#wicket the gnome

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter One (Astarion's POV)

The group watches in stunned silence as the goblins descend upon the small band of humans huddled outside the hidden community’s gates.

Wicket is the first to move, dropping his pack into the dirt and drawing his sword with a deep sigh.  “It can never be fucking easy, can it?”

Then he’s gone, moving with the stealth and speed forest gnomes are renowned for, felling two goblin combatants before the rest of his party collects themselves and leap into action after him.  The skirmish is hard-fought and short-lived, with a tiefling guard as the only casualty.  Lae’zel, Astarion, and Gale huddle together outside the now open gates as Wicket picks through the still warm corpses of fallen goblins, searching for anything of use.

“Our tiny companion is more impressive than I originally gave him credit for,” Astarion muses, idly flicking a bit of goblin blood from his dagger.

“He seems to be a rather high ranking cleric of Kelemvor, if I recall my religious iconography correctly,” Gale replies, subtly motioning towards Wicket.

Astarion’s eyes widen.  During the fighting Wicket’s cloak had been torn away, now revealing the gnome’s long, tousled hair, and the delicate silver circlet resting on top of his head.  A previously unseen amulet, a silver skeletal hand holding a set of golden scales, now hangs loose against Wicket’s shirt.

“A necrobane,” Lae’zel says approvingly.  “A useful ally indeed.”

Astarion’s stomach twists uncomfortably.  Being near a gnome is already an unpleasant prospect, but to travel in such close quarters with one of Kelevmor’s warrior clerics is a recipe for disaster.  He will have to do something before the gnome discovers him… then again, Wicket hasn’t given any indication that he knows Astarion’s true nature.  Perhaps in addition to allowing him to walk in the sunlight the tadpole shields him from the cleric’s divine senses.

Seemingly aware of the elf studying him, Wicket raises his head and locks eyes with Astarion.  The elf shudders under Wicket’s gaze; the gnome’s pale, nearly colorless eyes pin him in place, like an insect to a piece of cork.

He knows.

Panic rises in Astarion’s throat.  He is free for the first time in 200 years (tadpole aside); he has no intention of dying at the hands of a necrobane, and a gnomish necrobane at that. 

Seemingly bored of their impromptu staring contest, Wicket breaks eye contact and continues his rummage through the dead goblins’ belongings.

Astarion clenches his fists and sets his resolve.  The next time the group stops to camp for the evening, he will have to do something about his gnome problem.

[satureja13]

Giga: “How beautiful!” Giga looks at Jack as if he had forgiven him :3

*knock knock knock* Ji Ho: “Oh that must be Jeb and Kiyoshi!”

Giga: “Jeb?” Jack: “...and Kiyoshi?”

Ji Ho: “Of course. They live here.”

Quote: ‘Plants and trees that remained green all year had always a special meaning for people in the winter. Ancient peoples hung evergreen boughs over their doors and windows. In many countries it was believed that evergreens would keep away witches, ghosts, evil spirits, and illness.

In the Northern hemisphere, the shortest day and longest night of the year falls on December 21 or December 22 and is called the winter solstice. Many ancient people believed that the sun was a god and that winter came every year because the sun god had become sick and weak. They celebrated the solstice because it meant that at last the sun god would begin to get well. Evergreen boughs reminded them of all the green plants that would grow again when the sun god was strong and summer would return.’ Found -> here

They decorated the tree with things that remember them of their adventures over the past months together! DEATH at the top of the tree. Sugar skulls, Horatio, basket balls and tombstones from the time at the Diner de los Muertos, Logan and Wicket, the school mascot, Robots from the STaCKS, the vessel Luci painted, the gnomes and decorations from their rooms at home. Lol and Jack added little bloody buckets because he still doesn’t know what Luci eats!

Outtakes because: <3

From the Beginning   ~  Underwater Love   ~  Latest

[snowpoff]

in funner news there's nothing quite like thinking about putting together a playlist based on your character's massive record collection for the Immersion™️

just as self indulgent as the rest of em lol

[pumpkinpirate]

I drew my gnome destro lock Wickets! Experimented a lot with this and I honestly love how it came out!

Please follow me on twitter if you like my stuff, I'm way more active on there!

[kingfatkat]

Day 3: Meet Ziggy Wicket! He’s a Gnome Druid looking for a chill person to just.... chill out with.... N I C E 

[theleaderdotinfo-blog]

Howzat? Book find hit me for six! has been published at http://www.theleader.info/2019/02/14/howzat-book-find-hit-me-for-six/

New Post has been published on http://www.theleader.info/2019/02/14/howzat-book-find-hit-me-for-six/

Howzat? Book find hit me for six!

I was perusing in a book section at a charity shop in Benijofar when a cricket book caught my eye. I turned over the first page - and was hit for six - when seeing the Essex CC X1 first team's signatures were in it! Players, including John Lever, capped 33 times for England, who played for Essex during 1967-89. Lever, MBE, featured in Test matches against the West Indies, Sri Lanka, and India (76-86) bowling 4,433 balls; and played in ODI, with 1,152 balls bowled. During his time at Essex cricket club Lever was deemed as the finest left arm pace bowler in the country, and entertaining in the dressing room. Lever, accused of doctoring a cricket ball against India in 1976 on his debut tour, by rubbing Vaseline down one side of a ball, so it would swing better, was later cleared of any wrongdoing. Lever was involved in the rebel tour of South Africa in 1982 during the apartheid era, and was banned from representing England for three years, returning to the fold in India in 1986, his final Test cap. Brian Taylor, captain of Essex during 1967-73, who died in 2017, aged 84, played for Essex during 1949-73, recording 19,093 first class runs, with 1,294 dismissals. Keith Fletcher, OBE, played 59 Test matches for England, and was nicknamed The Gnome of Essex - due to his wincklepicker shoes being curled up at the toes, due to wear. Fletcher, captain against India in 1981-82, later became team manager during 1993-95. Other signatures include Ray East, Graham Saville, Brian Ward, and Stuart Turner, who won 4 Championship titles in 8 seasons, taking 821 first class wickets, spanning over 20 years. David Acfield, at Essex during 1966-86, was also an Olympic fencer, taking part in the 1968 and 1972 Games. He was a Gold medal winner in the Commonwealth games 1970. Graham Barker, who made his Essex debut in 1954, scoring a century against a travelling Canadian side, scored 21,893 career runs. Barker also played for Southend United FC, during 1954-59. The book Sing all a green willow by Ronald Mason was published in 1967 - 52 years ago - and still not out!

[justnotcricket]

Match Report: 14/1/17

WASTCA/One Day Div 2

Doubleview Carine [2/149] Def Fremantle Mosman Park [10/147]

There is an ancient maxim that says ‘History is written by the Victors…’ but fails to take into account that history is actually written by the literate.

Our 10th grade team, for example, top of the table and currently undefeated; despite mighty victories... have only yielded muddled tales of inconsequence.

Legendarily short on character, narrative structure, and merely belying a deeply ingrained culture of bravado, and choking in the finals.

Their fate is of forgotten heroes, memories lost to the sands of time…

‘Mikey Who?’

Conversely, there lies valuable instruction in reflection on a stunning defeat.

The Greeks knew this. They invented tragedy.

In cricket, as in battle, there can only be one winner, and in order for the taste of victory to be sweet, we must know, and fear, the anguishes of loss.

Or why bother… What would be the point?

There wouldn’t. …

It has been a long time between drinks for our merry band of men, and soon to be men, in Phoenix’s case.

‘Twas the game before Christmas, and Bassendean Gold [like the diet version of Bassendean Lager] returned the favour of our earlier forfeiture with one of their very own.

A gift, and yet robbed of the opportunity to thrash them; very Zen.

Instead, we gathered at the Leopold Hotel to drink and be served by young women wearing considerably less clothing than any of the men.

Which seems like a gross inequality to me; because if I did it, I’d be arrested…

Even if I would have looked just as hot in a little black thong. And I would…

I shudder to recount some of the oral history entrusted to my blushing ears that day. Stories so depraved, so base, that it would be inappropriate to print them here. To call it ‘Secret Men’s Business’ is to bestow more dignity on them than it rightfully deserves.

Reminisces of bucks nights, swimming pools at grounds, strippers, hats being whipped around and… apparently there was another Muncher!?!

And the current Muncher's exploits would pale in comparison to the previous Muncher’s munching!?!

A much munch-ier Muncher, if you will!

What do you even have to do, to earn the nickname; ‘Muncher’? I don’t even want to know.  Our American friends would dismiss all this as pussy grabbing locker-room talk, which it was. Tim Bott also had a parmy.

Since then, I played my 50th game for the club, down a grade, and without fanfare, in 10’s.

The definition of anti-climax.

Again, I was called to bowl at the death for a thrilling victory [as is my role], but true credit must be laid at the feet of our international players, Rahul Malhotra and Prabin Shrestha, for their skin-tight bowling and timely wicket taking.

Match winning performances both.

Still, this is not their song, merely a footnote in the history of the One-day 2’s…

Which brings us to the rematch with our nemeses, Doubleview Carine, at home.

Captain Ray was away on sorry business and I was called to step in as the Chairman of Selectors, and remarkably 14 confirmed.

We called a crisis meeting, unused to the idea of genuine ‘selection’ rather than a frantic scraping of the bottom of the barrel, and convened like the early DaDa-ists in Zurich, to declare a manifesto of what it takes in the making of a One Day Pirate!

Loyalty, character, good humour and temperament, obviously. But we have also made it into the 4; and to secure ourselves a place in the finals we would also need to actually win.

Ironically, with Clint and Corms out, our line up was wall-to-wall ‘specialist batsmen’. We desperately needed bowlers, and had none but Darrell. At club selections we made the request, ‘Please, Sir. Can we have a bowler?’

‘A Bowler!?!’

‘10’s have, like, six of the bastards…’

‘No bowler for you!’

We would be one our own when it came drawing players. Happy to take our fees and money for fundraising events, but not quite seen as proper cricketers by the club.

Still, always good to know where you stand when it comes to busy bees!

We would name two debutantes, my friend George from Hippy Cricket, and Black Eyed Steve offered to bribe his son Andre to play with us.

I can’t say it didn’t feel like slave trading… but we needed a bowler. Otherwise we would be opening the bowling with Sean McGivern.

Mary, Mother of Jesus!

It was a headache, and late on Friday evening, still no word on the final decision; Ray had forgotten to send the out the team list.

Maybe it’s the reason we haven’t had more indigenous players in the Australian team; Rod Marsh just misplaced the message sticks.

We won the toss and batted. I pushed myself down the order [I’m a bowler now] and we opened with Quinny and Black-eyed Steve.

The result being a diamond duck on the first ball of the innings.

Quinny hit it down the ground, called yes and took off. Technically it was Steve’s call for the second, and given his running pattern is as dynamic as a stop motion animation of garden gnomes, there was never really going to be two in it.

It immediately set the tone for the game, if not the makings of a potential wood duck nomination.

Ray went in at number 3 and Quinny departed soon after, caught at mid on.

We were two for fuck all.

I had big hopes for George on debut. I have seen him bat many times and know him to be patient and watchful early, respecting the bowler and waiting for the bad one before sending it over the horizon. And despite his dicky knees, I wasn’t sure anyone else would get a bat.

He played the most elegant forward defence of the day, but then top edged his second ball and we were three for nine in the 3rd over.

Shrugger and Shorty fell over themselves to push me back up the order to steady the ship, which thankfully we did, putting on a 60 run partnership.

Ray started hitting big until he smoked a cross bat slog that was blindingly caught, horizontal and with arms outstretched, by the lad at mid off.

Oh, to be young again!

Shrug came out and threw his bat around [literally] before being bowled by a full ball that was exactly what I told him to expect from the bowler.

Shorty hit a couple of boundaries before also being caught, and at drinks we were 6 for 88.

So much for a line-up gravid with batsmen…

Daryl joined me in the middle and I edged my way to 50, being dropped three times in an over off Belstead.

Tired and dehydrated in the heat, I didn’t have anything left in the tank and relinquished my wicket to a shit ball from Delaney.

Again.  

Darrell went soon after on 22, we had put on 37 runs, and Phoenix [14] and Andre [2] did well to accumulate some wides.

McGivern carried his bat and we were rolled for 144 in the 31st over.

Defendable, but we would have to take early wickets.

Astonishingly, Darrell trapped their captain LBW on the first ball! Sean McGivern started from the other end, and he took the other opener. Their two most dangerous batsmen gone, and they were 2 for 2 in the second.

Did we dare to dream? Could it be this easy?

Suddenly, it seemed like we had a match on our hands.

Except, we didn’t. George had to leave early. His pregnant daughter in hospital with suspected appendicitis. A valid excuse.

Except I think I may have heard him use this one before, so either he has more offspring of child bearing age, or has passed on the genetic anomaly of multiple appendices.

Entirely possible, but he confided in me later that no one had brought weed and he wasn’t really feeling the vibe…

Andre also informed us after bowling that he had to leave early for work at some bar somewhere, and we were fielding with 9.

I hope Steve got his money back.

They needed just over three an over, and could push it around without risking wickets. And depressingly, it was exactly what they did. We just couldn’t remove them.

Belstead dropped down to play with them and made 60 odd not out, and Raynor made a 50.

It was similar to a loss versus Curtin Victoria Park last year last year, and while it almost feels like cheating, it clearly demonstrates how a club can win across all their grades through distribution of key players.

Imagine if we had the strategic vision to do that! MONEYBALL!

On a positive note, Justin Short was a revelation with the ball, he’ll be opening from the River end next week.

Beaten and broken, we drowned our sorrows watching the Scorchers being smashed in the BBL. The only cheer was of hearing Tim Bott’s success on Tindr by lying about his age. 

It would be a long and lonesome week before we would get the opportunity to redeem ourselves. And such is the punishing nature of cricket.

The good is defined by the bad, the thrill of the foot on the throat, made more pleasurable by the painful memory of getting it in the neck.

Such is life.

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Five (Astarion's POV)

Gale gives Astarion something to think about.

There’s something wrong with the gnome.  Astarion has suspected it since that night Wicket offered him blood, and after a tenday of traveling together he’s near certain of it.  Wicket barely sleeps, and when he does he wakes screaming.  The others pretend to not notice the wretched, soul-clenching cries and ignore the hoarseness of his voice in the mornings.  Astarion’s flesh crawls when the screams begin, reminding him of the year he spent entombed at Cazador’s orders.  He cannot imagine what terrors come to torment Wicket in his dreams, and at such moments he feels the barest flash of sympathy for the gnome. 

Wicket’s nighttime habits aren’t the only thing that trouble the vampire.  Astarion isn’t one to begrudge a person their love for fine wines, but Wicket indulges in drink far too often, as if he’s searching for oblivion.  And at times he clutches at his chest as if he’s in great pain.  Astarion would almost swear he’s seen the faintest glow beneath Wicket’s camp shirt, as if there’s something illuminating him from the inside.

Maybe all cleric are just indescribably odd.

Shadowheart is no less strange than the gnome, also choosing to remain aloof and enigmatic, only revealing bits of her past when she’s forced too.  Astarion shakes his head.

No… there is something very, very wrong with Wicket.

Attempting to push the troubling thoughts away, the elf closes his eyes and tilts his face up, allowing the rays from the early morning sun to warm his face.  The rustling of cloth announces another’s presence, and from the creaking of their joints as they sit down next to him Astarion is able to tell that it’s Gale. 

“You seem introspective this morning,” he murmurs, settling his robes about him.

“Just thinking, darling,” Astarion murmurs without opening his eyes.  “Considering all that’s happened to our little group recently.”

“Is there something in particular on your mind?  Or someone, to be more precise?”

The vampire cracks open one eyes and glances over at Gale.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my dear.”

Gale shrugs nonchalantly.  “It’s hard not to notice how considerate a certain cleric has been towards your particular needs.”

Astarion remains obstinately silent.  Undeniably… in his own coarse, obnoxiously high-handed way, Wicket has taken rather decent care of him.  Making sure he’s fed adequately each day, tending to his wounds with efficient, thorough care while implicitly making sure his hands don’t linger longer than strictly necessary… Astarion can grudgingly admit that Wicket has treated him with more care than he probably deserves, considering his attitude towards the other man.  But for purely practical reasons, he’s sure.  It wouldn’t do to think any differently.

“If this is your poor attempt to convince me that Wicket’s actions are merely altruistic, I will have to insist otherwise,” Astarion protests irritably.

“Kelemvor’s necrobanes are notoriously devoted to their oath,” Gale muses, stroking his beard thoughtfully.  “To have one not only deny his holy mission, but aid in the survival of the very thing he’s sworn to destroy… it makes one wonder what could cause him to defy his god.”

“Given our rather unique circumstances I am of more use to him alive than dead.  That is all.”

Gale arches one eyebrow skeptically.

 “I’ve lived long enough to know that altruism is a farce,” Astarion replies sharply.  “Whatever Wicket has done for me he will expect repayment, I’m sure.  They always do.”

“I think you may be doing him a disservice,” the wizard murmurs. 

Astarion mimics Gale’s earlier shrug, feigning disinterest in his companion’s opinion.  But some infinitesimally small part of him, a bit of him so heavily guarded and locked away he’d nearly forgotten about it, dares to hope that Gale is right.

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Nine (Astarion's POV)

Wicket is more perceptive than Astarion planned on.

Potential TW: brief mentions of Astarion's attitude/reluctance towards sex, but mainly a very fluffy and understanding Wicket.

Astarion tries to remain calm, forcing himself to relax against Wicket as the gnome whispers gentle words and showers him with soft touches and warm kisses.  This was not how Astarion had planned for their encounter to go, had needed their encounter to go in order to ensure Wicket’s loyalty and protection.

“Are you here with me, dearest?” Rough fingertips tenderly touch Astarion chin, turning his head until his eyes meet Wicket’s concerned gaze.  His colorless eyes, so often flat and detached, now burn with pale fire as he stares intently at Astarion.

The vampire forces a carefree smile onto his lips.  “Absolutely.”

“Hm.”  Wicket pulls away slightly, looking entirely unconvinced.

Damn this observant gnome.

Pushing down his reservations Astarion launches himself at Wicket, fusing his mouth to his in a passionate kiss.  He takes advantage of their size difference and Wicket’s momentary surprise, and nimbly rolls the other man onto his back.  Astarion kisses down the side of Wicket’s neck, ignoring the temptation to feed, and slides his hands under the rough fabric of his shirt.  He runs his hands up Wicket’s torso, relishing the sheer warmth of his skin and the way the muscles of his stomach shudder and tense beneath his fingertips.  This is his element, the medium in which he excels whether he enjoys it or not. 

Astarion pauses his exploration of Wicket’s body as his hands reach the gnome’s chest, tracing along a mass of raised scar tissue located directly over Wicket’s heart.

Wicket’s body stiffens and he gently, but firmly, slides Astarion’s hands out from beneath his shirt.  “Let’s leave some things to the imagination, hm?”

“But-” Astarion begins to protest, intrigued in spite of himself.

Wicket brushes his lips against Astarion’s in a fleeting caress.  “There are so many things we could be doing that are much more interesting than my old scars,” he purrs, urging Astarion onto his back.  “Let me show you…”

Astarion wants to object, to demand answers, but then Wicket flicks his tongue against the vampire’s pulse point, and suddenly whatever questions he may have don’t seem quite so important.  Wicket continues to kiss up his neck, pausing to nip at his earlobe before tracing the shell of his ear with the tip of his tongue.  Astarion shudders at the pleasurable feel of the gnome’s warm breath against the sensitive point of his ear, his skin breaking out in goosebumps.

Maybe this time it won’t be so bad… since it’s him.

Wicket kisses Astarion’s cheek, drawing the elf out of his negative thoughts.  Realizing this is his time to ensure the cleric’s protection, Astarion forces himself to focus on the task at hand.

“Darling, why don’t you -”

Wicket’s catches his hand as he reaches for him, tenderly kissing his palm.  “What did I say about your pleasure?”

Astarion takes a shuddering breath as Wicket kisses the tip of each of his fingers, then his palm again, ending with a warm, lingering kiss on his inner wrist.  “That… that…”

Wicket continues kissing up his forearm, pausing only to peek up at Astarion beneath his lashes with a wicked smirk.  “Mmm?”

“That my pleasure is your pleasure?” Astarion sighs out the last word as Wicket’s lips skim up his bicep to his shoulder.

“Then allow me to indulge in my desires, beautiful one,” Wicket murmurs, gently scraping his teeth against Astarion’s collarbone.

Brief panic flashes through the elf at Wicket’s words, accompanied by a rarely felt surge of lust.  Wicket somehow senses Astarion’s discomfort and instantly ceases his exploration of the other man’s body, simply resting his head against Astarion’s bicep and holding his hand, stroking his thumb across his knuckles.  Many quiet moments pass as Astarion’s breathing calms and he relaxes into Wicket’s warmth.

“I think we should stop for the night,” Wicket says softly.

“What? Why?” Astarion snaps, unwilling to miss out on this opportunity despite his discomfort.

Wicket tilts his back to meet Astarion’s angry gaze.  “I have done many terrible things in my life, but I have never, and will never, force myself on an unwilling partner.”

“I -”

“You may not be unwilling but you’re not entirely comfortable either,” Wicket says firmly.  “So for tonight, this ends here.”

Astarion glares at him, furious that his grand plan has been foiled by Wicket’s decency.  “Fine,” he snaps, sitting up and crossing his arms in irritation.

Wicket chuckles and sweeps his long hair back over his shoulders at his sits up.  “Have you fed today?”

“No,” the vampire answers testily.

Wicket huffs in quiet amusement.  “You do tend to be more petulant than usual when you’re hungry.”

“You pompous little - ” Astarion’s insults die in his throat as Wicket reclines back on the blanket, tugging down the collar of his shirt to bare his throat to the vampire’s hungry gaze.  He licks his lips uncertainly, his eyes darting from Wicket’s neck to his face and then back again. 

Wicket crooks a finger at him, beckoning him closer.  Astarion settles on the blanket next to him, slipping one hand beneath his head and the other around his waist to hold him close. 

“Are you sure?” he whispers uncertainly.

Wicket tenderly traces the sharp curve of Astarion’s cheekbone with the tip of one finger.  “Take what you need from me.”

Some long dead part of Astarion flickers to life in that moment, a withered flower stretching towards the pale light of a winter’s morning after years of darkness.

He brushes an infinitely gentle kiss against Wicket’s slightly rough lips.  “This is a gift, you know,” he whispers hoarsely.  “I won’t forget it.”

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Four (Astarion's POV)

TW: violence, blood, very brief allusions to Astarion's time with Cazador, short instance of Astarion's gnome racism

That smirk would be handsome on someone taller.

Astarion shakes off the errant thought as Wicket leaps from the tree, landing noiselessly in front of him.  He takes a wary step back, realizing there is more to this necrobane than initially meets the eye.  The vampire stumbles over a rock, losing his footing as Wicket lunges at him with a speed that rivals his own.  Astarion manages to deflect the first blow, hissing as one of the stakes gouges into the pale flesh of his forearm.  Wicket dodges behind him, driving his fist into Astarion’s lower back as his heel makes contact with the back of the elf’s knee.

Astarion crumples to the ground and makes an attempt to crawl away, but Wicket snatches his ankle and pulls him closer before pouncing on top of him.  Astarion begins to panic at the weight pining him down as Wicket straddles his waist and raises a stake over his heart.

Groping hands in the dark… foul breath… rough, unwanted touches… the smell of unwashed bodies and sour ale…

Astarion bucks beneath Wicket, attempting to throw him off, and the stake misses its mark, stabbing into the soft dirt next to his head.

“Hold still, abomination!” Wicket snarls, scrabbling for the second stake and struggling to hold him down.

Not again, not again, not again, not again…

Astarion struggles wildly, caught in his memories like an insect in amber, barely aware of Wicket’s rough voice cursing in Gnim as he fights to retain his hold on him.  Then… a blinding light and indescribable pain…  Astarion is forcibly pulled from his memories and thrust into another’s. 

Fire surrounds him, the smoke thick and choking… the wails of the dying mingle with the screams of children… Blood soaks the forest floor, glowing in the firelight… A single voice rises above the din – a small child crying out for her father…

“Get out of my head!” Wicket screams, drawing Astarion back into the present.  The gnome is wild-eyed and sweating, silver-streaked hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks, his skin nearly as pale as Astarion’s.  Taking advantage of his distress Astarion shoves him away and rolls to his feet, drawing his dagger.

Wicket staggers to his feet, still disoriented, with a stake in his hand and clearly still ready to fight.  “What’s wrong with you?” he slurs.

“What?” Astarion asks, dumbfounded.

“Hands are shaking… scared… felt it with the worm…”

Astarion scowls.  Apparently the tadpole had allowed Wicket a peek into his mind too.  “Most people tend to be shaken when someone attempts to assassinate them, darling.”

The necrobane snorts, clearly not believing the lie.  “As you say.”  A pause.  “Why are you so weak?”

“I beg your pardon?” Astarion stares down at the gnome in disgust.  “Weak?”

Wicket stares back at him, expressionless. 

Astarion lets out an annoyed huff.  “If you must know, my master kept my diet very… controlled.”

“Explain.”

“Rats!  Vermin!  The occasional kobold!”  The vampire throws his hands up in exasperation.  “And only in small amounts, just enough to keep us alive but not strong enough to rebel.”

Wicket hums in contemplation and thinks a moment before darting off to his tent.  His back before Astarion can object, goblet in hand. 

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, taking a wary step back.

Wicket tilts his head to the side and takes a moment to collect his thoughts.  “I don’t know what is going to happen or what potential dangers we will face as a result of our tadpoles.  And leaving you alive could prove to be useful.”

The elf narrows his eyes in disbelief.

“If,” Wicket holds up one finger.  “And only if you can keep your fangs to yourself… I’m willing to forgo my oath.”

“Of course, darling,” Astarion replies with a charming smirk.  “This little venture will be so much easier if we’re all friends.”

But the very moment it appears you’re going to turn on me I will drink you.

Wicket grunts, looking like he already regrets his decision.  As a curious Astarion watches he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, then draws a small dagger from a hidden sheath in his boot.  Wicket grits his teeth and braces himself, then slices a deep gash across his forearm.  Before a drop of blood can hit the ground, Wicket has the goblet beneath the wound, catching each gloriously enticing drop.

The heady smell of the gnome’s blood has Astarion’s eyelids fluttering, and a small gasp escapes his lips.  He briefly considers crossing the few feet that separate them and licking up the blood that drips down Wicket’s arm; finally gorging himself on the sustenance he’s so long been denied.  Then his lip curls in disgust at the very thought.  Gnomish blood is acceptable, but to actually press his lips to the flesh of one of the little beasts?  He shudders at the very thought.

No, better to wait and see exactly what he’s up to.

After several long minutes the goblet is nearly full.  Wicket whispers a few words of healing, and his wound closes up as if it were never there.  He’s pale and clearly lightheaded from the blood loss, but somehow manages to remain standing.

“Here,” he mutters thrusting the goblet into Astarion’s eager hands.  “We’re going to need you at full strength if you’re going to be any use to us.  Don’t make me regret this.”

[justcallmefox89]

Here's the thing about Wicket. My man is not just tired, he is fucking exhausted. Aside from Halsin, he's the oldest member of the group. He's spent the past 306 years in devoted, solitary service to his god. He's gone literal years without speaking to a living person and he likes it that way. He's cranky, he's crochety, he just wants to be left the fuck alone. But now he's forced to live and travel in close proximity with a pretentious (and pretty) high elf, a secret hoarding fellow cleric, a warlock with a hero complex, a gith (enough said), a flaming tiefling, a horny archdruid, and a wizard who snacks on magical artifacts. AND as the cherry on top of this shit sundae, he's got a mindflayer tadpole wiggling its way through his grey matter. My guy is fucking struggling.

[justcallmefox89]

Wicket Dirkera, cleric of Kelemvor.

Wicket is a 358 year old forest gnome. Wicket has seen some shit. Liches? Battled them. Necromancers? Child’s play. The undead? Nothing a little holy water can’t fix. Plagues? He’s got prayers and herbs for that. Last rites? He’s got you covered. Death is this man’s bread and butter.

Mindflayer abduction and tadpole insertion he can handle. Living with Astarion and his open disdain for gnomes is going to be the thing that finally makes him snap.

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Three (Wicket's POV)

Maybe I overestimated my quarry.  Could be he’s just a fledgling.

I take another sip of whiskey and watch Astarion circle the entire camp for the third time, peering into my tent to see if I’ve materialized since the last time he looked, and then dart off into the woods with a growl of vexation.

Or could be he’s just stupid.

I’m perched on a moderately high branch in an oak tree that overlooks the entire camp.  Certainly not completely hidden from sight, especially from one possessing vampiric gifts.  I continue to sip my whiskey, listening as Astarion crashes about in the woods searching for me and cursing my existence every five steps.  After he’s made his sixth turn around camp I decide it’s time to put the creature out of his misery.

I lean forward on my branch, stretching out my back, wincing as my spine cracks.  “I’m too fucking old for this.”

I wait until he’s close enough to call out to him without waking the others.

“Looking for me?”

His head whips to the left, then the right, as he tries to determine where I am.

“Up here, stupid,” I sigh, disappointed in the quality of this evening’s hunt.  Usually they’re a little more… lively.

“You,” Astarion hisses, red eyes wide and glowing in the velvet darkness of the night.  His tromps through the woods have mussed his usually fastidiously neat appearance; his hair is snarled and dotted with leaves, mud covers his boots and trousers, his shirt sports a new tear in the left sleeve. 

“I was beginning to fear you would never find me, darling,” I tease, mimicking his way of speaking.  “It was amusing to watch you scurry about.  But alas, I fear this is the end of the road.”

The brand on my chest grows warm and pulses in time with the excited beat of my heart.  This is my favorite part of a hunt.  Those moments before a fight, tense with anticipation, the unknown – will I live through this once again or will this be the time I’m finally sent to Kelevmor’s embrace – making my blood course through my veins.  In those few moments I am alive again.  I pull two wooden stakes, crafted specially from weirwood, from the sheaths strapped to my thighs and jump from my perch, landing softly in the dirt in front of Astarion.  Then I attack.

[justcallmefox89]

Astarion: I’m not normally impressed with people of your stature, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.

Wicket: *aggressively sharpens a stake* Gettin’ real sick of your shit, Ancunin.

[justcallmefox89]

a random OC ask for you (for wicket): what is your OC's favorite memory?

also: if they were dropped in a random city for a day with a pouch full of gold/relevant currency and no obligations whatsoever, what would they be doing?

Favorite memory? The last festival he attended before he became a cleric of Kelemvor. The music, the dancing, the food, holding the hand of his beloved, the prospect of starting a family... everything was in his grasp and anything felt possible. He had never been happier.

Give this man gold and no obligations and he's searching out the nearest markets/food stalls/restaurants. He'll sample everything he can and then take the fattest nap. As one of Kelemvor's most devoted necrobanes, free time is in short supply and all he wants to do is clear his mind with some simple pleasures.

Thanks for the ask! 😊

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Six (Astarion's POV)

Wicket shows a moment of vulnerability.

“Looking at something?”  Astarion arches one eyebrow as he studies Wicket’s reflection in the glass of his mirror.  The cleric is drinking more than usual tonight, choosing to keep to his own company rather than join the others around the fire for the evening meal.

“Just looking,” Wicket murmurs, sipping from his goblet of wine.  “What are you doing?”

Astarion fights to suppress the shiver that rolls down his spine.  He’ll never admit this, not even under the threat of death, but he adores the way a wine-soused Wicket speaks.  The gnome’s voice is already far deeper than one would ever imagine, given his size, and when he’s in his cups the husky growl becomes more of a soft rumble… the sharp, clipped edges of his accent become softer, more rounded… a velvet darkness that reminds Astarion of snowfall on a winter’s night.

Astarion forcibly shakes himself out of his musing to answer the question.  “I’m looking too, but not seeing very much.  Another quirk of my affliction.”

“Do you miss it?  Seeing your own face?”  Wicket tilts his head to the side, curious.

“Preening in the looking glass?  Petty vanity?” Astarion sneers.  “Of course I miss it.  I’ve never even seen this face.  Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.”

“What color were they before?”

“I… I don’t know.” Astarion pauses, slightly ashamed to make such an admission.  “I can’t remember.  My face is just some dark shape in my past.  Another thing that I’ve lost.”  He dashes the mirror onto the ground, fury coursing through him as he’s forced to face the reality of his condition yet again.  After two hundred years one would think it would get easier…

But it doesn’t.

Wicket deftly sidesteps shards of broken glass and sips his wine again, his eyes never leaving Astarion’s face.  With his free hand he motions for Astarion to come closer.  Curious, the vampire cautiously kneels down so that they two are able to look each other in the eye.  He remains motionless while Wicket’s eyes rove over him, greedily taking in every aspect of his face.  His colorless eyes, so often dark and haunted, burn with a pale fire that Astarion has never seen before.  Unlike Astarion, who quit aging upon the moment of his death, Wicket bears the burdens of his time in the earthly realm; long, black hair streaked with silver… his skin is tan and weathered from his many years spent traveling through the wilds of Faerun… a myriad of scars litter his skin, a testament to the danger of his life as a chosen of Kelemvor… faint wrinkles bracket his eyes and mouth, the signs of laughter and much time in the sun.  Astarion finds himself wondering about who Wicket was before fate threw them together, the Wicket who smiled and laughed often enough to create those lines in his skin.

“I see you,” Wicket whispers hoarsely.

“And what do you see, exactly?” Astarion inquires breathily, almost afraid to hear the gnome’s thoughts.

“Starlight and rubies,” Wicket murmurs absently, his free hand drifting upwards as if to touch Astarion’s cheek.  He hesitates just before his fingertips brush the elf’s skin, so instead his hand just hovers, faintly outlining the arc of Astarion’s cheekbone and then the strong curve of his jaw.   “You are like moonlight on water… The kind of beauty artists and sculptors dream of but can never truly capture on canvas or in clay.  Ethereal and eternal.”

Part of Astarion wants to scoff, to demand that Wicket specifically cite what he finds attractive about him… but another part, a long forgotten part of himself that existed before Cazador, when he was still a young boy who daydreamed of an adoring lover who would shower him in poetry and loving glances… that part of him blissfully listens to Wicket’s every word.

“In my wildest, most exquisite dreams I never could have imagined someone like you, Astarion,” Wicket continues.  “My moonlit beauty.”

“Wicket…” Astarion breathes out the gnome’s name, turning his head just enough to barely graze the other man’s fingers with his lips.  He freezes, surprised at his own willingness to touch a gnome.

Wicket seems equally shocked but quickly collects himself; his eyes grow cold as his expression shutters and Astarion is once again faced with a stoic and loyal cleric of Kelemvor.  He takes a few steps back and offers Astarion a stiff nod before turning away.

“Sleep well, Astarion,” he calls as he strides away to his tent.

Astarion stares after him, unable to formulate a response, and struggling to understand why Wicket’s sudden departure has left him feeling so… bereft.  Astarion is not unfamiliar with flattery certainly, after all compliments are all part and parcel of the game of seduction.  And after two centuries of luring and obtaining victims for Cazador, Astarion is a master of that particular game.  But in all his years no one has spoken to him so genuinely, stared at him so rapturously… been so tender towards him without the expectation of anything in return.

Astarion scowls, pulling himself out of those idle thoughts.  He won’t allow himself to be swayed by tender feelings and whispered sweet nothings, from a gnome of all things, not when there is so much at stake.  But perhaps if he can twist Wicket to his advantage…  Astarion smirks to himself.

Yes... that could prove very useful indeed.