#trying to strike balance between insane and somewhat understandable

[brokenbrainstormbulb]

the premise of my Engiebot is that it's "a little fucked up".

it's kind of hastily made up because i can't think of another reason why it would want to replace it's robot hand with a human hand.

other than curiosity.

which is a whole other bucket of worms.

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 12: Two’s Company

summary As the party grows from two to three, Fahjoth tries his best to smooth over tensions. 

content warnings strong warning for nausea/emetophobia about halfway down

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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The shock reverberated up Fahjoth’s shins as his feet found solid ground with a jolt. Gasping, he staggered back, desperately trying to regain his balance. Once his brain caught up with the messages his eyes were receiving, he realised that the three of them were back in Ald’ruhn; a nearby guard stared at them from behind his impassive helm, but otherwise he didn’t seem to care too much for three Dunmer suddenly materialising out of thin air. 

While Fahjoth remained on his feet, Ribyna was not so lucky, and she groaned from her landing position face-down on the dusty ground. “Ugh… what the fuck was that?!” she spat, rubbing smudges of dirt from her face as she dragged herself upright again. 

“Almsivi Intervention,” Julan answered, discomfort clear on his face. “It teleports you to the nearest Tribunal temple.” There was a pause before he continued, “I’m sorry, I— I don’t know what happened back there… You must think I’m such a coward. I swear I’m not. I swear I am a warrior, and I’ve never run from a fight, nor do I fear death.”

“Look, don’t be daft,” Fahjoth replied, raising his voice to speak over Ribyna’s loud scoffing as he tried to reassure Julan. “We don’t think you’re a coward—”

“Speak for yourself...” Ribyna muttered, but Fahjoth ignored her to reassure Julan. 

“I wasn’t exactly having a good time up there either,” he continued, trying to inject a bit of humour into the situation. Judging by Julan’s expression, it hadn’t worked.

“I’m not afraid of Red Mountain, or any of its monsters,” Julan said. “It’s... something else. It’s to do with these… weird dreams I’ve been having.” 

Fahjoth’s curiosity was piqued as he thought back to his own night terrors. He hadn’t experienced them for a while, and for that he was thankful, but recollections of fiery landscapes and dark figures with blazing red eyes still lingered in the back of his mind. “Oh yeah?”

Julan took a deep breath. “I dream that I’m climbing Red Mountain. It’s just like what we saw — it’s dark, the air is filled with ash that gets into my eyes and mouth, but the further I go up, the harder it is to keep going. And then there’s all these voices, whispering things to me.”

“What sort of things?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t even know. I can’t understand what they’re saying, it’s too hard to make out. But it sounds, uh… well, not good, y’know?” Julan looked between Fahjoth and Ribyna apprehensively. “You’ve heard of Dagoth Ur, right? I mean, I’m guessing you have, but...”

Their silence said more than enough; Ribyna’s face looked as blank as Fahjoth’s brain felt, and Julan was visibly stunned. 

“Oh come on, even outlanders must know about him! Dagoth Ur? The devil who lives beneath Red Mountain?”

“Sorry, mate.” Fahjoth shrugged. “I don’t—” Then he stopped, as a thought occurred to him. “Wait, does he have anything to do with the Sixth House Cult?” 

“Yeah…” Julan frowned, and Fahjoth began to feel as if he’d done something wrong. “What do you know about the Sixth House Cult?”

“Honestly, not much.” At least that was truthful. There was no point bringing up Cosades and his work, as Fahjoth knew very little about it himself. “I just heard there’s been attacks from sleeper agents. I saw one of them myself.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder at the memory, remembering the vacant expression on the Dunmer’s face and his iron grip as hot as ashes on his wrist. “He said something like… Dagoth Ur is risen, something something Sixth House glory… I don’t know.” 

Even Ribyna looked surprised by Fahjoth’s anecdote, while Julan’s tone became one of understanding instead. “Ah, I see. Yeah. Dagoth Ur is a powerful figure in our history and legends. Supposedly, he causes people to go insane by sending them dreams.”

Ribyna raised a brow at that. “What, so you reckon you’re going insane?”

“What— no!” Julan replied defensively. “I am not insane and I’m not planning to be, either! Lots of people dream about him. It’s nothing.”

For a moment, Fahjoth wondered if it was worth bringing up his own dreams. But if what Julan said was right, then perhaps it was more common than he had thought. He didn’t feel like he was going insane, and as long as it stayed that way, then he surely ought to be alright. 

On realising that he had tuned out of the conversation, Fahjoth jolted and made an effort to concentrate again. 

“Then why are you so bothered by them that you can’t even climb a mountain?” Ribyna was saying. 

“I’m not! I mean—” Julan blew out, his frustration evident. “Look, I know it doesn’t make any sense, okay? I just need time. Anyway…” He looked between the twins, vying for a change of subject. “Never mind that. How about getting on with some training? I could do with taking my mind off things.”

“Yeah, alright. Good idea,” Fahjoth agreed. He gestured between himself and Ribyna. “Me and Beebs are both used to working with short blades and light armour.” Then he gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think either of us will be able to help with your magic, though. We can’t cast spells for shit.”

“Hah! That’s alright.” Julan grinned. “I don’t need any help with archery, either, I’ve been practising since I was small. I prefer fighting with blades anyway, so I’m up for that.” 

“Right!” 

Fahjoth turned to face Ribyna, alarmed by the sight of her drawing her dagger. 

“Sparring match, then? Let’s see how we do,” she suggested. Fahjoth was nervous; Ribyna’s attitude so far hadn’t sat well with him at all, and neither was the look on her face as she eyed Julan. Such a sudden turnaround, going from being openly hostile to Julan to wanting to spar with him, didn’t exactly bode well. 

Whether Julan himself shared Fahjoth’s apprehension wasn’t apparent. On the contrary, he drew his own shortsword and nodded. 

“Alright. Let’s go.” 

“Are you sure?” Fahjoth asked. “With real weapons? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

“It’ll be fine, Fahji,” Ribyna said dismissively. 

“Don’t worry, we won’t go too hard,” Julan added. Fahjoth wasn’t at all optimistic about that, but he held his tongue and decided to lean against a nearby wall to observe. 

Ribyna brandished her dagger and stalked a circle around Julan, who stood ready with his chitin sword. Without warning she lunged, hard and fast. Julan brought his sword up to deflect the blow, the blades screeching on impact. A retaliation from Julan, deliberately slow and cautious, forced Ribyna back and kept her at arm’s length for the time being. Overall, it seemed to be going well, and Fahjoth began to relax. 

That was until one particularly close call from the tip of Julan’s blade threw Ribyna off her rhythm. Although the strike hit the tough leather of her armour, the force and angle still caused the dagger to get flung from her grip. With a grin, Julan pointed his sword up to her chest, puffing from the brief yet intense exercise. 

“Got you! Maybe don’t drop your weapon next time.”

Ribyna only scowled in response. Then with a flash of steel, she pivoted herself against Julan’s chest, a second dagger poised against his throat. 

“Maybe make sure your opponent is actually unarmed next time.” 

There was a moment of stiff silence; Ribyna glared at Julan, her face less than an inch from his own, while Julan stared back defiantly. Then the tension broke, and she backed up and resumed pacing, looking for the next opportunity to strike. 

The remainder of the sparring session continued much in the same manner, with Ribyna and Julan flitting around each other in a vicious dance, both trying to get the upper hand over the other. A short while and a few close calls later and they agreed to call it a day, having been reasonably evenly matched. It seemed that training together would be as beneficial for Fahjoth and Ribyna as it would be for Julan himself. 

“How about a drink?” Fahjoth suggested to his somewhat bruised companions. “I think we could all do with chilling out for a bit.” 

“Fine by me,” Ribyna said, while Julan looked awkward.

“Oh, I… don’t think I have enough to—” Julan started, but he stopped as Fahjoth waved a hand genially. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he chirped, offering Julan a friendly smile. “I’ll get them. I owe Ribyna a round, anyway.”

Julan’s unease melted away and was replaced with a grin, which Fahjoth found quite contagious. He purposefully ignored Ribyna’s dull glare in his periphery, focusing instead on Julan. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a mazte, if you’re offering.”

“Sorted!” Fahjoth declared, ambling further into Ald’ruhn while Ribyna and Julan limped along with him. He was subjected to the uncomfortable feeling of someone staring at him, and he didn’t need to look around to know that it was coming from Ribyna. 

Once they reached the cool shade of the Ald Skar Inn, Fahjoth suggested that Julan find them a table while he went to retrieve the drinks, to which he happily obliged. However, Fahjoth was not all surprised when Ribyna offered to help him carry them over, despite knowing full well that he could handle them himself, and prepared himself for the ear bashing he knew was imminent.

“He’s taking the piss,” Ribyna hissed, once they were at the bar and out of earshot of Julan. “You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you?”

Fahjoth heaved a sigh as he leaned against the bar, deciding to just let her rant. “Go on then, enlighten me.” 

“He’s gonna mooch off you every chance he gets! He’s always gonna be all, ‘oh no, I don’t have any money’, and then you’ll have to pay for every-bloody-thing.” 

“I don’t mind. It’s not like I don’t have the gold for a few drinks here and there. I’d do the same for any friend!”

Ribyna’s mouth fell open. “Friend?” she spat, outraged. “You barely even know the bastard! Honestly Fahjoth, you see a pretty boy and I swear your whole fucking brain just shuts down!”

Trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks, Fahjoth was quick to see a lifeline and he clung to it like a drowning man. “Oh, so you think he’s pretty, do you?”

This time, it was Ribyna whose cheeks flushed a dull red. “I— no, I never— don’t put words in my mouth!” she retorted, fuming. “You know exactly what I’m saying, and you know I’m right!”

“Well, just do me a favour and keep it to yourself if you can,” Fahjoth requested flatly. “I don’t want Julan to feel uncomfortable. More than he already is...” 

Ribyna looked as though she was going to continue to argue, but a moment of respite came when the drinks arrived. Fahjoth hastily took them over to the table before Ribyna could say another word, leaving her to traipse after him clutching her own. Once he placed the drinks down on the table, Julan gratefully took his, shuffling his stool along to make plenty of room for the twins to join him. 

“So, whereabouts do you two live?” he asked. “It’s not here in Ald’ruhn, is it?” 

“Nah, we’re staying in Balmora.”

“Probably a good thing. It’s like the dusty armpit of Vvardenfell here. And so Redoran, it’s illegal to even joke about it!” Julan swigged his mazte, looking to Fahjoth curiously. “What’s Balmora like?”

“Bit bigger than Ald’ruhn. And less dusty. You’ll see it for yourself soon!” Fahjoth paused. “Well, that’s if you still want to come with us. I’ve got to go check in with my boss soon.” 

“Course I do. As long as we can still continue to train, then I don’t mind where we go.” 

Fahjoth grinned. “Don’t worry about that. If I’m not around, you’ll be able to spar with Ribyna again!” 

“Oh yeah, ‘cause it’s not like I’ve got a life outside you or anything,” Ribyna grumbled, staring at Julan with heavy mistrust — and even dislike. Julan seemed to notice as well, for his smile slipped somewhat and an awkward silence fell over the table. 

“Anyway…” Julan attempted a wary change of subject. “What is it that you do for a living? Apart from rescuing people from clannfears, of course.” 

“To be honest, mate…” Fahjoth shrugged. “I don’t really know. I know that sounds daft, but mostly I just run errands. Gather information. Sometimes nearly get myself killed in Dwemer ruins or haunted tombs. That sort of thing.”

“Sounds… interesting.” 

Both he and Julan both then turned to Ribyna, but she remained silent, glowering back at them while she sipped her drink. Fahjoth’s stomach sank. With Ribyna’s stubborn refusal to socialise, the relatively upbeat mood had been well and truly quashed. 

A heavy weight began to settle in Fahjoth's chest. Though he was looking forward to working with Julan, the excitement was spoiled by Ribyna's behaviour and incessant hostility towards him. He knew Ribyna was prickly at the best of times, but he hadn't anticipated this much resistance to gaining a new companion. If Julan was going to stay with them for the foreseeable, Fahjoth dreaded the idea of trying to persuade her to play nice. How much more grief were they going to get from her?

But more importantly, how far did Julan's tolerance extend? How long would he put up with her animosity and foul mood before deciding that he'd had enough?

                    ——————————————

“I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s up with your hair?”

Blinking, Fahjoth slowly turned to face Julan, trying to concentrate over the rough jerking of the silt strider’s teetering steps and the shrill grinding of its chitinous joints ringing in his ears. He wasn’t normally prone to motion sickness, but being so high above ground level coupled with the vigorous swaying of his seat was not a good combination, and Fahjoth had spent much of the journey from Ald’ruhn to Balmora trying to hold down the urge to vomit. After spending another day in and around Ald’ruhn for training and shopping, Fahjoth could no longer put off returning to Balmora and the silt strider was the fastest way to get there. Even if it did make him want to throw up. 

His first time riding one, and he dearly wished for it to be his last. 

Julan perhaps mistook his silence for offence, for he held up a hand apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Eh? No, it’s fine. Sorry for being quiet, I’m just not feeling great,” Fahjoth explained, squinting as the low sun on the horizon shone into his eyes. At least the weather had been good for their trip. “Well, it used to be totally black. But a few years ago, it started to go white in the front here.” He held up a strand by means of demonstration. “I dunno why.”

“That really is weird.”

“I still reckon it was stress,” Ribyna added, looking over her shoulder with a smirk. With her arm hanging loosely over the silt strider’s side, she seemed to be having no issues with the bumpy ride. “Obviously not everyone is cut out for life in prison.” 

Julan did a double-take, looking from Ribyna to Fahjoth with shock. “You’ve been arrested?” 

Fahjoth turned to Ribyna, scowling. Ribyna simply smiled back at him with false pleasantry and turned away to gaze at their surroundings as the silt strider tottered along. With a sigh, he turned back to Julan, feeling somehow even more queasy at the thought of telling the truth and wondering how Julan would take it. 

Damn Ribyna and her big mouth!

“Yeah. Me and Ribyna both came here on a prison ship,” Fahjoth admitted. Instantly, Julan looked leery. 

“You’re both convicts? You’re not on the run, are you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. We were released.”

“Released? On Vvardenfell?” Julan scoffed. “That’s just typical of the Empire. As if they haven’t done us enough damage, now they’re offloading their unwanted criminals onto us!”

Admittedly, that comment stung. But before Fahjoth could answer, Ribyna had whipped around in her seat again, looking none too pleased with Julan’s remark herself. 

“Yeah, that’s no good, is it? It’s not like those unwanted criminals saved your sorry arse from getting eaten alive by clannfears or anything!”

Julan blanched, biting his lip as he realised what he had said. “Oh— gods, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it personally. Look, I didn’t mean— well…” As he took a deep breath, Fahjoth noted his hesitation to continue. “You do seem like a good person… people. Good people. Um... were you... y’know... guilty? Of... whatever it was you did to get arrested.”

Fahjoth, for a moment, was silent. He risked a glance over at Ribyna, feeling his stomach clench when he saw that she had turned her back to them again. She said nothing, but Fahjoth could see the tension in her shoulders, and he knew his twin well enough to know that if he spoke the truth, it would hurt her. So he looked back to Julan, thinking about his words carefully. 

“It’s... a bit of a long story, mate,” he said. “It was...” — he paused, waving his hands vaguely — “an accident.”

Julan stared at him with a mild frown, and Fahjoth felt himself break into a nervous sweat, not knowing what he was thinking. After a silence that was far too long for his liking, Julan spoke up at last. 

“I believe you,” he said simply. “I’m not sure why, but I do. Like I said, you seem like a good person, and either way, I’m willing to judge you on your actions here and now, rather than in the past. Whatever they were.” 

A wave of relief crashed over Fahjoth, but before he could respond, a particularly vigorous judder in the silt strider’s pace hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach, already churning from nausea and anxiety, convulsed violently and a thick, wet sourness hit the back of his throat. Spinning around, he bolted up from his seat, leaning over the side and letting his head hang as he fought to swallow the sickness down again. 

Through watering eyes Fahjoth watched as the ground went rushing by with the strider’s uneven pace, stopping and starting with every bumpy step, the leaves on the trees and bushes below blurring into one as his eyes struggled to focus. How far up was he, anyway? Twenty-five feet? Thirty?

His knuckles whitened as he clenched his trembling hands, his skin becoming hot and clammy and damp with sweat while his heart fluttered an uncomfortable half-rhythm in his chest. After seconds which lasted a lifetime, during which the contents of his stomach barely managed to settle, Fahjoth hauled himself back into the relative safety of his seat. It was still as choppy as ever, but at least he didn’t have to look at the ground this way. When he was able to focus again, he found Julan’s perturbed face fixed rapt upon his own. 

“Fahjoth, are you alright?” 

“Yeah Fahji, you look pale as fuck,” Ribyna added, finally turning her gaze back around, brows furrowed with concern. “Here you are, have some of this.” 

She rummaged in her backpack and fished out a bottle of mazte, reaching back to offer it to Fahjoth. Fahjoth, however, shook his head with his mouth clamped tightly shut. If he opened it, there would likely be more than just words coming out. 

Julan reached over and patted Fahjoth’s shoulder, albeit seeming reluctant to get too close. “It’s okay, I think we’re nearly there. Just... hold onto your lunch a bit longer, alright?”

The silt strider finally drawing to a halt could not have been a bigger relief. Except now that they had reached Balmora, Fahjoth faced the prospect of having to disembark from the silt strider and onto that precarious platform awaiting them. It had been bad enough ascending the narrow ramp to board the strider, how on Nirn was he going to get back down again? 

Fortunately, Ribyna was on hand to lend him hers. Once she had clambered up out of the strider's hollowed-out carapace, she offered her hand to Fahjoth as he hesitantly followed suit. The simple boon of having something firm to grip onto while he stumbled out of the silt strider made all the difference, and without a word, Ribyna let Fahjoth continue holding her hand as they made their way down the slope, Fahjoth's pace hindered significantly by his shaking legs.

It took all his effort not to collapse to his knees the moment he stepped on solid ground at last. He doubled over, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths as he tried to encourage his stomach to settle, paying no heed to anything else going on around him. Once his nausea had subsided enough, he straightened back up again, preparing to face the mocking and jeering he predicted from his travelling companions. 

However, there was nothing of the sort. Both Ribyna and Julan were watching him, their faces showing nothing but concern and sympathy. 

“Not good with heights?” Julan asked, his tone one of pity. 

“I— I dunno,” Fahjoth admitted. “I never realised... but I suppose, yeah. Obviously…”

“Either that or the turbulence,” Julan suggested. He fell silent, turning his gaze away to survey Balmora instead. "So, this is Balmora? It’s so grand." There was clear hesitation in his voice as he continued, “Um... tell me honestly, do I look like a complete savage?”

Fahjoth blinked. “What?”

Julan chewed his lip, his eyes darting from left to right apprehensively, as if searching for anyone who would look at him with disdain. “I know how people view Ashlanders. They think we’re violent, uncivilised barbarians who live in filth and poverty. They don’t even try to understand us, or our culture, or why we choose to live as we do. But we’re proud of our culture. We don’t need these tacky displays of wealth to be happy — we have more valuable things of our own.”

Before Fahjoth could even open his mouth, Ribyna cut across him. “Oh, don’t worry. Me and Fahjoth grew up stinking savages ourselves.”

Unsurprisingly Julan bristled, glaring at Ribyna and quietly seething. Sensing an altercation brewing, Fahjoth hastily spoke up, cringing over Ribyna’s lack of sensitivity. “What she means is that... well, we grew up on the streets,” he explained. “People saw us as nothing more than dirty, uncivilised thieves, as well.”

Thankfully, Julan seemed to calm down. “Well. Then maybe you’ll understand. My people are viewed with suspicion here in the cities. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my heritage, but I feel like I might be too conspicuous. I don’t want to go drawing any attention. What d’you think?”

Fahjoth shrugged. “I mean... you look fine to me, Julan. But if you like, we can look into getting you some new clothes.” 

“At least get him something that smells less of guar,” Ribyna interjected, and once again, Fahjoth wanted to throttle her. Fortunately, Julan didn’t take offence. 

“Maybe that would be a good idea, actually. But!” He jabbed Fahjoth in the chest with a finger. “If you make me look ridiculous, I swear I’ll never forgive you!”

Fahjoth held his hands up innocently, a grin curling at the corners of his lips. “I would never! I’ve got a good eye for fashion, me. Can’t you tell? Anyway…” He looked between Julan and Ribyna with an apologetic gaze. “Do you two wanna go get us a table in the South Wall Cornerclub? I need to go speak to Cosades, but I’ll join you straight after. He gets grumpy if I call on him too late in the day.”

Both Ribyna and Julan looked as apprehensive as Fahjoth felt to be sending off by themselves, but for the moment, it was unavoidable. 

“Alright, well... don’t be long!” Ribyna said with a frown. 

“I won’t!” Fahjoth called back as he began heading off, jogging away between the long shadows cast by the setting sun. 

                    ——————————————

Given the lateness of the hour, Fahjoth had assumed that Cosades would be home, perhaps settling down for the night with a few bottles of booze as he was wont to do. To his surprise, that was not the case. He lingered around for five minutes, just on the off-chance that Cosades would turn up, but he was reluctant to leave Julan and Ribyna alone for much longer. So he hurried on to the South Wall Cornerclub, hoping that the two had not bitten chunks out of each other in his absence.

However, he needn't have worried. When Fahjoth arrived and descended the steps into the bar, he spotted Ribyna and Julan sitting in complete stony silence at their usual corner table. Quite frankly, he had seen funerals looking more lively. 

His arrival seemed to come as a relief, as Julan glanced up and waved Fahjoth over. Fahjoth obliged, joining them at the table with haste as he accepted the bottle that Ribyna pushed towards him. He was both unsurprised and disappointed to see that Julan had nothing. 

“Sorry about this,” he murmured, casually pushing his own mazte over to Julan instead. 

“It's fine,” Julan replied. “Not like either of you are obligated to buy me a drink.” 

“Yeah, but it's polite, isn't it?” he said, directing this particular comment over to Ribyna, who curled her lip but said nothing on the matter. 

“So did you see Cosades?” she asked instead. “What's he got lined up for you this time?”

“He wasn't in,” Fahjoth answered. “I'll see him tomorrow, I'm sure.” He paused, before sliding a handful of coins over the table towards Ribyna. “Could you go get me a mazte? I still feel a bit dodgy.”

“I already got you a mazte.”

“Ribyna, come on,” Fahjoth groaned, desperate for one night of peace. “Please.”

A moment of irate silence later and Ribyna got to her feet, striding off towards the bar with a distinctly sour demeanour.

Fahjoth sighed, burying his face behind his hands with dismay. “I'm so sorry about her,” he apologised, lowering his hands and resting his chin on his fist. 

Julan shrugged. Fahjoth had to admire his fortitude. “Don't worry about it. It's hardly your fault. And I've dealt with much worse, believe me.” He peered over his shoulder, jerking his head in Ribyna's direction before turning back to Fahjoth. “I don't suppose you know what her problem is?”

“I wouldn't take it personally, mate,” Fahjoth said. “She's just... like that. To everyone, pretty much.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his mouth continuing to move as his frustrations began to seep out. “Has been for years, now. I knew she was... difficult, but I swear she's gotten so much worse since we got here. Like, I know you need gold to survive, that's obvious, but there's gotta be better ways of going about that than joining the Thieves Guild or the Morag bloody Tong—”

“Hold on,” Julan interrupted, cutting Fahjoth off mid-rant. “She's in the Morag Tong?!”

Fahjoth froze, realising his slip-up. 

“Uh…” he began, but he was spared the need to respond by Ribyna's return. 

“There's your bloody mazte,” she said grumpily, putting the drink down in front of Fahjoth with enough force that, for a moment, he thought the bottle might shatter. Before he could say anything, Julan was on the attack. 

“So you're in the Morag Tong.” He glared at Ribyna, his grip on his own bottle hard. “The Morag Tong! You'd better have a damn good reason for this!”

Ribyna paused, slowly turning her gaze to Fahjoth as she sat down again. Fahjoth could merely offer her an apologetic grimace, and with a loud huff, she rolled her eyes and turned back to Julan. 

“Come on then, I want to hear this!” Julan went on. “How can you possibly justify joining a murder cult?!”

“It's a job,” Ribyna said bluntly. “I get paid to do it. That's all. And keep your bloody voice down, will you?”

After glancing around to ensure that they hadn't drawn any undue attention already, Julan continued in a low hiss. “So that's all this is to you? Money? There's lots of ways to make gold that don't involve killing people you don't even know!”

“Listen, save the lectures. If someone's got to die, they're gonna get killed either way. At least this way, I can get paid for it!”

Julan sighed, eyeing Ribyna with distrust. “Yeah, well, that doesn't mean I have to like it. You're still walking up to a stranger and putting a dagger in their back. I don't know if I could live like that. And if you can, well…”

“Yeah? Well if you don't like it, you know where the door is,” Ribyna spat. “In fact, why don't you do us both a favour and piss off back to the Ashlands alread—”

“Alright, that's enough!” Fahjoth snapped, holding his hands up towards the bickering pair. “Both of you, pack it in! You're doing my head in. Let's all just calm down, okay? Thank you…”

Fahjoth hung his head after his outburst, going back to nursing his mazte in silence and deliberately avoiding both Ribyna and Julan's eyes. Already he felt guilty about losing his temper, but he was still feeling rough from the silt strider ride and the vicious squabble wasn’t helping. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever get along; the prospect of having to put up with their constant quarrelling was a grim one. Was this going to be his existence for the foreseeable future? Playing referee between his twin and his new friend? 

He despaired at the thought. But he could always live in hope, no matter how exhausting it was.

————————————————————————

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

[endlessdoom]

Abyssal Speedmapping Session #10

By various authors led by Obsidian

10 maps

2014

https://www.doomworld.com/idgames/levels/doom2/Ports/a-c/abyspe10

MAP01: Dirge of the Blighted Ovum by Obsidian

The introduction to this new project throws us into a small, compact map that seems reminiscent of fireblu but in a more attractive way. The glitched visuals and the use of two-color textures remind me of Tron, creating an interesting environment that matches the square box architecture. With only a handful of monsters, the action unfolds quickly in effective single combat that works to keep us on our toes. With no secrets or further exploration, this map works effectively without needing to be extremely complex or bombastic. A solid example of a good introduction. 3/5

MAP02: Tyson Fun! by Darsycho

As short as the previous one but with a simpler style and more adaptable to the eyes. This is a classic map in terms of structure and design, without major revolutions or anything special to offer. The title indicates that it is designed for Tyson, but if we bring the shotgun from the previous map it is slightly faster, although doing it in Tyson is balanced enough to offer a good minute of fun. The combat is simple and the layout understandable, go left and then right and that's it, you have completed it. It's not bad, but it's not great either, it's just average. 3/5

MAP03: Jimmy Has An Essay Due Tomorrow But Instead He's Speedmapping With These Assholes by Jimmy

Jimmy is considered a master of the art of speedmapping, and here we can see that even in his early days he was able to handle the concept in a theatrical and fantastic way. This is a medium sized map with a more practical and classic design that shows us an interesting facet of the project. With simple but attractive visuals and a decent queue of enemies, the map follows half-traditional routes that create an environment quite attractive and entertaining to play, as well as slightly challenging at times. While my enjoyment was being quite high due to the map's great length, it is interrupted with a stupid exit at the end of the map that I still don't understand exactly how to overcome. A dozen Archies on top of you and I don't know what the fuck to do. Mind you, this is a common thing in A.S.S. so, anyway, how's that? 3/5

MAP04: Nazi Tittyflake Tornadoes by Unholypimpin

Such an extravagant title brings with it a map that is relatively simple. This map has an air of shovelware shit, and for some reason that gives me a charismatic charm that makes me feel graceful. It's a simple, straightforward map with no major problems or bugs. On the outside it looks pretty simple but as we go deeper we find some pretty hellish and rusty textures that remind me of Silent Hill, as well as a bunch of blue Nazi sergeants ready to attack us and a few more surprises involving Cyberdemons and a few little spiders. Not bad, very enjoyable and for some reason I can't get out of my head that feeling that I just played a hidden gem of shovelware from the 90s. That's good in my book! 3/5

MAP05: Cookies 'n Wine by ClonedPickle

Fairly square and open in the beginning, presenting a simple layout with bland combat without much complication. The map then changes to cave-like interiors and launches us into an adventure of hunting spectres and so on. It ends with an obligatory death-exit, in my opinion, and that's it. Nothing more, nothing less. This is a fairly simple map that is not complicated at all and follows a somewhat boring system at times. With quite simple visuals and without much work, it is probably one of the most mediocre of the WAD. 2/5

MAP06: Spatterblue 2: Mosh Galosh by Alfonzo

It is hard to believe that this map is a speedmap, but the truth is that it contains certain features that give it that air, but above all, it overcomes the restrictions and works perfectly well under its limits. The blue visual theme and the compact but excellent way of creating a well designed circuit layout make this a very enjoyable and challenging map under its own justifiable terms. It is fast, intense and has a good flow with no bugs or major problems. Even the little secrets feel like they blend perfectly under the established system. It may be quite small, but it's so much fun that it's among my favorites of this session. Pretty cool and done as it should be. Speedmapping done right! 4/5

MAP07: Industrial Butt Scream by Rottking

If you like Quake, this map will give you a good game. Quite brown, enclosed and with an industrial feel. Designed with a system based on a block layout, the map is simple in its flow but has enough touches to make it entertaining, attractive and fun in gameplay and action. Without major complications and with a basic closed layout. Not bad at all! 3/5

MAP08: Alfonzo and Gary Oldman Visit The Museum of Social Decay! by Tarnsman

Oh oh, I hope you like fireblu and pain. This map has a style that reminds me of the first one, but it opens its limits and shows us a more bloody and intense frontier. Plenty of chaingunners serve as the main appetizer, but things get even fatter when we're thrown into an insane room with dozens of archies and a Cyberdemon for company. With a super simple and compact layout, the real juice of this map is centered on its atrocious yet cool gameplay. A bit bland visually at times but interesting and engaging. 3/5

MAP09: Avoid by General Rainbow Bacon

More blue and red but in a style that reminds me of a dungeon. This dark map establishes an eerie atmosphere thanks to the silence and anticipation, but ends up being a traditional map with a few explosive surprises near the end. Simple, without much to offer and quite short. Not bad, not good. Decent. 3/5

MAP10: Half-Assed Fun! by Darsycho

The title gives us an idea of the type of map it is. Half finished, half fucked up, but decent by its own standards. Dark and full of Spectres, the real fun of the map lies in the BFG spamming and the pile of monsters we have to kill. Difficulty is almost nil, aside from the first room that features some fun combat, after that it's just point-and-click or fire-and-forget. I guess it's entertaining enough under ASS's own characteristics to say it does a good enough job. But it's meh in my opinion. 2/5

End.

Overall:

» Ah, speedmapping. We all love it, we all hate it. An art as old as the history of WADs itself, and one that has proven to bring with it both the worst mappers in history and the best. It's a difficult technique to acquire, but one that with time and practice can yield fantastic results. The very idea of limiting ourselves to a certain set time can be detrimental at worst, but at best, when we give the tools to an artist looking for a challenge, masterful work can result. Here we have a group of illustrious intellectuals who have come together to form a cooperation that is as unique as it is discordant. One where love and hate mix to enjoy one single thing: creating maps. Abyssal Speedmapping Sessions is all about speed, asses and Alfonzo. So, let's dive into this hole and see how deep it goes. After a somewhat long break from the first sessions, I suddenly had the urge to return to this iconic series that from time to time hides more than a few gems, or a total disaster. Luckily, session #10 seems to be a good balance between shitposting and good map design. Very entertaining maps, indeed! Mappers had the option to choose 3 textures from: Erratic Texture Pack 1, DrDoctor Texture Pack and Marcaek's Super Special FIREBLU Ensemble! So most of the maps are quite simple to look at but contain enough touches to establish a good visual rhythm. Considering there are no stock textures, that alone gives it some appeal. Especially striking are the fireblu textures, which create a rather techy atmosphere that reminds me of the original Tron movie. A certain visual touch, from a couple of colors that manage to create enough depth to establish a sense of place. Not all maps are entirely blue with red, and there are a few surprises that turn the color around and bring attractive designs. Quake-inspired maps and some that look like sapphires to boot. Undoubtedly, even if most of the maps have a rather simple and plain layout, no map is truly ugly and some even stand out for having a solid visual quality. The sessions stand out for being crazy gameplay as well. It's often hard to balance something if you have a time limit, especially if it's only two hours, but the guys here know what they're doing... mostly. Most of the maps throw you right into the action, trying to create a tactical feeling that tells you how to move and at the same time how to fight. The maps aren't fucking difficult but maintain a solid and balanced challenge that welcomes all types of players, in my opinion. While certain combat can feel a bit simple at times, overall, each map brings something different to the table and creates a nice variety of treats to try.

[alixofagnia]

Space Jane Eyre in 10 Quotes (Or Why Charlotte Brontë Would Have Been a Reylo)

Basic Character Similarities

Rey/Jane Eyre

The most obvious similarity between the two is their origins. Rey and Jane are orphans and they both had hard, cruel childhoods because of it. Jane, poor and lonely, is raised by her cold relations, the Reeds, and later sent to suffer the harsh and starving conditions of the Lowood school, run by the autocratic hand of Mr. Brocklehurst. Rey, also poor and lonely, was abandoned by her parents, who are apparently dead. She grew up in the harsh conditions of Jakku, where hunger was a constant companion. Unkar Plutt is the Star Wars counterpart of both the Reeds and Brocklehurst.

Interestingly, neither heroine is embittered or cowed by these grim beginnings. Of necessity, they have a keen sense of self-reliance and self-loyalty, and cling to their own sense of merit. Rey and Jane come from nothing, but they make the better choices.

Ben Solo/Rochester

The most obvious similarity between the two is their turbulent family history and the direction they went because of that. Ben Solo is the sole inheritor of a galactic legacy with a family who expected great things of him. But, one by one, they lost faith in him and the betrayal fueled his descent to the Dark Side. Rochester comes from a wealthy family, but he is a younger son and his father, who refused to split his estate between two sons, arranged to have Rochester marry a rich woman. Both the father and older brother, Rowland, in their desire for wealth, withheld from Rochester the fact that hereditary mental illness ran in her family. The anger over the betrayal and subsequent burden of an insane, violent wife fueled Rochester’s descent into debauchery.

Both men can be said to have misspent their youth, live by a skewed moral compass, and give in far too often to primal instincts, such as fear, anger, and violence. Ben and Rochester come from everything, but they make the poorer choices. In a way, each has given up hope of being something different or changing course, until they meet their respective (or potential) partners.

10 Quotes

OK, here we go.

1) After Jane and Rochester meet:

R: And you came from-?

J: From Lowood school, in –shire.

R: How long were you there?

J: Eight years.

R: Eight years! You must be tenacious of life. I thought half the time in such a place would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have rather the look of another world. I marveled where you had got that sort of face.

Reylo parallel: This is essentially similar to Kylo’s reaction in TFA to finding out that Rey is from the harsh environs of Jakku and isn’t as, well, crusted up (physically and mentally) as she ought to be. It’s sort of where I feel some of his nascent fascination with her starts.

2) Jane speaking to Rochester’s housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, about Rochester:

F: If he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made.

J: Why?

F: Partly because it is his nature – and we can none of us help our nature; and, partly, he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him, and make his spirits unequal.

J: What about?

F: Family troubles, for one thing.

J: But he has no family.

F: Not now, but he has had – or, at least, relatives. […] Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune: what the precise nature of that position was I never clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life.

Reylo parallel: Mirrors Ben’s painful parting from his own family through a series of perceived personal betrayals. We can also draw comparisons between the imbalances of nature in both characters.

3) Rochester opening up to Jane about the person he was at her age:

R: Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, one of the better end; and you see I am not so. Take my word for it – I am not a villain: you are not to suppose that – not to attribute to me any such bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to circumstances than to my natural bent, I am a trite common-place sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with which the rich and worthless try to put on life. […] Remorse is the poison of life.

J: Repentance is said to be its cure, sir.

R: It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform–I have strength yet for that–if–but where is the use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost what it may.

Reylo parallel: Rochester’s first quote reminds me of Adam Driver’s interpretation of Kylo Ren when he said that the most dangerous and the most complicated villain is the villain who believes they’re right. Ben, despite his upbringing which would suggest otherwise, was in some ways a victim of his circumstances. Intensely lonely, very much isolated as much by his Force inheritance as his bloodline, Ben was ripe for being preyed on by someone wanting to twist his insecurities for their own machinations. Rochester’s second quote, at Jane’s prompt, echoes the back and forth conflict we see in Kylo in TFA and in Ben in TLJ. He thinks he made his choice and continues to try to rationalize and resign himself to it the way Rochester does.

4) Jane’s response to this:

J: Only one thing I know: you said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that you regretted your own imperfection; one thing I can comprehend: you intimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane. It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would approve; and that if from this day you began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which you might revert with pleasure.

Reylo parallel: Oh, Jesus, Jane/Rey. How pure you are. This touches a bit on the “kill your past” mantra that Ben hammers into Rey, who like Jane, has already dealt with her past in some ways. It colors who they’ve become and it’s painful to both, but the pain of it didn’t completely twist them, like it did in Ben and Rochester. Jane’s advice here sums up what Rey’s thought process regarding the turning of Ben Solo might have been like.

5) Jane reflecting to herself on Rochester:

J: And was Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader. Yet I had not forgotten his faults: indeed, I could not, for he brought them frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic, harsh to inferiority of every description: in my secret soul I knew that his great kindness to me was balanced by unjust severity to many others. He was moody, too; unaccountably so. But I believed that his moodiness, his harshness, and his former faults of morality (I say former, for now he seemed corrected of them) had their source in some cruel cross of fate. I believed he was naturally a man of better tendencies, higher principles, and purer tastes than such as circumstances had developed, education instilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there were excellent materials in him; though for the present they hung together somewhat spoiled and tangled. I cannot deny that I grieved for his grief, whatever that was, and would have given much to assuage it.

Reylo parallel: Holy shit. Well, aside from being a scarily accurate character study of Ben Solo as well as Rochester, this is basically summarizing the intimate notes that come out of Reylo’s Force connection, Rey’s gradual empathy for Ben, and her later rationalization for trying to bring him back: the belief that Ben can change his “faults of morality.” But, like Jane, this quote reflects Rey’s probable understanding that Ben still has some serious personality flaws to overcome before she could really love him. It also includes the definition of a Byronic hero and in it, you can see the clear parallels to Ben’s characterization as a Byronic hero.

6) Rochester disguises himself as a gypsy to try and obtain unguarded answers from Jane:

R: You are cold; you are sick; and you are silly.

J: Prove it.

R: I will; in few words. You are cold, because you are alone; no contact strikes the fire from you that is in you. You are sick; because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweetest given to man, keeps far away from you. You are silly; because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon it to approach; nor will you stir one step to meet it where it waits you.

Reylo parallel: This, to me, in both stories, is Ben/Rochester trying to lure Rey/Jane to him by forcing her to re-evaluate her truths. He’s trying to break her resolve. It doesn’t really work, in either case, because as I’ve said, though they may feel pain from time to time, Rey and Jane have not let these wounds fester, and it has made them basically untouchable from Ben/Rochester’s manipulations.

7) Just to nail that point home, Rochester (still in gypsy form) analyzes Jane:

R: [Jane’s] brow professes to say, - “I can live alone, if self-respect and circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure, born with me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld; or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give. Reason sits firm and holds the reins, and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild chasms. The passions may rage furiously, like true heathens, as they are; and the desires may imagine all sorts of vain things: but judgment shall still have the last word in every argument, and the casting vote in every decision. Strong wind, earthquake shock, and fire may pass by: but I shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which interprets the dictates of conscience.”

Reylo parallel: Let me just say, I really love Charlotte Brontë. For me, this is a further character similarity between Jane and Rey that makes me love both characters so much. Rochester might be getting a little carried away here, but this is such an apt description of Rey, too, and again foreshadows her final resolve to leave Ben just as it foreshadows Jane’s decision to leave Rochester. His analysis hits Rochester pretty hard and he ends the gypsy charade by revealing himself to Jane, who basically knew all along that it was him. I like to think Ben comes to a similar understanding of Rey over the course of their Force connections and admires her for it.

8) Rochester is mad and desperate over Jane’s rejection:

R: Never was anything at once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand! I could bend her with my finger and thumb: and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her? Consider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking out of it, defying me, with more than courage–with a stern triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it– the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its clay dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit–with will and energy, and virtue and purity–that I want: not alone your brittle frame.

Reylo parallel: Well, this is pretty much the inner thought process flooding Ben’s mind space after the throne room proposal and its rejection. It contains Rochester’s violent undertones, which are actualized by Ben’s actions on Crait and echoed in his claimed intention to destroy Rey. The insight Rochester gains, however, from this violent thinking is something Ben (likely) realizes too late on the floor of the abandoned base: his violence has given way to the hollowness of a false victory.

9) Jane’s tragic leave-taking and famous line:

J: I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will; which I now exert to leave you.

R: And your will shall decide your destiny. I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.

J: You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.

R: I ask you to pass through life at my side – to be my second self and best earthly companion.

J: For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it.

Reylo parallel: Essentially, this is the dialogue between Reylo in their final, closing Force interchange. You could subtitle their shots with these lines.

10) After Jane and Rochester are reunited she self-reflects:

J: I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of making my way: I should have told him my intention. I should have confided in him: he would never have forced me to be his mistress. Violent as he had seemed in despair, he, in truth, loved me far too well and too tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant: he would have given me half his fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss in return, rather than I should have flung myself friendless on the wide world.

Reylo parallel: This is the retrospection that Reylo should get in IX. How many of us noted that, had Rey been less impulsive and just asked what Ben meant by creating a new order, maybe Reylo would have ended TLJ on the same side? Ben wasn’t obviously asking Rey to be his mistress, but it represents the moral miscommunication that happened between them. And, obviously, Rey isn’t friendless in a sense. But Ben knows how deep her loneliness and isolation run, and is protective of that the way Rochester is protective of Jane’s well-being. The angst!

Reylo is Space Jane Eyre. That is all.

Bonus Quote

R: I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you–especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

Reylo parallel: Force bond.

[clownfuckery]

A Monster for a Mate -  Chapter 1

PENNYWISE X OC

Table of Contents (in progress)

Prologue

A/N:  Let’s find out a little about our OC, shall we?   -----

1.

Reminiscing

May, 2016

So, where does this story begin?

Some would say in September of 1989, when a wounded It went deep into the earth to heal, sleep… and to plot.  Some would say it begins when It awoke once more, in the summer of 2015 to feed upon Its game.  There are those who say it begins upon my own awakening, nine years prior in the fall of 2008.  Others would argue that it begins on the day I met Pennywise the Clown.  And then there are those who go off the deep end, who begin to rant about how Pennywise was doomed the moment Its opposing force, some great big Turtle floating in space, choked on a couple of galaxies.  But all I know, all I remember, are the ramblings of some madman dressed in a crisp black suit.  He spoke as if from far away, spinning a tall tale of how the balance of some cosmic, mythological structure in the blackness behind the universe hung by the guardians of the beams.  He talked of how they all needed to come down. It all seemed ludicrous then, but now I know that he spoke as though I would somehow come to play a part in it all. Perhaps his words held no real meaning, perhaps they were simply the disjointed, incoherent, and angry mumbo jumbo of some space lunatic.  

But now I know he spoke of It, and the one certainty which came to pass years later.  And now, in these short, few months in which I fell under the spell of Pennywise’s guises and floated in the deadlights that danced in his eyes, I grew to understand him.  To like him, need him.  Love him?  Maybe.  Yes, maybe that too.

“Shh, there there,” I whisper as I place the small, warm bundle in the nest.  A sound that is both a sigh and a chuckle escapes my lips as the bundle stirs and begins to whine, then quiets and goes still.  Part of me wants her to wake just so I can look into her eyes and fall in love all over again with those two, shining yellow embers.  Instead, my hand reaches out and I smooth back the red wisps of hair that stubbornly stick out around her head.

Just then, the fear strikes me.  It is a primeval cold that seeps into my bones and makes me stiff with dread.  The fear is not my own, and I cannot truly rationalize it, but it still leaves me paralyzed, and against my nature, I fear my own mortality.

“They’re coming” the voice behind me says.  I turn to find Pennywise entering the nest.  He collapses in my arms, and I try my best to soothe that fear, that white silver pain that leaves him blind and terrified.  

“They can’t kill you” I say, wrapping my entire body around him.  “You can be hurt, threatened, cornered.  But never killed.  You’re the Eternal, the Eater of Worlds”

He shudders, and my embrace tightens.  

“Do you hear me?” I say forcefully, pulling back to look him in the face.  He nods frantically, trying his best to smile and look composed, but I see the desperation in his eyes.  They’re bloodshot, and the black kohl around his eyes is glistening with tears.

“I called for them.  I sent them my calling card in blood.  And when they get here I will kill them all!  I will cast them, shrieking and insane into the deadlights.  And then…”

“…we will feast” we say together “and doze for a while”

He presses his lips to mine, and as I taste the sweetness of his mouth, I feel his lips tremble.  The words of that man in black come to mind once more, and I can’t help but think that the ka-tet of six who were once seven are agents of that man.  Or perhaps… I was.

“The portal must remain open” were the last words he had said before he disappeared into the bustle of Main Street, leaving me stranded in a town I did not know.

So, where does this story begin?

2.

The Opera

October, 2015

Masquerade!
 Paper faces on parade
 Masquerade!
 Hide your face
 So the world will never find you… I stood behind the curtain and watched in fascination as the performers followed the choreography to perfection.  I looked out to the audience, and my eyes scanned over the throngs of black hoods that lined the aisles, invisible to all, save for me.  Instinctively, even after years of having those dark guardians as my constant companions, I still looked around me to see if any had noticed.  I caught a glimpse of my costar Michael O’Hare getting into position to burst into the scene at his cue.  The makeup artist was adjusting the mask that covered half his face, and he was wrapping the cloak around him in just the right place that would allow him to create the Phantom’s signature swoosh of the cape.  I turned back to the stage and watched as another fellow performer, Jeremy Hammell, who stood on stilts and wearing a big ruffled onesie, sprinted to the front of the stage, where he did a tip-toeing number as the rest of the ensemble brought the second act into full gear.

Eye of gold…
 Thigh of blue…
 True is false…
 Who is who?
 Curl of lip…
 Swirl of gown…
 Ace of hearts…
 Face of clown…

“Faces… drink it in, drink it up, till you’ve drowned in the light…” I hummed along quietly as I watched him prance around the stage, the exact image of that character from my childhood I held dear.  As he finished his small number and retreated to the back he flashed me a wink, and I returned it with a thumbs-up.  I knew he would agree, he had no choice in the matter.

“Oh come on Jeremy!  Do it for me” I had whined in rehearsals, batting my eyelashes like an exaggerated coquette.

“Fine fine, don’t get your panties in a wad” he said, taking the folded paper which bore the somewhat grainy and low-quality picture I had printed out “what’s the deal with this clown anyway?”

“He was my favorite growing up!  You know, my mom even drove five hours just so I could see him at a fair in Buenos Aires.  I watched his…”

“You watched his show every freaking day, yeah you told me that.  Creepy looking bozo, probably some pedophile or a drunkie.  You owe me dinner” he retorted, handing the picture to Gladys, one of the makeup artists.

“You’re the best!” I squealed, kissing him on the cheek and rushing out of the trailer to get fitted.

I was brought back to the present when I felt someone come stand next to me, take my hand, and wrap it around his arm.

“Now look like you really love me” quipped Conor Fontaine, my costar who played Raoul.  He was tall and unbelievably handsome.  A perfect poster boy with his long blond hair and piercing blue eyes; and yet it was Michael, with his rugged looks and unapologetic humor into whose hotel room I snuck in at night.  

“Scarlett, Conor… off you go” signaled the stage master.

“I will never get used to your stage name” Conor laughed and we waltzed back into the scene.  

The production had been a roaring success.  Thirty cities, one hundred and fifty shows, sold out theaters across the country, Canada, and Mexico.  But on that night, on the last show of the Phantom’s North American tour, the energy was electrifying.  As much as I was a creature of control and poise, I allowed myself for once to become lost in the magic of it all.  The lights, the colors, the rousing music of the orchestra.  In my eyes, Michael truly became the Phantom, Conor was Raoul, and Jeremy was Pizarrín, the clown who had delighted my afternoons as a child.  

Have you gorged yourself
 At last in your lust for blood?
 Am I now to be prey
 To your lust for flesh?

My voice cracked with rage and horror as I confronted the monster.  I could feel more than hear the held breaths from the audience.  The throngs of black hoods that lined the aisles however, remained motionless.

I kissed the monster then, and I could feel the prosthetics that covered half of Michael’s face tickle my lip.  The kiss was intense, passionate, and as he returned the fervor, I wrapped my hands around his neck.  The audience burst into raucous applause.  A few moments later, there were tears in the audience and from fellow cast members watching from behind the curtain as I sailed away with another, leaving the monster to crumble in the depths.

The curtain fell.  

One by one the cast walked onstage to receive their accolades.  When Michael and I walked hand in hand, we received a standing ovation.  The cheering and applause were deafening.  The black hoods finally raised their heads and at once, they joined in the applause.  I blew a kiss, and even though to the eyes of all I was reciprocating the love from the spectators, I was in truth acknowledging my father, who stood just behind the orchestra.  From his black cloak he retrieved a single red rose tied with black ribbon, and he tossed it at the stage.  It landed at my feet, and I picked it up, took a long whiff of its fragrance and walked backstage.

The curtain fell again.

3.

Daddy Issues

I listened to the sound of Michael breathing.  His left arm was wrapped around my waist and his naked body was pressed behind me.  His breathing, still shallow and coming in pants, was beginning to slow down and deepen.  A minute or two more, and he would be fast asleep.  

It was almost a science of sorts.  You learn to predict the post-coitus patterns of a man after a few times underneath him.  For Michael, I had his pattern down to a tee after Washington D.C.   We had begun to sneak into each other’s hotel rooms and dressing rooms at Atlanta.  From casting and rehearsals, there had been this energy between us.  No, not actor’s chemistry, but an electricity that sparked and crackled the moment we touched hands and began to go through the early stages of learning the choreography.  We sang as we rehearsed, and I could feel his eyes burn into mine, not in that beguiling, deceitful way typical of a performer of his status, but his eyes danced.  They were a bright, open shade of blue, and yet behind the frankness of their depths, I could see the storm brewing within.  It was dark, and full of lighting and thunder.  

Soon after the production left its home in the Majestic, our hands began to do the talking.  Flowers in my dressing room, embraces held a few moments longer, tighter and constricting.  That electricity soon made its way onto the stage, and it echoed in the reviews that followed the Phantom after it packed and made its way onto the next city.  “The passion and the aura ooze from the wooden beams of the stage, flow past the pipes and strings of the orchestra, and intoxicate all that sit in the plush red seats of the opera house” Steve Connelly from the New York Times had written.  

I let out a small giggle and I felt Michael shift behind me.  His breathing was now coming in long, deep inhales, and he turned onto his back.  He was asleep.  I stole a glance at him, and I slunk off the bed.  Upon emerging from the bathroom, I quickly gathered my undergarments from the floor, then the red beaded Versace dress I had worn to the after party.  I slid on my pumps and turned back to the bed.  I watched Michael sleep, taking in the way his black hair covered half his face, almost Phantom-like.  His broad chest rose and fell, and my eyes ran over the thin line of hair that traveled from his chest, down his stomach, and disappeared under the sheet that draped over the bottom half of his body.  He was an excellent lover, perhaps one of the best I’d had, but that wasn’t saying much.  He mattered to me no more than my next meal.  I would not see him again until the international tour kicked off in four months, and most likely by then, there would be a new toy to play with.

I placed a gentle kiss on the one cheek that was exposed and headed for the door.  As I passed the sitting room, I gulped down the remaining wine from the bottle at the table, grabbed my wristlet from the couch, and left.

Upon exiting the elevators and crossing the lobby, I took notice of the striking man in the black and red suit waiting by the doors.  He twirled his cane in what I knew was exasperation and impatience.

“Were you really going to stand there till I came out?  What if I decided to stay the night for once, dad?”

“Ha!  You never do” he snorted, wrapping an arm around me and guiding me out to the black SUV with tainted windows that waited.  A black hood disguised as a valet attendant held the door open.

“There’s bound to be lots of attention at the Ritz” he said as the SUV took off into the brightly lit streets of Los Angeles.

“Why would you do that?  What if I wanted to be alone for once?” I groaned, looking out aimlessly toward the city lights.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see his head snap toward me so fast, he might have broken a bone or two if he were human.

“On your night of triumph?!  What’s come over you?  You wanted this”

I didn’t answer, pretending to be enthralled by the darkened windows of buildings and small shops.  There was a mural that depicted the struggles of Mexican immigrants in the narrow and over-populated streets of downtown LA. 

“I sent flowers to Katherine” I said after a while “you nearly killed her”

“Oh come on, since when you do you feel any remorse?  You wanted this” he repeated, and this time, his voice dropped a few notches, turning raspy and dry, almost like a growl.  He was twirling his cane again, and I watched his fingers run over the handle made out of solid gold and carved into the image of a serpent.  Or was it a dragon?  

“I didn’t mean it when I said it.  If anything, you could have just…” what could he have done?  Make her catch a really bad case of tuberculosis and make her miss the production, only to return after convalescing, thus leaving me in the sidelines again to play poor old Meg Giry as I was originally cast?  Or maybe…

“Given her throat cancer?!” he laughed, loud and boisterous, slapping the shoulder of the black hood sitting on the passenger seat.  He and the other sitting at the wheel laughed along.

“With only a month before rehearsals? How would you have done it, Lus?” the one driving asked through his laughter, looking at me through the rearview mirror with his bright, red eyes.  I made a face at him.

My dad scoffed.  “Say what you will, that human part of you will always infuriate me.  You take what you want, with no thought to the cost.  Do you understand me?” he asked, taking my hand.  I nodded.

“Yes, dad”

The SUV was now turning into the circular driveway of the Ritz Carlton.  “Good.  Now, get out there, and bask in the glory you deserve”

The black hoods at the front transformed into men in suits as we drove into the chaos of paparazzi and fans.  The black hoods stepped out, with one going to control the crowd, and the other to open the door of the car.  Right before I stepped out, I turned to my father once more.

“I will be going back to Vermont tomorrow and there is something you WILL do for me” I snapped at him and then exited the vehicle.  

I smiled my way through the crowd, signing pictures of Michael and I as the Phantom and Christine, pictures of me alone on the stage belting out “Think of Me”, and editorial photographs.  I took selfies, shook hands, gave hugs, and tried my damned hardest not to squint at the binding flashes of the photographers.  My father stood directly behind me, invisible to all, and yet with the smuggest smile upon his face.  If there was something the daughter of the Great Orchestrator of all evil could boast of, it was of a doting, proud, overprotective father.  

“Whatever it is, I won’t do it.  I know where you’re going with this” he retorted as I finally made it inside and the elevator doors closed.  He said it with such rigidity, and yet his voice sounded already defeated.

“Yes, you will” I smiled, taking off my pumps.    

“I will not leave you unprotected”

The elevator dinged, and we exited into the Presidential Suite.  

“Unprotected?!” I laughed, walking into the bedroom.  The black hood who kept watch over me stepped out of the closet and transformed into his usual façade.  “And just who do I need protection from?  Nosferatu?!” I said with obvious sarcasm, pointing to my guardian.  He sucked in a breath in mock offense. 

 “Sorry Nos” I said to him.  He only chuckled, exactly like my favorite monster, and waved his long, spidery hands at me.

“There are things you do not understand” my father nearly shouted “things you will never be able to even begin to comprehend, because of that cursed human nature you carry.  You’re limited, and as much as you are my daughter, and an Untouchable, you are still at risk…”

“Aww, am I really so-”
 Important
 “-precious to you?” I cooed, stepping towards him and placing a hand on his arm.

“Don’t try to flirt with me, I’m not one of your toys” he said, shaking me off.  My tone softened even more.

“All I ask is ten days.  No you, no black hoods, no guardians.  I need some space”

“You wish to be rid of me, Lus?” Nosferatu gasped, clutching his chest, pretending to be deeply wounded.  I chuckled and walked to him, wrapping my arms around him.  He returned the embrace and placed his cheek upon my head.  Nosferatu had been with me since my eighth birthday, never leaving my side.  I had convinced him to change his appearance into the classic vampire, and had remained my closest friend ever since.

“I think the precious princess needs a vacation.  You’re tired, aren’t you?” Nos said softly, gently holding my chin and cooing at me.  I nodded and stuck my bottom lip out like a little child. 

“Enough!” barked my father, sickened at the childish sight.  Nosferatu looked at me and shrugged.  

“Killer of joy” I murmured under my breath, but Nos wouldn’t dare react, biting his lips to keep from laughing.

My father sighed.  The cane twirled again.  He had lost this battle the moment I had stepped out of the car.

“You will not leave Vermont.  Ten days” he said with finality.  I squealed and I hugged him tight.  He only rubbed my shoulders twice and stepped back.  Physical contact was something he always shied away from, especially from me.  I never understood why.  He showed his affection in much “practical ways,” as he put it.  

4.

The Man in Black

I landed in Vermont to no fanfare, having left it behind in the chaos of L.A.  My white Range Rover was waiting for me at the parking garage when I exited Morrisville-Stowe Airport.  The car was unlocked, and the keys were in the ignition.  No black hood in sight.  With my bags secured in the trunk, I now drove down Route 100, past the lower village and the tourist area, into the residential area of the mountains.  Getting off the main road and taking the narrow streets into the wooded area, I soon reached the one-lane that diverted into the long driveway lined with pine trees, and I stopped at the wooden gates lined with black ironwork.  The gates beeped and whirred as they opened, and I was home.  I had changed the name of the property from Black Mountain Villa to Haven Estate upon my purchase of it nearly three years ago.  The majestic stone mansion rested on top of a hill, the crowning glory of the thirty acres that surrounded it, mostly hidden by pines and evergreens.

I opened my luggage and threw my clothes on the bed as I made the necessary phone calls.  My adoptive parents were first, and it took enough convincing to keep them from getting into the next plane.  I lied, saying I was going to New Zealand on vacation. My brother and sister were next, and the same lie kept them away.  Friends were kept at bay by simple text, and the messages sent by Michael, asking where I was and if we could meet up, went ignored.  The last call I placed was to the housekeeper.  She had been to the house just the day prior, she said, and had stocked up the fridge.  She offered to come in, but I told her I’d be away, and instructed her to return with the cleaning crew in ten days.  With hesitance, she relented.

I walked down the winding staircase and entered the butler’s pantry to grab a beer from the bar when I suddenly stopped in my tracks.  The fridge was open.  As I closed it, I turned to the sound of a crown cork popping open, followed by a sigh of contentment and whistling coming from the balcony adjacent to the kitchen.

My blood boiled as I sprinted past the kitchen and burst into the balcony.

“You lying, deceitful snake!  How could…”

My accusation died in my throat as I took in the man sitting on my armchair.  His wavy, black hair was perfectly combed back, his black suit was perfectly pressed, and his blue eyes looked at me with amusement. 

“…you” I breathed.  

He smiled and nodded.  I hadn’t seen the Man in Black in years, not since the day of my Awakening.  It had been my 21st birthday, the day I had been officially recognized as my father’s daughter, the last descendant of the Nephilim.

“Forgive me for making myself at home, we don’t have beer this good where I come from” he said, taking a long chug of my Stella Artois.

“What are you doing here?” I said, snapping out of my shock.

“Oh, you know me, I’m just a walkin’ dude, passin’ thru” he said in his distinct drawl.  He looked me up and down. “You look good.  Healthy.  Prosperous.  Congratulations on the play.  You got what you wanted”

He threw an open newspaper on the table.  I picked it up and groaned when I saw a picture of me performing two nights ago with the title: “The Best Christine Daae since Sarah Brightman?”   

“The most angelic voice to ever caress the walls of the Shrine Auditorium” the Man in Black quoted from the paper. “I don’t know where the Shrine Auditorium is, but it sounds like some pretty big stuff.  Daddy must be proud” he winked and took another long drink.  I shifted on my feet and crossed my arms.  He wasn’t praising me, he was judging me.  

“If you’re passing through, you must be going somewhere” I said.

“Indeed I am” he said, standing.  He walked up to me, tilting the beer bottle back and taking another long chug.  “Just left New York City.  Looking for a boy named Jake.  Got a couple of questions for him.  Figured I’d stop by and check in on you.  See how you’re holding up”

“Well, you seem to know everything there is to know.  Save you a trip up here”

“Oh, but I did need to come here.  Last time, when we met, you had quite a few questions, don’t you remember?”

I looked away.  I remembered quite vividly.  I had hounded him with the million questions that gnawed at me from childhood.  He had sat down on the pool chair at my parent’s house, hidden in darkness as I sneaked out of my room to meet him.  Of all the characters who had called on me on the day of my Awakening, the Man in Black, or Walter Padick as he had called himself, was the one that had stuck most prominently in my memory.  A sorcerer from another dimension, he had talked of parallel words in six different universes.  He talked of recreating them all in the image of a great King, and spoke of ways to access these worlds through portals to a place he called Mid-World, with some of these portals being on Earth.  When I asked him to take me there, he simply looked at me with a hint of disdain and regret, saying I was “too old to be of any use there”

“You left me with more questions than answers” I now said accusingly.

“Some of your questions didn’t need answering” he replied.

“They do” I said, looking him dead in the eye.

“Ah, the big one” he exclaimed, placing his arms out and turning dramatically “why are the Ancients relegated to Earth?  You know, you keep asking those kinds of questions, one day they’re going to get you hurt”

“I need to know”

“You have everything you need to know.  You already know of the places on Earth where your daddy’s kind is not permitted to go”

My eyes widened.  Father had always boasted of Earth having been his domain from the moment of his exile.  He claimed every square inch as his own.  

“Oh, he hasn’t told you!” he exclaimed “you’ll have lots to talk about when he gets here.  Probably in no less than twenty-four hours, if you’re lucky.  Black hoods are probably flying on swift wings as we speak”

I didn’t respond.  I knew he was right.  There was no way my father would let me out of his sight for too long. Even at the age of twenty-six, I still felt like a repressed little girl. More so now, standing before that great traveler, seeing his sympathetic gaze, no doubt thinking that I was a pitiful child.

“You know, there is a place you can go where he can’t find you” he whispered after a short, unsettling silence.

I looked up at him confused.  “A portal?”

“Of sorts.  It’s the only place where you can disappear without having to step off-world”

“Where?” I asked.

“A little town in Maine, called Derry.  The place itself is nothing out of the ordinary, small and industrial but it is a direct link to my world.  You can stay there and hide for a few days.  It’s the only city in the Keystone World where your daddy and his minions are forbidden from entering”

“Hmm” I mused.  I wanted to say no, but the prospect of being away from the ceaseless watch of black hoods was nearly irresistible.

“How do I know you’re not tricking me into something?”

“And risk daddy’s wrath?  Now why would I?  The ol’ serpent may be banished, but he sure as hell ain’t one to trifle with.  I promise, you just stay for a few days and come back in one piece.  I am the only one permitted to use that passage so you’ll be safe.  He’ll forgive you for dropping off his radar, like he always does”

I watched him.  His face was serious.  He drank the rest of the beer, and placed the empty bottle in the waste bin.  

Derry, Maine.    

“I’ll go” I said.

End of Chapter 1

CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER 2

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