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[writings-of-time80]

squib Maya Fey and disaster wizard Phoenix Wright

Maya dragged a chair over to his desk and plopped down on it, snatching the paper from his desk and flipping through it. She liked to read through the trivia and attempt the crossword. (It was embarrassing for Phoenix when he realized they were both equally abysmal at the crossword, even though he had the advantage of actually being a wizard.)

“Did you know, Nick, that a donkey can see through a Muggle notice-me-not spell but a horse can’t?”

(...)

Grabbing Maya by the arm he steered her into one of the hotel rooms. Luckily it was empty.

Phoenix doubled over with his hands on his knees, panting.

“Come on, they’ll catch you in here,” said Maya, who was breathing just as hard.

“Maya. They’re after you.”

“Why would they be after me?”

Phoenix scrunched up his face.

“Geez, I wonder why it is they could possibly be after you,” he said sarcastically. Why-do-you-think-they’re-after-you?

“If they wanted a Channeling, they could’ve just come to Kurain! Can’t you just magic us out of here, oh mighty wizard Nick.”

There was shouting coming from further down the hall, coming closer.

“Anti-apparition wards. We’d have to get outside,” said Phoenix.

“Aren’t you supposed to be able to detect those things?”

Well, sorry, I didn’t think to look for anti-apparition wards on the fourteenth story of my hotel while attending a Quidditch Semi-Final.

“We’ll have to get outside the building.”

Maya gave him a strange look.

“How far outside do we have to be?”

This led to Phoenix standing on the windowsill like great spider clutching onto the window frame for dear life. He fought with every frame of his being not to just freeze up from sheer terror of the fourteen story drop below him.

“It’s no good,” he said. “It covers here too.”

The door handle rattled.

“Here!” shouted a woman's voice, right before the door was blasted open.

“Kill or be killed,” said Maya and despite Phoenix’s screaming she dove out the window and dragged him with her.

He managed to Apparate them to safety. But whenever he had those silly dreams that made him wake up flailing just before he fell fully asleep. Instead of running and tripping or just simply falling like normal, it was now always of that moment - his fingers slipping from the window frame as Maya’s weight around his middle pulled him off the windowsill.

(...)

“What’s your favorite month of the year, Nick?” Maya asked Phoenix dreamily one day.

She had pried open the old white window behind his desk, its frame so stiff that no prop was needed to stop it falling like a guillotine on her head. Barefoot, violet robes swaying in the breeze; Maya leant out into the blossoming boughs of the huge magnolia tree out the back, her face turned toward sunlight like a daisy; cheeks ruddy with delight.

“Mine’s March – there’s just something so magical about them. It’s a month of beginnings you know? And Spring is the most beautiful time of year … I’m glad to be born in Spring.”

Maya’s poignant moods always caught Phoenix off-guard. It was like waiting for a punch and instead a warm, weighted hand fell on your shoulder. There was something so uplifting about the way that she just – felt and lived. She wrangled as much out of life as it would give and had the gall to demand more.

Phoenix supposed that maybe Maya’s dogged enjoyment of life had something to do with her familiarity to death. Kurain … sometimes he wondered if perhaps the living haunted the dead more than the other way around. In his mind, were that the case, it explained a lot about her.

“Nick?”

“Errr - ”

He’d never thought about picking a favorite month, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

“September,” he said.

“September?”

“Yeah. I don’t really know why, though, I suppose September meant beginnings for me, too.” He was talking out his ass, but it didn't feel like a lie. “I used to spend whole Summers looking forward to September, counting down the days. I guess the sentiment never wore off.”

For what could have been a few long seconds or half-an-hour, there was just a clear, tranquil peace between them … Maya resting on the window sill; inky hair swaying gently in the breeze; thoughts drifting though bittersweet and beautiful things. Phoenix; feet on his desk, swiveling back and forth ever so slightly on his chair; his mind pleasantly foggy, for once, without noisy thoughts braying for attention.

(...)

“Maya, this is Larry Butz. Larry – Maya Fey.”

“Hello, Miss Fey.”

“Larry,” Phoenix warned.

“Geez, Nick, I’m only joking – no need to get your knickers in a knot. So, Miss Maya, how’d you end up stuck with old grumpy-pants over there.”

“Bad luck,” Maya said casually, glancing at Phoenix cheekily. “What about you?”

“Nick and I go way back. I was the one who taught him not to eat sand.”

“Larry, you were the one who ate the sandpit, not me.”

Maya’s cheeks were alight with glee. Great, I knew it was a bad idea to introduce these two. Larry shook his head in mock pity.

“Aww, Nick, they're no need to be ashamed.” He leant over to Maya and stage whispered. “To this day I still have to watch him whenever there’s a sandpit nearby.”

Phoenix felt as harassed as he usually did in Larry's company, but the glow that was in Maya's cheeks as giggled made it worth it. Larry always could make somebody feel better.

[writings-of-time80]

this is a mess but you get the idea...

Cloaked shadows stepped out in front of them, every one of them with their wands pointed at Phoenix and Miles.

“AVADA – “

He had barely realized he was about to die when a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and he was jerked of his feet into what could only be the painful squeeze of Apparition.

An unmovable pressure pressed in on him from all directions. Edgeworth?

Just as he thought his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets, his feet hit the ground hard. Sudden silence rang in his ears. His heart pounded in a mad staccato, he could feel it moving his whole chest and wondered if he was actually having a heart attack.

It had been a trap. He and Edgeworth had walked into it blind. Neither of them even thought to have their wands in his hand.

Someone staggered forward on wobbly knees, fell onto all fours and started being violently ill. Edgeworth.

“Whoo-boy,” said the unexpected voice of Larry Butz.

Phoenix turned to see Larry drop to his knees as thought the strings holding him up had been cut.

“Larry?” he breathed in surprise.

Larry had a mad look in his eye.

“I am never, ever, ever doing that again,” said Larry in a terrifying, strained half-laugh. “Nope. Never-never-never. I like living thank-you-very-much. Being alive is great. Can’t meet any hot models if I’m dead.”

Edgeworth retched loudly.

“Larry.” Snapped Phoenix.

He wanted Larry to stop laughing like that, it made feel more cold inside than any dementor could.

Larry turned to look at Phoenix.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” Larry’s chest was heaving. Rapidly.

Phoenix grabbed his friend but the shoulders and steadily met Larry’s eyes.

“You saved our lives, Larry.”

He meant for his words to ground Larry, but his own voice sounded unhinged even to his ears. Larry’s breathing picked up.

“Just breath with me, man. Just in – and out.”

Wild-eyed Larry nodded and began to try and breath in time with Phoenix.

“Larry,” moaned Edgeworth, still trembling on his hands and knees. “You came back?”

“I heard them … I couldn’t … I couldn’t … You guys … ”

But Edgeworth had begun retching again.

“Just concentrate on breathing with me, Larry.”

edgeworth and wright walk into a trap and someone 'unlikely' gets them out of it

[writings-of-time80]

“Mr. Wright, as the first ever wizard attorney, what do y– ”

“No,” Phoenix said stopping very suddenly. “No. I'm not - Mia Fey was the first. I will talk to you if you write that down. Now.”

“Eep … yes, sir!” said the reporter, he flicked his hand and the quill floating in mid-air beside him gave a flourish as it crossed something out and jotted something down. “Mia Fey … wasn’t she the squib who died – “

“Mia Fey was my mentor, and the first ever wizard attorney,” said Phoenix. “She had been writing legislation to change the Ministry’s justice system when she was murdered.”

The reporters’ eyes were wide, even the quill had stopped scribbling.

“Mia Fey was murdered because her system was good. Yes, many cases would be reviewed and reopened, but do you know why?”

The reporter shook his head. Phoenix jabbed a finger in the reporters chest.

“Because innocent people have been shoved in Azkaban! Scapegoats! Victims of blackmail! People who were blamed and bullied into silence during their farce trials. Well … Mia Fey stepped up. Damn right she stepped up, because she knew what it was like to be silenced. Mia Fey saw the injustice, was a victim of injustice, and she dared to change it. And you know what happened?”

The reported gulped.

“She was murdered. Somebody up there doesn’t want people to be able stand up for themselves. And they killed her, because what Mia wrote allowed the innocent to defend themselves. Mia Fey is the first wizarding defence attorney. Is. That. Clear.”

The reporter nodded.

Phoenix sighed. I am just trying not let her death have been all for nothing…

[writings-of-time80]

“Up late again, boss?” Phoenix joked as he put his hat and coat on the hanger by the door.

Mia smiled tiredly at him from over her old computer.

“The pursuit of justice should never rest,” said Mia, clicking away at something on her keyboard. “Besides, I can only use my computer when you’re not here. It’s prone to talking back when you’re around and I’m trying to avoid a repeat of what happened last time.”

“I can go and work in that café across the road if you’d like?” Phoenix suggested, hesitating by the coat hanger.

“No, no,” said Mia. “I need a break anyway. The Wizengamot might hesitate in reviewing my reforms if I hand them a stack of documents full of spelling mistakes.”

“If it helps, I can do a mean spell-check charm on the printed papers?”

Mia pressed her fingers to her chin.

“That's --- not a terrible idea.”

“We never did end up catching that mouse did we?”

Mia waved her hand.

“I saw it having a snooze yesterday in Charley’s pot. It bolted before I could grab hold of it though. I supposed as long as it doesn’t get out – it might raise a few questions if someone spots a computer mouse scurrying around their pantry.”

“I’ll have to ask Larry if I can borrow a cat,” Phoenix mused. “Though maybe if the muggles had named it something sensible like a clicker or something, it wouldn’t have gotten any ideas.”

“Muggles don’t need to worry about their inventions coming to life.”

“Well maybe someone should warn them about the possibilities before something gets called a stabber or something.”

nonsense for my own enjoyment feat. wizard Phoenix & squib/muggle Mia :)

[writings-of-time80]

The magnolia tree in the backyard was in the beginnings of bloom. It looked like bits of white frost were clinging to the tips of branches here and there but Phoenix knew by next week it would look like it had burst into white cloud, streaked occasionally with the lightest of sunset pink.

The white sunburst flowers always looked magical. They gave him the same sense of wonder he felt as a child opening a pop-up book. That moment he turned the page and up rose Babbitty Rabbitty - her wand in her mouth as she leapt from her stump and raced across the pages, burrowing under a bed or leaping out the window - waiting for him to close and reopen the page so she could do it all over again. He supposed that, like Babbitty Rabbitty, the flowers seemed to explode from nothing at all and his childhood fondness for pop-up books left him with the subconscious expectation that the white magnolia blossoms might suddenly flit away in a whirl of white butterflies.

There was a grating noise of a window opening above his head, and an amused voice called down to him.

“Do you plan on standing out there all day – “ There was a gasp followed by a surprised giggle. “What on earth are you wearing, Phoenix?”

Phoenix was horrified.

“I though you said to dress like a muggle!” Phoenix called back.

“Yeah. Not like a ladybug. Get inside before somebody sees you!”

Phoenix did exactly that, red leather swishing around his ankles as he went up the stairs to begin his very first day.

What else was he supposed to be wearing? He’d only ever seen Mia in her wizarding clothes. He’d thought about asking her but he wanted her to think he was capable.

It had been an effort to impress his new boss, he’d done what he’d been taught: consult a current muggle fashion magazine and pick out something accordingly. It had taken him a few hours to transfigure an old set of robes into the design he’d picked, but he’d though it looked pretty similar…

Mia couldn’t stop giggling when he walked into the office.

don't mind me indulging :) I couldn't get the idea of ace attorney being kinda set in the wizarding world where Mia is a squib/muggle and Phoenix is a wizard (Mia's gonna fix the terrible justice system (or is she?) < gosh that makes me a bad person)

[writings-of-time80]

So the Black family is ancient and, despite their best efforts to keep themselves ‘pure’ probably pretty far-reaching. The combination of which just means there are a lot of relatives they Do Not Talk About. Now Sirius - he at least had the dubious honour to be put on the official family tree before being burned off, put there’s a particular relative even he Does Not Talk About.

The guy is not even a Squib, he just hates Wizards even more than Muggles, and by the gods, that’s a feat. Though at least he’s a very equal-opportunity misanthrope. Last time anyone tried to check he was running a bookshop mostly through sheer spite rather than successful sales.

He doesn’t outright loathe magic but he hardly ever bothers. Last time he used it was to fix a hole he managed to put into the roof of his shop trough very creative but entirely non-magical circumstances. In plain sight of the handful of costumers who still dare to enter despite being heavily discouraged in all possible ways. The Ministry worker sent to reprimand him got something vaguely book-shaped but visibly alive at him. Whether it was some dangerous magical item or a half-rotten book so dirty the bacteria on it built a civilisation, he never found out.

Tonks holds the title of the Only Tolerated Relative and that’s because she has a bottle of Firewhisky on her whenever she visits, and she doesn’t do it too often anyway.

Well.

These are so many words to say that magic is the only explanation as to how Bernard Black is not dead of liver failure yet.

@looney-unicorn

[writings-of-time80]

How I thought the S2 reunion between Jaskier and Yennefer would go... :)

Beneath the calm facade, the innkeeper knew he was in a problematic situation. He could determine someones wealth the moment they walked through the door --- identify their social status even sooner. This was why his tavern was surprisingly popular, he had never served a bad ale to anyone of influence, no matter how disguised or plainly dressed they were.

The blue-eyed man standing before him hadn’t even bothered with disguise. Two armed men stood on either side of him, their sharp eyes searching the midday crowd. The windows were propped open, and the innkeeper could see two more armed men, clearly also part of the man’s guard, holding seven saddled warhorses outside the stable. If each man rode in on horseback, then that meant there were two armed men unaccounted for, which was unsettling.

“What’s yer business with him, sir?” said the innkeeper gruffly, fighting the feeling of rising dread.

The man’s voice was aristocratically slithering, intense and charismatic.

“Some of his recent composition. When I heard of his stay here, I set out in hope to hear it performed by the bard himself. Nothing sweeter or more sincere than water from its source, so to speak.”

The man eyes became suddenly fixed upon the innkeeper, who couldn’t help but freeze, hypnotized. The charmer had become the cobra. All of a sudden, it was plain this man was very dangerous. Dangerous not only for his charm, power and wealth - but without it. This man was a snake, and he was poised to strike.

It was clear there were to be no questions, now or later. No misdirection. No pretense. There were no words spoken aloud, but there didn’t need to be. The threat was there, and certain absolution.

“You’ll find ‘im in a private room out the back. It's where he sits down to write,” said the innkeeper reluctantly, ashamed of himself despite it all. “Down the hall on the eastern side, last door on your left.”

“Thank-you kindly, inn master,” said the piercing blue eyes.

The man gave a low whistle as he headed toward the back, the guards gave up their intent scanning of the crowd, and smoothly followed. Their focus fixed on the unsuspecting bard at the end of the hall.

(...)

“Oh, those fools in Nilfgaard,

They caught a beloved bard,

Tried to read his mind,

But all they could find

Were dreams of his own vineyard.”

Jaskier tilted his head forward to give the two men sitting by the door considering looks.

“I’d give you boys discounts if you let me go. Huh, Bert? Whaddoya think? Or, maybe you, Harold? Yeah, Imma go with Harold. Harold, you look more like wine guy to me. But, don’t worry I haven’t written you off, Bert, there are many wine enthusiast’s I have mistaken before. You’d receive the viscounts discount, to phrase it poetically.”

Jaskier let out a sudden yelp. Having moved with a bit much enthusiasm, he had jostled his numb arms and sent them into a bout of spasms, his tortured muscles cramping and seizing with white hot agony.

“Fuck!” he gasped. “If one of you could just untie me, I’d fucking give you my fucking vineyard.”

He had barely finished speaking when a distant door burst open with a bang. Jaskier very nearly jumped in fright but somehow fought the urge as the muscles in the back of his neck tightened in warning. Bert and Harold leapt to attention as a heeled footstep rang down the stone corridor.

“You pair of whoreson bastards!” Jaskier shouted.

He took a breath to really let them have it when a strangely familiar, womanly grunt caught his ear. He couldn’t place it for the life of him. He froze, straining to listen. The footsteps were closer now, and they were accompanied by a soft scuffling – and a second pair of footsteps.

“Has he said anything of importance?” came the slithering voice of their leader – the man who had captured him in the first place.

“Nothing, sir,” said Bert.

“How dare you,” Jaskier hissed like an angry cat. "Everything I - "

“Good,” said the handsome voice as if Jaskier hadn’t spoken.

The scent of cloves and warm spices cut through the dank smell of his cell as the blue-eyed snake entered, dragging a smaller figure in behind him. With a vicious tug of her trussed wrists, Yennefer of Vengerberg went sprawling on the damp stone at Jaskier’s feet.

“One of eight sorcerers who survived Sodden Hill. Weak and powerless after burning down Nilfgaardian forces. Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Yennefer’s violet eyes blazed with fury, still as striking as they were when he last saw them. If looks could kill, this man would be a pile of ashes. The sorceress was dirty, bloody and bruised; dark hair hung in limp strands around her face and her clothes were ruined.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg can’t stand me any more than the plague,” said Jaskier. “She wouldn’t give a rats-arse if you lopped my head off. In fact, she’d probably thank you for it.”

The man’s thin lips pressed together, and his evil eyes fixed on Jaskier.

“Did I not say earlier that I was a fan of your work,” said the man dangerously. “I’ve done my research. I know what and who you write about, bard. There is quite a few verses about a woman with raven hair and violet eyes.”

Jaskier couldn’t hold back his screams as he was kicked brutally in the shin, forcing his arms to bare his bodyweight and every muscle in his body to burn with white hot agony. A iron grip grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look at the man through watering eyes.

“Don’t take me for a fool.”

Dead eyes stared at him, Jaskier caught a glimpse of the rage that was boiling beneath the cold façade. The hand tightened on his jaw. For a terrible moment, Jaskier thought that the man was going to break his jaw. Then the rage was submerged again and Jaskier was roughly pushed away.

The man pulled out a stiletto.

“This blade has been coated in a rare poison. A single drop in a mans mouth can make him pull his own tongue out. I wonder what it will do to a witch,” said the man, jerking Yennefer up by her hair. “I am asking you once more, Jaskier of Oxenfurt. Tell me where Geralt of Rivia has taken Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra.”

He sliced cleanly through Yennefer’s gag.

“Don’t tell him any – AAARGH!”

Yennefer’s scream rent the air and Jaskier’s very soul. The man had just sliced a bloody gash across Yennefer’s face.

“I don’t know where they went! Please! I don’t know anything!” Jaskier begged.

“I can take it!” Yennefer howled.

The man snarled and plunged the blade into Yennefer’s stomach, letting her drop to the floor screaming and writhing with the blade still in her guts.

Jaskier heaved.

Then everything happened so suddenly that Jaskier wondered if he did indeed black out. The screaming stopped. For a moment Jaskier thought Yennefer had died, but when he looked it was like she had never been there at all. Not even a blood stain remained. Then, the smell hit him: lilac and gooseberries.

There was an intense blue flash and a bang like a whip crack. The sound of steel hitting stone and a flash of orange sparks, followed by a whoosh, like that of a sudden wind. A flash of silver, a faraway bellow of pain, and then an orange flame illuminated Yennefer’s face and went out again.

“What the fuck!” wheezed Jaskier. “How are you – “

“Shut up, we’re not safe, yet,” hissed Yennefer, who was dressed in a man’s clothing, but had the same bruises on her face when Jaskier first saw her. “I sent an illusion. But I don’t think I’ve got much power left.”

[writings-of-time80]

“Seems you’re a man with a stout wit,” impeached Jaskier to the man untying his wrists. “Clearly more extensive than your fellows – they all seem to think I will be able to break through stone with my bare hands.”

The man’s face gave away nothing, not a twitch. The troubadour winced as he stretched his arms and flexed his fingers and followed behind the man toward the door.

“Wow. You know, you actually remind me remarkably of a pet rock I once had in my youth. Any chance your name is Bognar the Boulder? No? Well, I think you two would get along splendidly. I’ll make sure to introduce you if you let me – oooph!“

The man punched Jaskier hard in the stomach, sending him sprawling on his backside and slamming the gate between them.

“No.” He said, face not moving a muscle.

And he walked away.

“I thought we had a connection,” wheezed the breathless Jaskier. “But I guess - FUCK OFF TO YOU TOO, BOGNAR!”

The effort it took to yell at the man with the air punched out of his lungs made Jaskier’s vision be overtaken by black spots. His head pounded in a way that felt like his eyes were going to pop out and when he finished hurling insults after the guard he collapsed to the ground, gasping like a man pulled from the depths of a lake.

“Might want to refrain yourself from insulting peoples wits, Bard,” drawled Yennefer.

“Sad isn’t it?” Jaskier groaned after a long moment. “Out of all I’ve met – hnnngh – Yennefer … Yennefer of Vengerberg turns out to have the most extensive wit in Nilfgaard … aside from myself.”

:)

[writings-of-time80]

Geralt was clearly torn between staying with Ciri and running back into the village with his swords. Ciri, who hadn’t been overly worried for the bard, felt Geralt’s anxiousness starting to gnaw at her. But she thought the strange bard surprisingly crafty, more crafty than Geralt was giving him credit for.

“If he’s not back by night you get on Roach and ride toward those mountains I showed you, between those two big stars. I’ll will catch up after I go and rescue the idiot.”

Ciri didn’t want to leave on her own. She hoped that Jaskier came back soon.

When the sun was a fingers breadth from touching the horizon and Geralt's attempt at concealing his worry from her was nigh unbearable. Jaskier finally tottered back, carrying a lumpy sack over his shoulder. Geralt leapt to his feet rather spasmatically when he heard him approaching.

The bard set down his burden and caught his breath a moment.

“Thank you, very much, Jaskier,” said the bard mockingly, but not maliciously as Geralt and Ciri started rummaging through the sack that he bought. “I’m grateful you risked your neck to help us on our journey, it will be immense help.”

“Thank-you, Jaskier,” said Geralt, storing some sort of hard cheese and dry tack in Roach’s saddlebags.

Ciri though Geralt sounded rather short with Jaskier, but the bard’s chest puffed out as though he had just been serenaded.

“Yeah well, that’s what I thought,” he said primly.

Ciri reached in and saw that the lumps in the hessian sack were clothes.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find anything better, Princess,” said Jaskier, pulling out a pair of trousers. “They might be a size too big, but as my Ma always used to say with great optimism, ‘you’ll grow into them one day’.”

Ciri couldn’t help but feel a little bit disappointed about the clothes, but she was no less grateful, if not frustrated with herself for being disappointed.

“Don’t worry, Princess,” said Jaskier seemingly unknowingly but Ciri already got the impression that the things the bard did were a lot more knowing than the impression he gave. “If I ever have a little more time, or choice on your shopping I will certainly do much better.”

“No, no,” said Ciri, earnestly. “These are great. Thank you, Jaskier.”

“You’re perfectly welcome,” he smiled.

Ciri handed Geralt the clothes and he stuffed them into Roach’s saddlebags.

“And I got a bit of leftover coin for you,” said Jaskier.

Geralt huffed.

“Don’t you moan and groan and carry on about taking it either, you oaf,” said Jaskier. “This way when you do need to stop for supplies, or if Ciri gets hurt, you know you have coin pay. I know you have coin to pay. And you won’t have to risk leaving Ciri and going into some filthy swamp hunting filthy swamp monsters.”

“Fine,” said Geralt.

“You can pay me back later or something if it bothers you so much,” said Jaskier huffed, poutily.

The troubadour turned to Ciri.

As Ciri watched in growing amazement, Jaskier began to pull a small fortune from his person. A coin pouch from his belt, a second, slightly bigger, bag of coin from a hidden pocket inside his doublet, about twenty loose gold coins from a seam inside his boot and another bag of coin from his trousers, various jewelled rings, a silver necklace with a thumb sized diamond, a strange white stone with inky black veins and another pouch of silver coins from his sleeve. He dumped the coins in Geralt’s money bag, which he held open for him.

“Geralt can keep all his riches in one bag because he’s got a scary face and sharp swords,” said Jaskier. “But if you’re ever without Geralt…”

“We don’t need all your coin Jaskier,” said Geralt gruffly.

“Who says I’m giving you all my coin?” said Jaskier, shooting a lightning fast wink toward Ciri.

"Oh, and I also got these for you. The cloth was soaked in vinegar so the ants shouldn’t get into it but just keep an eye on it. There’s a bit of jam, some salt and pepper, a couple bits of caramel twists that need to be eaten soon and a pot of honey. I know Geralt rarely indulges in fine food but these might mix up your palate a bit.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said, feeling overwhelmed by the kindness and thoughtfulness and understanding. “Truly, I – “

“I’m honoured,” said Jaskier. “Maybe as payment you’ll let me write a song about you, I have a feeling you’ll make a great heroine for  – “

“There are horses approaching,” Geralt said suddenly.

Ciri’s heart swooped.

“I didn’t tell anyone, Geralt,” said Jaskier in a rush. “I swear I was careful – “

“I know,” said Geralt. “You’ve got to get out of here, Jaskier.”

Geralt climbed into Roach’s saddle and helped Ciri clamber up behind him.

“Alright,” said Jaskier. “Well then, good luck and Godspeed to you Roach. Farewell Geralt. Goodbye, Princess. I hope we meet again one day.”

“Goodbye, Jaskier,”

Ciri climbed up into Roach’s saddle.

“Bye, Jaskier,” she called over her shoulder.

“Get out of here, Jaskier,” said Geralt with concern.

Jaskier raised a hand in farewell.

Geralt urged Roach into a comfortable hack, and Ciri craned her neck to watch the bard disappear through the trees.

[:)]

[writings-of-time80]

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said the soldier looming over her. “Don’t—"

There was a bloodcurdling yell and all of a sudden a chair struck the man across the back of his head so hard that Ciri saw his eyes roll before he even hit the ground.

“Get up, quickly! On your feet!”

The man with the chair turned and fended off another attacker as Ciri scrambled to her feet, her heart in her mouth. Her defender glanced back at her, saw Ciri was standing, then gave a mighty shove with his chair and with another bloodcurdling yell, threw the chair at his attacker and knocked him flat on his back.

“Geralt can handle the rest,” he said breathlessly, turning to her in a rush. “This way - go, go, go!“

Ciri tried to follow along behind him but the man, somehow, wove, dove and shoved his way through the din like a hare racing for its burrow. All Ciri caught were flashes of plum xoloured satin, ducking and diving beneath swords and over tables. She was so intent on keeping up that when the man stopped suddenly, she crashed into him.

Before she could even gain her bearings, she was suddenly yanked down under a table as Geralt passed by, his steel sword a blur as he fought three men at once.

“Through the door at the back,” said the man. “Geralt will find us after.”

He crawled out from under the table and Ciri grabbed at his sleeve, forcing him to wait as she crawled out after him. She was grateful when he seemed to understand what she wanted, and grabbed her hand so he wouldn’t loose her and nearly jerked her arm out of its socket as he pulled her along behind her, through the clashing of steel.

At some point she must have hit her shin on something, because when they finally burst through the door it was throbbing in a way that made her eyes water. The ridiculously dressed fellow slammed the door behind them, jumping on a heavyset foyer table and pushing it up against the door, ignoring the clay pot shattering at his feet as it fell.

“Are you going to help me?” he grunted, unnecessarily as, in complete contrast to his entire appearance, he had pretty much wrestled it into place.

“How will Geralt get through?”

“He’ll be fine,” said the man without a trace of concern as he brushed his hands on the front of his trousers. “He’ll come and find you after.”

He then turned to her and his eyes widened in panic as he saw her teary eyes.

“He really will” he added quickly. “Geralt gotten out of much worse before dressed only in his socks, can you believe it—"

“I bruised my shin.”

“Oh, thank the gods, don’t know what I would’ve done if you started crying. Well, lets get out of here. We can grab my things on the way, luckily I’ve managed to keep all my things together in case I needed to make a hasty escape. I’m Jaskier by the way.”

“Fiona.”

[:)]

[writings-of-time80]

Lance & rats

*Voltron Brooklyn Nine-Nine project I was going to do but I had a better idea so didn’t need these any more but I thought they were fun*

1.

“Yeah, Matt and I are going stargazing this weekend, just like we used to when we were little.”

“Your brother sounds too good to be true,” Lance scoffed, lounging back in his chair and petulantly flicking his pen so it rolled across his desk. “My sister once put me to bed when I was little --- she told me a story, pulled the covers nice and tight, made sure I was all nice and tucked in. Then, just as I was about to fall asleep – she put a rat under the sheets.”

Lance’s deadpan delivery made Pidge burst into laughter while Keith looked mildly horrified.

“Don’t laugh Pidge! It’s nearly been twenty years and I can’t sleep if the covers are tucket in! I still can feel its furry little body and sharp little claws running down my leg!” Lance shuddered and brushed down the front of his shirt as though brushing away the memory of rats crawling over him

2.

“I hope you know I hate rats --- if I see a rat I might throw up.” Lance said as he followed Shiro through the sewer. “Actually, if I see any animal down here, I’ll throw up.”

“Lance, we’re chasing a murderer and you’re worried about a few rats?”

“I’m also worried about the size of this tunnel, is it getting smaller or is that just me? Also, if I slip and get any of this sewer juice on me, please shoot me.”

3.

“I smell a rat,” Pidge said.

“What?” choked Lance.

“ [talks about case and the hit they’re planning] ” Allura said. “What do you think, Shiro?“

“Is it possible that … “ Shiro sighed, unable to ignore it any longer. “Lance, what are you doing?”

He turned to Lance who was standing calmly on a chair, bouncing from one foot to the other.

Lance gave them an incredulous look.

“Why aren’t any of you concerned that Pidge has the ability to smell rats?” Lance said shrilly. “Let alone the fact that she can smell one here!”

To emphasise his point he jabbed a finger at the floor.

“What are you talking about, Lance?” Allura asked, sounding annoyed.

Then Pidge was laughing. Laughing so hard she was bent over double and clutching her stomach.

A look of realisation dawned on Shiro’s face.

“I forget that English isn’t your first language,” he said, stifling a smile for the sake of the dumbfounded Lance.

“Rat smeller,” Pidge wheezed, slapping the table.

Allura broke into a grin, annoyance forgotten.

“Oh, Lance, now I see your confusion,” Allura said primly through a smile. “When Pidge said that she ‘smells a rat’ she meant it in the metaphorical sense, as in, she can sense somebody being dishonest.”

“How have you never heard that idiom before?” Pidge laughed. “You’re a detective. I swear it’s in every cop movie ever made.”

The frenzied look in Lance’s eyes was slowly replaced with a relieved sort of chagrin.

“That makes a lot more sense,” he said. “Probably should’ve worked that one out sooner, but I kinda just heard the word ‘rat’ and panicked.”

“You can hop down off the chair now, Lance,” Shiro said, though there was a hint of humour in his voice.

4.

The whites of Lance’s eyes were showing and there was a strange tenseness in the way he held himself that put Keith on edge. It wasn’t often that Lance was truly ill at ease. Even in situations where Keith himself was rattled and tense, Lance always appeared relaxed and easy-going.

Seeing him holding his handgun in a white knuckled grip made a stab of cold go through Keith’s chest.

“You alright, Lance?”  He asked in a low voice as Lance ran a hand through his hair in yet another display of agitation.

Lance had an inordinate amount of self-control when it came to his hair. He avoided touching it lest he mess it up and the hours of careful styling, gel and grooming he put into its appearance every day be wasted. Now it was tousled and slightly wavy after having Lance’s hand repeatedly run through it.

“Yeah, I’m good, why do you ask? Are you scared, Mullet Man?” Lance challenged.

Keith gave him a disbelieving look. Now that he had noticed Lance’s agitation, even his clothes were disheveled as though he had run through a tornado to get here. Keith just held Lance’s gaze with an upturned eyebrow.

Lance caved dramatically and slumped his shoulders with a sigh.

“Venga. Nothing ever gets past you, does it?” He said with an annoyed voice before he sighed and shuddered. “When I was running down the alley, I may or may not have fallen over a garbage bag full of rats.”

“Wait…“ Keith said, disbelieving. “That’s all? You saw a rat and that’s why you’re acting all – weird?”

Lance bristled.

“If you had seen it, you would be acting weird too, Mullet! There was hundreds of them! All in this – this - pile! And I could actually hear the sound as they all ran away, their nasty little claws pat pat patting on the ground!”

As Lance freaked out about the rats, the invisible belt that had been tight around Keith’s chest ever since Lance started acting strangely released, leaving Keith feeling a stab of irritation towards Lance. He thought something serious was wrong. Why did Lance have to be so dramatic about a couple of rats?

[writings-of-time80]

Katara dived toward Mai as Ozai threw his fist forward –

BOOM!

She body slammed Mai and they went tumbling down together, grunting as they hit the floor and reflexively tried to shield themselves as a huge shadow passed over their heads. Mai landed half-curled on her side with her arms over her head, her hip driving the air from Katara’s lungs as Katara landed across the top of her.

The floor shuddered and cracked; something massive hit the ground and shattered an arm’s length above her head. Chunks of rock and marble hit the back of her head sharply, battering into her exposed back like hail stones in a storm, the smaller debris stinging any exposed flesh like a thousand pin pricks.

When ground had finally stopped tremoring, the air was thick with a rolling cloud of ash and grit. Katara looked up through watering eyes and saw one of the magnificent stone doors lying in a pile of rubble.

That couldn’t have been Ozai, she thought over the blood thundering in her ears. A throbbing pain was building in her face centered around a hot pressure behind her nose, which she now vaguely remembered smacking into the marble floor when she landed. The blast had come from behind them – blown the doors clean off their hinges and sent them flying over their heads.

Mai slowly began to uncurl beneath her, and the pain in Katara’s face became white hot. She tried to get up, but the ground wobbled and she staggered on her hands and knees, unable to take a breath for whatever was clogging her mouth.

Hands grabbed her shoulders. And she couldn’t help but blindly struggle in a panic. She couldn’t hear anything for the blood pounding in her ears. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision was fading. She was dying. She was acutely aware of her mind growing blank.

Help! I’m dying. She thought. I’m dying!

[writings-of-time80]

The Avatar, a waterbender and Mr. Boomerang walk into a bar...

[...]

Sokka’s paranoia was very soon assuaged by good food and excellent beer. Katara had expected Sokka to be the most cautious of the three of them, but with all the familiarity that surrounded them, her brother was very quickly drawn into conversation. She anticipated no different from Aang, he loved to entertain, but it still galled her how quickly the pair of them dropped their guard at the sight of a seemingly friendly face.

The liveliness of the crowd didn’t so easily mollify Katara, as a matter of fact it completely unsettled her.

The shrieks the black riders played continuously over in her mind, and she strained to listen for them over all the hubbub and chatter, expecting them to burst through the door at any moment.

She was very much aware they were surrounded by strangers, even if they were of the familiar sort. Sokka seemed to act as though the Bree folk were the same as their people in the Shire, but they weren’t. The quieter strangers around the edges of the Inn made Katara feel exposed and ostentatious.

She was so on edge she could barely eat.

It wasn’t long before Aang and Sokka had a group gathered around them, listening to Sokka’s story of Old Man Yorak’s missing prize pumpkin. Aang being the leading audience member.

That was when the cloaked stranger sitting in the shadows by the fire caught her eye...

[...]

[writings-of-time80]

Zuko had barely yelled “BRACE YOURSELVES!” before the world was drowned out in a thunderous roar and the ground lurched beneath his feet. Bits of stone and debris stung his face; great crashes made the ground shudder as huge boulders or rock plummeted back to earth; the air exploded with acrid smoke and dust that filled his mouth with grit.

He gasped, coughed and spluttered. The world was rocking and his ears were ringing. He could barely breathe. A cramping pain was developing across his chest, it felt like he was being crushed under a heavy weight. He cried out in pain as the ache in his chest sharpened and peaked; it felt less like he was being crushed and more like he had just been kicked in the chest.

He was shocked when he realized he was laying flat on his back. Zuko didn’t remember falling. He laid there for what felt like too long, catching his breath and his bearings. It felt like he had down for an hour but it can’t have been as long as it felt because there were still bits of stone falling from the sky.

He was vaguely aware of himself getting up, his sword still clenched in his left hand.

[writings-of-time80]

Dandelion’s face flickered in the light of the fire. His ludic blue eyes flashing with something much deeper, more soft than usual.

“Dearest Ciri,” he said, and his voice was different than usual as well. Dandelion always sounded like he was smiling, or holding back a laugh, as so befitting his nature. Right now, he sounded almost sad. “Love is helpless. There is no picking and choosing… at least, not if it’s real love.”

“But what if you don’t want to like them?”

“Well you wouldn’t then, would you?”

“What if they don’t love you in return?”

Dandelion suddenly acted extremely guiltily, he plucked a nervous little tune on his lute and tried to unobtrusively look at her out of the corner of his eyes, as if searching her face as if looking for an ulterior motive for her questions.

“Well…” he said, turning to stare into the fire, almost petulantly. “First you’ve got to give it everything, flowers, flattery – that one is usually pretty well received – dinner, a play, maybe a lewd poem or two.”

He glanced at Ciri when she giggled, looking proud of himself and somewhat self-reassured. He turned back to the fire and his face grew not-quite-sad again.

“And after you’ve tried. As painful as it is, Ciri, there’s not much else you can do. Love isn’t selfish. Sometimes the best thing you can do is just to let them go, let them be happy, even if it is elsewhere. Cherish what love you can give and then move on. After all, you never know what might happen next in your story.”

Ciri thought about what Dandelion had said while he plucked a mournful tune on his lute. The fire crackled in the hearth, soft chatter filled the air.

“Thanks, Dandelion,” she said sincerely, standing and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I think you’ve helped a lot.”

“Anything for you, dear Ciri,” he said. “I wish you beautiful dreams.”

“Goodnight, Dandelion.”

Dandelion smiled at her until she disappeared up the stairs, lost in her thoughts. Had anybody just witnessed the exchange between them, they might have taken Dandelion for someone of a rather different nature. Especially with the way he turned back to the fire, fingers moving softly across the strings of his lute, humming a not-quite-forlorn melody under his breath.