, down to every last detail). All of those things give him greater emotional stakes in her Huntington's diagnosis beyond what's typical. But specifically in the situation of them facing this as a couple, you have this level of involvement where Foreman– someone who needs a high amount of control to function on a fairly basic level– is in an incredibly intimate relationship with Thirteen, whose entire life is inevitably and actively slipping out of her control. And in that scenario... I think that when the decline does start happening, it would absolutely terrify Foreman. To be the one that's by her side as a partner– seeing all of it firsthand, the pain and grief and sickness? And as her significant other, being the one that would potentially become a medical proxy when she's too sick to advocate for herself, faced with the possibility of making life or death decisions (like whether or not to euthanize the woman he loves)? I think that would have the potential to utterly destroy him.

As a friend, though? ("Ex-partners who have gotten back to a shaky friendship after the breakup, and still care about each other deeply", but "friends" for short.) The entire situation completely changes. I firmly believe that post-canon, if Foreman knows House offered to kill Thirteen before he "died", he would offer to kill her in House's stead in a heartbeat (just like I think Chase does). THAT sort of involvement with Thirteen's decline and care is far less terrifying, because now this is not the decline of someone that he's based his entire future on. This is not someone he's given half of his heart to; this is not someone he's built an entire life with and entwined himself so thoroughly with.

With the way things work out in canon, they're still friends, and they still care about each other; but at the end of the day, they're two separate people with two separate lives, two separate futures. And so Foreman doesn't lose a single ounce of his control as Thirteen's is slowly taken from her, bit by bit. Witnessing that is still a pain that is unimaginable. But for him, it's survivable. And that's the key difference (and why I ship Foreteen during season five and season six, but not post canon).

[tyttamarzh]

Midnight Ramblings about Missa (Or "character analysis focused on his seeking approval and how this influences his self-perception and in his performance") (Or "My boy just needs confidence and time to show how chingón he is.")

I have a thought… okay, okay, yes, Missa is a wet cat and he can't escape of that… but I think everyone underrate the ability of him for learn and improve…

When all came to the island, no one have nothing and everyone seems at the same level in general. For Missa was hard, but he adapted to life, he build a house, had an armor, went to mines and dungeons with his friends and even when others helped him, he always tried to make it on his own and search his own purpose. Everyday he gain more expierence and confidence and lost the fear to go out alone, he could fight for himself, he could survive. Then, when everyone was paired up to take care of the eggs and he met Phil, he tried his best for being useful, for help him.

He always does that, but this time he had just met him and he wanted to do his best to make a good impression on this new person in his life.

He had already done it before, that has a context, when he met the "Team Vacio Legal" (and was adopted), at first he was not considered part of the team, they treated him like an assistant, they called him his pet and they even told him that they would use him as bait, but Missa was so grateful to be with them, that he accepted all their orders willingly and strove to do the best for them (They were not just any team, it was the one that was considered the strongest and favorite to win, in fact, the winner was a member of this team). I remember that they ordered him to build a temporary house if he wanted to stay and at that moment he began to build non-stop, and he was doing it very fast, he was very concentrated on it, then Rubius, to annoy him, stand right where he was going to put a block and Missa stood paralyzed, neither of them said anything for a few seconds, until Missa, quite anxious, said: " Please, please, I'm just trying to do a good job…" and at that Rubius gave up the idea of joking with him and simply looked at him and said "You're doing very well" and moved, to which Missa He laughed and continued working until he finished. His dedication made everyone quickly become attached to him and at some point the line between being everyone's servant and being everyone's protected faded (even the 4 of them risked their lives to go save Missa's dog from acid rain), he went from not being considered part of the team to being the most loved by all of them, so much so that his death devastated them and they continued using his name as a banner until the end (ohh I really loved Extremo, sorry xD).

Even if Missa knows that he is not good at many things, he gives everything, he strives, learns and grows, to continue giving everything for those he loves, that is how he died in Extremo, helping Quackity (although Quackity did not even realize until later).

The point is, being with Phil, he helped in any way he could, he fought against the phantoms so that Phil could continue working and in fact he must have felt very good when the mission was "sing a song to the baby" because finally one of his abilities It would be necessary and useful.

Phil never had a problem with Missa in Chayanne's care. Missa was constantly striving to be competent and they didn't really spend enough time together for Phil to realize what Missa's level really was. The problem began when he was gone for so long, because everyone's level increased at the same time as the difficulty of the world, which made Missa's lack of experience very evident. And it wasn't just because he was poor and didn't have the resources to defend himself, as Phil thought at first, Missa missed out on a lot of growth and learning about Minecraft that he could have had if he had stayed on the server. Though he tries now, he doesn't He manages to cope with the current world, which made him tremendously insecure about his abilities, which is why on many occasions he no longer try and just lets himself die. Making it very obvious to everyone, even Phil, that he can't survive alone, since he's just a little wet cat.

There is something that I miss a lot about the dynamic he had with Spreen, you see, I know that many who watch QSMP did not know what their relationship was like and do not know why he is so important to Missa, but it is because Spreen never doubted Missa's abilities, even when no one, not even Missa, trusted his abilities, Spreen always trusted, he once bet on a fight that Missa had, even when Missa said she had no idea about PVP, he bet on him and to everyone's amazement, won and was like "I knew you could." Missa always tried hard to do things and get praise from Spreen, he saw him as a father he wanted to make proud and he jumped with happiness like a child when he achieved it and that's how he grew up a lot (Having the player who is considered one of the best treat you that way and praise you must be an incredible feeling).

Losing his brother not only affected him emotionally, it affected him in the sense that he lost that and that's why his self-confidence went down the drain, because when he fails he no longer hears the "calm down, you'll make it next time, champion" now he listens "Be careful, it's dangerous" "Stay away" and he is simply saved and protected by others.

I'm not saying that Phil is wrong to help him, but that made him somewhat dependent and added to his frustration at not being able to face the world alone, it made him feel like a burden to everyone (the fact that he doesn't log on doesn't help him). Somehow that made him have a kind of regression and he went back to being the fearful boy who needs to be taken care of, it's not even like in the early days of QSMP, it's like in the early days of Extremo, considering himself completely useless and stupid, struggling to try to do things right and receive some approval, but getting frustrated at not achieving it (which is why what Tina did in purgatory helped him a lot "Tina, better therapist than Melissa" xD).

Now… let's go to the present, because I saw something very different in Missa the last time. What happened in purgatory perhaps gave him more growth than we thought, not only on an emotional level by helping him decide to stay with Phil despite not feeling enough, but on a personal level. He said to Chayanne he had been working to be a better person (better player) and wanted to show what he had learned (now seeking Chayanne's approval), somehow he found that motivation again to grow and not just lamenting his situation (that implies that CC Missa he was really practicing. My friends, he didn't even do that for the squid games, he finished installing Minecraft and jumped into the water), that gives me hope that this time he is serious about stay and if he has enough time and if this time he really delivers with his promise to log on more we could see him grow and bring out his full potential (in Extremo 2 he was doing a great job until he died suddenly and became fearful again, in purgatory he was doing things well until he realized he had the wrong missions and felt sad and useless… he can do great, his ruin it is that he sabotages himself by his lack of confidence).

Possibly he will never stop being a wet cat, that is tattooed in his character, but I think that is precisely why everyone tends to underestimate him. I am sure that one day my boy is going to give everyone a big surprise… I believe!

I think my little late night thought turned into an analysis and then a Tesis, sorry about that… I hope someone finds my ramblings entertaining…

Thank you for reading!

[vampirebloodie]

Little Help | Mark Hoffman x Reader

Summary: John makes Hoffman help you and he almost kills you (with pleasure)

Warning: NSFW Smut, creampie, degradation kink, puller hair

After having survived one of Jigsaw's tests after making some bad choices in life, John Kramer saw enormous potential in you due to your willpower to survive being different from anyone else tested, you had the strength of an apprentice, as well as Amanda and Lawrence. As you didn't have many things to lose, you easily accepted John's invitation to become one of his apprentices and help him with the next games, even though it was almost like signing other people's death warrants, you saw it as a job, you just don't receive any payment for it.

Amanda wasn't with you today at the factory, so it was just you who was putting together a new trap and John who was drawing some new models in a notebook. You had been making some mistakes for a few days now, which made him start keeping an eye on you to look for some good solution.

“I called Hoffman to give a little help for you. I see that you are having a lot of difficulties.”

John said, still drawing. You felt your heart stop for a few seconds after hearing that. You hated Hoffman just as he hated you too and you knew that very well, he made a point of always making it clear when you saw each other, which fortunately was rare.

"You what? Hoffman? Are you kidding me? What about Lawrence?”

Unlike Mark, Lawrence liked you and you liked him too, you always got along well and always helped each other.

“Lawrence has a family, and he's traveling with them. Amanda is not available, you stay with Hoffman, the end.”

He closed the subject there and you huffed in frustration, the hours there with the detective would be terrible.

.........

It was almost dusk, John had gone home to rest in his room while you had stayed to wait for Hoffman, sleep had consumed you and you soon dozed off on the table, only to be woken up by a loud knock on the table that almost made you have a heart attack.

“Finally! I thought that besides being stupid you were also deaf.”

You rubbed your eyes and looked up to see the devil, aka Mark, staring at you.

“Fuck you.”

“You can curse me later, cutie. We have a lot of work to do.”

He went to the other table where there was the trap that you needed to assemble but there was something wrong with the pieces, since every time you tried to fit it to your body it simply came apart and you had to do it all over again.

"Do it"

He handed the materials into your hand, but you didn't take them.

“How am i going to fix it if i don't know where im going wrong damn? i've tried several times.”

Mark took a deep breath and placed the tools on the table again, carefully picking up the trap.

“Don't be a stupid girl, just open your fucking arms.”

You ignored his rude manner and looked at him suspiciously, opening your arms, then you felt the trap being placed around your waist and your neck.

“Hey hey, what are you doing?”

You despaired for a few seconds thinking he was going to fix it and use it on you.

“I'm not going to kill you with that ugly thing you did. I need a model to be able to see the error. Unfortunately, i only have you.”

You ignored the offense and stayed quiet, he bent down a little in front of you and looked at the pieces, you held your breath when he looked at the part of your neck and ran his hand over it. You could swear he squeezed your neck on purpose.

"Thats it."

He spoke and took one of the tools, where he placed it near his neck and fixed the error that was in the support of the equipment. After that he released the trap again and removed it from his body, placing it on the table. You felt your neck tingle.

Mark ran his long fingers along your neck, where the metal had left a mark due to his grip, you tried to control your breathing when you realized how close your two faces were to each other. You looked at him again.

“Don’t look at me like that…”

"Like what?"

You tried to hide the sexual tension, turning your head, only to feel his hand pulling your face back to look at him, at his blue eyes.

“I know you don’t really hate me, do you think i don’t see you staring at me every day?”

“I stare at you and imagine myself killing you in various traps.”

You tried to finish the subject there and he laughed sarcastically.

“Oh sure. Do you know what i imagine when i look at you, Y/n?”

He got close to her ear and whispered:

“I imagine myself every day fucking that tight pussy of yours right on this table and you screaming my name.”

You closed your legs on impulse as soon as you heard that, only to see a smile appear on his face, he grabbed your hair from behind, giving a light tug making you let out a moan.

“Why don’t you make it a reality then, detective?”

"I will”

You felt his tongue invade your mouth with precision while his arms pinned you against the table, Mark held your waist and placed you sitting on the table, where this time he attacked your neck leaving some marks, your hand pulled his tie. Hoffman took off your blouse, squeezing your breasts and then removed your underwear, he took off his blazer and threw it in a random corner of the room and pushed you against the table, opening your legs, you shivered when you felt his fingers pass through your intimacy.

“You don’t know how many times i've thought of you in this position just for me.”

He squatted in front of you and removed your panties, leaving you completely exposed to him, before you could say anything you felt his tongue invading your pussy making you scream in surprise, his tongue worked so well inside you that made you roll your eyes with so much pleasure, Hoffman stuck two fingers inside you and started moving them while sucking your clit, you pulled his hair, you felt your stomach tighten.

“H-Hoffman, I...”

“No.”

He realized you were going to cum and pulled away, making you moan in frustration, he grabbed your neck and unzipped his pants, exposing his member, which made your eyes widen a little due to its large size, Mark positioned his member at your entrance and forced himself into you, the tip hitting your cervix, which made you squirm at the new sensation.

He placed both hands on your hips and began thrusting hard into you. Completely invading you with each blow. You grabbed his arms and moaned loudly. Hoffman pulled your hair and squeezed your neck, starting to choke you as the loud sound of your bodies crashing into each other filled the empty room. Your face started to turn red due to lack of air and he seemed to enjoy it.

“You look so perfect when im choking you, you fucking little slut!”

He said irritably and began to move even harder and released your neck, making you gasp for air quickly, Hoffman squeezed your waist tightly, which would probably leave marks later, the two of you moaned loudly and together. His fingers began to make quick movements on your clit, making you almost cry with pleasure.

“Be a good girl and cum for me while you scream my name, hm?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, fuck, Mark!!”

"Good girl!”

You screamed, cumming and feeling your legs weaken and shake, Mark grunted and soon you felt him coming apart inside you, you breathed for a few seconds before he came out inside you, watching the semen drip from your pussy, he licked his lips. Mark took you off the table and helped you get dressed again.

“It won’t change how much i hate you.”

You said and he laughed.

“Please remember to say this when i fuck you again .”

He gave two little slaps in your face and put his blazer back on.

“I'll give you a ride. Hurry up. Cmon"

You put on your boots and picked up your bag, walking alongside him, even though your legs still felt sticky to each other. God, what have you done?

[halsteadlover]

𝐌𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧

*Gif not mine credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader.

• Requested: no.

• Summary: after a long day at work, the only thing Spencer wants to do is go back home to his family.

• Warnings: none, just fluff.

• Word count: 1814.

• A/N: here is my first Spencer fic. It’s ugly as fuck and I wanted it do be better but I hope you’ll like it, I’m sorry for this but it’s just a period of time where I’m not feeling 100% myself so that’s what I managed to do lol. Let me know what do you think, likes, comments and reblogs are very appreciated. Thank you for your constant support. Love you all ❤️

Spencer was as tired as he'd been a few times in his life.

The case the team had worked on had been particularly stressful, tiring and draining like few others and even though it had only been four days since the team had left for Boston, it felt like they had lasted forever.

And the distance from his family helped to further increase this already particularly precarious state of mind. It wasn't the first time he was forced to fly away for days to another city for work but that didn't make it any easier, especially then, because it wasn't just you and him anymore, but there was also little Reid.

It was incredible how such a small little being had managed to turn his life upside down, in such an overwhelming way he couldn't even stay a minute without thinking of him and without feeling the desire to hold him in his arms and fill him with cuddles.

Even staying away from you had become much more difficult than he could’ve ever imagined. He couldn't quite explain why, but ever since the baby was born he felt the bond with you had strengthened even more. He had heard so many stories of couples who couldn't resist, who got carried away by events and weren't strong enough to overcome the present difficulties and it was impossible to explain why, God, he worshiped the earth you walked on and he would’ve done anything to ensure your well-being, after all it was the least he could do for the mother of his child.

Ever since you told him you were pregnant and throughout the pregnancy until you became parents, it was as if he started to look at you with different eyes and the love he felt towards you increased dramatically, which he didn't even believe possible since he already loved you like crazy like he never did in his life.

Seeing you become the beautiful mother you were meant to be, carrying his child, God, he would’ve impregnated you every day if he could and if it was simple.

If anyone had ever told him he’d find the love of his life, that he’d marry you and have a child with you, he would probably have burst out laughing because he never, ever expected to be overwhelmed by such joy and to experience such a miracle.

And it was enough for him to cross the threshold of your home for him to feel that emptiness inside him finally filled again, happiness crossing him when he heard your voice mixed with little Reid's giggles.

Spencer walked into the kitchen and leaned against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest as he took a moment to watch you and your baby together. He was sitting in his high chair, his little legs and arms flapping in the air, his little face dirty with the food you desperately tried to give him but which he refused.

That simple scene put a huge smile onto Spencer's face and it was at that precise moment he wondered how he had ever lived without this.

You were gorgeous. Your hair gathered in a bun, your home clothes slightly soiled with food while you tried to distract your little one so you could feed him but in doing so you yourself distracted yourself, not realizing Spencer's presence.

Damn it, how had he gotten so lucky? What had he done to deserve such a perfect family?

“Hello my loves,” Spencer had announced and at that point you turned abruptly towards him, a huge smile on your face not expecting to see him and the spoon suspended in mid-air.

“Baby oh my god! When did you come back?!” you asked and before you could get up to say hello he approached you, placing his hands on your shoulders and giving you a kiss on your lips. He wanted that little kiss to last forever, making him realize how much he missed you, so much more than he thought.

“I just got back darling, I wanted to surprise you,” he replied with a smile on his lips and stroking your hair before returning his eyes to his baby, who at the mere sight of his father began to fidget more in his high chair, a huge smile on his little face. “And who do we have here? Hey, you little one! Come here to your pops.”

Before you could object by telling him you were trying to get him to eat, Spencer took him in his arms and the joy that overwhelmed him when after all that time he hugged his son again was priceless. “God I missed you so much little man,” he murmured as he kissed his little one's chubby cheeks not caring they were dirty with food. His laughter echoed through the kitchen, making your heart leap with joy.

It was so hard when Spencer was away for work, you couldn't deny it, but it was times like these that made the distance, the anxiety and worry worth it.

“You treated your gorgeous mom right huh? Have you been a good boy?” Spencer asked, as if his son could answer.

“Da-da-da...” the little boy kept babbling and you wanted to immortalize Spencer's expression after hearing his son say 'dad' for the first time.

“What?” Spencer murmured, incredulous, looking at you for a moment just to make sure you heard that too. “Can you repeat for me baby? Dada, yes say it again, da-da.”

“Da-da-...” your baby kept babbling while his sticky little hands continued to touch his father's face and it was at that moment you noticed Spencer's eyes fill with tears, while he tried to hold them back and not cry. Out of joy and contentment he started to kiss and tickle his baby, over and over again, eliciting uncontrolled laughter from him.

“Yeah! That's my buddy!” Spencer exclaimed before showering the boy with kisses, who kept squeezing and returning those kisses as best he could. “Yes! Oh my god! Yes I’m your dada!”.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he whispered, rubbing his nose tenderly against his son's. Your heart peeped into your chest and never as in that precise moment you felt more proud of your family, of the love your child would always receive from both parents.

You continued to watch that tender and very sweet scene, Spencer who continued to talk and look at his son as if he was the most beautiful of wonders.

Spencer wasn't joking when he said that little creature had saved his life, he made him a better husband, a better man, he made him love life even more and had made him understand how precious it was.

He had never been good at dealing with feelings, he was a scientific person, he believed in science, in evidence, in hypotheses that were verified, but everything that happened to him when he was with you, with his baby, was beyond rationality, the love he felt for you two couldn’t be described, it was a visceral love that could not be enclosed in a few simple words.

“You are the best thing that has happened to my life, your mom seriously couldn't have given me a better present and I am so proud of you,” he kissed mini Spencer's little forehead “I'm so sorry I was gone buddy, I’d never want to be away from you and your mama.”

He directed his gaze to you for an instant, a frown on his face as he noticed the tears streaming down your face, which you tried to wipe away in time but to no avail.

“Hey, baby what's wrong? Come here.”

Spencer drew you to him and surrounded your shoulders with his free arm, squeezing you and leaving a kiss on your forehead. “Nothing bad love, it's just… I'm so happy, you make me so happy. I couldn't ask for a better father for my son.”

He smiled but burst out laughing immediately afterwards when your baby stretched out his arm towards you and grabbed a lock of hair that had escaped the bun with his little hand, ruining that beautiful moment. Damn, how could a person of not even 50 centimeters tall have such strength?

“Hey, hey, no buddy no hurting mommy,” Spencer interjected, pulling your hair out of his hand.

“Oh you're so lucky you're so cute or you were going to have some problems mister, yeah! You're so cute baby, you like hurting mama yeah? Can you say mama?” you said smiling, however pointing a finger at him while instead he continued to laugh and giggle in Spencer's arms, amused by the situation.

“Da-dada-da…”

Your smile instantly disappeared from your face and Spencer started laughing heartily again, head thrown back.

“Yeah! That's my little boy! Dada yes!” he exclaimed, lifting him back into the air a couple of times before showering him with kisses.

“Oh so that’s how are things going mister? Did I go through 20 hours of labor for being disrespected like this?” you affirmed with feigned disappointment and hands on hips, but trying not to smile when you saw Spencer jumping and playing with the baby.

“I love you mommy but I love dada more,” Spencer raised his voice a couple of octaves in an attempt to mimic a child's.

“You're gonna pay so much for this Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“I’ll wait for you with immense pleasure my darling,” he winked at you and just that small action made you want to have ten more children.

You sighed, shaking your head in mock disappointment. “Since you're such best friends you'll be the one to keep feeding him while I'm going to take a nice hot bath,” you approached Spencer, giving him a kiss on the cheek and whispering in his ear “And I'll think of you so intensely when I'll be naked as I soap my wet body and touch myself.”

Spencer was mesmerized and paralyzed for a moment, his blood instantly flowing to his private parts at the mere thought of you naked. His eyes scanned every inch or of your body, devouring your ass with his gaze until your figure disappeared down the aisle.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, “You heard that buddy?” he turned to the baby “How about we take a deal? Now you'll be a good boy and you'll eat everything okay? So I'll give you a nice bath and you'll go to sleep, because dad misses mom so much and he would love to be alone with her. Yes little one, you’re such a good little boy,” he continued carefully placing his baby in his high chair and tying the hooks before starting to feed him again “I’m so proud of you, yes keep eating so in a while it will be dada's turn to pull mama’s hair.”

General Tag List: @alexxavicry, @halstead-severide-fan, @mrspeacem1nusone

Spencer Reid tag list: @hngbrooks, @blorp-bee

Click here to be added to the tag list ❤️

Main Masterlist

Spencer Reid Masterlist

Support me on Ko-Fi ☕️

Side blog -> @halsteadloverslibrary

[earthstellar]

I think there's a really potentially dark kind of lonely desperation in the way Mirage kidnaps Noah

Like, Noah immediately starts to panic and yell to be let go, and Mirage's response to this is to lock the doors and go faster

It's fucking terrifying from Noah's point of view, he's confused and is in the process of committing a crime--

--He's not just worried about his own safety, he's suddenly been thrown into a high speed, high profile car chase with a multi-vehicle car pursuit and he's going to be unable to help his family if he ends up in prison

And these are city cops in 1994 and Noah is an adult cis male POC, he is absolutely beyond fucked if any of the cops manage to identify him even if they don't outright catch him

And then Mirage creates a copy of him that is sitting in the driver's seat and taunting the fucking cops, fuck fuck fuck

His fear and panic is overwhelming, he's being trapped and driven somewhere and he can't figure out by who or what or for what purpose, and the cops are after him, and if he's busted then what happens to his mother? What happens to his brother?

It's incredible he stays even somewhat calm.

Meanwhile Mirage is fully having a great time.

He finally found a human like Bumblebee did, the human actually found him! How convenient-- Some may even say it's destiny. Even if the human was trying to steal him. Rude!!!

Now he has someone he can play with, though. Optimus might not yell at him too much since it's not really his fault this human tried to steal him.

Stealing the human instead sounds fun to him, actually. Turnabout is fair play, and all that.

And I do believe that on some level, surely Mirage understands this is not great to do, really.

But Mirage also seems really terribly lonely amongst his team; It doesn't feel like he fits in with them quite as well, and we know all the bots miss Cybertron.

Mirage and Bee seem particularly socially oriented, and Mirage seems to be quite possibly even more outgoing than Bumblebee is, based on both of their portrayals in this and the prior film.

So Mirage might have pushed aside his better judgement in the name of companionship and having fun for once, perhaps for the first time in a very long time, fuck it, we ride.

As someone who can't go out and do things because I'm disabled and COVID will take me out, I truly understand the difficulty of forced isolation into perpetuity.

So I can really feel for Mirage -- He just hit his breaking point, and could not resist the joy of treating the highway like the Speedia 500 racetrack, of really letting his rubber burn and having a potential friend along for the ride.

Plus, he got Noah away from the cops, and that's good, right? It must be! I mean he got the attention of even more cops, but they're probably dead now. That was a pretty sturdy road barrier, after all.

But the fear Noah must have felt in that moment is genuinely upsetting.

His brother's life was on the line here, not his own, as far as he's concerned.

And of course, Mirage would not have known that right away, fair enough.

But even when being begged to stop, Mirage egged on more cops, drew more aggro from the authorities than was needed and did so at extreme risk to his passenger, and carried on. He had a good time.

And that's really fucking scary, that Mirage's loneliness and overall sense of isolation was so severe that in many ways it overrode his compassion to some degree.

When Noah is panicking, Mirage was physically feeling Noah's fear. Feet were digging into his interior, fists slapping against his windows, hands gripping him from the inside, tense with anxiety.

We know Mirage cares deeply about Noah, and later on, Kris as well.

But when they first meet, there's this somewhat blatant disregard for Noah's fear that he only sort of half-heartedly, somewhat jokingly even tries to address while he just keeps flooring it.

Sure, at that point, as far as Mirage knows, this dude was just trying to steal him. He doesn't have a feel for who Noah actually is yet. He doesn't know about Kris. He has a right to be a little suspicious, and it's reasonably understandable if he wants to fuck with someone he thinks is just a bog standard petty car thief for a minute.

But Mirage isn't all that suspicious; He knows the power balance is so wildly in his favour that it's sort of whatever, really. Why investigate when you can be driving?

He eventually "tests" Noah when he finally reveals his root mode to him.

And to be fair, he even acknowledges that this is probably a lot for Noah to deal with.

But then he responds to the equivalent of a Barbie doll shaking a twig at him by levelling a charged weapon directly at Noah's head and chest.

We know that Mirage isn't actually going to fire. Probably.

But Noah doesn't, and all he has is a pipe, after a joy ride from hell that scared the living shit out of him and put his entire family's wellbeing at extreme risk.

It's kind of fucked up; Of course it's understandable from both sides, knowing the perspective of both sides. Noah needs that stolen car money. Mirage was about to get stolen.

It's not the greatest situation for them to be meeting in.

But holy shit.

Mirage is a little... Excessive.

Which is consistent with the behaviour we see from him after he gets more familiar with Noah, and we know he's not going to hurt Noah or Kris, and he's just a very energetic type of bot. Okay.

But I wonder how Mirage behaved prior to meeting Noah. How much of his excitability and outgoing nature and willingness to do pretty much anything comes from the joy he gets from having his own human, getting to have a new friend, finally?

How depressed might he have been previously, given how abundantly happy he is, how quick he is to disregard almost anything else in favour of having a friend-- Even if he has to take a human temporarily captive in order to obtain that friendship?

We know his care for Noah ultimately overrides his sense of self-preservation as well.

But Mirage is extremely intense and high energy, and that's interesting, because you wouldn't necessarily think of a fairly isolated, lonely alien lost on a foreign world as being so upbeat and exuberant.

He wants to be happy. And he's very invested in the few people that can make him happy.

Mirage is the definition of ride or die, and that can actually be pretty scary.

He didn't give a second thought to causing at least one likely fatal car crash with his illusions, so that he and Noah could evade arrest.

We already know he's willing to take out humans if need be.

It's a good thing Noah's a good guy, because I can easily imagine Mirage as willing to do nearly anything to keep the new friend he found...

Anyway, my break's over now. lol

[dano-or-not]

you said you were running out of things to say about mob psycho, so i wanted to ask your opinion on the parallels between toichiro and mob (but not the ones everyone talks about, like how mob could've turn like toichiro if his life was different and stuff like that), specifically the parallel of how their two battles ended.

in s2, their battle ended with mob saying that leaving toichiro to suffer alone would be too sad, not matter how much he dislikes him, so he decided he is going to help him. and he does that by absorbing a lot of toichiros energy before it explodes, which ultimately saves his life.

now, in s3, ???% was about to deal a final blow to shou and toichiro, only to stop because of how hard mob was trying to contain himself, so toichiro announces he is going to stop ???% by absorbing his energy, the exactly same thing he did for him, the only thing only the two of them could do. shou objects, and before toichiro could go through, he realizes that in the end, what he's doing now is no different from what he always did, run away from his family, so he ultimately decides to run away with shou, leaving mob there desperately trying to stop himself.

i barely see anyone talking about those two scenes, but they've been on my mind forever for so many reasons.

how both of them made their decisions and they aren't right or wrong, they're choices, choices made by them because they are the ones in charge of their own lifes, it was mob's choice to stay there and help him, just like toichiro deciding to run away was his

there's also the fact toichiro says to mob that he's not as strong as him before leaving, which on a surface level seems to be about his strength, but i see that dialogue as him saying hes not strong enough to be willing to sacrifice himself despite all that he might lose, and that makes me crazy!

there's a lot more, like how desperate mob must have felt, we see in s2 mob in his room pondering if someone would stop him if he went out of control. and at that moment, with toichiro walking away, it must have felt like it was over, he had already told teru before to hit him with all he had, to stop mob, but he couldnt, and with suzuki leaving, i imagine how he felt

im soso sorry for the long ask, i don't even know if anything i said made any sense, i have a lot of difficulty putting my thoughts into words, and that gets 10 times worse because of my terrible english lol, i just saw your post about not having any new ideas and it gave me courage to try and send something, im usually very embarrassed bc i always feel like im saying sum wrong LOL, but your blog is my favourite on tumblr and your works are absolutely amazing so im glad to be sending you something, much love

Hello fifth anon!!

And thank you for helping me with post ideas, it's nice and appreciated!

You're so right about the mix of similarities between Toichiro and Mob's face offs in season 2 and season 3! I totally agree; neither of the decisions they made were perfect. Was it good that Mob was going to sacrifice himself? No. Was it good that Toichiro ran away from Mob at ???%? No. But was it good that Mob refused to abandon his morals and continued to show unyielding compassion? Yes. Was it good that Toichiro finally made a choice for his family rather than himself? Yes. Just like you said, their choices were just choices, and luckily happened to be ones that worked out.

As for Mob's point of view in season 3, yeah that must have been rough. At that point Toichiro seemed to be the only person who could stop Mob, and he walked away (for good reason). Even though Mob wanted him to run, it still had to have felt like defeat.

Toichiro did the exact opposite of what Mob did in season 2 when placed in an identical situation, and I think that did an excellent job of wrapping up Toichiro's character arc. He's finally taking care of what's most important to him and acknowledging that he isn't the best by saying how Mob is stronger in terms of both power, empathy, and preparedness to self-sacrifice for others.

There were two choices for Toichiro to make and they were equally bad. As the viewer of course we want Mob to be saved as fast as possible, but can you really blame Toichiro? Sometimes you help people who won't be able to repay you, but that doesn't mean they didn't deserve it.

But Mob Psycho 100 is also a story meant to convey a message, so certain things have to happen in a certain way. In season 2 Toichiro had to learn the importance of being there for people no matter what, and in season 3 Mob had to learn to be there for himself. They taught each other those lessons.

So all in all, I agree with your points and think you were really spot on! I'm glad you had the courage, the longer the ask the more interesting things I get to delve into! And don't worry about ever being wrong, I don't think you can ever really be wrong about story interpretation; if an idea resonates with you then it's right, that's all there is to it :)

And your favorite blog!? That's so cool, thank you so much!!!! :) I definitely had a mini-freak out of joy hearing that lol. I'm glad you enjoy my posts and fics! I'm very honored.

[annie-creates]

Good enough for a hero

Pairing: Andromache of Scythia x reader

Genre: angst

Words: 900

Note: Another fic for Andy after a while, nothing big but I hope you'll like it anyway. It's inspired by this amazing song.

Death wasn‘t a stranger to you. You met regularly like old friends, under the cloak of night or at the hand of your enemies. You weren’t exactly proud of your job, robbery and fraud being your routine tools. Being immortal however gave you a certain advantage when it came to dangerous situations. It’s not like you always wanted to become the villain, there was a time you tried to do good. A time where you did your best to become part of the group of heroes, yet despite your exceeding efforts they never accepted you as one of them.

As you leave a high security building with the prized possession secured in your hands, you recall the months and years you spent trying to prove yourself to Andy and her group of soldiers. The exhausting training sessions where she took your life in a blink of an eye if you weren’t fast enough. The nights you spent eating dinner alone because you didn’t earn your place at the table. Mornings you were woken up with a bucked of freezing water, the excuse being they were trying to give you actual army training you lacked.

“Get up. We don’t need cowards.” Andromache gritted over her teeth after beating you down for the hundredth time.

“Can’t we finish for today.” You pleaded as your sweat mixed with the blood trickling from your bruised face.

“We won’t finish until you get at least a punch in.” She decided uncompromisingly kicking you in the side.

“That wasn’t necessary.” You grumble as you stand up with difficulty.

“It won’t be necessary after you become more than just a useless burden.” Andy said venomously and run at you once again, choking you until your weakened body passed out this time.

After years of tremendous torture excused by the higher purpose, you couldn’t take it anymore. So you got up at the middle of the night and left without a trace. If you are not good enough to become a hero, you’ll become someone much worse. Maybe you didn’t fit their strict requirements but on the street you quickly became friends with the night life and everything that happens under the brim of darkness. You found a group of shady traders whose business was hardly legal, but you didn’t care anymore. They accepted you in and you proved yourself to be actually quite skilled.

“Another successful hunt.” Tony, the leader of your group praised.

“What is it?” You questioned, usually stealing gold or original paintings to sell on the black market.

“It’s the Vestonic Venus, our buyer offered a lot for this piece.” He explains as he puts the package in his coat. “Alright, let’s go home. Good job guys.”

They drop you off a few streets from your flat and you finish the road on foot. It wasn’t anything fancy even though your job allowed you to squander money from time to time. You still preferred the modest minimalistic life, it’s how you made sure to stay hidden from both the government and the group of immortals who definitely wouldn’t be happy knowing all these jobs were your doing. It was questionable what you’ve become, but as long as it kept you fed and safe, you didn’t really care. You were never one to play for a higher moral ground anyway.

The next morning you visit your favorite coffee shop in the area, having a weakness for a good morning cup of coffee. As you’re waiting for your order of cappuccino and a blueberry muffin, you look around the calm room, unintentionally meeting eyes with a lady at one of the tables. She was sitting in a booth with a young girl you didn’t recognize. She looked tired and somehow older than the many years ago, and her hair was cut short this time, but you’d recognize the face that spit so many hurtful lies at you anywhere. Somehow in the whole wide world Andy found you once again.

“Miss Y/n.” The barista announces and you grab your paper cup and bag and practically run out.

You weren’t fast enough though cause you were hardly three steps out the door when her strong hand catches your arm, forcing you to look at the woman you despised most in this entire world and whole century. Unlike you, dressed in an elegant spring coat, she wore a worn-down jacket she probably owned even back when you first met her and her whole being looked tired and worn out, including her clothes. On the contrary the look in her eyes was full of resolve and determination.

“Y/n…” She starts warily.

“Don’t.” You warn her. “I don’t wanna talk to you.”

“Wait. A lot has happened okay? There’s this girl, Nile...” Andy starts explaining to you with urgency.

“I don’t care! I want to have nothing to do with you people!” You pull your hand out of her grasp. “Leave me alone. I don’t fuckin care about your business, so whatever it is, go bother someone else with it.”

You scold her and turn around quickly pacing away. You couldn’t comprehend the audacity she had to talk to you after all those years and want things from you without as much as an apology or acknowledgement of all the things she did to you. You couldn’t think of what would be so important to overcome her passionate hatred for you.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Moon-chosen, Moon-guided - Part III

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, with guest appearances by Jaheira, Shadowheart, Halsin, Ketheric and Balthazar Length: ~27000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content, along with mild body horror

It's been a minute, hasn't it? Please enjoy this absolute monster, longer than the previous two parts of the fic combined. I just had a great many things I wanted to address, bits and pieces I wanted to explore, and many loose ends I wanted to tie up.

This part spans the post-game - or how I've decided to envision it for these two, at least. Features yet more hurt/comfort and dealing with trauma, including the two classics of Isobel's back-from-the-dead issues and Aylin's apparent immunity to the idea of self-preservation, but also much building and rebuilding, some dinners (romantic and otherwise), some important discoveries being made and villains being thwarted, a lot of love, and a whole lot of feelings.

Summary:

There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave. From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

The brilliant, defiant Beacon of Last Light many revere from afar. Isobel Thorm they do not know at all.

Part I Part II

Also on AO3.

—

Part III - Everlasting Light - The Future  

A battle won; an invasion thwarted.

Days later, you and Aylin lie together in a warm bath in a lovely and, miraculously, mostly untouched inn suite. An endlessly grateful proprietor adamantly rebuffed all your attempts to refuse the accommodation after you cleared a clutch of Absolutists out of it, so you linger in the city well after you thought you would, even when the most pressing crises and celebrations have both been dealt with.

It is in this surprisingly comfortable aftermath and hard-won peace that the two of you discuss plans, both immediate and distant. A future, a life: the first in an array of luxuries you can scarcely believe you have been afforded.

You feel lightheaded from the incense you've been keeping lit around your rooms. The scent mixes headily with the cocktail of smells wafting from the countless little bottles of oils and tinctures - an impressive collection that manifested in the bath chamber when you expressed the slightest interest. The steam rising off the surface of the hot, perfumed water is warm when it hits your skin, and Aylin's solid presence against your back is warmer still. You insist on breathing it all in deeply, in slow, steady, lengthy inhales, Aylin's hand pressing reassurance into your chest as soon as there is even a slight rasp to your voice.

"We can stay until the enclave is back on its feet. They seemed glad enough to have us, and there is a lot of good we could do there, I think," you murmur almost absent-mindedly and lightly trace a line of gold over Aylin's knee and down her thigh, pressed between your left side and the wall of the tub. "Though, of course, who could deny the daughter of the Moonmaiden Herself--"

Aylin makes a small sound at the words and you stop immediately. It is an almost-scoff that contains a touch of all of the messy, knotted-up feelings about the way she gets treated that she has ever confided in you: the flattery of it, and the honour, and the always alienating feeling of being so set apart. For all her acknowledgement of and insistence on her role as a radiant divine emissary, you have had ample chance to see Aylin is not one keen to remain sequestered on a pedestal for very long. 

It is another thing you find yourself grateful for. Another segment of the uniquely beautiful and complex marriage of the mundane and the divine that is your beloved. An interplay you would gladly spend the rest of your life (Moonmaiden and all the gods willing, a bit longer this time) trying to truly understand and fully appreciate.

After a moment of contemplation, Aylin rallies and fires back. "Anywhere the Moon shines is the place for Selûne, and so too for Her daughter. And who could deny Her esteemed cleric, Her daughter's beloved, the chosen of Dame Aylin's heart--"

You let out a derisive little snort at "esteemed", at having yourself placed side by side with such lofty company in the age-old adage of the faithful. But you say nothing when Aylin leans over your shoulder with a questioning look. A damp curl of hair sticks to her temple, with another one draped around her collarbone rather enticingly.

The mild distraction of temptation helps you swallow down that particular set of nascent doubts, and you try to turn your thoughts back to practical matters. "I will talk to Shadowheart, see what her plans are. And…" Here you yourself hesitate, a chill coming over you despite the stubborn heat of your surroundings, "and Halsin, who is going back to Reithwin. He asked for our support."

Aylin's hum of acknowledgement vibrates against your back. Yet while the state of your erstwhile home, even uncursed, throws its long shadow over you, it is Karlach's fate that hangs most heavy on Aylin's own heart.

Spread out on the city-turned-battlefield as you all were, you only heard the news afterwards. Karlach, engine molten and about to blow, rushed to Avernus at the last possible moment, without even having a chance to say goodbye to anyone not in her immediate surroundings. Aylin fumed at the unfairness of it all for days, and the thundercloud has lately turned to moroseness.

As you run down the list of your companions, trying to find who would most benefit from your presence, you can pinpoint the exact moment Aylin's thoughts turn to her once again.

"Aylin," you start, but trail off uncertainly. Instead you take her large hand between both of yours, rubbing hopefully soothing circles into the dewy, soap-sudded skin.

"I was not much of a friend to our fierce Karlach," Aylin says, despondent. "She took time and care to comfort me with words of insight and I - I was not there when she won her vengeance against her tormentor. Nor was I there in the aftermath. And neither was I there when she--"

"She'll be back," you rush to reassure in the pause, turning a bit clumsily in order to properly face her. "And she isn't alone this time! Wyll and her, they're a force to be reckoned with. You'll see."

Aylin shakes her head, droplets of water chasing each other down the furrows of her frown. Her eyes trail restlessly over the gently sloshing water your movements have just stirred to life. "I still wish I could--"

You squeeze her hand. "Aylin, my love. One thing at a time. Please. Neither of us are in any fit state to go to the Hells, of all places."

To your surprise, Aylin quickly and quietly acquiesces, sad but calm. Like she's reached some unhappy understanding and seen that raging against it will only help burn her own heart out. "The enclave, then. And Reithwin to follow after. There is much to be done indeed." 

She doesn't sound defeated, not exactly, as she reclines back into the water. But it is not spoken in a tone that you are used to hearing from her.

-

You find Jaheira in the tragically compromised Harper hideout underneath Danthelon's Dancing Axe, where half-hearted attempts were made at scrubbing odd-looking doppelganger blood from the floorboards. 

It is completely unsurprising to you that the High Harper seems to know your plans, somehow, after apparently doing nothing but taking one good look at you. Or perhaps, discomfitingly, she simply knows you and so knew what your decisions would be before you even made them.

"After we left, chasing an army back to Baldur's Gate, I left a small contingent of Harpers on cleanup duty around Moonrise," she begins without preamble, almost as a response to your quiet greeting. "Just to make sure nothing was left to come after us right after we turned our backs on it, you understand."

You nod, and she waves at a pile of paper, parchment, and what can only be termed scraps littering one of the several desks pushed against the walls of the cellar.

"Their scouting reports - take them. There is indeed much to be done there. You and your paladin will have your work cut out for you, when you get around to it. Halsin and his company as well, for all that the curse is finally broken. My Harpers got a start on some of it, but thanks to Orin's machinations I've had to pull everyone back here. Our numbers are… lacking, to say the least."

You wince at that stinging, burning little coal of guilt that you seem to have swallowed, that reignites in your gut every so often. None of this would have happened if you hadn't… And then, after storming the Towers and the long, costly battle against Ketheric, to have ever-pragmatic Jaheira dedicate what little agents she had left to Reithwin - it makes you feel indebted, almost.

"We are going back to the enclave, first," you point out and choose not to deny anything. "Aylin and I. They could use our help rebuilding, as could the city, and honestly, we could use the rest, and the change. We've taken a few days here to recover, but…"

"I would tell you to take your time before tackling Reithwin and all it entails," Jaheira smiles that sharp smile again, "but I know you well enough by now to understand you will not be idle for very long. I remember fearing you'd storm off into the shadows and straight to Moonrise Towers to confront your father with some righteously blazing moonlight whenever the scouts returned with a particularly grim report."

A wince, again, at the reminder that Jaheira, apparently, knew that little tidbit all along, too.

"And your Aylin, hah! Even worse, that one. A matching pair indeed."

What a thought - two beings, so vastly different, yet so utterly meant for each other. It feels good to think, to turn it over and over in your mind: no matter the foul circumstances of your return and the stain they have left on you, you and Aylin belong together, and it is so plain and clear and true for everyone to see.

"You are… staying here?" You ask tentatively, basking in the unexpected warmth and probably completely unintentional encouragement, leafing through some of the documents on the top of the loose stacks.

Jaheira smiles wryly, then opens her arms as if trying to encompass the whole of the Gate. "It is my city, after all. My home, I shudder to say, but finally admit. It is what it is, and it is mine, just as that place is yours."

The memory of a golden little nugget of camp chatter comes to you then, reinforced by a fascinating detail you noticed during the preparations for the city's defence. Your lips curl into a smirk, and you cannot resist. "I wonder what Astele would think, to hear you say that."

Jaheira harrumphs. "I know her followers are gifted diviners, but I didn't know Selûne had taken gossip into her portfolio." Then she sighs, shaking her head. "Nine-Fingers Keene is handling her turf as well as can be expected - she's lost many people as well. Their efforts and contributions to the cleanup are… valuable."

"I'm sure they are," you agree diplomatically, then straighten out the various documents and start putting them away in a satchel. 

"Thank you, Jaheira, for all of this. And… for everything."

She merely nods. There is a catch in your throat when you turn to finally say goodbye the best way you know how. "May the Moonmaiden guide and protect you. In- in all that you choose to do."

"She has already given me a great deal, through you, even when my own decisions may have been lacking," Jaheira replies, stepping out of her report-laden nook at last and coming to stand before you. "But you have given me a great deal of yourself, as well, Isobel. I will not forget it, and neither should you."

A hand on your shoulder, a little less awkwardly rusty than that time in Moonrise. "If you ever get bored of the country life and frolicking around with that impressive angel of yours, remember the Harpers could always use someone of your calibre."

You laugh. "I'll keep it in mind."

-

You cross paths with Shadowheart once more before your departure - and, apparently, hers. She is bound for Waterdeep, she says, the House of the Moon. The two of you take the chance to turn a practical outing for procuring alchemical supplies into an extended farewell. 

The late morning sun plays around both of you as you walk down streets that are slowly regaining their bustle. It is almost as bright as the glow of the mace Shadowheart is so fond of using in battle. An appropriate blessing for new beginnings, indeed.

"I have many things I wish to see, and many questions I will have to find answers to myself," Shadowheart elaborates with an air of determination, as you pass by lines of hawkers who seem unconcerned that most of their wares are displayed on crumbling masonry and the odd nautiloid fragment. "And my parents… I wish to learn about them, where they came from, the beliefs they held so dearly - I thought it would be a good place to start."

Her words call to mind the warm silver shade of a mother you can barely remember leading you by the hand, and the vague impressions of an awe-inspiring dome looming so high above you it might have reached the Moon itself.

"I have no doubt it will be," you reply softly. "Aylin and I are bound elsewhere, I'm afraid. But we will certainly visit there eventually - I'm surprised they haven't called for her already. Perhaps one day we will see you there." 

Your smile is genuine, and so is hers; pure warmth, no cutting undertone or hidden edge to it anymore.

"Oh, Aylin told me of an excellent inn to visit while I'm there. She said she spent quite some time based in Waterdeep, a long time ago - I had no idea."

You wonder, with a private smirk, just how detailed Aylin's recommendation truly was, and if among tidbits such as fine ales and excellent rabbit stew she deigned to include originally founded and run by Selûne Herself. That part of your beloved's - of your Goddess' - life is certainly somewhat of a curiosity, and you quietly decide to let Shadowheart have fun learning of it on her own. It rankles just a bit that Shadowheart's a long time ago was only a little while before you and Aylin met.

As you round a corner and the cracked stained-glass dome of Sorcerous Sundries comes into view, Shadowheart lets out a chortle. "Can you imagine though, her and Gale having to get along within the boundaries of one poor city?"

You cannot help a wince at the thought. "I'm sure Aylin doesn't hold all wizards in contempt. It's just--"

"--the excessively, unwisely ambitious ones?" She cuts in breezily.

"What is Gale up to, nowadays?" You ask with only traces of a grimace and a feeble prod at moving the conversation to a slightly different path.

"Trawling the river for any trace of Mystra's priceless artefact, last I heard. What he plans to do with it once he finds it, well," Shadowheart squares her shoulders, tilts her chin up, and puts on her best Aylin impression, "that will be up to him."

"Well learned," you grin, but it fades quickly when you see Shadowheart has grown serious.

"I hope, for his sake, he chooses well," she says, quietly enough that it is a bit hard to catch her words over the din of the city. "Whatever… whatever that ends up being. It's not exactly obvious, sometimes."

You remember Aylin's eyes growing distant, her voice so very low and soft, when she spoke of what exactly she'd ended up doing, that nasty little Sharran you'd bickered with and dismissed at Last Light. When she laid a merciful hand on my shoulder - the first friendly touch in a century that broke the infernal cage, I… that feeling of falling, of release. It is indescribable.

Thinking of it all still makes your throat catch, and so you take a moment to speak again. "And I thank you again that, for Aylin's sake, and for mine, but most of all for yours, you did."

"Are we going to be thanking each other for the rest of our lives?" It's said lightly, jokingly, almost dismissively. But, upon actually meeting Shadowheart's eyes, it is easy to tell there is a vast array of feelings brewing there. You realise the two of you have stopped walking, and are currently blocking the better part of a nondescript Lower City stairway - hardly an appropriate setting for sharing a moment of sincerity.

You decide you don't particularly care. You throw your arms around her, and she takes less than a heartbeat to hug you back. "Absolutely. If that is what it takes," you mumble into her shoulder, "and then I'll find a way to pester you from Argentil, after."

Moonmaiden, keep your watchful gaze on her, you think as the glint of Shadowheart's little moon-pendant catches your eye, jostled out of its hiding place by your movements, and you do not care if the prayer is redundant or the protection already promised. Do not let anyone steal another moment of her future again.

-

The attack comes a mere tenday and a half after you and Aylin arrive. It happens at night, in that pleasantly busy hour just after midnight when a Selûnite enclave is, by nature and by tradition, at its most active and lively. The fact the intruders did not know this, the surprise in their eyes when they do not, in fact, fall upon easy, confused, sleep-addled prey, speaks volumes about their lack of leadership and preparation.

Most in the ill-formed ranks around you as you rush to the defence are wearing now-familiar Absolutist garb, but many of them are adorned with Myrkulite triangles and bone fragments, their ash-painted faces peeking out from under deep hoods or behind skull-like masks. Some of them come puppeteering undead contingents - a few shambling skeletons at most, nothing that doesn't collapse into a pile the moment you call down some light and call out a prayer. Even if there is a rasp in your throat and a stubborn chill gripping you at the sight of them, they prove rather less than a challenge.

"Selûne, Moonmother," you hear the familiar invocation just behind you, from that cherished voice you'd once resigned yourself to never hearing again. Though you cannot help but focus on the subtle shift in it, the lowering, the slight gravelly quality it did not have before. 

The silver flame flares up next to you, and it almost feels like it will burn you with its intensity. You have never been so much as singed by it. You are used to cradling its like in your own hands, cupping it and using it to warm and to purify - and flinging it at foes. But now, for a moment, you feel the sting of fear at it, at its ferocity.

"In Your name."

One attacker falls before Aylin, reduced to ash in a beam of moonlight before he even has a chance to scream. The next one parries the first blow she aims at him, then tries but fails to entirely evade the second, just as radiant. His cries echo in your ears well after he has died.

The third one to make towards her goes down just as swiftly - but not without exacting a price. Their putrid Myrkulite flail, on a final desperate backswing as they fall, smashes into Aylin's jaw from below with enough force to snap her head backwards and knock her helmet off. Horrified, you watch it describe a glistening arc and disappear into motes of moonlight at the apex. 

A blow like that could have easily felled a man, and yet it does not come even close to stopping Aylin; it barely sends her into a stumble, eyes blazing. She recovers her slipping grip on her sword within a heartbeat, rolls her shoulders and her neck with a crack and an annoyed growl.

You step forward and call out her name, pale silver healing magic coalescing around your fingertips, but Aylin has already dashed-flown out of your reach, into the thick of the battle, growl turning into a roar of fury. Dazzling moonlight follows her, enveloping, wherever she goes, and holy fire scorches the ground in her wake. It is one of those moments when she becomes so clearly divine, unstoppable, disregarding whatever might dare tie her to a worldly, mundane, merely human existence.

All of this you behold from a distance, forcing yourself to focus on the blessings, the protective spells, and whatever healing is immediately required around you. You do not manage to catch up with Aylin until the battle has dwindled down into nothing, the invaders reduced to a few stragglers surrendering or failing to flee.

She is surrounded by fallen foes. Her bloodied sword is still out, silver flames stubbornly licking up its blade. As you step closer, it is painfully obvious even your allies are giving her a wide berth.

"Aylin," you call out tenderly, softly, voice barely rising above her laboured breathing. She draws a final, loud, slightly wheezing and unpleasant-sounding breath before turning to you with a proud tilt of her head that does end in a wince, despite her best efforts. In one movement she blinks the moonlight out of her eyes and flicks her sword free of gore to sheathe it.

Rich, silver-flecked blood is smeared across the lower half of her face, generously mixed with a splash of deep red you know is not hers. It hides most of the damage, and your gut churns at the sight of the beloved face subjected to such violence.

Aylin crouches down without protest when you tug on her arm and gazes up at you almost expectantly, the look of doe-eyed trust a ridiculous contrast to the warlike countenance of barely a second ago.

It is a matter of mere moments to heal her injuries, to encourage and tease the bone and cartilage all back into place, as if nothing had ever happened. She doesn't so much as twitch, even as some rather ghastly re-stitching happens before your eyes and under your touch. You release a breath you weren't even aware you were holding, and forge ahead with a well-worn sentiment: "You shouldn't be so careless with yourself, Aylin."

"The vagaries of battle. It is nothing," she says, back on her feet before you can even begin to protest. One of her hands keeps almost lazily feeling along her freshly-mended jawline and up to her nose, making an even bigger bloody mess of her face. "The fight was soundly won - my Mother's faithful have been kept safe. The rest is a mere trifle. I've had far worse than this."

The frustration in you mounts at this dismissal, and you try to wipe away the worst of the mess coating your gloves. "That does not mean you should… should invite more harm."

"Come, Isobel, what is the worst such a gutless miscreant could ever do to Dame Aylin?" She grins, tone mocking, arms wide as if presenting herself. "Kill her, perhaps?" At this, to your horror, she laughs. "If this was their finest attempt, I pity them, truly." 

Her teeth, where her wryly curled lips show them, are tinged both blood-red and glistening silver. The smallest of gold lines has curled beneath her chin where the spikes of the flail must have broken skin - and you know it to be new, for you know every single one, have made it an almost holy duty to map them and memorise them, no matter their staggering number.

"Aylin, that's not--" you begin, but find yourself bereft of words. Instead you shake your head, look away, and let your hands curl into fists. It feels like you had this argument a dozen times a century ago, and like you've had it a thousand times since your reunion. 

In the immediate grim aftermath, you tend to the wounded, and then the dead. The losses on your side number blessedly few - the attackers were desperate, ill-equipped and ill-prepared, and certainly not counting on Aylin being here. There is some damage to a few of the buildings, some broken windows, a handful of attempts at setting fires; nothing unmanageable. You offer up a quick, almost furtive prayer of gratitude that you were guided back here in time. 

As a pyre mounts and you help sort through the dead foes in a mostly futile quest to identify them, you are faced with an unpleasant reminder that not all in the cult of the Absolute and the army surrounding it were tadpoled True Souls. That you and all of the allies you have made would likely be rooting out remnants for many years to come.

-

You do not broach the subject again until much later that night, almost before dawn, when the time finally comes to attempt to get some rest.

Sleep is, of course, elusive. The rush of battle and danger has only had so much time to settle down, and in your case all that has welled up to replace it is concern and sadness.

You do not very often have theological discussions with Aylin, though it is… tempting, to say the least. But there is something so heart-rending in the way she spoke of herself today that it draws your thoughts in a very particular direction, down a swirling whirlpool that refuses to let go of you even as you twist yourself and your sheets into a tangled mess.

Being the living sword of the Goddess who most praises and holds up free will and choice - how does that truly work? Did she herself ever have a choice, Selûne's own aasimar daughter, silver-blooded and divine of flesh, so very purpose-made?

Was a different path ever even offered to her?

And you feel, deep within, around that wellspring from which your loyalty and faith all derive - you feel that there must have been. That there must be. That Aylin, stubborn and wrought of pure determination as she is, adamantly refuses to consider it. But you know, as surely as you know your Goddess's name and the prayers you've recited since childhood that have so often been answered, that if Aylin wished to stop, Selûne would not be the one standing between her and that choice. It would only ever be Aylin herself. 

Oh, you love her for it, you truly do - her fierce sense of justice, her passion for her duty, her unflinching pursuit of goodness, her endless, glorious drive - but you love all that she is, and that is not all that she is.

She is a luminous and terrifying weapon and protector both, but she is also a person, and you fear she is more loath to admit to the latter than she has ever been, now that she needs to most, all in her utterly understandable rush to reclaim what was torn from her over the past century.

What will you do, Aylin? You want to pull her face down to yours and ask. Will you allow yourself more than this?

With me?

Instead, you merely turn to look at her, wide awake and sitting against the headboard next to you, unnervingly still in the face of your tossing and turning. She meets your gaze quietly, and for a moment you imagine she almost looks guilty.

The silence stretches taut, until you finally break it with a very simple question. "What did She ask of you, that night?"

Aylin blinks at you, clearly having expected something else, and says nothing.

So you elaborate, scrambling up rather inelegantly to rest against the headboard yourself. "During the last full moon, at that beautiful clearing. What was the important divine mission Selûne called you away to convey?"

As the words sink in, Aylin seems almost bashful. Both her hands are busy toying with the soft edge of a fur-lined blanket, once folded at the foot of your bed in case of a mid-night chill. "I am… to stay at your side."

"And?" You prompt, very pointedly. You have intuited some of it, of course - you were there, even if not completely part of the conversation, the holy communion. But Aylin is stubborn, and so are you.

"And rest, and… shore up a bulwark. Isobel, I--"

Even as she trails off into a long pause, you stay silent, this time, because you can see clearly that she understands why you've brought this up. You pry one of her hands off of the blanket and hold it between yours instead. 

"I will try," she offers, finally, and you hate that it sounds so much like she is admitting a defeat. But then she frowns, and a bit of steel creeps back into her voice and bearing. "I must."

-

The members of the enclave hang on Aylin's every word, and she, in turn, instructs them to defer to you.

As you advise and direct the various efforts - where to take the wounded, which repairs to prioritise, which avenue of trade for essential supplies to pursue - you find yourself reaching deep into that well of a governor's daughter's education, where the Moonmaiden's clerical teachings prove not enough. Aylin remains by your side throughout, and her eyes quite noticeably refuse to leave you, filled to the brim with naked adoration and admiration. To call it flattering feels like a woeful understatement.

She is very intrinsically charismatic, of course, and a force of nature to boot. But you know Aylin much prefers to fill the role of a vanguard rather than a general. A knight-errant travelling the realms to perform great deeds in her mother's name, an emissary charged with doling out blessings and protection - and punishment.

But she is also clearly fond of being a strong pair of arms when building materials needed to be hauled or when fields needed to be worked. And then that same pair, now armed with exquisite tenderness, helping to transport the injured and the infirm and herd unruly children. So much of Aylin seems to be blossoming before your very eyes now that she is striving to give herself permission, in a matter of days: gentleness, and care, and helpfulness, and diligence, and thoughtfulness, and all the other parts of her that withered unused in the Shadowfell for so long. 

The casual touches between the two of you are endless, the constant stream of tiny reassurances for the both of you that you are alive, that all of this is indeed real. You do not go half an hour without a hand brushed against a shoulder; a kiss pressed to your temple in passing; an arm wrapped around your waist lightly but insistently as you stand; a warm, wide palm against the back of your neck, tracing down, then resting on the small of your back as you speak.

You've also noticed a habit she seems to have picked up, reserved for when her hands happen to be free of you. If there is something soft nearby - a blanket, young grass, a cushion, and, on one memorable occasion, a surprisingly agreeable cat - Aylin will press her palms against it, keep it in her hands and fiddle with it, touch it over and over again seemingly without thought. 

You do wonder if she's even aware she does it. It is rather endearing and never fails to cause a warm bloom in your chest whenever you notice; it is also heartbreaking and makes your chest swell with the drive to protect, protect, protect.

All of which amounts to your heart feeling ready to burst when, one afternoon that's been judged to be too warm for any strenuous outdoor work, Aylin musters up the courage to ask you for a very old favour. It has taken her a while, for reasons you shudder to think of and hate to know; months of completely understandable reticence to once again indulge in what you would be prepared to call one of the heights of intimacy. 

"My wings," Aylin states, then stops. Clears her throat. Fidgets with something she's holding in her hands - the edge of a brush, and something you cannot quite make out. "If you would… I would like it if you would kindly assist me…"

You graciously spare her the trouble of spelling out the rest of the request, because you know exactly what she wants. In no time at all you sit on the bed in your chemise, she in front of you in only some of her underthings, as you get started on preening, cleaning, and generally pampering Aylin's wings. She is tense, at first, as you feared she would be - but your own nerves at the thought you might not remember how to do this right disperse near-immediately, you apply yourself diligently, and she is melting into your touch within minutes. The undercurrent of desperate eagerness to replace grim memories and sensations with something far more pleasant is a new addition to the proceedings you do your best to disregard.

Vanes, fluffy down, stray pin feathers coming in to replace feathers lost in the battle against the Absolute - you work through them all with unparalleled care. Aylin has procured a gentle, sweet-smelling oil to smooth over the topmost feathers, and to spread on and between her shoulder blades. You have some limited experience with falconry, acquired when a travelling delegation from Cormyr spent a few months in Reithwin - and this is nothing like the care for plumage they instructed you in. In fact, you are fairly sure none of this is truly, strictly necessary. But it became a treasured indulgence for you both anyway, a long time ago, and you value this unique chance to spoil Aylin rotten. When you are rewarded with a low hum of satisfaction from her, you feel a swell of pride, as well as deep-set reassurance that she does not mind your cold hands at all.

It does take considerable time and effort, and it gives you ample chance to muse about the odd in-between nature of the wings themselves: a magical sign of Aylin's divine parentage that she can manifest and dismiss at will, while also being very real and physical, a part of her just as much as any other limb. She has spoken to you of the rare occasions of encountering other aasimar in her travels and finding some understanding, but also finding so much that set her apart even there - and being met with envy and pity both. Another singularity of your darling, straddling the borders of several worlds.

The two of you are mostly quiet throughout, save for when you murmur quick questions to gauge Aylin's comfort and she encourages you to carry on. But as the afternoon draws ever onwards, this is not all she seems to be keen on, if her increasingly eagerly roaming hands and glances over her shoulder at you are any indication. She manages to sit still until you are almost done; or until merely trailing fingers down your calves becomes too little for her, and then she turns in your arms to kiss you, rather insistently.

"Aylin. Are you sure?"

She buries her head between your neck and shoulder and breathes against your skin. "My love, my sweetest, brightest light of my heart. Isobel. Your touch… nothing else can calm the raging storm. The furor. Please."

"How could I ever deny you, when you ask so nicely?" You tease lightly, reaching over to put away the brushes and oil containers. Aylin insists on making it all far harder than it needs to be by nipping at your neck and refusing to let go of you. "My darling, a veritable poet." 

You smirk at her squirming as you pry her off and urge her to lie down, stilling her movements - all of that sheer strength and latent power - with but one slight press against her hips. That determination burns in you again: nothing but a loving, gentle touch for her now. Cherishing. Tenderness and care.

It is a special relief every time a piece of you comes back to you so readily: a firm press with the flat of your tongue, and Aylin is lost in an exhilaratingly familiar way. To find the unchanged between the two of you has become something of a fixation. A century of darkness has stolen many things with it, but some things persist. Like the feel of Aylin and the taste of her and the little sounds she makes and the way she throws her head back in delight.

She manages an almost petulant whine in the back of her throat, thighs shivering against your feather-light touch as you move away. Her breathing is still strained, great loud gasps, and it is a special, private delight to see her so undone. You kiss up one of the golden lines as it bisects her stomach, snakes up her chest and neck, until you reach her lips.

"Let me…" Aylin mumbles through the kiss. 

You stop her surge forward with the gentlest touch of your hand to her chest, shaking your head. Instead you lie down against her and bask in the wondrous feeling of simply existing together spilling like warm honey all over your insides.

Your hair is a mess from where her fingers had been curling in it, running through it, but you only care enough to smooth it back from tickling and sticking to your face. The afternoon sun is balmy enough to have you kicking away the covers as you fall into a comfortable, utterly lazy doze. 

Every so often, a kiss is pressed to your face - forehead, cheeks, lips. Large, calloused fingers carefully trace your features. Soft murmurs only half-meant for your ears reach you; mostly meant just for Aylin herself. Precious, beloved, cherished - she names you all of this and more, and then - safe, at my side, alive, alive, alive. A hand cups your cheek and another comes to rest on your chest, feeling the beat of your heart.

"No sleep?" You mutter, barely awake, to Aylin who is hovering over you. She looks blatantly enraptured, even as you squint through sleep-caked eyes.

"I do not feel like closing my eyes to your beauty. More entrancing and delightful than any dream could ever hope to be. Isobel."

The way she says your name, with a note of reverence mixed into the sheer longing, never fails to make your heart clench with deep, almost painful feeling. None of the beautiful, startlingly poetic epithets for you that she so likes conjuring up can quite compare to the simple adoration she imbues those few syllables with.

The setting sun paints the room and all of her in glittering gold. And for all that she is made of and meant for her divine mother's moonlight, Aylin bathed in sunlight is always a breathtaking sight to behold.

"Mmmm," you hum, stretching languidly. "Look at that. I've been sent an angel."

"That you have," she responds, just as softly, smiling so very tenderly. "Yours, Isobel. Forever."

-

When a message comes from Halsin and the contingent of druids that travelled ahead, you know your inevitable return to Reithwin draws near.

The land is already healing rapidly; after a century of futile attempts, it is a wonder to behold, they claim. The road has been cleared of the remnants of a marching and pillaging army and secured to the best of their ability. The first of the refugees have already started to come upriver, eager to work the land and build homes.

The satchel with Jaheira's reports awaits, stashed in the corner of the small living quarters you and Aylin have grown so comfortable in.

When she returns from one of her errands to find you sitting on the bed, pointedly frowning in the corner's general direction, Aylin's question is simple and succinct.

"When do we depart?"

-

You deliberately avoided it all the first time, only briefly visiting the throne room after the Harpers took over. Now, however, the long shadow of Moonrise Towers looms inescapable, and its fate has been left up to your judgement.

Climbing through the ravaged library and seeing the defilement of yet another one of your erstwhile sanctuaries is just as painful as you anticipated. But it is nothing compared to what you find when you make it all the way up to your old rooms.

The bones of a dog, in Absolutist regalia.

You fall to your knees next to them. Undamaged, painstakingly reassembled into this macabre display - you can see the shape of her in there, still, your Squire. It almost seems like she simply laid down to sleep before withering away. The last dregs of magic wafting from the awful pile feel horrifyingly familiar and just as sickening as the thought that Squire died for you, was brought back an undead mockery, then died again. Surely, surely no more horrors were needed here, on your father's seemingly endless tally?

But then, the niggling thought comes: if you yourself were not undone like this, upon Ketheric's - Myrkul's - defeat, then perhaps you are not so far gone, unfixable, wrong?

Aylin's hand upon your shoulder rouses you from your stupor, and you realise you have no idea how long you've been here, if you've given her cause to worry. You know only that your legs have grown numb, your knees hurt, and you feel very cold.

Her voice is unusually quiet, like the respectful and solemn whisper of one attending a funeral. "Let me take her and remove these foul accoutrements from her. Then we can lay her to rest wherever you wish."

The tears on your face have dried into sticky tracks that make your skin pull when you sniff. You grimace and nod, wordless. 

Aylin takes your hand, helping you to stand up, and you turn to leave immediately. Moonrise Towers you deem to be a hollowed-out, unsalvageable husk, and you resolve to inform Halsin as soon as possible.

You have run up and down these stairs, snuck around these landings and rooms - as a precocious child, as a wilful teenager, and long into adulthood. It has ever been your domain. You have died here.

You do not want to spend another moment here.

-

It is far more convenient this way, you say to yourself. Everything you need is easily accessible from the inn that is once again to serve as your base of operations, and your home - for there is hardly another liveable structure readily available in the region. Jaheira even left you with all the keys. You're certainly not going to impose on the refugees, and you do not think the druids would be a very good option. 

So Last Light it is.

Aylin performs amusingly mundane little tasks and lounges on the bed while you spend evenings going through the Harpers' documents. You imagine, fleetingly, how easy it would have been to do all you did here with her at your side. How damned close she was the entire time. How he lied to your face and called it love, called you family--

Your very first night back, you took the bust from your room - insisted on hauling it down all the stairs personally, no matter how long and how many coughing fits it took - and left it in the cellar. There is very little you want to ask him anymore. Papa, father, Ketheric - whoever he might have been. The burden of undoing his grim work is more than enough evidence of his presence and the shadow he has cast over the life and unlife he has saddled you with.

Instead you bring up some of the relics and remnants of clandestine worship stashed in the cellar by a handful of brave souls. You didn't have a chance to visit this part of Last Light, in all the chaos and revelations that happened around Ketheric's defeat, around the curse being lifted. The discovery of a hidden Selûnite shrine just underneath where you had set up your own makeshift altar felt fitting, but hardly an emergency. And then - the Absolute conspiracy revealed, the city, everything else… it was, sadly, set aside.

In this mostly quiet aftermath, now that the time has come to start picking up the pieces, you begin there. It is a veritable treasure trove, though it pains you to think how many paid with their lives for it. The Harper reports paint a vivid picture for you despite their brusque, businesslike delivery: the faithful, doomed pillars that the brothers Morfred and Halfred chose to be, and a Selûnite resistance that ended in death, sulphur, and hellfire. Was it worth it? you want to ask them, even as you know, with a certainty that seems to reach to your very marrow, you would have done the same. That all the free will and choice and fear in the world could not keep you from opposing the darkness.

Aylin, as if feeling your eyes upon her, looks up from what must once have been a lovely silver chalice that she is attempting to polish back to glory with great determination. When she meets your rather intense gaze with her own questioning one, you merely shake your head and go back to your reading.

One cannot rip out the foundations of a building and expect it to remain standing, states your home's architect himself in faded ink on century-old paper, and you nod along, poring over his words, committing them to memory. It is the least you can do.

There is good masonry still to be found in those parts of Moonrise that have not been burrowed through completely and infested with illithid flesh; excellently-hewn stone that will make for fine homes, laid anew as a foundation for many lives. A far better way to attempt to dry Selûne's tears than a tall, proud tower, you think.

Once you have exhausted the cellar, you follow the trail towards the Mason's Guild, Aylin stalwart but silent at your side. Neither of you had much chance to truly observe the remnants of the town proper, either before or after the lifting of the curse - you, fleeing your grave and your grave-hollowed father, and Aylin, rocketing towards her promised reckoning. The sunlight now lays bare so much of the truth of what was done to Reithwin, and though you can see where good work has begun, where dead vines have been pulled away and burned, paths and roads cleared, and so many old, old bones laid to rest, there is such a staggering, overwhelming amount still left to do.

Your mental tally of the houses and their state of disrepair grinds to a halt as you realise the presence at your back is gone. 

"Aylin?" You call out, looking all around you to find where she's suddenly disappeared off to - only to spot her already at the grand gates and remnants of arches that mark the entrance to your destination.

There is something heartwrenching about the way Aylin kneels down and picks up shattered pieces of a statue of her own mother, the way she fits them together in her hands as if she can will them back into wholeness and splendour. 

As her fingers gently and reverently trace a marble cheek, you remember, unbidden, an inconsolable young girl doing the same. Still small enough that her grieving father had to lift her, holding her to his chest with such desperation, in order for her to reach the carved likeness of her mother, sleeping forever in the cool, incense-sodden air of the mausoleum.

You decide there and then to have one of the statues made part of the restoration efforts. Your Lady returned to her rightful place in the heart of Reithwin, as you pour your all into rebuilding life from rubble and ruin. 

It feels more and more like the right thing to do, as you go on. As the two of you continue to pick up the pieces, chasing down the various loose ends from Jaheira's reports, an increasingly detailed portrait emerges of Selûne's soft, guiding, subtle touch; of the faithful clinging to her teachings that there is always hope and light to be found in the darkness, that they themselves will be found and led to a safe path; of terror, oppression, and torments inflicted upon them by Ketheric Thorm and his Dark Justiciars - and, chillingly, their own neighbours, friends, loved ones. Defeat after defeat, attempt after attempt, in an almost-cycle of waning far more than waxing. Culminating in hastily dug Selûnite graves right in front of the entrance to the Thorm family mausoleum - a place at whose twisted, burst-open gates you yourself choose not to linger very long. 

Final casualties of the war on the side of the Harpers and druids, or later additions sent to combat the shadow curse, to perhaps try and find Aylin - impossible to tell. But whatever they were, would this be reassuring evidence that the Moonmaiden did care, that Aylin's mother did try to reach her - or merely fodder for more guilt and anger, that people she was sent to protect instead died in her name?

Your thoughts are interrupted when Aylin finishes paying her respects and comes back down the uneven cobbled path to the graveyard entrance, ducking under branches of trees that are still crooked and gnarled, but now sporting rich canopies of leaves for the afternoon sun to dapple. She takes your hand without a word and leads the two of you away.

"They are safe in my Mother's halls, righteous champions all, savouring their justly earned respite," Aylin finally speaks up when you are halfway across the wide town square, and the inadvertent reminder of your own oddly lacking afterlife makes you shiver. 

-

Then, a barkeep and a brewer who claimed to be Ketheric's son, Jaheira's notes say. But you know for a fact you never had a brother. 

Or did you?

An acquaintance, a distant relative bearing the family name - but there were so very many. And the Waning Moon had never been one of your preferred haunts, in life. Doubly so now, as you need to put a cloth over your face to even be able to approach its entrance; so strong and unbearably foul is the miasma that wafts from it in all directions.

A poisoner, a murderer, an informant, a rat; one who knew Ketheric's secret, who knew both Aylin and where she was, what had been done to her. One of the first real clues to her whereabouts - to her existence - Shadowheart and the others had found. 

Your blood? Ketheric's? How? And why kept so hidden, secret? Would you have wanted such a man for a brother?

You scour the ruins of your former life and realise you will never know.

-

Aylin may have been granted a respite, but there could be none for you. 

Taking stock of the lands destroyed by the curse or ravaged by your father's armies only serves to spur your determination -  a century or a month ago makes little difference in your mind. What you caused in death, you would repair in life, all of it - you vow this with the ardour befitting a paladin.

"You are not to blame," Aylin repeats and repeats, and you understand, of course. And understand that she is correct - you hardly chose to die and drive your own father to… this. It is a patently ridiculous thought. But still, the weight presses down on you, and ignites all of those instincts that make you so potent a healer.

And besides - there was no other Thorm left standing, was there?

After you've worn yourself down to the bone yet another day, you return to your rooms long after night has fallen to find Aylin waiting for you, perched very formally on one of the chairs, another one set very conspicuously right across from her. She's lit candles everywhere, you notice. There is a basket of fresh fruit on the table next to her - one of the druids' doing, no doubt - a few slices of bread, and a small plate of cheese.

Aylin looks deathly serious when she nudges the chair in front of her with a foot, angling it towards you. Her eyes pointedly refuse to leave yours. So you sigh and sit down, surrendering to whatever this is about to become.

Instead of launching into a passionate tirade, however, Aylin uncrosses her arms, reaches over, and puts the plate in front of you. Then, after a moment, she grabs the bread and a small bunch of grapes from the bowl - dark, rich purple, and you recognise them as your namesake and favourite as their sweet smell hits you - setting them before you just as expectantly.

Only once you've taken a few bites of each does Aylin seem satisfied. She takes a deep breath, pulls her chair closer to you, faces you, and begins. "My darling, allow me, for a moment, to cast your own words back at you. You are no tool or instrument either, to be used until nothing of use is left."

Those blue-silver eyes bore into you, as if looking through and into you. You curse yourself for letting yourself underestimate, or forget, just how insightful and attentive Aylin could be. "I see how you blame yourself for things you had no part in, and how you endeavour to take on all of my own burdens besides." Then she smiles, with the slightest twist to it, and inclines her head in a gentle mockery of defeat. "And though I might be capable of great feats indeed, dissuading you from striving for a cause you have taken to heart will never number among them." 

"Aylin," you begin, awkwardly, after conquering a stubborn mouthful of bread and cheese - a wonderful dark rye, still a bit warm, and a lightly smoked cheddar you've always been particularly partial to, and where did she even get these?

But Aylin shakes her head and presses on. "Nor would I wish to," she draws even closer, all trace and pretence of strictness gone from her as she nuzzles against your cheek and presses a kiss there, "my fearsome, brilliant Isobel."

You blush at the praise, clear your throat, and feel quite ill-equipped for the turn the conversation has taken, the lengths Aylin seems to have gone to set this all up.

"And so, though my Mother has been clear in Her instructions for me - as have you in your intent to see them followed through, my love - I believe taking care to ensure a more even sharing of burdens is in order. Would you not agree?"

"I will try," you reply at last, feeling only slightly chastised and mostly just very cared for, very loved, and far warmer than the single barely-aglow fireplace warranted. "I must," you add, not quite sure if you meant it as a wry little jest or not.

Aylin pulls her chair as close to yours as its wooden frame allows, until the two of you are sitting thigh to thigh and one of her arms is comfortably around you. 

"Will you have something?" You ask, a bit embarrassed you only thought to do so after almost half the plate was already gone.

She shakes her head. "I took my evening repast with the others downstairs. It was a pleasant enough affair, even as deprived as I was of my favourite company. No, this is all for you, and it is more than well-deserved."

Your appetite has been quite lacking since your unpleasant return from the grave. But for once you happily eat your fill, buoyed by the light, simple fare that is an enticing combination of some of your personal favourites, and Aylin's steady and undeniably proud presence at your side.

"How did you even manage to get any of this?" You ask when you are done, head resting on Aylin's shoulder, feeling both pleasantly full and lighter than you have in a long while. "When? I do not think anyone even noticed you were gone, or they would have told me."

Aylin chuckles, and you feel it reverberate against you, so very reassuringly familiar. "What use my wings, if not to fly off on a whim to spoil my beloved?"

You laugh at that, turning to press your face against her chest. "Magnificent, resplendent Dame Aylin. If only the world knew how sweet she was, too. Thank you."

"Sweetness…" Aylin starts, slow and thoughtful, then trails off. You can tell you've inadvertently prompted something she's been pondering for a while, so you rest your palm against her thigh and rub small circles with your thumb, and let her wrangle her thoughts into words in her own time. 

"For a while, after our reunion, I thought - I feared - that perhaps the old taste of happiness had grown too heady and sweet for Dame Aylin. That after a century so starkly bereft of it, instead of indulging, I would have to deprive myself of it and grow slowly reaccustomed to it, lest it make me ill."

She pushes you away from her shoulder gently, turning so she can fully look at you, and tilting your chin up with two achingly tender fingers. "But I know, now, I was wrong to fear it. And I know you should not fear it, either."

"We have nothing to fear," you state with immense resolve rushing from a wellspring you aren't sure you can name. And while you know this cannot possibly be true even after the defeat of so many foes and villains and schemers, it feels like the truth, for at least this one calm night in a simple candle-lit room.

-

The dinner is only slightly awkward, as far as these affairs have gone in the past. The most notable thing about it is that your father, it seems, has learned from last time.

First of all, Balthazar isn't here - wasn't invited, or had to beg off due to some undoubtedly important business. What your father sees in that man and why he holds his advice in such high esteem is quite beyond you. It is an amusing thought, however, that he, too, might have suffered from the horrible awkwardness and simply invented an excuse for this occasion.

Second - oh, Lady Arianella Bormul had been lovely, the very picture of elegance and rather breathtaking grace. With a crown of curls you felt a stab of envy over, and a perfectly cut gown that accentuated every curve of her and every dark blush shade of her skin. Carrying herself like a queen in the dining room, but perfectly polite and amicable in the conversations you two were inevitably forced into afterwards, with intriguing flashes of a cutting wit. But you shared so very little. And she was beautiful like a work of art whose objective qualities everyone agreed upon, you included, but that just were not to your personal taste.

Now you wonder just how obvious you'd made it.

As your father shoots you pointed glances from across the table and over a deliberately placed carafe of wine, you allow yourself, briefly, an entire slew of unkind thoughts. About how maybe things would be different if your mother were still here. About how much easier it would be if you had siblings, so that the entire future of Reithwin and the Thorm family and your father's heart didn't rest on your shoulders. About how selfish you truly would like to be. 

Then you shove it all back down and smile at the guests around the table, and offer your opinion about the most excellent skills of your local mason's guild and their potential for expansion.

The young Lady Jana Whitburn is strategically sat right across from you, as her father and yours conduct the important conversations on venison and marble and slate trade that this visit was ostensibly arranged for. She is tall and broad and clad in a marvellously fetching brocade suit of dark green. Her mother, rather obviously focused on you since their arrival in what is clearly a tactical division of duties agreed upon in advance, talks about Jana's successes in the tournament arenas across the Coast and her pending performance in Waterdeep's Field of Triumph. She herself, in a pleasantly deep yet melodic voice, mentions being interested in jousting, as a means of keeping her riding skills sharp while she is not out and about keeping her family's lands safe. Tilts her head at you with a winning smile at the conclusion of one adventurous story or other, the sharp cut of her chiselled jaw accentuated in perfect candlelight. You smile back, and poke half-heartedly at your tasteless dessert.

Later, you take her for a walk in Reithwin's small but well-kept gardens. She very gallantly offers you her arm, and you take it. Your father and her parents beam, and you contain your sigh. But when you look up at your companion, you are slightly surprised to notice that there is something brewing behind her eyes as well.

As soon as you are out of eyesight and earshot, you stop, take your hand off her arm and turn to face her.

"My apologies, Lady Whitburn…"

She almost winces when you address her, and shakes her head as if she is trying to physically shake off the formality and the trailing remnants of the dinner atmosphere. "Jana, please, Lady Thorm." 

"Jana, then," you smile your most agreeable smile, "and so I must be Isobel, no?"

"Of course, Isobel," she smiles back, but it is clearly strained, and you feel nothing so much as pity.

"Listen, Jana, I…" You hesitate, struggling to put your words into polite, inoffensive shape.

All this does is highlight the lack of Aylin, the lack of the connection and utterly natural understanding between the two of you. The ease. Even when there was supposed to be some fundamental and unbridgeable rift between you, according to your father.

"I'm afraid my father has misled you and your family - not out of any desire to harm, nor with ill intent. But, you see, I… I already have a lovely woman courting me. Well, rather further along than mere courting, I would say…"

To your surprise, Jana bursts into laughter, light and clear, and you are spared the embarrassment of elaborating further.

"Isobel, you cannot believe what a relief that is for me to hear."

You pause, a bit taken aback by the enthusiasm of her response. "Oh?"

"I'm afraid I count myself taken as well. Now, make no mistake, you are perfectly charming, and a delight in conversation. But," she waves a dismissive hand, "the heart wants what it wants and all that."

"That it does," you agree, and this time your smile is genuine. A tension you had gotten so used to seems to melt away from your shoulders, and the two of you resume your stroll among the gardener's latest offerings. "My father, well… he's a shrewd man. You and my Aylin would get along splendidly, I think. You seem very much alike in many ways."

"As would you and my Iona. She is training to be a cleric too, an acolyte of Ilmater. I swear, the realms have never seen a more patient and kind creature. Whenever I visit her at the temple I take a moment to observe her finishing her rounds - the way she all but glows with compassion is--" Jana halts both her words and her steps, slightly embarrassed, as if she has only now caught herself in her charmingly lovestruck enthusing. "Ah, but I've gone off on a tangent, haven't I?" 

You cannot help but smile at the sight of someone so utterly, beautifully enamoured. It is, after all, a feeling you happily know all too well.

"Please," you gesture at a bench behind some conveniently tall rose bushes - one of your favourite spots. "Don't stop on my account. Though, of course, now I can't help but wonder… what is your family's objection to the match? If you don't mind me asking," you add hastily.

Jana gives a wry smile as she takes a seat. "My parents would prefer someone of much higher birth for me." 

"I think mine would prefer I set my sights lower," you chuckle ruefully.

Jana's interest seems to be piqued. "Is that so? I've heard some… rumours, since our arrival. I've been wondering about, well, what kernel of truth spawned them."

"Have you, now?" You arch an eyebrow, allow a bit of bite into your tone. "You've barely been here a day - I wouldn't have taken you for a gossipmonger."

"You'll have to forgive my natural curiosity," her grin is as easily charming as it was during the dinner, but now, in the unexpectedly pleasant atmosphere of friendly understanding, you allow yourself to fully appreciate it, and to grin back. "But you must admit it's a bit unusual, Isobel. A celestial paramour… I suppose your father wants you to look lower than the very moon in the sky?" 

Her dramatic gesture in the general direction of said moon earns her a giggle, which she seems to take as encouragement.

"Is it true she single-handedly took on a score of Nightcloaks and won?"

You think back over the many rousing tales of victory Aylin has shared with you, and when nothing rings a bell you realise she must be talking about the raid last summer.

"You mean here, when the Sharrans dared to attack Reithwin?" It's hard to contain your amusement at her eager nod. "Well, it wasn't exactly single-handed and there were no Nightcloaks among the Sharran forces, but I can confirm she was certainly impressive."

You decide to leave out the part about Aylin dying and coming back right before your eyes. It is something you've yet to discuss with her, more than a full year later. Something you've no idea how to bring up, and something that inspires in you feelings you cannot quite define.

Something you know you will have to confront, one day.

For now, you sit on a secluded bench and shirk familial duties with a fellow highborn daughter. The two of you trade stories for the rest of the evening, and by the end of it you feel like you've known both Jana Whitburn and Iona Bluewater for years, and find yourself rather invested in the future of their relationship. In turn, you hope to have painted a picture of an Isobel who is more than just General Thorm's daughter, and of an Aylin who is something besides her divine silver bloodline.

You part amicably when the time comes, even promise to write to one another. Later on, the leave-takings complete, both of you having played your respective parts well enough to buy yourselves some very brief reprieve, you go to retreat to your room. Every stair you climb still seems to drop your heart that much deeper into a listless moroseness.

The air in your room is heavy and stale after the garden's freshness, so you decide to take your brooding out to your balcony. You may have won a friend today, but your father will be in a dour mood when he finds out his attempt has once again fallen through. And then how long until he plans another? Or turns to something else? No, this was simply untenable--

A gleaming Aylin alights on the balcony and pulls you into an embrace in a single, elegant movement, and it is like the Moon rising to dispel the dark of a cloudy night.

The first thing you notice as you are subjected to one kiss after another is that your beloved seems to be of a rather amorous disposition. You still wear your jewels and your finest silver-blue gown, the picture-perfect lady. But with the way Aylin's hands are wandering you sense this might not be the case for very long.

You place a hand on her chest, the metal pleasantly cool against your palm, and she stops, looking at you both questioningly and with blatant yearning.

Which should be ridiculous. You were barely apart for a day! You've gone longer without seeing each other when Aylin flew away on some divinely ordained quest or mission or another. But the feelings you read on her face are a perfect reflection of your own, and you are sick of the very thought of denying them. Instead, you throw your arms around her and draw her close once more.

"I missed you," you murmur the truth into her neck, just above the edge of her gorget, into that bit of unearthly pale skin that is always so conveniently available for you to kiss.

"I have dutifully stayed away, exactly as you bade me to," Aylin doesn't sound too disgruntled, and for that you find yourself both grateful and relieved. "But your guests are gone at long last, and so I consider my duty done."

You suppress a scowl at the bitterness that rises in you - because yes, you did pull Aylin aside and request, against the palpable wishes of every fibre of your being, that she not show herself around Moonrise today. All in the ultimately futile pursuit of appeasing your father, in a way so shallow and childish and stupidly obviously temporary that you feel a flare of anger - disgust, even - at yourself for not standing your ground. For going along with it all in the first place. But the slight yet audible disdain Aylin puts on the word guests is too conspicuous, too intriguing, and so your curiosity trumps your rising guilt.

"Do you have something against the Whitburn family?" Surely, if there was something objectionable about them, your father wouldn't have invited them the way he did. Aylin would have warned you of anything sinister. But then, suddenly, a different, more darkly amusing flavour of thought arises. "Or do you merely not like Lady Jana Whitburn?"

Aylin huffs, tilts her head with an unconvincing nonchalance. "She seems a fine woman. A knight with several deeds to her name - in particular some courageous outings against a local Cyricist offshoot, very recently. I hear she conducted herself with utmost skill and bravery."

"You've looked into her, I see?" You ask teasingly. Aylin's frown alone is an entire hundred-page novel. "Aylin. Are you jealous?"

The tinge of possessiveness in the way she holds you against her chest is clear to you now. You also find you have no complaint to give.

"I cannot help but feel this latest attempted match is… rather shrewdly targeted. Do you not find it so? Why, I would near take it as a slight."

With some reluctance, you pull away the slightest bit in order to face her properly.

"Aylin, look at me," you tilt her chin up, make her meet your eyes, reaching over to smooth the thundercloud away from her brow. "Forget about it, about them. I would have none but you - you know this by now, I hope. Only you."

Forever, you dearly wish you could say, sometimes. Your fingers trace down her cheek and to her lips as you watch her ire pour back into fervour. 

"Isobel, I swear, from the moment our eyes met, I--"

You interrupt her with a kiss - she is too striking and too beautiful and too achingly, passionately devoted not to.

The entire situation is a problem to solve, and a mounting one. You can tell by your own rising annoyance and resentment each time the subject comes up that you cannot entertain your father's attempts at denying your relationship for much longer. But you can sense in both your and Aylin's current moods that any discussion will be anything but productive.

You break apart, but stay close enough for you to whisper against her mouth. "Why don't we stop wasting time, and instead of wallowing in misery, you take me to bed."

A different frown creases her brow now as she inclines her head towards the door you left ajar behind you. "Your bed? Here?"

You glance back as well, almost drawn in and through the imposing towers of Moonrise and all it represents.

"Yes," you reply with little hesitation. You decide then and there to be done with this farce. No more flying away to stay at Last Light, or utterly unsubtle attempts at sneaking off, slinking back before dawn only to present yourself downstairs come morning, unacknowledged but fooling nobody. There are other methods in your arsenal besides pointless subterfuge. "And tomorrow - if you wish to join us, of course - I would like to invite you to breakfast. Where you will sit at my side."

Where you belong, you swallow back, keeping your mock-proclamation formal. Where the world should and will acknowledge you belong.

Aylin's smirk reassures you she understands fully how you intend to play this. "How could I decline my lady's invitation?"

You tilt your chin up, the picture of a lady issuing a decree, even as your lips curl into a smile. "Despite any slights, intended or not, and protests from my family, it is an honour to have you here. I will see that it is better demonstrated, as it should have been from the start."

Or perhaps it would be better to say how it was at the start, before Ketheric Thorm's welcome for Selûne's emissary cooled down to an icy, formal tolerance - of course, exactly as your and Aylin's relationship blossomed, decidedly informal, regardless.

Aylin's mouth is hot on your neck as she effortlessly lifts you up and carries you inside. You feel her grin through her kisses. "I think, Isobel, you'll find the honour is all mine. And so is having you. Here or anywhere else."

You cannot help but laugh, taking her face between both your hands and peppering it with kisses in return, always delighted by her utter lack of both subtlety and hesitation.

Once Aylin plants you on the bed and herself between your thighs, your dress lost to some darkened corner and her gauntlets lost to the aether, she leaves little room for thought or speech. Relentless and utterly driven, she refuses to stop until your legs are jelly, your head is void of all concerns, and your heels have all but left dents in her backplate. 

Her face both glows and glistens when she rests her cheek against your stomach at long last, alight with some private amusement and sheer pride. You thread your hands through her hair and catch your breath, and for a little while simply bask in her presence.

She stretches out a bit, unfolds her wings just enough to let fluffed-up, ruffled feathers settle back into place, and you sigh at the sight. So magnificent in her devotion, your angel.

Aylin next makes a show of licking at her fingers with a pleased smirk, then her lips for good measure. "I may not have been invited to the evening's festivities, but my darling, ever caring, ever thoughtful, provides bountiful nourishment nonetheless. It is the height of honour, to have such a delight saved for me alone."

You flush and squirm, and would like to state something rather precise and factual about moon cycles and the workings of your mortal body. "Aylin!" You throw an arm over your burning face instead. "Gods, you say such things…"

"But you take such delight in it when I do," she replies, tilting her head faux-innocently.

"I adore it. I adore you. Come here and I'll show you just how much."

This is what prompts her to finally take a moment to dismiss her armour, bringing her next to you in a heartbeat. You take another precious few seconds to marvel at how perfectly she fits into your arms, like she was made to be there, instead of for any divine mission.

You spend the night curled around each other in a too-small bed, both of you choosing to be utterly brazen.

-

Inevitably, as though waiting for the two of you to settle into something resembling the beginnings of a bearable enough routine - if not exactly comfort and peace - there is a shift in the air. 

It starts rather inconspicuously. Jaheira sends her regards - still busy with her city - along with a warning that Reithwin should prepare to receive a significant number of new hopeful residents, as word about the lifting of the shadow curse keeps spreading amongst the many displaced. This bit of news calls for a proper war council meeting with Halsin, and so you convene on the large balcony of Last Light that offers the best view across the quiet water, towards the town.

"I think, for the most part, we are well-equipped to receive these people; to house them, feed them - our progress has been good," Halsin states, clearly proud, but still visibly held back by some worry. "There is something very particular that concerns me, however."

You have an awful, growing suspicion you know what it is that troubles him, but you wait for him to continue. A small, selfish part of you hopes it is something mundane and simple to solve, like a question of drinking water purification or field irrigation.

"The Gauntlet of Shar," Halsin says grimly, and your heart sinks in time with Aylin's expression. "The entrance to the Shadowfell. We cannot leave all of that right underneath us, not now when more and more civilians are coming. With children, at that. These people have already been through far more than their fair share." 

It is a perfectly correct statement and perfectly reasonable argument. It also has Aylin near vibrating with tension where she sits, gripping the armrest of her poor chair so hard you can hear it strain under her fingers.

"I will do it," you pipe up when the silence stretches on for too long, and two heavy gazes come to rest on you immediately. "I am… the best qualified, I should think, if what we need to do is purify and seal some grim den of Shar's. And the most responsible. For… for the lands, and for… everything."

"I would argue against that claim, my darling, but I readily admit I have no great desire to see that place again," Aylin grumbles next to you, frowning and glaring at some far-off scene you cannot see. Then, she reaches for your hand. "Thank you. I am not foolish enough not to see what you are doing for me, Isobel. And--" She makes a choked sound in the back of her throat, discomfort and frustration sheer and evident, "and though my pride chafes sorely, I am truly grateful." She raises the hand in her hold to a kiss.

You muster up your best brave smile and pull her hand back towards you, kissing it in turn in the finest courtly gesture you are capable of. "I promised you well-earned protection, didn't I? A shield to your sword, always."

"You will not go alone," Halsin promises. "I will come with you and support you with all I have and all the Oak Father sees fit to grant me. Send for me as soon as you are ready, and we shall meet at the mausoleum. The source of the century-long stain on this land will be cut off once and for all."

The mausoleum. 

Your breath stutters, catches for a moment. The shadows feel like they are drawing closer, suddenly, though you would have sworn there were hardly any to be found in the bright mid-morning light. 

-

While it is not the long, seemingly inescapable reach of Shar's curse, something heavy and oppressive still blankets all of Reithwin with the sun setting. Just as the reality of what you are preparing to do settles in your bones. 

As the night comes and drags on, the rot you've been stalwartly and by now almost casually beating back clenches in a vice-grip around your heart. All of your joints seem to lock up in an aching stiffness, and the fit of coughing and chills and shivers sprung upon you simply refuses to subside.

Aylin is awake next to you throughout, the concern and sadness and blatant fear on her face enough to make your heart shatter, if it weren't for the feeling of it being constricted and crushed already.

"Isobel, I- I will ask. I will pray for this mercy, at least. I will ask again."

She sees the question in your eyes, even as you can't quite manage to speak it.

"When you died," Aylin begins, haltingly, her painful clarification, "I prayed to my Mother, begged Her to bring you back to me. But She could not. When I was imprisoned, I begged Her to save me but… but She could not, in the Shadowfell, so far from Her light." 

There was a far longer hesitation there, and despite your every breath requiring concentrated effort, you can read her, your Aylin, your angel, like an open book. Selûne, Moonmaiden, Lady of Silver known to always answer Her devoted, did not reply. 

"A third time," Aylin insists. "I would beg Her a third time, for surely now, with this, She can… She can…" 

What Selûne can do, you wish you knew yourself. But the growing desperation in Aylin's eyes as you gasp for breath after breath terrifies you. Instead of facing her, you stumble to your feet and move outside to stand in the sliver of moonlight coming through the clouds. There you manage, finally, to draw a proper breath.

You are on your balcony. At your little altar. And for a horrible, sinking moment, it feels like nothing has changed since your endless vigil. Like the past few months have been a strange, fleeting dream, and now the time has come for you to return to your customary nightmare.

Aylin refused to hear any of it, when it spilled out of you, on the road to Baldur's Gate: your fears, your doubt, your certainty of inadequacy and of unfixable taintedness. Instead, she devoted herself in her most resolute, stubborn, and indomitable fashion to pouring waves and waves of silver healing magic, of precious, potent moonlit blessings all over you - and she has continued to do so ever since.

This time is no different. You feel her warm, solid presence against your back, her hands aglow around you, holding you up. "You said you feared my Mother could not want you for hers - you could not be more wrong, Isobel. She has not given up on you - do you see? And neither will I."

Eventually, when even the impressive well of Aylin's light flickers a bit and sweat beads on her gold-laced brow, you breathe - deep, steady, finally calmed.

"I should spirit you away from this place," Aylin mutters, anger scraping in her words. "You should not need to bear its taint again."

"Aylin, I don't-" you wince as your voice rasps unpleasantly. "I don't think it's like that. I do not think that would truly help."

"A pilgrimage, perhaps? Do you remember," she pauses for a moment, pain flooding her features. "Do you remember the plans we made, just before you died? To glorious Waterdeep, and all the way past Neverwinter… There is much to be discovered in the realms, and much that could help you be rid of what ails you."

You shake your head, hand pressing against your sternum. You fear, or know, that the answer is far simpler, even as Aylin looks rather sceptical. "I do not think it is a curse, to be purified and removed by ritual or some elaborate spell. I think it is just… something I will have to live with. As I have been -  as you have been helping me do."

Live. One of you marked in gold, glistening for all the world to bear witness. The other in inky black - unseen, insidious, on the inside.

You think of it every time you feel as cold as a corpse, when your fingers tingle and lack circulation, let down by a heart that had forgotten its purpose; when a careless movement makes your joints pop and resound with the crackling of cartilage that had long disintegrated before being hastily reformed; when your lungs so often prove unused to housing the breath of life once more; when the rotting remnants of your old, long-dead self roil around within you, never properly cleared out by whatever rebuilt you.

You bear some scars yourself. There is a little cut on your left cheek right beneath your eye from a childhood accident you can't remember and only know of from stories. A notch on your right knee came from a sharp rock that had hidden beneath the surface of the river one unusually hot summer. Embarrassingly, a pale line on your right palm speaks of a training mishap while wielding your own spear.

The story of a life - but no trace of your death. You looked, traced fingers around where you would have sworn the blade had pierced through your ribcage. Tried to find the laceration through which blood flooded, flowed out, in those brief glimpses of it you can still remember. You strain to gaze through the misty veils of memory that keep undulating, hiding and revealing in turn. But there is nothing to be found. Pristine, untouched skin. Like it never happened.

Like your home was destroyed on even more of a whim of fate than it had been. It is maddening.

Aylin is quiet for a long while, and you continue your careful inhaling and exhaling against her, the unique and familiar smell of her serving as a balm. It is as if her very presence keeps purifying the air around you, and so also within you, stubbornly beating back and subduing any reaching remnant of shadow and rot. You feel certain it must be some inherent property of her divine being, or some ability finely trained paladins are wont to exhibit, or both. But as she holds you in her arms, so careful and gentle and endlessly patient, even as you know her first drive is to act and do and rush ever onwards, you feel like crediting something else for your relief, as well. The sheer lightness that floods you at the soft words spoken in between kisses pressed to the top of your head only strengthens that belief.

"Then whatever comfort I can keep bringing you, I will. I swear it."

-

The chill of the mausoleum assaults you the moment you step foot over its threshold. But the warm hum of Aylin's protection keeps the worst of it at bay; a blessing she draped over you like the softest, finest blanket, when she pressed her lips against your forehead in a very adamantly temporary farewell.

The last time you were here you scarcely had a chance to take any of it in, beyond the most immediate and most foul desecration. All of the bone effigies have been cleared away in the meantime, and you make another note to thank Jaheira.

Now, it feels… 

You pause, and look, and breathe, and ponder, as the little motes of moonlight you are using to light your and Halsin's way dance all around.

It feels like an old, dusty, unmaintained mausoleum full of the sadly forgotten dead. With none but you left to mourn them, a century displaced.

"Let us move on," you state, resolute, and Halsin nods his agreement. The two of you make the very short journey from the entrance quickly enough, with only a brief pause for you to bow your head and mutter a quick prayer at your mother's mercifully untouched resting place.

And then it is there, right before you, gaping open.

You do not know what you expected to feel, confronted with your own grave, your own name carved into its stone. But you step towards it all the same, and you do not stumble or hesitate.

You lean forward and look inside, trepidation rising, tension locking your icy hands around the matching cold marble. But there is no pull. No familiarity. No feeling that you will be swallowed whole and returned to where you should have remained. 

There is nothing. 

Stone, scant remnants of long-rotted funerary accoutrements, melted wax from overturned candles. And your breath, echoing loudly in the quiet. That is all.

Halsin places a hand on your back, solid, warm, reassuring. Alive.

Just as you are.

Light slays darkness - you run your fingers over the fine carving, well-maintained, clean, untouched, so unlike the rest of the mausoleum - Here lies Isobel Thorm.

How had Aylin put it? The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over the beautiful, heartrending ceremony. And here you are, the Moon-touched girl born as the full face of her Goddess climbed the sky, buried much the same.

And then, another conversation comes to mind in the contemplative quiet, along with bits and pieces of decidedly non-Selûnite scripture. Shrink not so from death, grave-touched cleric, Withers had said in that weighty, fateful way of his.

An empty grave is just that - nothing more, and nothing less. But for every grave there is the sacred hand that reaches from it, say the faithful of the far-fallen pretender-god Myrkul, whose power - what little of it he yet maintains - comes from making people fear death, and him.

And so it becomes quite simple, somehow, in that moment, to straighten your back and steel yourself and say no. To say, I will not be an anchor for you, nor conduit, nor vessel, nor any way for you to extend your vile grasp. You may have taken all of my father, but you cannot have any of me.

"Death has its stubborn claws in me still," you admit - to Halsin, to the ghosts around you, to yourself. You are surprised to feel the fist around your heart and the ice in your chest loosen, here of all places. "But its grip is perhaps not as tight as I feared. Nor so unshakeable."

-

The way to the pool-portal is quick enough and well-documented, and the temple itself is already quite thoroughly scoured both by the efforts of Shadowheart's party and Aylin's blazing escape. Perhaps most importantly, it has been abandoned as useless by Shar herself.

The entire place is strikingly empty, but with none of the horribly penetrating and overwhelming void and absence of Shar's touch. Some insects scurry about, and you spy a few dead rats, but little else. The quiet is utter - but also utterly ordinary - and you feel like you and Halsin could be scouting any of the many vast caverns carved into the mountains of the Sword Coast. The two of you stop here and there, pausing for Halsin to coax some mushrooms and plants into faster growth, helping them be more thorough in their consuming and reclamation of the miserable remnants.

The air of mundane abandonment is lost once you reach your destination: the chamber where would-be Dark Justiciars performed their final prayers and contemplations before descending the carved stone steps into a pool. Here, overseen by a looming statue of the Nightmother herself, they would sharpen their knives and swords and axes and arrow-points along with their own resolve to viciously murder a restrained prisoner in their lady's domain. The depraved birthplace of an entire army.

Spill the blood of Selûne and rise a warrior of Shar, proclaims an incongruously finely-carved plaque beneath your feet. Any trace of fear is washed away by a violent wave of anger roiling in your gut. Seeing it all framed as an act so willful, so very deliberate, obliterates any thought you might have harboured of pitying those caught up in Shar's insidious manipulations who chose to go through with it.

The water before you is clear as a pane of glass and perfectly calm, and you can imagine it being so thick and viscous that diving headfirst into it would do little to disturb it. Even with all other traces of otherworldly power gone from this place, there remains an ominous pull to it. You shake your head and blink to regain your focus, then get started on closing off this particular grim chapter of history for good.

You have brought wine - perfectly aged vintage from the cellars of Moonrise that somehow survived - and milk, to pour into and out of freshly restored silver vessels, to consecrate and seal. Halsin hands over what he has been carrying, then plants himself a watchful but respectful distance behind you to allow you to work unimpeded.

As you murmur your prayers, only a few drops each of pearl-white and blood-red suffice to spread and run through the pool entire, rendering it dull and opaque and completely inert.

You kneel down on the first of the steps, hands resting palms up in front of you, and close your eyes. The cool liquid soaks your robes but does nothing to chill you or harm you.

"Hear me, Moonmaiden," you begin, and instantly, before your mouth has even closed around the last syllable, you know you are heard.

It comes naturally as breathing: to envision your own body as if it were made of transparent crystal - no murky core or stain of corruption in sight, merely a precisely-cut focus for a moonbeam to hit, for the light to fracture and meld and overlap and build in power. Then, feeling the silver dance all over your skin, you picture it collecting in a great sphere of radiance surrounding you, and you drive it outwards, on and on and on, further away and far more bright and searing than you had ever made it while protecting the Harpers. You push and pull and push again even farther, until it has washed over and burnt away the residue of ancient corruption lying thick upon every inch of the Gauntlet, the temple complex, the forge, and everything Shar's lost, misguided faithful ever dared build here.

The channelling is easier than it has ever felt, the moonlight rushing through you in a great surge, as if it - as if Your Lady - was just waiting to unleash upon this place. You are a perfect, unmatched conduit, and, for a moment, it is difficult to think you might ever need to stop and be anything else.

Until a soft, caring hand alights on your shoulder; deep concern communicated in nothing but the slightest, briefest touch.

You blink the glare out of your eyes and come back to yourself. 

Before you have a chance to entirely settle back into the burden of a mortal body, into the reality of strained breaths and aching knees and sodden boots, a tendril of the milky water reaches out and wraps around your spear where it lies forgotten beside you on the ground. 

You manage an awed little oh as the weapon transforms before you, with an insistent glow you've had the honour of seeing only a handful of times, during the grandest Full Moon ceremonies. The scrounged-up but passable replacement for the long-lost and much-loved spear your father once had made for you is gone. It has been spun into a wonder of keenly sharpened, finely-wrought silver filigree mounted upon a beautiful pale ashwood shaft, with alternating phases of the moon depicted down its entire length. The light recedes from it, but doesn't leave it completely, instead dancing over it in a perfectly periodic ebb and flow.

"Thank you, My Lady," you murmur, reaching over to close a tentative hand around it to an overwhelming sensation of approval. There is both a lightness and heft to the spear, and you stand up effortlessly. You grab it in both hands, turn it this way and that, and feel almost as if another pair of hands is on it alongside yours, guiding your movements, making sure your intent with it is followed through and you strike true. 

"It is done," Halsin says with grim finality, and all your senses agree. The thinned, barely-there barrier between this place and the Shadowfell - what your father and Shar once tore to shreds and used to destroy so much - has been made into a reinforced wall. 

"And yet I can't help but feel… help me, Isobel." Halsin frowns, strains to focus on something unseen around you, then wrinkles his nose as if there is a stench in the air. "Someone was here before us. Your Goddess will help us see if what I fear is true."

With small shreds of your awareness still not brought back all the way to the material plane, with the way moonlit residue still seems to be simmering just under your skin, it takes no effort at all to unmoor a bit more of yourself. You simply extend your senses over the room, peek at your surroundings through lowered lashes, with eyes carefully unfocused, and follow the easily-missed trail. It is something in turns dark and sickly-green that seems to start at the pool and lead out of the chamber, to the elevator platform. Blurry, mostly obscured, unidentifiable - but undeniably foul, and worryingly fresh.

"It is as you feared," you tell Halsin, rubbing at your eyes to refocus them. "Something came out through here, recently at that - but I cannot tell what. Whatever it is, whatever farewell gift Shar has chosen to honour us with, we will have to hunt it down."

You wonder, perhaps, if this is what you have just been armed for.

-

Last remnants of rotted flesh and writhing worms and bone picked clean. Polished; gleaming, somehow, in utter, utter darkness.

There is nothing else. Wherever you look, nothing but perfect inky depths and the dome of a bone-white cathedral, looming, long-promised.

Your fingertips are grey and bloodless, like your hands have been dipped in the ritual ash of a funeral pyre. And as you stand, your feet are already lost to your sight in the swirling darkness, held in place by means you cannot recognise or see. You cannot lift them, you cannot even attempt a step. But you can look down, head bowed, and so you do.

All of you, sloughing off and disappearing, skin first, then muscle and sinew and fat, blood but a distant thought, all perfectly painless, sensationless, until nothing but bone is left.

You gasp awake - and continue gasping, for the air simply refuses to reach your lungs. Ribs straining and chest heaving, all of it working in perfectly synced motion to achieve nothing at all.

It is just a nightmare. It need not mean anything.

All it is is the last, futile attempts of a dead god to keep a foothold in the realms, to keep a hold of you, and through you whatever else he can reach.

You will not fear him, and he will not have you.

You breathe.

-

You are not the only one plagued by nightmares.

The horrors Aylin slowly confides in you when it is your turn to hold her close after a sudden, painful awakening would be enough to supply several lifetimes. To hear her describe the feeling of knives and cruel unidentifiable implements cutting through skin and flesh, dismantling, picking apart a joint, snapping bone when this was not enough…

You try to hide your wincing from her and push down the bile that rises in the back of your throat, as burning and sour as your surging anger. To do such things to anyone is monstrous. To do such things to Aylin…

Instead of finishing that thought, you hold her all the more tightly to you, as close as you can manage, and murmur promises of protection into her skin.

"I have been angry," Aylin confirms after one such night, slowly and carefully and painstakingly turning over every word before voicing it, eyes fixated on the ceiling above your bed as it grows grey with the coming dawn, "and I am afraid. Some of the rage undoubtedly stems from the fear." She takes a long, shuddering breath and turns to look at you, and you inch closer to her on your pillow. "It is not shameful to admit this, not to you."

"Of course it isn't," you rush to reassure, feeling a swell of pride, even as she still phrases it as if it were a question.

"And so, I… I would confide in you, my dearest Isobel, what haunts me the most. What my unconscious mind has decided it should foist upon me, night after night, poisoning the very idea of sleep."

"I'm listening, Aylin," you murmur, tracing her cheek with a barely-there brush of fingertips. "I'm here."

She leans into the touch, chasing it, until you cup her face and she can press a kiss into your palm. It takes her a little while to muster up the will to continue. "If another one were to come seeking me..."

If or when? Gods, you hope it isn't when.

"Seeking to harness the Nightsong," she almost spits it out, imbuing the word with such disgust it is palpable. "If they were to threaten you, my love… how could I…"

You want to cut short any lines of thought in this direction; you want to rage and make her promise, make her swear never to even entertain notions of bargaining or - gods forbid - surrender, not on your behalf. But you realise before you even have the chance to begin how futile it would be, for you would do the very same for her.

A shield, your mind rings out. And you wonder, for a moment, if it is truly your notion, or if it has been spoken to you.

But it is the segment of a thought that has been percolating in your mind, in and out the back of it, twining in between plans for rebuilding and thinking of avenues of investigation to follow up on what you and Halsin discovered.

The soul cage.

If some two-bit wizard with the right connections got his hands on enough knowledge of it, enough knowledge of Aylin to be able to implement it, who else might try?

And so, in the midst of all the still-nascent restoration efforts set into motion, you write to Rolan. You ask him for Lorroakan's notes on the soul cage, on the grim research he scrounged up, or wheedled out of, or stole from Balthazar. 

They are in your hands within a day; a thick stack of parchment and paper of several clearly different provenances, along with an overly wordy but surprisingly sincere and encouraging letter from Rolan himself.

'Best to start with Ramazith's original foundations,' he writes at the end.

-

The steps of the binding, broadly outlined in figure 5f, must be performed strictly sequentially. Note that establishing the precise requisite sequence hinges on extrapolation from several facts of the nature and extent of the subjugation sought.

At first, the disgust and rage that boil up at the very sight of the words make it hard to even read, let alone comprehend any of it. But you push through, and instead of focusing on the wretched ideas presented, you think of how thoroughly you will be able to dismantle them. 

If a creature thus bound should die via any means, the soul (or its equivalent) is prevented from moving on, and remains anchored within the limits of the constructed glyph.

Glyph modifications to adjust the amount of awareness the creature within will be permitted follow.

Then, as you move into the more technical parts, it is the very strange writing style that acts as a barrier; a slew of peculiarities of wizards and those who devoted their lives to the arcane arts. At least three of whom seem to have contributed - albeit unwillingly or unwittingly - to the collection before you.

Thus prevented from traversing the planes and arriving at the City of Judgement, whatever power the soul itself contains (and might, under normal circumstances, provide a god as a successful petitioner) is instead left to the caster to utilise as they see fit.

After what feels like days of bashing your head against incomprehensible arcane walls and magic frustratingly unlike everything you've studied all your life, you arrange with Rolan to work together with you to pick it all apart and find some weakness, devise some countermeasure. Anything to help Aylin rest at least a little easier. Anything to help you protect her. For good. 

Even when you are gone.

In theory, such a binding could last indefinitely and with very little maintenance, assuming the initial construction was properly done. If the soul-matter is of sufficient density and quality, the author suggests, in lieu of a standard phylactery, the application of just such a soul cage, i.e. connecting oneself to a bound creature of appropriate power. An illustration comparing the different flows of lifeforce exchange that can be made possible by altering the outermost circular barrier is given in fig. 47. 

You'd accrued a considerable amount of book-learning, when your father was loath to have you leave Reithwin for other, more lengthy and strenuous modes of clerical training. The library at Moonrise was mostly your mother's material and private, but the House of Healing had a library that was the envy of the region, once, and you spent many a day and night lost in it. A spare room in Last Light converted to something of a study is nothing in comparison, of course, but it is what you've got.

You and Rolan think, and talk, and discuss, shooting messages and sendings back and forth - so very academically, so gloriously detached from the horror you are studying. And then, finally, comes a breakthrough - or rather a dawning understanding of one basic underlying principle - and it finally starts just making sense.

You draw the outer outline of a magic circle on the floor, moving to scribe the first rune along its rim, your mind already on the second and third and fourth and the particular order the glyphs need to be applied in in order to properly interlock, to apply their effects on the very essence of a soul.

It is, in some of its theoretical underpinnings, not that far removed from the revivification magics you yourself trained in--

Then you freeze as you realise what you are doing and the chalk drops from suddenly nerveless fingers. You rush to cover the thing with a dusty tarp lying nearby, and lock the door on your way out of the room. Leaning against it on the outside, deep breaths catch in your still-protesting lungs.

For three days after that, you try to come up with avenues that do not include replicating the soul cage itself. But there are none. Rolan agrees. Magic, he says, is ultimately an empirical art.

It takes you another day to dredge up the courage, to settle within your own self what you are going to do, and what this means you are going to ask Aylin to tolerate. Aylin, who you have yet to consult - even truly inform of your efforts. Aylin, who has so stoically borne your dour mood these past few days, who has not pried, even when worry has creased her brow and clouded her beloved, handsome face. 

It all tastes so bitter, suddenly - you are doing this for her, presumably, yet you haven't even asked her? No, no, no, it is all wrong - making choices for her, deciding things about both your lives without even the courtesy of telling her--

You are your father's daughter after all, Isobel, a nasty little voice pipes up and bile crawls up the back of your throat, as you twist and turn and sleep not a wink.

The very next morning you sit Aylin down in the improvised study in order to do your best to explain your efforts and your reasons to her, the necessity of it all, all too well aware of the tinge of desperation that colours your voice. 

Once you are done, you are not quite sure what to expect from her, which is an unusual occurrence within the span of your relationship. But it is certainly a relief to see Aylin in some mode of acquiescence to start with, once she finally starts to speak. 

"I knew in great detail and intimacy every rock and pebble and scuff on the ground of that miserable, minuscule place. I studied every rune and line of that accursed circle, burned into my eyes, in hopes I could devise a way to break it."

Her breaths are deep, steady, and very deliberate. Her gaze isn't upon you, or on anything in the room, really. Rather, it is focused on somewhere far away, somewhere deep below.

"There was nothing else, Isobel. For a hundred years. Sorrow, that you were gone, and rage, at… him. Them. Dreams you would be returned to me, and bloody schemes of vengeance. Nothing else. No moon, no light, no respite or mercy. For a hundred years it was mine to suffer, to bear the indignities and the pain, and to wait."

She sounds ashamed, almost. Like the proud Dame Aylin was forced to bear the sting of defeat unlike any she had ever known, and even now she despises the very thought of it: "Never, in a hundred years, did I find any weakness in my bonds that I could exploit." She looks up at you then, eyes shimmering with the barest traces of hope mixed with trepidation. "But perhaps… perhaps together, we can."

"I'm afraid it's cruelly simple, really," you manage, at last. "We cannot work to comprehend something that just isn't there. Well, we can, to an extent - we can theorise all we want, but it will never be certain, complete understanding. This is… this is the only way to make sure. To make failsafes, contingencies… and to test them." 

She bears it all very stoically, though you see her throat working, and it is impossible to miss the twitch and curling of her hands into fists, kept very carefully still in her lap up until the moment you finally move the covering away and reveal the nascent research.

Wordless, Aylin rises from her seat and walks over to the beginnings of the circle. She takes one deep breath and steps into it before you can even react, her entire being a picture of near-vibrating tightness. She turns to face you, gazes at you almost imploringly. "I trust you, Isobel, above all others in this world. If you believe this is what it will take, then this is what we will do."

You cannot speak through the tears and tightness in your throat at the incredible display of love and trust. It burns even more painfully bright and heavy in your chest as she steps outside once more and you see the shiver in her, the discomfort at the very sight of the runes on the floor, even feeble and unfinished.

You throw the tarp back over it, take Aylin's arm, all but drag her away, unprotesting, and lock the study door behind you again.

Then, you spend the rest of the day very determinedly pampering her and cherishing her in whatever way occurs to you or her, no matter how whimsical or how demanding, until spells and cages and imprisonment are the furthest thing from her mind.

-

From refugees displaced by the many Absolutist attacks in the region to the still-wandering people of Elturel, from druids drawn to a recovering land that needs their fostering to simple fortune-seekers, more and more people arrive and start building and rebuilding lives around Reithwin. As numbers grow and swell, an increasing amount of your time is in turn spent acting as the local healer. Addressing everything from work-related injuries and accidents to simple aches and pains and illnesses, giving out blessings, even handling mild druidic and magical mishaps - it is standard, simple fare you find you've missed quite a bit. A lot of it harks back to what drew you so strongly to clerical training in the first place, a century and a half past.

There are a handful of acolytes and trainees in Reithwin now, working by your side, but no other clerics. You are particularly grateful for the few adherents of Ilmater who have travelled from the Open Hand Temple after the gruesome events that transpired there. They speak openly of seeking to disabuse anyone and everyone of the notion they harbour any misgivings towards the refugees of the Absolute crisis. They tell you, also, of simply going where they feel their calling would be most needed.

Something you would, perhaps, finally get to fully understand and experience yourself. One day, you promise yourself, when Reithwin is back on its feet.

This is not the striking, dramatic, awe-inspiring work of the favoured of a goddess, of a divine conduit that is the only hope of an entire region. But it is deeply fulfilling and rewarding all the same. 

Healing, rest, relief, from your hand, to many. 

It is the least you can do.

-

You make camp to the east of Reithwin, close to the now clearly marked entrance to the bowels of the Grymforge. It is still warm and dry, the very last dregs of a long summer, and so bedding down under the stars is a rather charming prospect. The thought lifts even Aylin's spirits somewhat, freshly returned from her airborne scouting of Moonhaven to follow up on one of Jaheira's reports.  

Her quick investigation found no traces of any recent activity. There is nothing left there, it turns out, but age-old devastation that it hurts to hear her describe: the odd serenity in the utter, utter quiet of the dilapidated temple that was once a grand and beautiful place of worship; the small pockets of ruins that the goblins didn't quite get to during their occupation - but that the Sharrans had. Aylin is uncharacteristically subdued after witnessing the sheer petty desecration of a place and a community she once knew, with no new knowledge to show for her efforts. 

You've ranged just a bit too far, it seems. Reithwin, again, is the wellspring and cradle of whatever this new-old threat is to be, and where you should be refocusing your efforts.

As the sun sinks below the western hills, you coax a small fire to life, sheltered in between two mostly collapsed walls of what was once a quaint farmhouse. The home of a beekeeping family, surrounded by thickly, perennially flowering meadows that had ever been a joy to behold and walk through. Reithwin's main suppliers of rich, golden honey; a treasure all its own. Coming here to acquire candles - something no temple or altar could ever, apparently, have enough of - had always ranked among your favourite errands, with the sweetest side benefits by far.

You speak up to interrupt Aylin's restless pacing, just as much as your own rush of memory of when you saw this place last, whole and alive. "I'll keep watch for a while. You should get some rest after all the flying you've been doing." 

Aylin agrees only somewhat begrudgingly, which serves to confirm to you just how tired she must be. She partially dismisses her armour, but does not move to go to the bedroll. Instead, she sits next to you propped up against the still sun-warm stone, sinks lower, and lays her head on your shoulder. 

"I would prefer to take my respite right here," she mumbles, a small smile finally making its way to her lips, and you offer no protest.

You summon motes of moonlight, letting them swirl and dance around you both in the darkening twilight. Aylin presses her smile against your neck and turns it into a kiss before settling back down.

What starts as a peaceful, restful night under the stars is sadly not destined to remain so. 

Were it not for a pale beam cast by the face of Selûne just barely peeking out above the horizon, the scouting party would have entirely escaped your notice, outfitted in dark leathers and grim webbed sigils professing them as Lolth-sworn. But you - your fire, your silvery spells, your beloved's gleaming armour and countenance - do not stand a chance of escaping theirs.

"Aylin," you nudge her off of you and out of her shallow doze. The sight of her blinking away sleepy confusion would be endearing and one to be savoured, were the danger not far too immediate.

You hear the telltale thwang of a crossbow firing before you can do much else. The bolt hits your shoulder, so very close to where Aylin was resting mere moments ago, and the burn almost immediately coursing through your arm lets you know it was definitely poisoned. 

A flash of light blinds you as soon as you cry out in pain, and then Aylin is gone. The roar of her fury echoes and reverberates among the stone ruins. You blink rapidly, eyes watering, until you can see again at least somewhat.

It is difficult to concentrate with the rising throbbing in your head and the burn in your lungs, and you have always been far more proficient in healing others than yourself. But you still manage a simple restoration spell through grit teeth, forcing the poison to wear off within moments. The bolt, however, is lodged far too deep, scraping against bone, and the wound itself you leave for later. Instead, you look around, a sense of foreboding flooding you even as the adrenaline carries you through pain and the beginnings of blood loss. 

You are just in time to witness Aylin burying her moonlight-inflamed greatsword in the gut of the last drow scout - the others either dead or fleeing. Then, before you manage to stumble to your feet and make your way over, she flings him to the ground. She pulls out the sword with a horrifying sound and equally horrifying cry from the man, and replaces it with her boot. "How dare you raise your hand against--"

"Aylin. Aylin! Stop," you stagger over to her, lift your uninjured arm and place what you hope is a calming hand on her shuddering back. "I'm fine. I'm going to be fine."

"They shot you, Isobel," she retorts without looking at you, boot still pressing down, and the ensuing scream makes you cringe. "Assaulting my beloved. Defiling my Mother's temple. I would know what madness possessed them to make them believe this was a course of action leading to anything but express and painful ruin by the hand of Dame Aylin."

"A- a scout. I don't-- they said to find… necromancer…" The man gurgles incoherences, at death's door.

"Leave him, Aylin. Please." You pull on her arm, but you might as well be trying to move a mountain for all the effect it has. Her breathing is still loud and heaving, her eyes blazing in the dark with licks of silver moonlight, fists clenched and bloodied - you don't quite know what from, and you are not sure you want to. 

You love a weapon, Isobel; a creature of unyielding steel and divine retribution. Yet you think you can make of her a woman, docile and pliant, by your will and paltry affections alone.

Old, ancient, long-resolved doubts, barked at you in your father's voice - how dare they creep back into your mind, when so much still remains lost to you?

"I do not need any more horrors committed in my name," you snap, surprised by your own anger. Then you close your eyes, and take a deep breath. With the adrenaline wearing off in the relative quiet, your shoulder is starting to turn to agony. "Forget about him, Aylin. Help me instead," more softly, still hanging heavily onto her arm, "please."

"Very well," Aylin relents after a long, long moment, stepping away from the ill-fated scout. Dismissing him with a wave of her hand sends droplets of blood arcing through the air. "Flee, if you even can. Run to your mistresses and tell them you tried trifling with Dame Aylin, restored to glory."

Glory. The word rattles around in your mind as the man hastily drags himself away from you, fishes out and drains a potion, then stumbles off into the darkness. Aylin is terrifying, awe inspiring, breathtaking and, indeed, glorious, all at once. But her edges are sharper, more ragged, and you do not know--

You sink to the floor at her feet, past caring that your robes are getting stained with blood - both yours and not. Aylin, you note, seems to be completely unharmed as she quickly kneels down next to you.

But her hands are shaking as they hover around the shaft of the bolt, in a state of indecision you have never seen your beloved in. The familiar silver-blue light starts forming around her hands, then sputters out. "Isobel, I…"

"Shhh," you manage, somehow, even though your shoulder and arm throb with waves of agony. And what a position to be in, the one wounded trying to soothe your would-be caretaker. "Calm, now, Aylin. It will be alright, just… focus."

"I- I've…" She clenches her hands into fists, then stops to gulp down deep breaths. Some haze is lifting from her visibly, leaving her wracked with guilt, face absolutely anguished. "Isobel… I should have looked to you first, taken care to-- you could have…"

"I'm going to be fine, Aylin, just…"

But it is not reaching her at all, her distress persistent. "Instead, I raged off… like… like a rabid dog! I… this is not…"

You cut her off by half-falling and half-leaning forward to place your foreheads together, and for a few precious moments all the two of you do is breathe.

-

Hours later, approaching dawn, you rest against Aylin, your back to her front, her legs to either side of you and her arms around you as if she is trying to form a bulwark out of her own flesh. You haven't bothered to pull your robes back up over your shoulders after the bolt was removed and your wounds healed. Instead, you choose to focus on the feeling of the fresh nighttime breeze on your skin on one side, and the pleasantly cool press of Aylin's armour on the other.

Neither of you have slept. After Aylin's garbled, half-sobbed proclamation that she cannot lose you like this again you haven't spoken, either.

The two of you gaze at the sky, watch as Selûne makes her slow way on her well-known heavenly route across the heavens.

"Necromancer, he said," you speak up after a very long silence, breaking the tension like throwing a pebble into a dark, still lake. "It makes some sense, I suppose, that there would be some activity from that ilk when so many have died. And I'd wager all the Myrkulite regalia at the enclave attack was no accident, either."

Aylin hums, visibly grateful, eager to think and speak of anything other than the real crux of the night's events. "Here, however?" Then her face twists in disgust. "I know of only one who claimed that title. Ketheric's worm-eaten lapdog. And he has, thankfully, been disposed of. Perhaps one of his lackeys has survived by slinking under a rock, and now seeks, like all vermin, to crawl back out and continue to harm."

You twist a bit to see her better, and cast your thoughts back over endless Harper reports - and the familiar, if initially surprising, name you saw mentioned over and over. "Balthazar? What happened to him? Did you defeat him when you stormed Moonrise?"

"Ha!" Aylin exclaims, "would that I had! The wretch was sent careening into the bowels of Shar's domain when Shadowheart and her allies came to find me in my prison. He put up some resistance, hiding behind puppeteered bones as is his cowardly wont, but stood no chance against their combined might. My one regret is I did not get to take part in ending him."

"He died - in your prison? In the Shadowfell?" A horrible sense of foreboding is mounting in you, and your mind immediately turns to the image of you and Halsin at the ominous pool, at Shar's long-standing, freshly sealed portal, at the sickly - necromantic - nature of that trail you found. Something made it out through here…

"If one could call what that monstrosity was doing living, then yes, he died. I do not think Shar had much use, or much affection, for him."

"I think--" you swallow back the rot with some difficulty, your breathing suddenly shallow and the furthest thing from natural and effortless. "I think it's him. Before we sealed the entrance, he must have… He escaped, somehow."

"Well then," Aylin's hand lets go of your knee and tightens into a fist. "Perhaps I shall get my wish after all."

-

The last time you saw Aylin, before that streak breaking across a shadow-cursed sky, is a memory slowly floating up through murky waters.

It starts like this: being peppered with kisses, half-asleep still in the grey light of a nondescript dawn. 

"I must away," Aylin says softly, sounding almost apologetic as she untangles herself from the soft covers and your clumsy attempts at sleep-addled clinging. "I will not be half a tenday, my darling. It is only Moonhaven."

It is not unusual for her to be called away. Your days will be full of duties and welcome distractions, while the nights will be lonely; but it will all pass in a blink and she will be by your side quickly enough, with a new tale to share while cuddled in front of your fireplace. And then, soon, so very soon, you will leave with her and write your own.

Parting words with your father ring bitter still, but you know it is necessary. For both your sake and his. Perhaps he will see it too; perhaps the frosty avoidance of the past day will melt into something more amicable by the time you and Aylin depart.

You mumble a sleepy string of sweet, heartfelt words of love and smile into another kiss. Already your fingers brush against armour instead of warm skin and slip clumsily, dreamily into soft feathers.

"I will see you soon, beloved Isobel," Aylin murmurs finally, tearing herself away with evident effort and one last kiss upon your hand which she then lays softly back upon your pillow.

You sink back into sleep.

It is the last conversation you have with her for a century.

-

With the work in your improvised little infirmary finished for the day, you find Aylin in the room you have both taken to calling the study, frowning at a set of papers strewn about the desk before her. One of them bears a rough sketch of what you immediately recognise as the operating theatre and long patient-housing wings of the House of Healing. She sits with her back very deliberately turned to the corner filled with soul cage-related paraphernalia. 

"There is another waiting to be recovered and put to rest," Aylin begins when you drape an arm over her shoulders and press a kiss to her temple to announce your presence.

"In the House of Healing?" You can't help your grimace at the very thought of it, the sheer twisted perversion of what that place of preservation of life had been made into - though you keep indulging your reticence and have yet to witness it yourself. "I would imagine there would be many there, sadly."

Aylin nods, then taps a bit of parchment to her left. "This one… Olam, his name was. The Harpers found him in the morgue and retrieved his journal, but got drawn into a long conflict with a swarm of undead before much else could be done. Some of them almost fell to poison-laden traps." Her mouth pulls down as if she is remembering something particular, and particularly unpleasant. "A note was made of it after the retreat, but they did not have a chance to return. He was one of their own, from the time of the first war, hiding there to escape the shadows as well as seeking a way to combat them."

Aylin nudges towards you several of the papers on the table, and the acid-singed leather-bound little volume that must be the aforementioned journal. 

'All beings should walk free of fear', I was taught, read the final words on the page it is open to. Oh, if only were I granted such a fine fate.

A noble sentiment, to be sure, and a heart-wrenching statement to leave this world with. But there is still something more there that Aylin is not telling you. You step around the chair, put both your hands on her shoulders, face her, and wait.

She licks dry lips, sighs, and lifts one hand to trace your cheek. "He was an aasimar," Aylin says finally. Then grits her teeth. "It is why it took him so very long to succumb. I would not have him linger in that foul place. And - you must admit, my love, if we are to find a necromancer, a morgue is a fitting place to start."

"Of course," you agree immediately, turning your hold on Aylin into a tight embrace. The idea brings you no joy - but purifying a defiled hospital morgue feels like exactly the kind of blow to the long pale hand of death you wish to deal. "We will go at first light."

-

The first sign that something is very wrong is that the door the Harpers supposedly beat a hasty retreat through is locked, and Aylin has to invest a considerable amount of effort to smash it open.

The foul smell hits you as soon as the splintered wood hits the ground. Rot. Cadavers. 

(Your tomb. The mausoleum. The horror of waking up in it--)

You put a hand over your nose and mouth and steel yourself, make to step forward and hasten this grim duty somewhat, but Aylin extends an arm to hold you back. When you look up at her questioningly, you see her face is set in an expression of deep abhorrence, her nose wrinkled and her eyes watering. She blinks and a blaze of silver washes over them.

"Be wary," Aylin says, followed by a disgusted sniff. "There are undead about."

You send motes of light out into the chamber before you, and your heart sinks at the sight they reveal. 

The large hall, the one the Harpers were supposed to have cleared out, is filled to the brim with shambling corpses. Their full number is hard to grasp, as more shadows seem to be milling about in the miasmic fog, further away than your pale silver moonlight reaches.

Their variety, too, is staggering. What was once an armoured Absolutist soldier and a large tiefling in burnt scraps of bloodstained Bhaalist vestments take notice of you first, and their disintegration in the moonbeam you call down is enough to alert the others. Several drow in yet-unfaded Underdark armour rush to attack you, but their sluggardly movements make their strikes easy to avoid, and they burn in the swirling vortex of your conjured guardian moon sprites.

Then, a duergar, whose handaxe splinters as Aylin bears down with her sword. Half a gnoll, dragging itself towards you along one of the gutters cut into the stone floor, filled with stale blood - until it meets its second end at your spear-tip. Finally, horrifyingly, a few Dark Justiciars - though there is not much to them beyond skeletons propping up ancient, rusty armour. Aylin takes one's head off in a single swing as soon as it hobbles close to her.

You are a third of the way into the room when doubt starts creeping into your mind. Though none of your foes so far have proven much of a challenge, there are just so many. Any retreat you might wish to make will be severely hampered by there being very little of the floor left free to walk on. At least you've noticed no poisonous traps so far, but that might be more of a downside--

Suddenly, all movement around you stops, your assailants freezing in place. Perfectly in sync, as if… commanded.

And then comes a cavalcade of mismatched body parts in visibly different states of decay, stitched together to form the vague suggestion of a hulking humanoid. Its master strolls into view right next to it, staying well within the reach of its protective shadow. He saunters around his miserable creations with the casual, relaxed air of joining an evening council session with your father.

Balthazar. A rather distasteful man who'd wormed his way into your father's confidence not long before your death. Far from the only disagreeable ambitious creature to ever attempt to do so, really - merely the last in a long line - but an unusually successful one. You have long suspected - and felt the gnaw of doubt and guilt despite yourself - that the growing distance between you and your father, your increasingly frequent and public disagreements, your grand or petty rebellions all, helped create a perfect storm and served as an excellent in for him. And then your death - a tailor-made opportunity. An easy angle for anyone to work and ultimately nudge what could have at worst been a lonely, bitter old man off a monstrous precipice.

Balthazar was a shrewd politician who never failed to raise your hackles within the span of but a few soft-spoken words. You also never cared much for his occasional displays of highly esoteric knowledge, the extreme vagueness and reticence whenever attention was called to the matter of his history, nor the blatant interest and almost surgical curiosity he exhibited whenever the subject of Aylin happened to come up. 

Jaheira's reports about him are gruesome, and Aylin's stories even more so, but for all the talk of necromancy and flesh golems and Myrkul worship, you never imagined the sleazy man from your memories looking like this. Symbols flayed into his skin and cut into his greying flesh, one of his hands larger and lighter-coloured than the other, with stitches showing from underneath a ruined sleeve. Fragments of skull and bone decorate the ragged remnants of his robes, shaping familiar Myrkulite emblems. His blood-red eyes seem to almost glow with delight from underneath his hood when his gaze alights on Aylin. You shiver.

"I see not even Shar could bear your putrid stench for long, necromancer," Aylin calls out, loud and mocking, though you can tell her heart is not truly in it. Instead, her focus is on you. She keeps shooting you concerned glances and then, with a more determined mien, stepping away, putting more and more distance between the two of you. Drawing attention. You want to scream for her to stop.

"Now, now, Aylin - we had some wonderful times, you and I, during our little getaway." The sight of his decaying grin makes your insides churn, and the sound of each of his words clawing up his throat like something unpleasantly moist makes your skin crawl. But it does not distract you from following the casual gestures with which he is raising the corpses around him once again. He frowns when he reaches one that Aylin has left with neither arms nor head. "Though I do see a bit of discipline wouldn't come amiss. Another lesson is long overdue, I think, to teach you the proper manners and respect your absent mother has so tragically left you without."

You wince. The words visibly hit home, and Aylin's teeth grit in fury, in time with the tightening of her hands on the hilt of her sword. "It is you who will be taught respect, maggot-ridden cur," she growls. "For my Mother, whom you insult with every undeserved breath you draw. For me, who will be the one to end you, abomination."

"Please, Aylin," Balthazar waves a dismissive hand, his countenance exuding mock-disappointment. "Not even you can be so dull, so uncomprehending. I have accomplished what so many dream of: I have no end. Not even Shar could snuff me out in the very heart of her domain. The two of us - so alike in so many ways."

Aylin barks out a laugh, forced and mirthless but brimming with scorn. "I wager our petty Mistress of Pain merely did not deign to try. What reason has she to care if a common graverobber be dead or undead?" She throws her arms wide, voice growing even louder, resounding against the high, vaulted ceiling of the morgue. "Ho, would that fierce Karlach had taken your head off instead of that arm, and spared me the grating sound of your voice!"

"It would have mattered little. Though your guests did indeed cause me quite a setback," Balthazar admits. "That fiery brute with the axe cost me a perfectly serviceable dominant hand." He flexes the visibly mismatched limb, the grey skin that still retains some of its golden lustre bulging oddly along the seams.

"I've taken the liberty of borrowing from your kin, over there," he points to a dais behind him, upon which you see another body laid out - and little else, through the dim shadow shroud. The unlucky Olam, you suppose - ill-fated even in death. "He will not be needing it anymore, after all. And it would be such a shame to waste good material, especially when divine-touched flesh is in such woefully short supply these days. Did I say kin?" He tilts his head, contemplative, and raises a pointed eyebrow at Aylin. "Not quite so close a bond, perhaps. His lineage seems to have stemmed from one of the Morninglord's retinue." 

The derisive way he says that makes Aylin's scowl turn into a growl of simmering rage, but he seems to pay it no heed. It is like he is used to this, like this back-and-forth has been going on for untold ages, and the implications make your own blood start to boil. Still, you make use of both of their distracted states to position yourself further along Balthazar's flank, behind most of his minions. Your spear is wonderfully light and eager in your hands.

"He could never hold a candle to you, of course, Aylin. The finest specimen to be had in all the realms - perhaps I should be thanking your mother! Such a pity you still so stubbornly dismiss the honour I bestowed upon you, and all the breathtaking work I did."

"Honour?" Aylin roars, eyes blazing. "What would a wretch like you know of honour? Striking from behind my back, concocting a lie to lure me into a coward's trap? Never in a hundred years having the courage to truly face me, but taunting and assaulting and mauling me, outnumbered, restrained, chained--" Her bared teeth turn from a vicious threat to a wild grin. "Were there truly no spines to be found in any of the tombs you plundered, Balthazar?"

Something about that particular tirade does seem to hit a nerve - though you doubt any of his still truly function - and Balthazar adjusts his tone and bearing, attempting to cut the conversation short. "Come now, enough of this pointless bickering. There are higher purposes you can serve. I am prepared to look past your ingratitude - both of you."

The sudden acknowledgement of your presence throws you off, and you look to Aylin, trying to coordinate a strike, or an escape, or anything at all. "Aylin--"

"Ah, the prodigal daughter speaks!" Balthazar exclaims, his attention fully on you now. "For a moment I feared I had made an error - unlikely though that may be - while tinkering with your vocal apparatus."

You feel overwhelming nausea as the thought of those hands working on you blooms in your mind: gathering up whatever remained after a century in the grave, splicing together, reassembling - is everything that makes you up now even yours to begin with? Of course it would have been him, performing whatever disgusting, profane rituals his god required. Your father, you imagine, drove him off before you awoke - coveting all of you for himself even then.

"What did you do to me?" You blurt out, awkwardly pointing your spear in his general direction.

He seems entirely unperturbed by the weapon. "Very little past what the general required and demanded, regrettably. But rest assured, you would not be here without my intervention. So I reiterate: gratitude would, in fact, be in order."

Another horrifying, revolting thought rears its ugly head as you struggle to breathe and grip the spear in shaking hands: you as one of his creatures, finally here where you belong, among your kindred.

For a brief, breathless moment, you rather desperately want there to be some simple explanation, and some simple fix for everything that continues to ail you. A spell component missed, perhaps, a ritual not-quite-correctly finished, an incantation misspoken. But of course there isn't. There is only this vile man, his vile god, and the villain your father turned into, who let them do unspeakable things to you. To Aylin.

And there is the two of you left to live and grapple with it all - and ready to erase their blight from the face of the earth. It shocks you, for a moment, how well the sudden desire and determination to destroy this creature focuses and sharpens you. You look over to urge Aylin to action.

But then Balthazar speaks again - words that slip your comprehension entirely, as there is something about the intonation, the simple sound and shape of them, that makes your head swim and the ground shift beneath your feet.

Because you remember, as if a page is being turned back in your mind, allowing you to finally read it: when you lay cold and dying a century ago, choking on painful, blood-wet, shallow gasps for the air that wouldn't come, the only sounds left for you to hear were scattered words to dismiss meddling accomplices, followed by grim incantations intoned in that unmistakable voice. And then the stretch of endless, soundless dark.

"It was you," you speak the realisation softly, blinking away the puzzle pieces, using your spear to prop yourself up and stop yourself from collapsing on the ground. "You helped them. You helped them get in to kill me." 

Balthazar seems only slightly surprised at your words as he regards you with eerie calm. "A necessary step. A bit of encouragement, you understand, to make the general more receptive. A convenient little… inciting incident."

What did you and your god whisper into his ear? What putrefaction did you work so hard to fill Shar's void with, even as she was still busy hollowing it out?

A green glow in the corner of your eye as another corpse rises behind you at Balthazar's command. A now-familiar segment of a glyph, necrotic in nature, that he repurposed, redesigned to chain together, interlock, form a prison.

It all slots into place with such grim clarity. Your soul, released in death, that never made it to the City of Judgement - because it was captured. An anchor. A cage. So like Aylin's. A precursor, a modification, an evolution - it matters little, now. Readily available for being pulled back to some sort of life, whenever the time was right, whenever Ketheric, despairing, took the deal and Myrkul's word was given - but not a moment before. 

"And then you trapped me."

Aylin gapes at you. Balthazar regards you with mild interest.

"Well, of course. It would hardly have been very effective if your father could have simply procured some diamonds and brought you back, would it? Or if Aylin here could have just begged mother dearest to intervene. No, we couldn't have that - and so, a simple yet ingenious precaution."

This man, grinning so proudly at you, and all his co-conspirators - Sharran or Myrkulite, alive or undead or even divine themselves - chose to reduce your entire self, your entire life, your very soul, to a piece in the game they were playing. You, Isobel Thorm, everything you ever were or could have been, everything you ever did or could have done, were utterly immaterial. It was your oh-so-convenient connections to the two people they were truly concerned with that sealed your fate.

The anger you feel surging in you at this realisation might just rival Aylin's most potent displays of divine fury.

Aylin, who, you note, is merely a few steps away from Balthazar, his flesh golem all that stands between them.

Aylin, who dispatches the golem in one utterly enraged swing, smiting it into nonexistence in a strike so violent it makes even Balthazar stagger backwards, breaking his mask of infuriatingly superior calm. 

Her eyes turn towards him.

"No, Aylin," you stop her, miraculously, with a mere hand half-raised. The wild silver blaze of her remains in place, and you hear her drawing in great breaths to keep it under control, the leather of her gauntlets creaking as her hands clench around the grip of her sword. But there she stays. The show of trust infuses you with a heady mix of both love and courage.

This is not what she needs: another tormentor crushed by her hand, one more fragment of an endless mass of those who would do her harm. You want her to know, viscerally, that she can be protected, too. And you want to take back a little something of yourself, as well. 

"He is mine to judge," you state imperiously. You tilt up your head and steel your spine and try not to think of the man you learned this from.

"As the sole heir to the holding of Reithwin, final scion of the house of Thorm, lady of Moonrise Towers, I sentence you to death for crimes against its people, in life and unlife, for desecration of burial sites," the rotten thing writhes in your gut, sudden and violent in its struggle against light, and it feels like it will climb up to choke you, "and murder. As a blessed cleric of Selûne, Moonmaiden, Our Lady of Silver, for crimes against Her devoted, against those in Her holy service, and against Her very bloodline, my sentence is the same, with Her as my witness."

Moonlight burns next to you and reinforces, bolsters, fills you with determination to overcome any clinging shadow.

Balthazar chuckles, a sickening, decay-filled sound from what he decided could pass for a throat.

"Here I was, recuperating, regrouping after the inconveniences your meddling adventurer friends caused me. On the cusp of taking back what is mine," he throws Aylin a disgustingly covetous look. "I readily confess, I spared the little village healer no thought whatsoever - her apparent pinnacle was tending to cuts and bruises on her peasantry, wasted dregs of flesh and blood even my idiot acolytes would find insufficient. But I think I'll keep the two of you together after all," the eyes flash towards you, looking over you with a sickening combination of hunger and fascination at a pinned insect. "I did not get as thorough a look at you as I would have wanted after you were brought back - a most unusual, intriguing resurrection, well worthy of study. A pity General Thorm had other priorities."

He claps his hands together. "A matched set! Won't that be quite the charming accomplishment?"

You barely hear Aylin's roar of fury over the roaring in your own ears. A third attempt on Aylin's freedom in barely as many months? You simply refuse to allow this. By the time the last of the moonfire fades from your fingers, the necromancer is gone - mostly. A burnt husk smokes at your feet, and then you take your spear and stab into it for good measure. All of his creations have collapsed around you, puppets with cut strings.

Aylin stares at you, eyes wide and glowing silver to match the flames licking up her sword - but she hasn't moved.

As you try and fail to steady your own breaths and stifle your burning, scratching cough, you step back from your grim handiwork to observe it, and the realisation slowly dawns. "It will not be enough," you murmur. Then, a thought bringing with it growing horror and growing hope combined. Souls. Imprisonment. A cage that nothing, neither a god-child nor a necromancer well on his way to lichdom, can escape. "But I know what will."

Aylin listens, and when you break into a run, breath wheezing sickly, she follows.

-

It does not take long for him to return.

You know his intentions; you know he will come for you. But still, you send out a warning to Halsin, and via him to everyone in Reithwin, to stay indoors and remain wary, until the matter is settled once and for all.

Aylin waits, poised and alert at the door to your rooms, thrumming with tension. You light candles and torches as the late summer night slowly begins to fall, as shadows lengthen, and keep a moonbeam trained upon the place as if it were a beacon. Huddled in the corner, on all fours on the floor amidst scattered research, you finish another modified rune for the circle, then another. You are so very close.

He arrives as soon as the sun is fully gone.

"My personal interests and projects aside," Balthazar's voice comes from outside in the hallway, just beyond the door. Continuing your conversation as if the interruption had been a group of servants bringing in refreshments, and not you striking him down with holy fire. "We do find ourselves with a convenient little power vacuum. My lord Myrkul may have lost his Chosen but he has his eye on this place yet. Shar, meanwhile, is off licking her wounds. And Selûne… ever so slow to respond. Meddling only now, is she? I hear sometimes it takes a century for her to make a move."

Aylin steps forward, so much like in the morgue. This time, at least, this is what you both agreed upon. You let out a long, slow, calming breath through your nose, and wrestle your focus back down, trying to keep it on your work.

"Silence," Aylin barks, her slow, heavy steps resounding through the floorboards. "You and your general took my armour, and my sword, and my wings, and my Mother, and my very name from me. Imprisoned me, body and soul, and inflicted torments untold, deaths beyond counting. Only for that would I judge you beyond clemency. But to have taken Isobel away from me--"

Her voice shakes on those final words in a way you've never heard before, even at the heights of emotion. 

"You would reduce the daughter of Selûne, her paladin, her sword, to a caged beast for slaughter?" Aylin takes another step forward, sword at the ready. "Then slaughter you shall have indeed."

"My, my. Stuck on the gory revenge fantasies, even now?" Balthazar tuts. "Poor, limited girl."

Whatever high opinion he has of himself and his self-proclaimed genius, it is all too easy for Aylin to keep his attention away from you. For just long enough.

"Aylin, now!" You cry as you complete the inscription, moving away from the corner, and she springs forward into action. 

Instead of raising her sword aloft for a glorious smite, Aylin casts it aside. She tackles the necromancer who barely makes it up to her chin, grapples him, pulling him towards where both of you know the circle now only waiting for its trigger-rune lies ready.

But then Balthazar sees it too, and you take the widening of his eyes to mean he understands what you have prepared for him. He stops his struggling immediately, aware he stands no chance of overpowering his mighty adversary that way, and instead mutters some incantation under his breath. Conjured from beneath the rags of his cloak come long claws and spears and scythes of sharp, vicious bone. With impeccable familiarity and accuracy, each of them hits a weak point in Aylin's armour, and punches through.

"Aylin!" You are already halfway to her side, curative energy coalescing in your hand, the circle and the necromancer and the plan you concocted utterly immaterial. 

Aylin cries out in pain, hunches over and staggers, but does not release her grip and does not stop. "Stay away!" She all but orders in your direction. You want to argue with her so badly when she glares sternly at you, preempting any attempt at assistance and healing, then growls, "on my word. As planned."

It is one of the hardest things you've ever had to do: containing yourself and letting her struggle on before you - but you will not squander her suffering and her effort. A wet trail of silver-flecked blood has formed between the door and the magic circle by the time she's finally reached it. Aylin almost falls into it with a pain-filled groan. "Now, Isobel!"

You launch yourself forward to play your part as quickly as possible, desperate to cut this agony short, but then you freeze in your tracks.

Balthazar is in the circle now, yes - but so is Aylin. And you see her struggle, briefly, against the points and shards impaling her - and fail. She slumps over, defeated, then meets your gaze.

"Do it, Isobel," she begs through grit, bloodstained teeth. "Please."

The trust, again. In her eyes. Burning.

You step forward, scribe a final line on the floor between you, and activate the circle. You see the shudder rush through both of them as the soul cage takes effect, but Aylin is the one horribly familiar with the sensation, and thus the one to quickly recover.

She pulls the claws and bone from herself, rips at herself with such force in her movements it makes you wince and cover your mouth. Then she shoves the writhing mass of Balthazar to the floor, bloodied gauntlets tightening around his throat until they sink into the bloated corpse-flesh.

The moonlight you and Aylin both call down with loud, ragged, pleading voices pours over her but does not touch her. The necromancer beneath her hands it reduces to dust, then a black residue upon the floorboards you wish was not so familiar. And then, finally, not even that is left.

Only after he is well and truly gone do you realise Aylin is still screaming.

You rush forward and throw your arms around her and let all of the healing you've been holding back surge over her, into her.

The circle dissipates instantly. Its power washes over you, rushing out in a great gust and sending paper and parchment flying, blanketing the room like so much snowfall.

Aylin buries her face in your shoulder and lets out great, heaving sob-gasps for breath. A potent mingling of horror, pain, rage, and relief, all in one - there is nothing for you to do but hold her tightly and run a hand through her hair, until the storm subsides.

Your arms are filled with Aylin as you wish so ardently for nothing but the ability to envelop and hold and protect her being entire, while in your mind a dam seems to have broken, allowing understanding to flood - or perhaps this is what a bard would call inspiration. You twist and turn searing-bright arcane runes as their residual glow around you fades, rearrange sigils in your mind's eye, and grasp the beginnings of the well-hidden fatal flaw and weakness of it all, underpinning the very concept of magical imprisonment and allowing for the escape clause of the one friendly touch, one mercy granted. It will take more work and thought and extrapolation on your part in the coming days, certainly, but there it lies - the start of a shield for you to craft, a blessing to arm your beloved with. To ensure there are no chains she cannot break.

-

What the masons hid and salvaged a century ago proves to be just enough for your purposes. You have the statue of Selûne repaired with gold inlays along cracks and seams, filling in what scant stone is missing. Silver would have been the more common, obvious choice, considering the subject goddess, of course. The craftsman asks you so many times if you are sure, and if you would not still want some pearl and alabaster, encrusted with iolites, and perhaps some touches of indigo, or cobalt. 

"Why not silver?" He exclaims, confoundedly, after you have turned down the suggestions one by one, and you just barely manage to stifle a laugh - you would never be able to explain the reasons behind your mirth to him. The effort prompts from you a brief cough instead, and you lift your handkerchief to your mouth - one of a lovely little set Aylin recently had made for you, embroidered with both of your initials and a design of tiny sparkling stars. 

Aylin's joyful guffaw from so long ago, from another lifetime for both of you, echoes in your ears. It is a delight to remember hearing; an even bigger delight to know you will provoke it once again. And again, and again, and again, for as long as you are given.

But now you have a statement to make and enough clout to ensure this one indulgence, so marble and gold the statue stays. The rest of your share of whatever earnings the adventuring party decided were rightfully yours, and the Absolute cult's ill-gotten gains you found squirrelled away all around Moonrise, you aim towards the restoration efforts.

You don't tell Aylin any details. She knows only that the scaffolding in the main town square hides work related to removing a Sharran hideaway and the old statue of Ketheric Thorm - worn stone that was more like the father you remembered from a hundred years ago than the man who drew you from the grave mere months past ever could have been. Once the work is done, you arrange with the head craftsman to wait and remove the scaffolding on a day you know Aylin will be away on some business for her mother, and to do so only after she has left.

As soon as she returns, you take her by the hand as if for one of your customary late-day strolls timed around moonrise, and subtly lead the way. In the mild chill of the autumn evening, you draw close to her, and she happily takes you under her arm as you walk, letting you leech away at her endless fount of warmth. 

It takes a while for the two of you to reach the square even though the distance is negligible; your pace is leisurely, and you indulge in telling each other of your day in great detail, discussing everything and nothing. The second her eyes alight on the new centrepiece, Aylin's words flounder on her lips mid-syllable and her boots scrape to a stop on the freshly laid cobblestones. 

She is as still as the statue. You let go of her, make a small retreat of barely half a pace. For a moment you fear you've overstepped; that in wanting to praise and encourage healing, you've instead dug pointed claws into her heart and dredged up a sea of horrid memories, and enshrined them in stone forever.

But then you see her lips curl into a smile, even as her eyes grow visibly misty with tears. "My beloved has decided to call attention to the family resemblance, I see," it is phrased as a light joke, but the catch and slight rasp in her voice betray her.

You nod, and keep your hands folded demurely in front of you. You itch to hold her, caress her, reassure her with your presence - but you wish to give her a moment, as well. So instead, you deliver a speech that isn't exactly practised, but that you've certainly given much thought to. "A monument to resilience I found fitting. We do not wish to hide the past, all that happened to this place. What was done to it, to its people. But nor do we live and die by the past alone."

Aylin steps up to the statue, all the way up to the plinth, and reaches towards it. You watch hands cut through with lambent gold slowly trail along matching lines laid deep in the marble.

"There will be a future for Reithwin, we've made sure of that. And a future for you, as well. Here, if you want it," the courage seems to be leaving you, and your voice falters when you least want it to. "With… with me."

"Isobel…" Aylin sounds breathless, awed, in a way you can't quite recall seeing before, though some dear memories come close. Like the first time you told her you loved her in so many words - an entirely unassuming day at an entirely unassuming spot by the river, in the middle of what could and would have been one of many similar perfectly enjoyable and perfectly unremarkable outings. Aylin, wide-eyed and beautifully open and vulnerable, stricken, almost, by your simple but endlessly heartfelt statement. A rare sight, reserved only for you. 

The very thought floods you with fresh resolve. You step closer to her once more. "When duty calls you away, when your Mother sends for you, I would go with you. I would offer my aid, whatever gifts I have been given. I do not care about the danger - I am not leaving your side. I am not letting you face it alone, ever again, for as long as I am able. But here, perhaps, we might also have… a home. Somewhere to come back to, always, no matter how far the road takes us."

A life, resounds your mind, insistently. We will live. I will live.

"Isobel," she takes your hand and raises it for a kiss. "Fair Isobel, wise Isobel," Aylin shakes her head with a tender little smile, as if she is loath to leave your name off her lips for very long. "True and only love of my eternal life. It would be my greatest honour."

Aylin drops to her knees before you, and you are startled, for the briefest moment - but her air is solemn, special.

"I swear to you in turn," she speaks her words with such great and pure intent, without proclaiming or shouting, but in a way that simply compels one to listen. "My devotion, undying and untarnishable. The Moon may wax and wane in Her eternal cycle, but my love will not, my ardour will not, my adoration will not. The full strength of my mighty resolve and all the fervour I can muster. For you, my Isobel."

It is yours, then, to draw her back up, and seal her lovely oath with a kiss, followed by another, and another. And though it has been months, you are flooded, again, with the sense of wonder and incandescent joy at the miracle of having her returned to you - and if it prompts a few tears to escape, well, what harm in them? Your heart feels like it will burst with immense feeling. 

Love, pure and simple and worth everything.

[vendetta-if]

hey I know this is a loaded ask but hear me out.

So imagine the MC and their respective RO got kidnapped. Went through nullifing gas and are very good secured and tied up. Now the shit heads are trying to get information out of them and are beating the MC up while the RO has to watch and can’t do anything to stop it. The MC is all snarky and are signaling the RO to keep it shut even though they are getting severely hurt.

Who breaks and spills the beans and who is running a murder rampage as soon as they get saved?

On that note I would also ask how would Luka, Grandpa, Yvette and maybe Viktor (if he still was around) react first to the message that MC got kidnapped and second as soon as they are safe but see them severely injured?

I really love your blog, every new update is giving me life and so many feels. Thank you for everything that you do!

Thank you for the kind words! 🥰 And what an angsty ask 🥲 The answers will be super long and I’ll keep the second half of it under a cut. I hope you guys enjoy it; this took me a while to finish answering 😅

Ash

They really try to keep themself from spilling the information the way MC wants them to… But they can’t last long when MC gets hurt and beaten up in front of them. After minutes of struggling and thrashing in their bonds until their wrists are bloody, they’ll finally cave in and spill the beans.

But of course, once they’re saved, they’ll be on a murderous rampage, hunting down the kidnappers and killing them in the most painful way they can as retaliation for what they did to MC and next, they’ll hunt down the other people who know the information as well.

No loose ends.

Rin

They’ll be able to hold the information in, even though with great difficulty. Every punch, every scratch, every hit, it almost feels like it’s directed at them as well. Their mind will be racing to find what they can do to lessen MC’s pain while also not revealing the information.

What they might do is giving tidbits of not important enough information or mixed the truth and some lies here and there, making sure to make it as believable as possible so MC can at least get some reprieve from the torture.

But after they’re saved… Well, let’s just say they’ll have a lot of strings to pull and a lot of hit contracts to give out. Same with Ash, they want revenge and they want no loose ends.

Santana

They’ll be able to hold for maybe as long as Ash before they relent, spilling the information as long as MC won’t get hurt anymore. They’ll tell the barest minimum possible and still try to keep some important information.

After they’re saved, they’ll probably try to find the kidnappers and the perpetrators through the ECPD and judicial system, hopefully being able to get some sort of justice for what happened to MC.

Skylar

They’ll cave in quite quick. MC getting hurt in front of them while they can do nothing to help… No information is worth MC’s life and well-being and they’ll give it out with no problem if it means MC can be spared from more pain.

Once they’re saved… They don’t really know what to do. They really want to find the perpetrators and deal them some justice, making sure they get arrested and given proper jail time for what they did to MC. But they don’t really know where to start… Maybe MC or MC’s family know and can help.

But still, they feel a bit weird taking on this job because it’s certainly more personal than what their usual superhero jobs entail and this time, they’ll take a more proactive stance. Their superhero jobs are mostly more reactive where they deal with criminals and bad people they encounter during their patrol and they are certainly far from being personal. But still, those kidnappers should not get away freely like that. Not after what they did.

While, for the second part of the question.

Luka

When Luka first hears the news that his nephew/niece/nibling is kidnapped, he feels panic. He rarely feels it, only a few times in all his life and he prides himself in his ability to stay composed most of the time. But not for this case… He feels the familiar sense of dread and fear as he remembers what happened to his brother years ago.

He’ll immediately contact all of his allies and make use of his web of connections to try find MC as quickly as possible. Also, dispatch the members all over the city to help track down MC.

As soon as MC is successfully rescued, he’ll be so relieved. He’ll hug them before realizing MC’s state of injuries. It makes them angry and they swear this will not go unanswered and that those who kidnapped MC and the people behind it and their family are found and get rid off in the most terrible way possible.

Grandpa

Even though he might not look that much difference on the outside, he’s filled with cold dread and fear. Is this it? Is this when Death finally gets to his grandchild too? Have they not taken enough from him?

He tries not to panic and keeps a cool head, think systematically and plan the next step. He’ll definitely fly directly to Elysium City no matter what and bring a number of personnel from the New York branch to help in the search and rescue for MC.

When he finds MC alive, he’s so relieved, but he’ll refrain from hugging them, seeing the state of their injuries. Whoever did this… and whoever order this to be done… their days are numbered. There’ll be nowhere on this earth that they’ll be able to hide from his cold wrath.

Yvette

Her child? Missing?! No—Kidnapped?! Why? Who? How? She’ll be very stressed out and emotional and restless. She wants to help find MC but doesn’t really know where to start.

She thinks about reporting it to the ECPD… But she knows it might not help much and it may even unintentionally make the search harder. The ones who have the most success would be Luka and the Morozovs… She knows they hate her, but she’ll willingly contact Luka everyday to know more about the progress.

As soon as she hears that MC has been recovered alive, she’ll be so happy and she’ll drop everything to go visit MC. Her heart falls a bit, however, as she sees the injuries on her baby’s body. What kind of monsters did this? She may not be able to go after them… But for once, she really approves and cheers for the Morozovs to do it instead.

Viktor

MC?! His baby?! He’ll be panicked before forcing himself to calm down, at least calm enough to think of what to do.

He knows that his brother and father would hold nothing back to recover MC… But he can’t just stay here, sitting and doing nothing but fret and worry while his baby is out there, probably being tortured.

No… He has to join the hunt. It’s been years since he last put on his vigilante outfit and even longer since he last held his dual-pistols—gift from his father that he both loves but also hates at the same time. But now, he’s more thankful for them more than ever.

When MC is finally recovered, his reactions would be similar to Luka. He’ll immediately hug MC, relieved and he would not want to let go forever if only that’s possible. It’s then that he finally fully realized the full extent of MC’s injuries.

He seethes in anger. He likes to think that he’s a pretty kind and merciful man at times… but this… This cannot be forgiven… Those who did this deserve the same and even more. And truthfully, Viktor is really tempted to hunt them all down and torture them all back personally.

[wordsnstuff]

Hiya! Just wondering, what unusual and unique ways have helped you get out of a writer's creative block?

Let's talk *briefly* about writer's block.

Yes, this will be long, but I think it will help you.

It's been a long time since I was in a regular posting schedule for this blog, and that is upsetting to me (and many of you, I'm aware). For a significant chunk of that time, I considered writer's block to be the primary reason for this, but looking back on the nearly three years I've spent attempting over and over to return to the schedule and routine I once maintained, I have accepted that writer's block was never the problem. Not the way I thought.

I have, and I'm sure I'm not the only one, always thought of writer's block as if it's a tangible condition or something that happens to you, like a cold. That conclusion always prompted me to seek a solution (for instance, motivational content or exterior inspiration or anything that would enhance my capacity for self discipline). Because I thought of it as something that just developed naturally, I focused very little on the root of the issue and consequently it never seemed to improve.

For most of us, the past three years have ranged from severely abnormal to deeply traumatic, and though a lot of mythology around the process of art and inspiration tells us that conflict and pain inform a good portion of creativity, I have to admit that none of what the world has been through recently has made me want to write. When you and everyone you know have been in a survival mindset for several years, the seemingly trivial pleasure of creating fiction or sharing content about the process feels overwhelming. Every time I've returned to this space that I created long before experiencing any of this turmoil, especially because this turmoil occurred during the dawn of my adulthood, it has felt like a silly attempt at denial.

My writer's block, and I'm sure many others', was not simply a case of burnout or lack of inspiration. It's not that I had been pushing myself too hard without allowing for reasonable time for rest and recharging my mind, or that I simply ran out of ideas or reasons to want to continue. Even when you have the deepest of passion for a craft, you will always be human and therefore always affected by your environment and the events in your life. When you find yourself unable to put the pen to the paper, instead of asking what you can do to change that, ask why you're struggling in the first place. Focus on the cause, not the effect.

For me, a lot of my difficulty with writing has come from my environment and the mindset it has put me in. I am currently in university, so whether I like it or not, I have to write here and there and pull myself together to be able to do that. Every time I do so, I wonder why I can't enforce that same authority on myself for my personal projects, and it's because, for a long while, my environment has not been conducive to that effort. I haven't had the control over my schedule and responsibilities that I used to have, and finding a balance between these responsibilities and my personal goals has has a learning curve. All of these circumstances, for better or worse, have affected my mental state and my ability to write.

I did not have the freedom or even the energy to put in practice the exercises that helped me before, and as a result I haven't been writing. Coming out of that struggle hasn't been a matter of waiting for things to change or get better, it's been putting my energy toward a new process of trial and error. Since accepting that my new reality is here to stay, the priority has been finding new ways to work around it and specifically, work with it. This acceptance can require a lot of difficult reflection, and this can reach beyond your desire to write and into your desire to live a good life in general. It can feel silly or humiliating or patronizing to approach this reflection from the very bottom of things, and this includes the basics.

It may seem silly to consider the basics when the problem feels so extreme, but when you're consistently forgetting the casual maintenance of your mind and body, you will consistently find yourself failing to accomplish much beyond the bare minimum. If you struggle with mental health, this will be even more evident. Basic things like hydration, diet, sleep, movement, interaction, and joy will always be the most effective place to start when addressing why you cannot write. Once you have verified that these needs are met, then the presence of a deeper problem will reveal itself, but you'll never know if that's the case unless you check the other boxes.

So, you've checked the basics and they're all fine but you're still experiencing writer's block. Have you made time in your daily schedule for intentional rest? Are you coming home at the end of a long day and jumping straight into writing or keeping up with your duties at home or simply falling in front of a screen for a few hours? None of these things are rest. Distracting yourself with noise or housekeeping is not rest, and when it's all you do after a full day of other responsibilities, you haven't truly spent a moment with yourself finding fulfilling joy or relaxation. Yes, they can be compelling and very difficult habits within your routine to let go of, especially if you struggle to function without something occupying the back of your mind, but rest is extremely important to the creative process. If you like to scroll online a little bit or watch an episode of your comfort show after you get home to unwind, that's great. But in order to truly take advantage of your free time, try to optimize it by being intentional about the way you're experiencing it. Try not to fall into a routine of distraction because that isn't rest and it won't satisfy any of your needs.

Have you incorporated things into your routine that will contribute to your motivation to write? I don't mean you should put Stephen King quotes as your desktop screensaver or watch videos of people writing to make you want to participate. Those things help some people and that's great, but consuming things that make you think or bring you pleasure like books and well written movies or shows or music or podcasts can be just as impactful as anything else you do for your creative process. It's not just about what you do, it's about how others inspire you, and it's one thing to say you love books and reading and learning, and it's another to actually do them every day like you would wash your face or brush your teeth.

Whether you write as a hobby or an aspiration or a job, the creative process remains the same. It's important to remain consistent with the things you do to maintain your ability to write as much as it is to remain consistent with your actual writing routine. As a general rule of thumb, writer's block doesn't come from nowhere. If you want to alleviate it, you have to target the root of the problem or it will continue appearing on the surface. There is no one-size-fits-all cure to it and there are no "top ten wacky ways I solved years of executive dysfunction with the right chrome extension or tea flavor or candle scent or by typing upside down". This is internal work you will need to do, but it starts with trusting yourself. It is never too late to return to your passion. You will build it back up like a muscle, but you have to heal first.

I sincerely hope this helps,

Kate

–

Masterlist | All questions, articles, etc. in one place

If you enjoy my blog, please consider Buying Me A Coffee

[violetlunette]

A recolor of Princess Leah, Silver’s birth mom. (My version, at least.) The other color is here

Behold! My version of Leah, aka, Silver’s birth mother. I know that the popular fanon for her is that Leah was a strong, take-no-bullshit-from-anyone Lady who kicks her brother around like a soccer ball and is an all-around Girl Boss, but I imagine her as the opposite. Below is my long-winded / thought-too-hard history for Leah. Notes: *Spoilers for Book / Chapter 7 *Long post. Apparently, I had a lot to say. *My version of Leah’s tale is an angsty one with no happy end. Speaking of which; Trigger Warnings: *Mentions Emotional Abuse and Mental Abuse along with Gaslighting *There is value dissonance at play, which includes underage marriage, sex and pregnancy, as in the medieval time period where Lilia’s memories take place, marrying young was acceptable and encouraged. That being said, the problematic stuff will be treated as such. *Mentions of a rough birth

My version of Leah is a tragic figure lost to history like many Princesses before her. All her life, Leah carried an intense guilt in her heart as her mother died in childbirth birth, leaving her behind with a resentful King and Henrik. The King, in particular, disliked her as he believed that Leah was the result of an affair as Leah was far too beautiful to be his. (He wasn’t a handsome man and always had difficulties believing his gorgeous wife ever loved him.) As such, the King neglected her, and Henrik, following his father’s example, did the same. When they did meet the two were cold and poisonous to her, often belittling every mistake she made. And sadly, she made a lot as she was always jittery from nerves. Because of the mental and emotional abuse inflicted upon her along with a lifetime of gaslighting, Leah became very fragile and timid as she was often bellowed at. It became her nature to become quiet and soft-spoken as being otherwise resulted in harsh punishment, especially from her strict governess, who was as kind as Tremaine was to Cinderella. Even so, she adored her father and brother as much as Silver loved Lilia. Thus, she always forgave them and made excuses for their behavior. “Father and brother are just stressed from their duties.” “They’re right to scold me. As a Princess, I should be better.” “I stole their beloved person away, so they have every right to hate me.” Leah to earn their love by helping the kingdom. While this didn’t earn the affection of her family, she did gain favor with the people. It was actually because of her that the King adopted the Orphans. Leah naively brought them all to live at the castle when she saw the state of the orphanage and her father didn’t want to lose face with the people, so he took them all as wards. (Though as soon as he had the orphans, he turned them over to the army, arguing that it was the best way to give them a future.) The one joy Leah had in life was the fairy tale books she had, which spoke of true love and whatnot, tales she believed 100% as there was no one to temper her expectations. This is partly why she fell in love instantly with the Knight of the Dawn when she met him. Speaking of which:

Leah met the Knight when he saved her from a kidnapping. Seeing him as her hero from a fairytale, she fell in love instantly as he inspired feelings within her that no one had before. (Puppy’s first love.) After this, Leah hung around him often, creating rumors that the two were in love. When the King fell sick, Henrik left with the Knight to create Lilia’s tragic backstory, while Leah stayed behind to pray for everyone day and night. She also attempted to use healing magic on him to keep him alive, even though her magic lay in dreams. (Note: her unique magic was the same as Silver’s. She often used this magic to update the Knight on the King’s condition.) When the two returned, the King was cured. As a “reward,” the King gave Leah to the Knight as his bride and sent both to rule over the fae land the Knight “won” for the humans. The King did this as he worried the Knight’s popularity would be a threat to Henrick’s rule in the future. Thus, his Majesty decided that sending the Knight away was the best option, and allowing him to marry Leah had the King keep face with the people. After all, how can allowing the Knight to wed the beautiful Princess, whom he “loved” and be allowed to rule the land he claimed for them not be a reward for his bravery? Leah was overjoyed as she believed marrying the Knight was the happy ending to her tale and that there would only be joy in her life. Thus, Leah and the Knight were wedded three days later—even though the Knight was a traumatized seventeen / sixteen-year-old while Leah was only fourteen.

The two are sent overseas, where Leah gets pregnant two months after their wedding. The pregnancy is rough on its own due to her age, but other factors make it rough as well. Instead of the happy ending she dreamed of, Leah has to deal with a husband who is suffering from severe PTSD, not helped by living in the castle of the “innocent” woman he killed. On top of that, there were enemy fae constantly trying to reclaim the stolen land. One even tried to assassinate her while pregnant. The only help she had was the royal chancellors, who were more concerned with their ambitions than her and often took advantage of her trusting nature and ignorance. There was also the Diurnal, who also have their own goals, and the fairy godmothers, who try their best but are limited in what they can do. Despite this, she persisted and tried to stay optimistic, doing what she could. But then—she discovered something that shatters her heart. One day, during an argument, Leah learned the Knight never loved her. At least not romantically. He only saw her as a darling kid sister and his Princess. However, he was too timid to reject the King or correct the people who misunderstood their relationship. This is the final crack that finally breaks Leah’s heart. No one loved her. No one ever would. Realizing this, she isolates herself, not even coming out to say goodbye to the Knight when he goes to handle what she is told is a land dispute. A few weeks later, the fairy godmothers tell her he died, and they gift her his ring for the baby. The despair she feels sends her into premature labor.

The process was rough, and Leah nearly passed away. She survived thanks to the fairy godmothers. Holding her child, she realized that he looked just like his father and believed that, like him, he’d never love her. The Princess tried to care for the baby but wasn’t emotionally or mentally able to handle a baby. On top of that, she has trouble producing milk for him. This worsened her depression, as Leah believed that not only did she fail as a daughter and a wife but as a mother as well. One day, the castle is attacked due to her advisors screwing up. As the castle started to collapse, Leah tried to reach her baby but was unable to get past the collapsing rubble. Thus, she had no choice but to leave him to the fairy godmothers. Instead of running, she tried to fight off the enemy and give the godmothers time to save her child. However, because of her broken state, she blots over almost immediately. In her Overblot form, she killed everyone, friend and foe alike, till only Silver, protected by the Fairies magic, remained.

When she was done, not even a corpse remained (hence the lack of bodies when Lilia arrived 400 years later). Then, Leah vanished, drained of life and magic by her Phantom, who wanders away, not leaving even a trace of the Princess.

Notes about Leah; *When creating her, I wanted Leah to be Malenore’s opposite in almost every way. Appearance-wise, Malenore is a tall brunette with an imposing appearance. Leah is small (mainly due to age) and blonde with a delicate disposition. Malenore was strong-willed and arrogant to sin—albeit, with reason. Leah was humble to a fault and fragile, as her name implied. (Leah can mean “weary” and “delicate /fragile” as well as “heavenly flower.”) Malenore was loved by her family, however, they were distant (if Malefica’s relationship with her was anything like the one with Malleus). Leah was close in proximity to her family but was hated by them. The dragon Princess was beloved by all who knew her, including her “knight.” Leah was admired by the people but never loved. (Or at least that’s how she felt, especially by the end.) Malenore was an adult—a young adult but still an adult—while Leah was a child. Maleonre will be remembered by history and those she loved, while Leah was forgotten to the point she was barely a memory, only recalled in passing. However, they had things in common as well, such as losing their husbands while they stayed behind to “incubate” their children. They then died to give others a chance to save their sons. And, regardless, they were doomed by the narrative to never be a part of their children’s lives. *Funnily enough, despite being fragile, Leah did have her own strength as she was still able to stand and keep trying despite all the times her heart got broken. It was just she had no one to teach her how to fight, and she was forced to endure things even an adult would struggle with. Had she time, Leah would have been a loving and doting mother to Silver. Silver, in turn, would have been more of a momma’s boy than Deuce and super protective.

Real quick on the Knight—because this post isn’t long enough—I hope no one thought I was villainizing him. I just took what I saw in canon—him not being able to stand up to the royal family and his need to please everyone—and used it to contribute to their tragedies. Anyway, that’s my overly long headcanon for Princess Leah. Thank you for reading it all, and feel free to share your thoughts and your own version of Leah.

[facewithoutheart]

“So I want to write this story to take myself out of a life, to live cathartically through someone else, to put to test my grand ideas of how life should work.

“But somehow I can’t escape my own realism…to reveal pieces of myself through writing.

“I think my problem is I want to write about myself even though I can’t find a plot in there…

“And I’m too disjointed. I have too many stories.

“I’m having difficulty staying with one story long enough to take it anywhere.

…

“Maybe I need to stop trying to ‘say’ something and just write.”

-Note from a past Christina, circa 2010

[antianakin]

Sorry if this isn't the kind of thing you want asked, you can ignore this if it isn't.

But in a no Palpatine AU, let's say Anakin matures just enough to realize that Jedi life isn't for him and leaves the Jedi Order. What do you think he'd do with his life after leaving? And do you think he'd stay friends with people like Obi-Wan?

This is totally the kind of thing I want asked!

Okay, so, the way I see it, there's two options for this AU.

Option 1: Everything stays the same up through TPM but Palpatine like slips on the stairs before Padme arrives on Coruscant or something, so he doesn't become Chancellor and never meets Anakin.

Option 2: Palpatine died before TPM or just never existed, and so the events of TPM go radically different or just don't happen at all, which has a lot of ripple effects on the entire storyline.

I think Option 1 is probably the scenario you were imagining with this ask, and it's the easier one to answer, so I'll do that one first.

I think Anakin could really mature a LOT via the Jedi lifestyle, actually. Anakin in TPM as a 9 year old is a genuinely kind, compassionate, sweet kid who seems to just want to help people and has a somewhat child-like naive idea of how that would actually work in reality. Living as a Jedi without the intervention of Palpatine telling him he can't trust the Jedi would allow him to really benefit from all of their lessons. He'd learn to be more than just mature, he could learn real mindfulness, he'd learn to let go, he'd learn to be at peace with the world around him and with who he is and what he was.

I think Anakin could leave at a few different points, but I usually assume that in this kind of situation, Anakin would leave probably shortly before he gets Knighted. Because I think Anakin would have benefited so much from the Jedi's teachings that it would feel wrong to him to take those oaths, knowing that he doesn't truly mean them and can't truly commit to them. But he stays as a Padawan as long as he can because he does LIKE a lot of things about being a Jedi and the longer he stays, the more he can learn. If Obi-Wan and the Council trust him to be a Knight, he can trust that he's probably gotten about all he can from the experience and it's time to move on. He might not even entirely consciously REALIZE that he's doing this until the moment comes and he has that particular epiphany that he's just been waiting for that validation to know that it's okay to leave.

And in this scenario, there's probably no Darth Tyrannus, either, and likely no Separatists, so there's nothing putting Padme's life in danger which means Anakin and Obi-Wan probably don't end up coming back into her orbit before Anakin leaves the Order. There's no secret relationship of any kind. But on Padme's end, this means there's no WAR and a lot fewer difficulties in the Senate probably which might mean she feels more comfortable stepping away from being a Senator than we know she does in canon.

As for what Anakin does after he leaves, there's SO MANY options. A lot of people assume he'd go into engineering, which is valid. It'd be a pretty easy job to pick up after leaving, maybe on a ship that needs a mechanic on the crew or something so he gets to travel around a bit. He could be a pilot, get a ship of his own and get some kind of piloting job. He could just go into racing I guess, although I feel like his time as a Jedi and his desire to help people would keep him from making that a whole career.

My favorite option though is that he goes back to Tatooine to try to do some abolition/grassroots work out there. It'd be really interesting as a parallel universe storyline if one of the things he actually ends up focusing on when he goes back to Tatooine is learning to understand the Tuskens better and trying to build a better relationship between the Tuskens and the settlers. I think he'd obviously focus a lot on the slavery issue, but it'd be interesting if the Tuskens got folded into that at some point, too. Maybe that work eventually leads him into politics and back to Coruscant and the Republic Senate at some point and that's how he gets back in contact with Padme. Or maybe Padme leaves the Senate and starts working with grassroots organizations herself afterwards and ends up remembering her time on Tatooine and deciding to go there to help and that's how they reconnect.

This also allows Anakin to reconnect with Shmi who, if we take into account the deleted dialogue that implies Palpatine and Dooku were behind the capture by the Tuskens that led to her death, is alive and well and doing just fine on the Lars homestead. So not only does Anakin get his mother back, he gains an entire step-family along with her. Anakin and Owen might butt heads occasionally, but they do love each other and consider each other family. Anakin and Beru get along SWIMMINGLY, much to Owen's irritation. Maybe the Tusken connection happens via his family and their struggles with the local tribes.

And in this AU, there's no reason he WOULDN'T remain friends with Obi-Wan. It might be a more "Jedi-like" friendship in the sense that they don't necessarily see or speak to each other super often, but they share an unbreakable bond from the years they spent together as Master/Padawan and do reach out when they have the time or are in the same area, etc. There's no attachment, no obligations or expectations that either of them has to live up to, just... compassion and friendship and respect.

And this brings us to Option 2 which runs into a lot more speculation and can go any number of ways.

If Palpatine dies prior to TPM or just plain doesn't exist at all, this likely means that the events of TPM don't even happen. So whether Anakin ever even becomes a Jedi is completely questionable and if he does, his route to becoming one could be radically different which would impact the kind of Jedi he becomes and his relationships to both Padme and Obi-Wan. It's entirely possible he'd never even MEET Padme until he was either fully a Jedi or had left the Jedi, so whether he'd end up in a relationship with her is completely up in the air. He might not even be into her depending on what kind of person you assume Anakin and Padme end up becoming in this particular AU. Maybe Obi-Wan doesn't become his Master. Maybe Qui-Gon DOES become his Master because he doesn't die on Naboo and survives to the end of Obi-Wan's apprenticeship. Maybe Anakin stays on Tatooine and when Cliegg comes along, he frees both of them and Anakin grows up a Lars for a while and meets Beru and joins her in abolition efforts. Maybe he becomes a celebrity via the podracing gig and this gets him enough money to leave Tatooine to pursue a career doing something else. Maybe Quinlan is involved in discovering Anakin since he's halfway canonically on Tatooine at the same time as Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan.

Option 2 is kind-of a free for all, take your pick sort of option, so it's a little harder to definitively answer your questions about what he'd do and how his relationships would end up.