#Campaign: Within The Grey
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As of yesterday's session... The kenku is outta da bag...
Lamb🤝Keke
Changeling🩸
#dnd characters#dnd art#dnd oc#dnd 5e#campaign: within the grey#*keke#*lamb#it was the sloppiest reveal and honestly I couldn't have been any more cheesed about it#kb art
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Where the Storm meets the Sea...
An illustration of my little storm sorcerer, Cosette!
#campaign: within the grey#dnd art#dnd#dnd character#dnd sorcerer#dnd artist#art#dungeons and dragons#digital art#katnaxel#dungeons and dragons 5e#dnd 5e#sorceress#storm sorcerer
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Ok but what if
What if Ghost was a knight (again) and then there's a spoiled, presumptuous lady who's bored (again)
She's the kind of princess who was dearly loved because she was a girl. No one knows why, because everyone knows girls are a liability. But she has been treasured and sheltered all her life, she always got everything she wanted, and now she's stupid enough to fall for Simon who has lived a life full of war and torment and who is not the kind of stray dog you would want to feed.
Our poor lady doesn't know she's playing with fire when she's toying with her father's (Price?) most loyal soldier: a brooding, tall, broad man who got his knighthood after this campaign or that. This outlander, Simon, catches her attention because he rarely speaks and never smiles, but makes her smallclothes wet because he has an ill look about him: a broken nose and a thin lipped, downturned mouth. This sir is looking everyone from under his brow like they're mere children in his eyes. The only time she's heard him speak is when he's barking orders in the courtyard.
She teases and teases and teases him: flirting every chance she can get, giving him soft brushes that barely remain within the bounds of propriety. She bestows heated stares that linger a little too long, she licks and parts her lips when they walk past each other in the cold, dimly lit corridors of the castle. He never returns any of her flirts.
Except the stares.
She can feel his eyes on her even when she's not looking. That coal-like stare is fixed on her wherever she goes: it's hot and cold at the same time, like embers that are kindling under long-forgotten ashes.
He's interested… But only in a way that a hungry, beaten, suspicious dog is interested when it's staring at a meaty bone, trying to decode if it's a treat or a trap.
He finally has enough one day when she dares to smile at him: softly, knowingly, like a whore in a tavern.
The gauntlet closes around her neck like an iron collar. She can smell the horses and the sweat and the dirty leather as the man she has dreamed of seizes her and pushes her back against a wall.
"Is this what you want? Hm?"
She finally hears him speak: dark, gravelly, and borderline exhausted from all the games she plays. Were he to hold her a little more tightly, she would call it a choke, a soft and slow strangling. The intensity is enough to make her heart flutter and her stare escape somewhere to the grey stone wall. There's no way she can meet that heated stare, now filled with flames and lust.
The knight she used to fantasize about is about to snap. The stoic, cold man is about to lose control at any given moment, and she's about to lose her maidenhood along with that shattered self-control.
He presses his whole body against her: leather and steel and hardened muscle, all that rough, well fed, thick flesh forged in countless battles is pressed against her frame like she is nothing but a flower. Her woolen dress is a poor shield against all the hard ridges of his armour, the pommel of his sword digs into her side painfully, but she pays it no mind. There's something equally as hard and demanding pressed against the apex between her legs. She's forced to rise to her toes from the way he drives his swollen cock up her cunt, and even if there's layers and layers of clothing between them, she can feel the heat of him.
"'S not a good idea to tease a starved dog," he snarls while watching her lose her confidence. All of it, because it was only ever a charade. A silly daydream of a silly young woman, just an attempt to distract herself, a pastime game that happened to turn into a dangerous obsession.
And he growls. He actually growls like a hound when she's suddenly so weak she can't even provide him with an answer. It's a dark rumble that meets her chest, a hot, slow breath that passes across her frightened skin. She feels like floating: his cock raises her from the ground as he tries to fuck into her through their clothes. The ironclad hand has never even seen mercy as it turns her head to the side for him to have a good sniff of her neck and hair.
"Sir," her lips tremble; her whole jaw is making it clear that she's about to cry soon. There's not enough stones on the wall for her to count if he decides to take her here. "Simon…? Please, sir. I'm a virgin…"
#cw: dark content#meeting on the turret stairs but with more dubcon#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#knight!ghost#medieval au#sansan vibes
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Gatecrashers
Help. I bet you smart sleuthers have already covered this topic somewhere around our Tumblr neighborhood, but per usual I'm late to the party. Will someone please help me better understand Sparry's so-called "visit" with the King because the photographs and timing just don't add up. Connecting the dots seems to reveal 2 rebellious overseas unroyals who were determined to show up at Clarence House with or without permission.
On Tuesday, I felt annoyed to see the Royal Family YouTube channel (unaffiliated w/the BRF) patched into a live stream outside of Buckingham Palace. I thought it was a ridiculous invasion of privacy. Now I understand that the King was previously scheduled to arrive at BP (late morning) and the media was waiting to capture the first photo of king Charles post -treatment.
It seems Charles & Camilla were on a tight schedule which could explain the early morning (or overnight) visit with Beatrice & Edo.
The British media obviously knew that Charles was expected at BP and yet they disregarded this important bit of information to focus on Sparry's PR talking points---- all the while these manipulative talking heads knew the King had a prior engagement in his diary.
Pressure Pressure Pressure is what The Meghans wickedly tried to apply to Charles & William. There was even a mention of an EMPTY Frogmore Cottage. How low can these 2 go?🤬
Perhaps Mr and Mrs Sparry informed the men in grey of their plans to gatecrash the king & queen's departure. "Coming with or without permission." This would also explain why they flooded the media with Sparry's intention to see his father "within the next 2 days" followed by that crystal clear photograph at LAX. Someone around our Tumblr community or perhaps on reddit shared a catchy manifesting term...I'm sorry I didn't write it down bc it perfectly describes how The Meghans use her sharp elbows to bully their way through life.
All of this MANIFESTING crap to manipulate a face to face meeting with Charles: a man reeling from a life threatening diagnosis, recovering from an invasive procedure, and preparing for some sort of systemic poison.
Have I mentioned that The Meghans SUCK at compassion!!!
Beatrice & Edo
Doesn't it seem likely that family members have been welcomed to Clarence House (post-diagnosis) to wish Charles well before his Sandringham retreat-----perhaps the beginning of holistic treatments or simply to recover from the 1st of several adjuvant treatments.
The couple seems dressed for an early morning visit with a family member, NOT an audience with the King of England.
vs.
Sparry
Perhaps Sparry told the Palace "Me too! I'm coming to see my father too" and he was told "not this week," and MEgain responded "we'll see about that!"
I seem to remember Sparry had to be forced (by the Queen Elizabeth) to speak to his father and that meeting ended with shouting.
I also seem to remember Sparry had no time to give his family before or after His father's coronation.
As a courtesy, the men in grey delayed KC's departure & granted Sparry an audience with His Majesty the King, not a visit/block of time for a father-son brunch or lunch.
Sparry wearing all black upon his entrance to Clarence House but upon departure he's photographed wearing black and white, with a tie. Why didn't Sparry change clothes on the airplane?
This publicity stunt was meant to bury the African Parks story and the story about the (mon)ARCHewell revolving door. The Meghans have proven to the family (yet again) that there is no bottom to their depravity.
It was also a test for His Majesty's government as they push for IPP status, a campaign for royal housing, and of course information gathering for blackmail.
Let's do the math:
An audience with a sovereign (or even a President) is only about 5-10 minutes plus or minus time for photographs.
Sparry arrived at Clarence House by 2:45pm. Charles & Camilla were in a vehicle by 3:30pm. Sparry (if the photo is current) changed into business attire while at Clarence House. How long was Sparry in the same room as Charles?
Have I mentioned that MEgain and Sparry are SCUM and so are the British talking heads who served as their mouthpieces!?!?!
#megxit#spare us#God save the king#Get well king Charles#worldwide privacy tour#Clarence House#Manifesting Chaos#crazy train#crazy makers#revenge
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Forever favorite moment
⚡️ [Image ID: Digital painting of Imogen Temult from Critical Role Campaign 3. In the center of the painting, Imogen, a white human woman with freckles and long wavy purple hair, stands on dark dry earth and confidently faces the viewer with loose shoulders and an almost playful tilt of the head while her hair gently blows behind her. She gives a leisurely, dangerous smile with hooded bright-purple eyes. Above her, purple text reads “I am the storm baby.” In the sky, a crackling red thunderstorm billows. Heavy cumulonimbus clouds surge up behind Imogen and roil around ruidus and the bloody bridge hanging in the sky above her, almost as if to devour the red moon. Red drifts up from Imogen’s hands out of frame, and red light peaks from within her eyes. Like the storm, Imogen is also marked with lightning that stretches up her chest, and neck. Imogen wears a sheer beige button up dress under a blue corset and a grey-purple jacket that cuts off at the waist with a golden hood resting on Imogen’s shoulders. Watermark reads “@Threadcountart” and “Do not repost/edit/trace” End ID]
#so proud of how this one turned out! tumblr keeps diluting the colors tho hope it’s just me#critical role#Imogen temult#critical role fanart#critical role art#ruidus#threadcount draws#c3e81#cr c3#artwork
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A Tarnished Copper Boy (4)
Previous | Next
Last chapter, Dustin warned Steve against changing the timeline and Steve disappeared in front of Eddie's eyes.
(fair warning: this is a long chapter)
Chapter 4: By His Bootstraps
The opening riff of The Sentinel is precise and full of weight before it falls into a metallic cascade that softly thunders through the trailer. Eddie taps a restless foot along with the ferocious drumming as he sits at the desk in his darkening bedroom. Contemplatively unwrapping its box, he reflects on the grey figurine in his hand.
The plastic monster from the D&D universe is a newly bought demogorgon. Two leering baboon heads perch above a torso that explodes with four sinuous, tentacle-like limbs, and a forked tail snakes behind the body. Tracing its snarling fangs, Eddie broodingly thinks about a young boy defending an older one.
The song ends and Eddie flips the cassette over to the B-side, keeping the volume lowered in respect for their neighbour, Catherine. She had stopped by with a buttermilk pie and the request for one weekend without a headache before she heads out to her evening shift at the hospital.
Wayne had pushed Eddie aside, all aw shucks and I’ll make sure he will and oh, no, we couldn’t accept pie when we’re in the wrong. But Eddie had already stolen away with the treat and perched himself at the kitchen counter, fork deep in the smooth and tangy filling while he gleefully watched his normally impassive uncle stumble over his words.
Catherine has a brash sort of loveliness with her auburn curls and a sharp gleam to her eyes that Eddie respects. Despite the gift to sweeten her request, there had been a sensibly tart tone to what essentially amounted to a command. She had been dressed in her usual practical pants and jacket with low-heeled flats, but the combination of it all obviously does something for his uncle.
Really, Eddie had said later to a faintly flushed Wayne, he should thank him for playing his music so loudly. Wayne had just harrumphed and walked away, not willing to talk about his obvious crush.
Yet, despite the lowered volume, Halford’s muted vocals still soar, reaching and shredding sharp talons into the air, pulling the listener to him with relentless energy. It matches Eddie’s mood. Thinking of a guardian, standing defiantly against an impending darkness inevitable to his future, some event full of death that sends its soldier falling back in time.
Eddie sighs at himself in frustration, tilting back in the chair and throwing his bare feet up on the desk. It’s been a whole month since Steve disappeared from within his closed van, and he can’t stop thinking about him.
His fixation evident in the piled notebooks next to his crossed ankles, full of scribbled lyrics and character ideas for a new campaign. One haunted by battles thick with smoke and screaming demogorgons while a distant hero stands tall, sworn to avenge but condemned to hell.
He scratches at a small tab of plastic on the miniature’s bulging leg that hasn’t come away clean. Eddie should be writing his essay on the illusion of wealth and the decay of the American Dream in the 1920s, but it holds little interest compared to the figurine in his hand. Wondering whether it’s an accurate representation of the creature that Steve has apparently fought and won against, with a bat studded full of nails of all the insane things.
It's such a down and dirty idea for a weapon. A chaotic and deadly contrast against the preppy senior Eddie is peripherally aware of at school. Who knew that the sneaky clean basketball captain and former swimming co-captain was capable of wielding a weapon crafted for maximum fear and brutality?
It’s sort of hot.
Eddie’s musings are abruptly shattered by a thud of impact followed by an unmistakable groan. His head snaps towards the direction of his door and Eddie nearly falls over his chair in his rush to get up.
Scrambling through the doorway he spies Steve sprawled out on the carpet, face down and in the same spot as last time. Rolling over, legs akimbo, he blankly stares up at the ceiling before Eddie eventually makes a noise that has him tilting his head up. He wryly smiles, “Surprise.”
“Steve!” Eddie rushes over, his hand already stretching to help him up. He gratefully takes it, groaning again quietly as Eddie pulls back and stumbles a little at his unexpected strength.
For a beat, Eddie can only see the flecks of gold in Steve’s dark eyes, not the plain brown he had thought in the shadows of the Henderson home.
The long lashes around those eyes flutter a moment before Steve takes a step backwards, and he shakily laughs. “Thanks, man. That is not a smooth landing the second time round, either.”
“Where have you been?” Eddie asks, scanning Steve to make sure he’s not bleeding or broken from the fall. Oddly, he looks unchanged from when he’d seen him last. The same mud-splattered pants and boots, brown leather jacket over a hard, tactical vest, and even the dirt on his forehead and jaw are in an identical shape and place.
Steve laughs again, but it sounds unsteady. He falls back onto the couch, looking up at Eddie with vulnerability hinted at the corner of his mouth. “Could I get a water or something? I don’t think I’ve had anything to eat or drink for hours. It’s all catching up on me.”
Eddie steps back towards the kitchen, “Yeah, man. You want a sandwich as well?” He roots around the fridge and cupboards, “Uh, looks like it’ll have to be a PB&J. That okay? Not allergic or anything are you?”
Steve’s head is against the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling for guidance again. Eddie feels an echo, a reminder of being captivated by that long stretch of skin last time too. “Yeah, that’s fine," he says, "PB&J sounds great.”
Eddie brings over the makeshift meal and Steve downs the water in one go before wolfing down the sandwich. He brings over another round and Steve takes it a bit more slowly this time, sipping the water and nibbling on the bread.
He looks Eddie up and down, noting his bare feet, blue plaid boxers, and Eddie’s black sleeping shirt, “Shit. You didn’t just come back from driving me to Dustin’s, did you.” He looks towards the slats open over the window, the light of the afternoon fading into a quiet darkness. An obvious contrast to the bright daylight that had washed over Steve the last time Eddie had seen him.
Eddie frowns, sitting on the brown couch and making sure that a few inches separate the two of them, “That was a month ago.”
Steve just nods grimly, a tendon in his jaw flexing as he processes the time that has passed.
“Steve?” Eddie reaches a tentative hand out to him, touching his wrist gently. Afraid to spook him, but it seems to wake Steve from his reverie, and he lets out a hoarse, humourless sound, “I was just in the van. So, I guess, good for me? I’m not going backwards at least.”
Weeks had passed for Eddie while Steve experienced seconds, if anything at all, but he’s right in at least one thing. “It’s good though, going forward. Do you think you’ll hang around this time?”
Steve quirks a sardonic eyebrow and Eddie flushes as he remembers that Steve knows just as much about time travel as Eddie does. Namely, what the pipsqueak had told them last time.
“Maybe? I don’t even know if this is good or bad. It’s just, I feel like I’ve come back from war and—” He squeezes his eyes tight, and Eddie hears him mutter something sounding suspiciously like ‘butterflies.’
Eddie decides that it might be best to redirect him from thoughts that aren’t going to help right now. “You want a shower? I can give you a change of clothes.”
Steve lets out a heartfelt moan, mouth falling open and eyes fluttering close. “I could kiss you, that’s a great fucking idea.”
Eddie’s cheeks flare hotly, and he hurriedly stands to move past Steve before the other guy can see the incriminating red on his face. He has no business watching Steve make a veritable o-face. “This way,” he calls, pointing to the bathroom door before heading to his bedroom, “Just leave your shit on the floor and I’ll put down something for you to wear by the door.”
The rumble of the shower starts, and Eddie steadfastly ignores the conjured image of a wet and soapy Steve in favour of finding fresh clothes for him to change into.
They’d been in the living area long enough for the album’s B-side to nearly finish, the deep roiling beat of Heavy Duty pulsates through the room, the singer growling that he knows you like it hot, that you love to writhe and sweat.
Eddie reaches over and firmly slaps the stop button. Not helping to keep his thoughts clean. Ha.
Steve is clearly going through a rough time right now and he doesn’t need Eddie lusting after him like some deviant when what he likely needs himself is a pause button as he experiences time travel hell.
Eddie is listlessly tidying his desk when Steve walks through the bedroom door, hair damp but otherwise clean and dry. He looks up from organising the small paint pots for his miniatures, in order of rainbow, and realises his miscalculation. The borrowed navy sweats leave little imagination to the thickness of Steve’s thighs or the soft bulge between his legs, and the faded Dio t-shirt stretched across his broad chest is likewise tight around firm biceps.
But it is the unfurling tendril of possessiveness that surprises Eddie, the image of a freshly showered, attractive man in his clothes unravelling an unexpected thrill in his gut. That Steve looks soft and a little sleepy only makes the unexpected feeling dig deeper somehow.
Eddie swallows around the pool of spit that gathered in his mouth and motions towards the bed, “You look really tired, man. You want to have a nap or something?” And immediately understands that if seeing Steve in his clothes is enough to make him unsteady then seeing Steve in his bed is going to absolutely wreck him.
“I’ll just wait outside,” he hastens to add, not even waiting to hear Steve agree.
“Wait,” Steve grabs his hand before he flies away. “Stay?” His eyes are worn and a hint of fear shimmers underneath. “This is really scary,” he admits. “I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t know when I’ll suddenly disappear. Maybe I’ll just disappear for good? It’d be nice if there was someone familiar around. Plus,” he adds with a weary grin, “You were probably busy before I intruded.” He peers around Eddie to nod at the desk that he'd been standing next to.
Eddie hears an echo of disappear for good and thinks that maybe he wants to watch over Steve while he sleeps too, make sure that he doesn’t pop out of existence under Eddie’s nose.
He banishes the nervousness bound to be in his tone with a business-like clearing of his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be fine. I was actually about to paint my demogorgon — a miniature, not a real one. Obviously. Because I don’t even know what that’s about, but Dustin said something?”
Steve’s blink is slow and edged with creeping exhaustion, “Yeah, that would have been just last year for him. Wow.” He shakes his head and the low lamp of the bedside table reveals hidden hues in the strands of his hair, a tawny richness suited to a golden crown. But Steve’s head seems to hang too heavily for such an unwieldy responsibility right now, and it doesn’t quite suit Eddie’s image of this version of Steve.
Steve moves with deliberate slowness, lowering himself onto the messy, turn-downed sheets while the old mattress creaks. He rolls onto his back, shifting to find the right position before quietly asking, “Have you spoken to him again?”
Eddie wanders back to his desk and straddles the chair. It lets out a small squeak in protest at the sudden weight. “No, you said not to. So, we haven’t. Avoided that side of town to be honest, just in case.”
Steve blows out a breath of relief, “Good, that’s good. Thank you. I haven’t even had a chance to think this through, but he scared me with that butterfly stuff.” The lids of his eyes become heavier, dropping close over fading eyes. “But I don’t want you to get hurt either,” he murmurs before falling asleep.
Eddie should look away, but he can’t just yet. Maybe a little worried that Steve will disappear and maybe just because he’s lovely to look at.
There’s no doubting the appropriateness of his royal moniker, Eddie thinks, as his eyes trace across that straight and sturdy nose, its regal line adding to the sculptured architecture of his face. But it’s his long, dark eyelashes that belie the untouchable strength that being a king denotes.
They cast delicate shadows over thin skin smudged with exhaustion. Each lash hints at another layer of mystery to this boy in Eddie’s bed, whose square face is a warm canvas affectionately kissed with small moles, like delicate constellations scattered across the night sky. Eddie always liked staring up into the night.
He sighs, turning back to his desk and adjusting its lamp so that the light shines further away from Steve. Perhaps it’s time he started on that essay.
---
It feels like hours later, and Eddie must have fallen asleep at his desk because his neck is painfully bent, forehead pressed against a notepad and a warm, wet patch spreads beneath his open mouth. A broad hand presses through his thin shirt to gently shake his shoulder, “Eddie, hey Eddie, wake up man.”
“Mrmph,” Eddie unpeels his forehead from the paper and lets his head fall back, looking upside down at a sleep-creased Steve. He snorts, he can see right up through his nostrils. Steve’s eyes crinkle with affection, “Yeah, you’re out of it. Come on, you’re coming to bed.”
Eddie tries to shake the crust from his brain, the wisps of foggy sleep still sliding in and around his head, “You take the bed. Need it.”
Steve huffs out a laugh, winds an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, and hauls him up. Eddie flops over Steve, nuzzling into the warmth of the crook between his neck and shoulder, “Mrmph,” he repeats unintelligently. “Uh huh,” Steve agrees.
“So, this is what it’s like on the other side,” he further muses, humour clear in his voice while he manoeuvres Eddie onto the bed. Steve settles onto the right side, which he had been sleeping on, and pulls the covers over the both of them, “We can share tonight. You’re gonna snap your neck if you stay at the desk.”
Eddie’s eyes are already shut, and he only has a second or two to think that there’s something he should object to before he’s out like a light.
---
It’s the morning light seeping through the curtains that eventually stirs Eddie, the sharpness of it piercing the dark behind his eyelids and waking him from the cocoon of sleep. The trill of a bird calling forth the day is interrupted by a slamming car door and raised voices, Eddie groans and nestles further into the hard pillow below his cheek.
The pillow rumbles with suppressed laughter and Eddie gradually becomes aware that underneath him is the broad chest of a man with an accompanying arm cradling his shoulder. The gentle strokes along his back, rhythmic and comforting, speak to a quiet intimacy lingering in the air.
The feeling is reassuring and makes Eddie even more reluctant to properly wake. He nuzzles deeper into the warmth, savouring the scent that surrounds him. It carries the familiar fragrance of his own washing powder but intertwined with another, more masculine musk, foreign yet inviting.
The strangeness of it has Eddie blinking further awake, a sudden cold wash rushing through him as he becomes horrifyingly sure that he had crawled into bed with Steve in the middle of the night and then crawled all over Steve this morning. Eddie’s eyes fly wide open, and he scrambles back from him.
Would have fallen over the edge too if Steve hadn’t quickly reached out and grabbed him, holding firmly onto his arms while Eddie uselessly tries to gesture with them. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Christ, is Steve going to punch him or something?
“It’s okay. Hey — stop,” Steve shakes him a little since Eddie’s on the verge of a panic attack because he’d been snuggling Steve Harrington and he doesn’t remember when he’d slithered into bed with him, but he must have and now Steve’s going to think that he’s some pervert who’s drooling all over him.
Which, yeah, okay, he has done that a little, but it’s not like he wants Steve to think he’s taking advantage of his situation.
“Eddie, it’s okay. It was just a little cuddling, it’s fine,” Steve’s eyes are wide with concern, flickering over the fear that is surely writ large over Eddie’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie repeats. “I don’t remember getting into bed with you.”
“You didn’t,” Steve assures him. “I moved you. I woke up and you were dead to the world, passed out over the desk. There’s enough room, but I didn’t realise it would freak you out. I’m sorry.”
He grimaces, “I didn’t think about how you might feel waking up with a strange guy in your bed, I’m sorry. Really.” He raps his knuckles against his head while making a sound like hollow wood being tapped, “Not a lot going on up here and sometimes I act before I think.”
Eddie exhales a shaky breath, Steve put them in bed together. Not Eddie. He can work with that. “It’s okay,” he says, but he’s not certain how sure his smile is, and he needs to try and style this out, so he accompanies it with a light-hearted wink. “You’re a great cuddler.”
Steve's cheeks pinken and he scrubs his hand through his hair, “That’s one thing I can offer, at least.”
Eddie very casually rolls out of the bed, picking his way towards the bathroom, “Not the way I hear it from the ladies, Casanova.”
He hears a snort behind him followed by a muttering too low to catch, but Eddie’s fairly sure he’s walking out with his dignity intact, which is more than he thought he would at the outset of that heart-stopping moment. Fuck, Steve smells good and damn it, he had been nice to cuddle.
Before Eddie freaked out.
He rubs at his chest, his heart starting to slow down. Really, he should take this as a win. Snuggling a pretty boy is not the worst way to wake up. And when said pretty boy doesn’t seem to mind sharing a bed, albeit out of pity for Eddie’s poor neck than any sort of attraction, well that’s not too bad either.
He takes a piss before quietly making a couple of bowls of Honey Crunch. It’s getting late in the morning and Wayne is asleep on the sofa bed. A steady drone of snoring emanates from under the rolled covers, covering the man like a burrito. Eddie idly wonders whether Catherine would mind having two blankets in bed, rather than sharing.
He tries to be quiet because, while Wayne is pretty good at filtering out sounds after years of this arrangement, Eddie still wants to respect his space as much as possible. The old man had taken him in when he was a shivering mess, all coltish limbs and terrified in the face of the unknown. Wayne had taken one look at him and had declared that Eddie needed his space in their home, a place to make his own.
It had made Eddie more secure than he had ever thought to understand at that moment. After all, Wayne’s unlikely to kick him out when he has a room designated especially for Eddie. So, he tries to pay him back where he can, money for utilities and silence in his sleeping area.
Steve is flipping through a book as Eddie edges the door open and closed, juggling the bowls over for Steve to grab. He places the book back on the bedside table beside a small mound of pens and digs into his cereal, “Thanks, I’m starving.”
Eddie decides that retreat is the better part of valour and settles on his desk chair rather than risking the bed. He raises one knobby knee to his chin and contemplatively eats his breakfast. “I see you found my new Heinlein collection,” he nods towards the book Steve had put aside.
On its cover, two naked figures are roughly shaded in, framed by sharply dissecting lines while a cloud forms in the background. It has a blooming red centre.
Steve looks down at it, “Ah, yes. The exploding asshole collection of short stories.”
Eddie spits out a spray of milk as he honest to goodness lets out a loud guffaw. The cloud with its red middle point, shooting out straight lines, does look like an exploding asshole now that it’s been pointed out.
Steve grins, seemingly pleased with himself.
Eddie snickers while wiping his chin clean, “Yes, well, other than the unfortunate cover design, I got it because of you actually. The second story, By His Bootstraps, has a time travel plot like the one Dustin mentioned.”
“Yeah?” Steve frowns down at it as if it could contain real explosives, “Any butterflies in this one?”
“Nah, it’s sort of the opposite. Like whatever you do, whether it’s in the past or the future, it's inevitable. A fixed point in time that can’t be changed no matter how much you struggle against it.”
“Struggle?” Steve asks uneasily.
“Yeah, Bob, the protagonist, he goes back and forth in time while coming across these pricks.” Eddie traces the edge of his bowl with the spoon before dropping it into the sweetened milk. “One guy who tries to get him into trouble with petty pranks and another who’s a boss sort of guy from the way far out future.”
Eddie snorts, “Even calls himself Diktor — get it, dictator. Anyway, Bob’s just trying to survive as he goes back-and-forth in time, but the more he tries to change what’s happening the more obvious it is that every event has already happened.”
Steve shakes his head, holding up a hand, “Wait, I don’t get it.”
Eddie hums, thinking about how to explain it as he places his bowl to the side. Holding his hands in the air like it's a circular clock, he positions his finger up at midnight. “So Diktor is a chief of the future, has slave ladies and everything." He moves his finger to the imaginary six, neatly sectioning it in half. "And he tricks Bob into going through a time portal and sort of steers him towards decisions that Bob didn’t intend. With me so far?”
Steve nods with furrowed eyebrows, concentrating on Eddie's hands.
“Right. And Bob resists because he doesn’t like how Diktor’s manipulating him." Eddie slides his finger around to just before midnight, hovering in a wagging motion like it's waiting to move forward. "He hates it so much that he travels to the future ten years before Diktor himself arrives so that he can become the boss. Because, if he's in charge, then Diktor can't mess with him anymore."
Triumphantly, Eddie slides his finger back into the original midnight position. "But by doing that Bob actually becomes Diktor — which is the name for chief in the future-world’s language.”
“Shit!” Steve’s mouth hangs open and Eddie nods excitedly, dropping his pretend clock. “Yeah, what a fucking plot twist. So, Bob is destined to turn into Diktor who will inevitably harass his past self so he can once more — become Diktor. It’s a loop and there’s no origin because they just keep going around and around in an eternal circle.”
Steve pales and Eddie reigns in his excitement, reminded of Steve’s reaction to the Bradbury theory. This is all very real to Steve, not just a thought experiment as Eddie had first allowed himself to think of it.
“So,” Steve begins, “I could reach 1986 and then just start falling again until I meet you last month, going to the beginning of a loop.”
His head falls into his hands, and he continues to say, muffled, “I might forget everything and start all over again. Or maybe, it'll be weirder than that. Maybe I’ll just get older and older while still hitting the floor of your trailer. Then they’ll be like fifty of me everywhere and I’ll never escape, I’ll just be the boy in a never-ending fall, in the wrong time—”
“Hey, Steve, hey.” Eddie shoves off his seat and hastens onto the bed, crawling until he’s hovering over Steve, hands outstretched but unsure what to do with them.
Steve peeks up at Eddie through his hands, his voice full of anguish, “You don’t get it, Eddie. I’m not clever enough to work this out. I’m either going to step on a bug and he’s going to win, and everyone is going to die or we do win, great, but I’m stuck falling onto your floor for the rest of my life.” He laughs hysterically, “Either option is pretty fucking grim.”
Eddie looks down at Steve, scared and looking a hairsbreadth away from losing his mind and thinks fuck it. He scoops Steve into his arms, drawing his head down onto his chest. Steve immediately circles his arms around Eddie, a tight band pulling them together. He can’t hear it, but from the slight shuddering of his shoulders and the wetness starting to soak through his shirt, he knows that Steve is silently crying.
It breaks his heart a little that he’s hiding it so well.
Gingerly and because his spine is starting to ache, Eddie inches down until his back is against the headboard, feet spread out and Steve practically in his lap. He’d only have to move one leg and Steve would be straddling Eddie, but he simply shuffles so that his upper body is stretched out with his head in the crook of Eddie's shoulder. He snuffles a little.
Knowing how embarrassed he feels when he cries, Eddie mildly offers Steve some advice, “My shirt is soft and easily washed, much like a handkerchief. Go at it.” He hears a watery chuckle and Steve suddenly feels less stiff in his arms. He can’t help but smile that he was able to lessen Steve’s tension just a little bit.
Gently, Eddie smooths one hand down Steve’s back, a repetitive motion designed to give simple comfort. Steve’s trembling breathing has ebbed and tears stopped by the time he draws back. His eyes are puffy and nose red, and Eddie lies, “Well, thank fuck something is fair. You can’t be hot all the time.”
Steve chortles, briefly burrowing down into Eddie’s chest and dramatically smearing his nose against the shirt. “I’m always hot, shut up.”
Eddie hums a neutral sound, “You know you’re not alone, right? I’ll help you.” Steve stills in his arms. “If nothing else, I clearly can’t get rid of you.”
This must be the wrong thing to say because Steve becomes rigid once more and he pulls out of Eddie’s arms. Drawing away to sit with his back against the headboard too. Although his face is slightly averted, Eddie can see the downturn to his mouth.
“That’s me. Like a bad smell, hanging around long past where I’m welcome.”
Sometimes Eddie feels allergic to sincerity and his usual knee-jerk reaction is to crack a joke, but he’s not a total idiot and is maybe capable of learning from his mistakes. It's clearly a sore spot that he pressed on while trying to lighten Steve’s mood, so Eddie takes a deep breath and feels out the words before he says them.
“I’m glad,” he says. Steve’s eyes cut to him, unsure and a little suspicious.
“I know we’re not friends right now, but I hope that we are where you come from. Because I think we could be good friends, and maybe friendship usually doesn’t involve time travel and its dire consequences, but I’m willing to brave that because I think you’re probably a good dude, Steve Harrington. Rich, popular guy like you, it sort of flies in the face of the Munson doctrine. But I think you are and, if it’s okay, I’d like to help.”
Steve’s eyes flicker over Eddie’s face like he’s trying to divine his honesty. “You know, you’ve said something similar to me before.”
Eddie smiles smugly, “So, you’re saying I’m consistent.”
“I’m saying that I think I’d like to be your friend too,” he sighs, tipping back his head with his eyes closing, “I for sure don’t have the smarts to work this out though. What do you think I should do?”
“I’m barely passing senior year a second time, man. I don’t think I’m the egghead you’re looking for.”
Steve doesn’t open his eyes, but his voice is disgruntled, “That’s clearly bullshit. I know that a guy who runs his own business—”
Eddie snorts at being called a business owner for dealing a little weed on the side.
Steve ignores him to continue, “—and a school club too is probably resourceful, imaginative and, honestly, if you can corral the little buttheads in Hellfire, you automatically have my respect.”
Eddie is deeply flattered, never having thought to see himself in the way that Steve paints him; the unexpectedness of it causes him to blush a deep crimson colour that he can feel spreading from his cheeks towards his chest.
It’s already a heady feeling, and Steve continues, “You can quote complicated novels that Dustin might one day convince me to read, but I’m not looking forward to. And you’re kind. That counts a lot in my book.”
Eddie looks away from Steve, unable to bear the sincerity on his face and the honesty in his voice. Eddie may not be a bad guy, and he’s a lot better than some of the rich assholes or outright bullies at his school, but it’s another thing to hear someone sincerely lay out all the reasons that they think you’re a smart and good person.
He clears his throat because he’s sure that if he tries to speak first then his voice is going to crack like it hasn’t since he passed the worst woes of puberty. “That’s… thank you.” He says, unable to think clearly but perhaps redirection is called for before he combusts. “Not a time travel expert though. But let’s try pulling this tangle apart.”
Steve looks tired already, but he nods and gestures for Eddie to start them off. “Okay,” he ticks the points on his fingers, “One, you come from a time where something bad happens, but you or your crime-fighting team win the good fight. Two, the Bradbury theory says that you can’t change anything otherwise you may lose said fight and you’ve mentioned that that’s a bad thing.”
Steve watches Eddie, a grave mien hanging over him, his sombreness lending credence to Eddie’s image of him as a soldier at war. “World endingly bad, yes.”
“Third,” Eddie hastily continues, trying to shake off the idea of an event so terrible it can end the world, because he doesn’t think Steve was using hyperbole. “Heinlein’s theory says fuck it, do what you want because you can’t change a thing so you’re going to win no matter what you do.”
“They’re both on the opposite spectrum of what I can choose to do though and it’s not like we know whether either theory is correct, this is all just based on fiction.” Steve pauses, grimacing, “We may not be time travel experts, but there are other people out there who could be. Science people”
“Like Dustin?” Eddie asks, confused at how many smart pipsqueaks there are in Steve’s fellowship. “Do you have like a gaggle of geniuses in your family or something?”
Steve laughs ruefully, “No, though I do babysit a bunch of smart-asses, Dustin being one of them. No, there are these government agents who would probably have something to say about it. But they’ve been the cause of all this more than the solution before. I’m not sure that I can trust them.”
“Good call,” Eddie says, faithful to the anti-establishment. “And if the Bradbury theory holds true then involving the government is a big freaking butterfly.”
“So,” Steve says slowly, “If I do what I want to do and try to save the people who have died in my time, I could be Bob or Diktor, whoever: they die all over again regardless, but—good news—we still win. Or I try to save them and, in doing so, I step on the butterfly: maybe I save them, maybe other people die instead, and we don’t know what happens after that.”
Steve scrubs a hand over his face in frustration, “I have the chance to save people, people who died in horrible ways, and talking this out makes me feel like I think I’m God or something. Deciding who gets to live or die.”
“It’s beyond your feelings though, isn’t it,” Eddie hates to add, but he thinks it needs to be said. “There’s the third outcome: you try to save those people, but they die and even more after that because you didn’t stop the world from ending. That’s what this is about, right? The bad guy you mentioned. You said he’s going to kill everyone. That didn’t sound like a figure of speech.”
Steve’s lips thin like he’s holding back his words and, considering that he’s still on the fence about what he can say or do, Eddie figures that he probably is. “Yeah, it's not just an expression, this has real consequences. I have to go with the butterflies, don’t I? In the end, my strategy should be avoidance because we won the championship and if I change out the players then we might lose this time instead. That’s the worst-case scenario. The best case is that I still let people die, but he’s also beaten and that’s better. It’s better for everyone, but… shit, it still sucks.”
Steve looks so defeated, tired and worn and Eddie can’t help but feel that letting people die is more responsibility than a young man like Steve should be taking on. Eddie reaches out to squeeze his hand, urging him to feel that he’s not alone. He has Eddie, at least for right now. “It does suck. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that you go through what you do. But yeah, I think you’re right. You’re gonna have to watch where you step.”
Steve squeezes back, a steady connection between the two of them. “What about you? I don’t have a magic wand to erase your memory, and you now know a lot more than you should.”
Eddie nibbles on his lip while he thinks. He doesn’t feel like his wings have been squashed under a boot, but that’s the point. They won’t know whether his talks with Steve, getting to know him before he should, will change the timeline. But from what Eddie can see at this point, the milk has been spilled and there’s no point in crying over it.
He looks up to share his thoughts and catches Steve quickly averting his eyes away, a light blush spreading over his cheeks.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Eddie says, ignoring whatever was going on with Steve. “You probably shouldn’t tell me any big events before they happen, but I know the basic outline. I already know you to a certain extent.”
“So just keep it simple,” Steve ventures.
“Yeah, like I can’t know when we get to be friends,” he winks at Steve who responds with a light laugh. “Or whether I’m involved in all this.” By the way Steve averts his eyes again, Eddie can guess that he is. “I suppose that my place is at least in the firing path since you said the portal is here?”
Steve thinks for a moment, “I don’t think I can tell you much about that either. It’s too close to what we’ve been talking about. But I do get to know you, you’re right. A little bit in the future.” For the first time since they started talking about Bob slash Diktor and his unfortunate time adventures, Steve’s smile brightens.
“And I know that we become friendly in a couple of years,” Eddie adds mischievously.
“Yes, but I’m not saying when,” Steve responds in a similiarly playful manner.
“No,” Eddie agrees mock-solemnly, “Stay on the time tourism’s path and away from prehistoric bugs.”
“I think Dustin said crusti-saurus.”
“Cretaceous.”
“See, I said you were smart,” Steve says with a twinkle in his eye, like he’s joking again but not at Eddie. It stirs something in Eddie’s gut, taking flight and fluttering in his throat. He flops back onto his pillows to escape the inconvenient feeling.
“Well, it seems like it’s actually you who’s stuck with me,” he turns his head to gauge Steve’s reaction but notices a dark maroon patch on his white and blue striped sheets. He reaches out to finger it, dry to the touch. Looking up he asks, “Steve, are you bleeding?”
But Steve’s not there.
Again.
The only trace of him is left in the indent of where he had been sitting against the pillow that had sat between his back and headboard, puffing out as it gradually expands into its original shape. Eddie lays a hand on the mattress; it’s still warm from Steve’s missing body.
If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!
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#all your comments and reblogs have been so generous that I'm releasing the chapter early this week#time travel#steddie#stranger things#steve harrington#eddie munson#a tarnished copper boy#paperbackribs writing
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The Changeling officially revealed themselves so now I can show them off alongside the two faces they've worn!
#dnd#dnd5e#dnd art#changeling#kenku#half elf#*Lamb#Campaign: within the grey#KB art#and by the changeling was officially revealed I mean they officially died and was forced to be shown#but it's ok they were revived... somehow
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Cosette, Human Sorcerer
#dnd art#dnd#campaign: within the grey#dnd sorcerer#art#dnd 5e#dnd artist#dungeons and dragons#dnd character#katnaxel#digital art#sorcerer#my art#my ocs#new character
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For the wonderful @bishybarnaby. Happy Birthday sweetie
Happy Birthday Q
Bond had noticed it as soon as he had returned south from Skyfall. Despite an absolute shed load of work to do as a result of Silva's decimation of their security, Q had taken the time to mark the birthday of one of his minions. There had been cake, singing and the surprise gift of the afternoon off. Each time Bond called to Q Branch, there seemed to be a desk covered in cards, or semi-deflated, shiny helium balloons. Three months after Skyfall, Bond had arrived to return his equipment only to find Q hanging up birthday bunting in preparation for the morning.
He didn't see the fascination with birthdays himself. He had a vague recollection of cake and singing from when he was 7? 8? There had never been a big party- so few other children in the area. At Eton, his birthday had only served to remind him of how alone he was- no big parcels of food and cake for him. As he'd grown older, he had even begun to see his birthday as a steady march towards the inevitable; each one firmly reminding him of the ever shortening odds of him remaining alive.
Clearly, though, his Quartermaster loved them. James imagined a childhood of parties and games, maybe visits to museums and art galleries as he grew up. Definitely a lot of love and warmth. Why else would he insist on making such a fuss of them?
Ten and a half months after he and Q had first met, James had found a small, shiny wrapped parcel in the go-bag he had retrieved from the Aston's boot. Suspicious of an unknown object, he had laid it carefully on the bed, circling it. There were no ticks, it had no smell and wasn't moving or shaking in any way. Gun unholstered, he pulled on the bow, the silver-grey ribbon falling away to reveal a box. Nestled within were a pair of oval cufflinks, platinum and engraved with his initials. He found the note underneath the cushion:
"Happy Birthday, Bond. Do take care of these, they contain a tracker, of course, but also an EMD that will disable all electronic devices within 10 meters, quite the range, if I do say so myself. Regards, Q"
It was only as he shot his cuffs to admire them in place did Bond calculate this was the first birthday gift anyone in MI6 had ever given him and his first since a girlfriend 17 years ago.
***
Bond threw the paper folder at the wall in disgust, the 4 sheets contained within floating gently to the ground. He had reached another dead end. Every single time he thought he had a lead, it just turned out to be a brick wall. The Quartermaster didn't have a birthday. When Q had adopted his new identity, it had not come with such a mundane thing as a birth date - or confirmable age. Such a good job had been done in burying his previous existence that even calling in 3 favours had resulted in drawing a blank. So, he decided to try a different approach.
A few careful questions, a lifetime of reading micro expressions because his life depended on it and some word association meant Bond had narrowed it down to February. He then launched a campaign of attrition. He asked, begged, pleaded, hounded, harassed and even threatened Q to tell him when Q's own birthday was. None of it worked.
Which is why Q now found his office filled with 5 balloon displays, 3 bouquets of flowers, a number of half eaten trays of doughnuts, no less than 12 birthday cards and a pile of unopened gifts. Bond had just treated the previous 2 weeks as if everyday was Q's birthday. Each offering had received the same response; a shake of Q's head and a muttering of, "but it's not my birthday."
February 21st arrived overcast, but a little milder than the previous few days. Bond arrived at Q's office for 9.30 a.m. He handed Q a takeaway cup of Earl Grey and a small, red gift bag. Q placed the tea down carefully and met Bond's hopeful gaze. For the first time, he actually opened his gift - a selection of 3 colognes from his favourite place. Raising his head, he smiled at Bond:
"Thank you, James. It has been a very long time since I marked my birthday."
Bond beamed in delight."So I finally got it right? Happy birthday, Q! May I give you a hug?"
Q nodded and Bond drew him into a warm, relaxing hug. They stayed there for a long moment. Both men knew Q was lying, but they didn't care. From now on, as far as James was concerned, February 21st would always be Q's birthday and he was already planning how to outdo himself next year.
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Royai Fanfic Recommendations:
I've posted this in parts before but since it's royai week I thought I'd do a complete fic rec list, enjoy!!
Delicate:
Summary: Riza's upbringing leaves her with scars.
Most have already read this one since it's so popular, but if not it's a character study of Riza that spans from her early childhood to post-canon. It honestly gives so much more depth and meaning to Riza's character as well as her relationship with Roy.
Our embalmed hearts, our desolate kingdoms
Summary: "He leans back, palms connecting with the concrete, and looks up over their city, their desolate kingdom. In the rain, Central City might as well be the ruins of Xerxes, empty and grey, and he and she may as well be the last two people on earth."
Or, Love in the Time of Giant Robots
This fic is an Evangelion au and it absolutely destroyed me. The way the relationships between the characters are written is so complex and interesting. It’s a fantastic slow burn and story overall. (And it’s still really great even if you've never watched Eva.)
Dismantle the Sun
Summary: Dairut is a crossroads. A settlement on the border of Amestris and the Great Desert, a hub of Ishvalan and Xerxian history, it is a place caught between past regret and future hope.
In Central City, Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye prepare to return to Ishval for the first time. In Resembool, Edward Elric navigates the complicated minutia of his personal life, but remains unable to shake the feeling that his work in Amestris is not yet finished. In Dairut, Miles and the new Muhaddith break ground on Al’Arshif, the sacred Archive, in the hope of restoring a sense of continuity to their long-suffering people.
Then archeologist Winnie Stokes uncovers an ancient relic in the desert. Then a mysterious cult called the Risen strip Captain Hawkeye from the Flame Alchemist’s side. Then something monstrous begins to stir in the mind of Selim Bradley. Five years after the Promised Day, Ed, Roy, and Miles must face an evil of apocalyptic scale, before it destroys everything they’ve worked for, and everyone they hold dear.
Dairut is a crossroads. But Dairut is also the end of the line. Things are changing in Amestris, and not everyone will survive.
My all-time favourite post-canon fic! It has stunning writing and a super well-thought-out plot. It's so much more than royai and even if that is all you're looking for I still urge you to read this incredible story.
The Amestrian Candidate:
Summary: General Roy Mustang—charming, intelligent, heroic—is predicted to be the next Fuhrer of Amestris. But a series of acts of terrorism drive the General into a ruthless race against a magnetic opponent. Mustang and his team scramble to salvage a campaign in the face of rising nationalism, scandal, and international tension. If they succeed, they can save an infant democracy from collapse. Mustang must consider what and whom he is willing to sacrifice, and he must ask himself the most difficult question of his life: can one be a good politician and a good man?
This fic has an intriguing plot and painfully realistic post-canon politics. I always have preferred romance within a larger plot and this story executes that perfectly.
Homefront:
Summary: Miss Riza's arrival in Resembool has the potential to ruin everything.
Riza becomes Ed and Al’s caretaker after their mother passes. This fic is wonderful, it feels historically accurate which is great and if you are a fan of parental Riza then you'll definitely enjoy this.
We That Are Young:
Summary: It's a well-known fact that innocents make poor soldiers. Fortunately, Riza Hawkeye's childhood was not entirely innocent. She had to grow up fast... though she wasn't the only one. The early years of the Colonel and his First Lieutenant.
I believe this was written before Brotherhood so there are a few discrepancies between this and canon but it's definitely still worth the read. The fic details Roy and Riza’s life from ages 3 and 8 to 13 and 17. And is a wonderful coming-of-age story though upsetting at times.
Beautiful People
Summary: Soon after the conclusion of the Ishvalan Civil War, Captain Maes Hughes receives a phone call in the middle of the night. The message is short, concise... and perhaps the most terrifying thing Hughes has ever heard.
Hawkeye's apartment. Now. Come alone. Someone has been hurt.
A promise was once made amidst the sands of a distant desert land: oaths will be upheld, and secrets will be scorched away. The sinful had waited too long; Roy Mustang was indebted to his promise, and Riza Hawkeye had come to collect.
This is probably my favourite depiction of Roy burning Riza's back that I've read. It's super intense and vivid, I really loved it!!
Baby Your a Haunted House:
Summary: Riza Hawkeye, aged 11, knows two things:
1. Roy Mustang is a useless city-kid
2. There's a haint in the woods
Roy Mustang, aged 15, knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt that there's no such thing as ghosts.
This fic has excellent writing and a wonderfully creepy atmosphere. I've re-read it many, many times. (also I adore feral young Riza and this definitely delivers on that.)
When Thou Shalt Come To Judge the World By Fire
Summary: Roy was silent, unable to answer. Hughes was right. There hadn’t been any other girl for him, not really. Something about her. Something about Riza Hawkeye that made her so much more than a memory.
Hughes leaned against the bar, shadows lengthening on his face. “So, what was it? What ruined dating? A regret, or a promise?”
Pre-canon royai with absolutely gorgeous writing! I adore the depiction of each period in their lives from the time they spent with Berthold to Ishval to before Ed and Al. It's all done perfectly.
Order 3066
Summary: Everyone who returned from Ishval changed, and Riza Hawkeye was no different. She caused more deaths than any other person - not only with her own hands but also with the weapon she unleashed upon the world. No one could return from a massacre like that the way they were before.
This fic is a really good exploration of Roy and Riza's time in Ishval. The characterization is great and their descent into war criminals is very well done.
Atlas
Summary: After six years apart, intelligence agent Roy Mustang attempts to rebuild his relationship with a former partner. But when past and present intertwine, their reunion triggers one of life's most difficult decisions: duty or family.
The dual timeline of younger royai and older royal in this au is super interesting. This fic is exciting, heartwarming and a really well-crafted story.
Not All of Me Will End:
Summary: Nothing remains of her but what must be left behind.
In this fic, Riza gets cancer and passes away. I rarely feel sad when reading or watching emotional things but this made me cry. It's beautifully written and made in a way that feels so personal, as though Riza was a real person. It’s a difficult read but ends on a relatively hopeful note.
The Lathe of Hell
Summary: 1908 • Ishval
An uneasy ceasefire grips the ruins of Ishval, but near the medical station at Daliha, Amestrian soldiers are dying. Desperate to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, the 27th Infantry Division sends Riza Hawkeye and Solf J. Kimblee to smoke the assassin out.
But Roy Mustang suspects Kimblee's aim isn't the death of one rogue Ishvalan.
For Hawkeye has a secret, one the Crimson Alchemist hungers for... a power forged in fire.
This is one of the two great labyrinths into which human minds are drawn: the question of duty versus predestination...
There is an old story... perhaps you've heard of it. A man falls asleep and loses his way on the journey through life. He encounters a poet and the two begin a series of travels through Hell where they witness the many punishments for those who disobeyed God during their lives.
I adore Kimblee in this fic. I know this list is about royai but seeing him interact with them is super interesting.
Ex Tempore
Summary: Riza Hawkeye comes into the possession of a family heirloom upon her grandfather's final words: "Keep him safe." Confused and grief-stricken, Riza finds herself pulled in time to Prohibition Era New York, recovering from a gang-related firefight under the care of Dr. Roy Mustang, a reluctant member of the Hughes-Mustang crime family and a self-proclaimed guardian to two boys by the names of Edward and Alphonse.
This is a 1920s mafia/time travel au, it has such a fun premise that is executed really really well.
Here Dead We Lie
Following a disastrous operation in Aerugo, Colonel Mustang wakes from a coma to discover his world has fallen apart. Under the shadow of the state, he tries to find impossible answers before it is too late.
I don't have much to say about this one except that it's very good and has a brilliant story but is also very very dark so be warned before starting this fic. If angst is your thing though definitely check it out!
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Dev Journal 2: The world of Tellus
This is the current draft version of the world map for my homebrew campaign setting. It was cobbled together using a mix of Fractal Terrains 3, Photoshop, and Wonderdraft.
It's been interesting going through each iteration and trying to land the particular combination of alien and familiar that I want to achieve. If a fantasy world is too Earthlike, it becomes difficult to break away from expectations of what will be found in each area. But if its too alien, the player's expectations of what might be found in a region become harder to visualize. This particular version has not quite accomplished what I'm trying to find yet, future iterations will likely venture more into the alien side of the spectrum. However, this is a good start and while this world is quite familiarly shaped, it'll have some very interesting geopolitics.
As a starter, you may notice that there's not much distance between many of the continents. Seagoing exploration by the Tellus equivalent of the Greeks, Phoenicians, and Polynesians would have likely achieved something equivalent to the Colombian Exchange much earlier than our world. Likewise, trade between the Orient and Occident is much easier, which will create some fascinating opportunities for cultural exchanges. Vast quantities of wealth flow through these vital trade arteries, meaning that any nation with ambitions of being a power worth considering will require a substantial fleet to protect their interests.
Tellus is still embarrassingly underdeveloped so far, with vast amounts of blank space in my documents, but I'll provide a brief description of each continent and its major powers and provide more details later. Names are all provisional and may be changed in future drafts; I like to use placeholders and end up changing them frequently. In the descriptions below I include equivalents to RL nations, this is meant as a reference to their closest geopolitical analogue, not that they are necessarily clones of that state.
Belus: Obviously this world's equivalent to Europe, differentiated largely by the presence of an inland sea. Directly to its north is the Grey Sea, to the south is the Medial Sea. Its greatest power is the Second Empire of Abdera; a sprawling feudal mess equivalent to a super-HRE, stretching from this world's equivalent of Spain to Germany. More often at war with itself than outside powers, the Second Empire's stability and prestige have had an alarming decline due to the emergence of the Republic of Brennos (eqv. Napoleonic France) within its former territories. The Second Empire's neighbors, particularly Dynne (eqv. Great Britain) play a delicate game of exploiting Imperial weakness while trying not to throw the continent into complete chaos.
To the east, the Empire of Melate (eqv. Ottomans) are recovering from a century of decline with a reformist empress on the throne. Their strategic position and the exhaustion of their Belusan rivals fuel the ambitions of elven revanchists.
Azbine: Essentially Africa, Azbine is a huge & diverse continent in terms of politics, climate, geography, and population density. Its northwest coast is largely divided up into feudal possessions of the Second Empire, as well as daughter republics of Brennos legitimized by peace treaty. The northeast corner, south of the large peninsula that is Melate's heartland, are the Majeri Republics (eqv. Venice); an oligarchic federation of city-states that are wealthy and loyal protectorates of Melate. Their cities are among the wealthiest on the planet thanks to the trade routes they sit upon. Along the eastern coastline are small kingdoms and city-states that also thrive on (or prey upon) trade between Azbine and Dahae, as well as Alamgiri colonies (see Dahae below).
Nirimzad (eqv. Congo Free State), the vast territory of a clan of green dragons, encompasses the circular sea in central Azbine and its surrounding coastline. The dragons squabble and intrigue against each other, unified only in extracting as much wealth as possible from their hunting ground. Their warlords and slave armies would likely overrun much of the central continent were they not constantly pitted against each other for the entertainment and petty grudges of the dragons.
Alwealde: South America, duh. The northeast coast is primarily occupied by the Kingdom of Selvas - a secessionist colony from the Second Empire that's also a feudal mess of direct colonial holdings and integrated native vassals. A federation of city-states styled along the lines of the Delian League control the rest of the eastern coast; they are theocratic governments run by a priestly class with rulers descended from a planetouched bloodline.
Hesperus: A handful of Belusan colonies with competing territorial claims squat on the coasts as well as the independent nation of Ladrinne (eqv USA) where the losing Parliamentary faction of the Dynnish civil war fled and established a government in exile. Ladrinne styles itself as the rightful government of the Dynnish islands. The old guard aristocrats are naturally fading away and being replaced by revanchist radicals inspired by the Brenne Revolution. Eastern Hesperus is easily a potential powderkeg for the next war, whether due to colonial competition or Ladrinne's parliament finally deciding to expel the monarchists from 'their' continent. Elsewhere in Hesperus, the natives are doing better than OTL, having never suffered the same population collapse from disease as that which followed contact.
Tola: Obviously an Asiatic continent, Tola's central steppes are the domain of orcish tribes and petty kingdoms (eqv Mongols). To the west, Ryaz principalities and successor kingdoms to an old Orc empire crowd against inland seas and compete for coastal access. To the east are the Golden Lands, the richest agriculture lands in the world thanks to a series of great lakes and high mountain glaciers that feed dozens of rivers. The agricultural wealth of the Golden Lands unfortunately also brings much ambition; the region is divided between six states with a variety of ideologies (eqv. Chinese warlord era)
Dahae: The Dahaen subcontinent is home to what's likely the most powerful empire in the world, Alamgir (eqv. Mughals). Alamgir's orcish ruling class possess sprawling lands teeming with millions, a strong export economy, and a large, well-trained military that is regularly tested in border conflicts with its neighbors. Alamgir shares the subcontinent and its archipelago with several other major powers and dozens of minor states.
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And here we are! My Rusty Quill Gaming crochet blanket. It was made for the fanzine titled Look Out! Lots of Magnificent Gifts by The Ones Who Got Away ( @towga ). And I couldn't have done it without the incredible help of my friends @sugar-peanut-cat, who crocheted a significant portion of the squares, @mori-stuff who helped me find good quotes to use and made sure they were well and truly accurate to the source, and of course @apolloborealis who ignited my excitement for this blanket, helped me with choosing colours for the over 200 episodes, and last but not least made the center square with the highly impressive embroidery of the Rusty Quill Gaming logo. Thanks folks!!!
Early progress pics
Late progress pics
ID: a 20 squares wide and 23 squares long solid granny square crochet blanket based on Rusty Quill Gaming. Diagonals alternate between being multi coloured with quotes on the squares (representing all 218 main campaign episodes as well as the Ancient Rome sidequest, ordered from left to right, top to bottom), and being solidly white, grey or black (alternating by diagonal between those three). In the center is a four by four sized black square with the Rusty Quill Gaming logo embroidered on it. Blue veins run across the blanket, increasing in density near the bottom and especially the bottom right corner. There are noticably more quotes filled in near the top than near the bottom. End ID
ID: two close ups of five by three squares. The first shows the top left corner of the blanket, the visible episode squares are:
1 - We start in the skies above London
2 - Bertie! Wellington!
3 - Go make more of yourself
11 - He's happy enough
12 - Keeeesh (which is an alternate spelling of quiche)
21 - If we die, it's on us
22 - Maybe he just forgot to breathe
23 - Does anyone speak morse?
The second shows the top right corner, with episode squares:
9 - I cast prestidigitation
10 - A friendly Other London hello
18 - I shall make a cringe roll
19 - You cannot give a skeleton scurvy
20 - I'm gonna make another cringe check
29 - Single Female Lawyer
30 - Sacrifice of the self. End ID
ID: the first is a close up of episode 179, a lavender square with three overlapping quotes. Where the words of the quotes overlap, they are embroidered with both or all colours. The quotes are:
It's good to have you here. (In black)
Okay, good. (In pink)
Good to have you back. (In white)
The second shows three by three squares, with in the center episode 181, which is the same deep blue as the veins and reads: It's okay to hope. From it, blue veins spread in all directions. To the top left is a purple and pink square without a quote, episode 171. To the top right is 172 - See you on the other side. End ID
ID: a four by four square consisting of black squares. On this the Rusty Quill Gaming logo is embroidered. A beige banner with the text Rusty hangs over a gear with the text Quill. Beneath it in a bright red semi attached font, with a fancy starting letter id the text Gaming. Behind the gear, to the left stands a grey microphone with red sound lines coming off it. A grey quill stands diagonally in the center back, with the tip resting within the G from Gaming, and the other end of the feather partially covering and ending above a red twenty sided die without numbers. End ID
ID: image one is a three by three grid with a fair amount of blue veins. The quotes are:
168 - Alexander Jalexander Nalexander
178 - What did they choose? (In white) Wrong. (In black)
187 - My turn.
Image two is a closeup of episode 50, a yellow square with an aqua outline reading: Sometimes you have to try. End ID
ID: the three by three squares in the bottom right corner of the blanket. The blue veins are coming in dense from up and left, and converge on the edge of the final episode square and final blank square. The blue veins are not able to break this border. The final episode (218) reads: There's always hope. To the top right of this episode is 208, which reads: Almost lost ya. End ID
#crochet#crafts#fibre arts#described#accessible art#rqg#rusty quill gaming#rqg spoilers#sasha rackett#zolf smith#bertie macguffingham#hamid saleh haroun al tahan#grizzop drik acht amsterdam#azu#cel sidebottom#alexander j newall#lydia nicholas#ben meredith#james ross#bryn monroe#helen gould#did i tag my friends to once again show my love and appreciation for them? yes. did i tag them to hopefully get more engagement? also yes.
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In the year 1187, I began as a journeyman to the village apothecary. When the call came to follow the noble King Richard the Lionheart, like many young men, I eagerly went. The Crusades brought honours and penitence to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. After months of delirious fever, I was fortunate to return to my native England with little worse than a limp and a lame shoulder.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore free as air—or as free as a man with neither health nor livelihood can be. Under such circumstances, I found myself wandering the countryside, where all the loungers and idlers live by their wits and the fleeting generosity of strangers. It was a meaningless, comfortless existence, spending what little health I had far more freely than I ought.
I knew I could not last like this for much longer; I had no choice but to make some drastic alteration in my style of living. The day I had come to this conclusion was in late spring, graced with the charming weather of my native isle; a heavy blanket of grey hanging above the tree tops and a chill in the air, which made my shoulder ache and my legs stiff, and I feared a turn for rain.
I hoped it was not far to the next village. It had already been some days since the kindly innkeeper, who had traded some food and a place to rest for the night for a poultice for his ailing daughter, had pointed me in this direction. These woods were dangerous, he had said, but there was a man in these parts who might be able to help a poor wanderer such as myself. It seemed an unlikely solution, but even a brief respite would be a relief to me.
The deeper I went into these woods, the thicker the growth became; the trees gathered tighter together and it became increasingly laborious to pick my way through the dense undergrowth. Only a dim light filtered through the canopy of clouds and leaves above, leaving the whole forest in twilight, with who knew what manner of men or creatures lurking within—I thought I spied the glint of a Sacaren spear, but it was only a shiny drop of dew upon a thorny bramble.
However, the whiz of an arrow through the air was unmistakable. I had no sword—I was no knight, merely a village apothecary who had gone to tend the brave souls who followed the King into battle, but when the battle began, all men became soldiers—but still I tensed for a fight, glancing around me in search of my assailant. But I saw nothing, only the deep dense woods and an arrow embedded in the tree behind me, mere inches from where my head had been.
“You had better be careful, an old campaigner travelling through these woods alone.”
I started at the voice which sounded just into my ear and turned to find myself face-to-face with a long, thin man who appeared to have materialised from the woods themselves. He was dressed all in green, with aquiline features, and rough bow in hand, another arrow already knocked into place.
“You were at Acre, I perceive,” the man said.
“Y-yes,” I said, too startled to protest at the pronouncement, “did you also follow King Richard the Lionheart?”
He shakes his head, a laughing curl to his thin lips, though there’s a darker irony lurking in his keen eyes. “I have only heard tales of the destruction.”
I can only bow my head in acknowledgement; the evidence of my hardships is unconcealable.
#v writes#ACD Holmes#Sherlock Holmes#John Watson#ACD Johnlock#AU#Robin Holmes of Sherlockwood Forest#so this happened#today's sketch#I've been writing a lot of descriptions of woods you see...#I'm hoping to at least turn this into a proper oneshot complete with plot!#I've done only the briefest research on wikipedia so there may be historical inaccuracies please do send corrections
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I've been working on a character sheet for my first campaign, and I wanted to ask if I could get a bit of advice on character creation, as well as some tips for improving a concept for the particular character I'm working on;
I'm not sure about class and stats yet, but it's a Dragonborn who worships a God that can only be described as vaguely as possible, with the only exception being his symbol, a great grey ring, with a golden ring within it. Any time the Dragonborn tries to go into detail about this God and the religion, their voice becomes unintelligible, turning from the common tongue to something that just sounds like a random, droning noise. Despite this, their mouth moves as if they were still speaking normally.
This Dragonborn also has an extremely petty curse that was cast upon him by a Wizard for "Wasting his time getting onto the road".
Any kind of beast that can be mounted naturally hates this Dragonborn with every fiber of their soul. Because of this, my Dragonborn has awful luck with any and all mounted beasts, regardless of species. The higher I roll, the worse the luck with said beast is. A Nat 20, for these beasts, will rid themselves of my Dragonborn permanently, As it will allow them to kill the poor guy instantly. The only question that is allowed to be asked is if my body is found in the aftermath, and if so, what condition it's in when found.
Sophie: That sounds like a cool character! But I'm not sure I can give much feedback on DnD. Our only TTRPG experience is with FATE which is at the complete opposite end of the TTRPG spectrum. (And most of that experience is my host's.)
Ghost: I will say that this part sounds unfun. "A Nat 20, for these beasts, will rid themselves of my Dragonborn permanently, As it will allow them to kill the poor guy instantly." I'm imagining playing a game and just rolling a 20 and then instantly dying.
It's such a boring and anti-climactic end.
And I think it discourages you from trying to ride beasts too much.
One of Indiana Jones's character traits is that he hates snakes. So naturally, the world keeps throwing situations at him where he has to get involved with snakes.
What you're going for here sounds like a fun character trait, where beasts just hate your character. You can have a lot of fun with that. But if you know that every time you try to ride a beast, there's a 5% you'll just instantly die, then that will make you not want to ride any animals at all. It makes you want to avoid using this too much due to that risk.
I don't know enough about DnD to say what type of penalty could be associated with bad luck from riding animals, but instant death is too much and will discourage fun situations where you're willing to risk riding an animal at all only for it to potentially backfire hilariously. In Fate, this would be handled by consequences. But maybe in DnD, you could represent this through some sort of debuff. (HP loss would be boring, IMO.)
Besides the penalty for the curse being too steep, We both love the vague god stuff and unintelligible language when trying to describe it. It gives off heavy lovecraftian vibes, which I'm sure is what you're going for. I'm sure you can have a lot of fun with that aspect of the character later on in the game if your character doesn't get murdered by a horse first.
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Riders
She'd found him hiding in a cave, on one of her many adventures. Pyra loved exploring the lesser-known places, the interior chambers of the mountains where they'd made their nests: internal organs which glistened with milky limestone teeth, a darkness that ran slick with secret crystal streams. Searching for this. Looking for him.
He was a rider. She knew that much from the paintings she'd found, in one of the earliest caverns, closest to the surface - tan likenesses of her and their kind, hunting mastodons and elk together - and from the stories that her mother had passed down, just as her grandmother had first recited them to her.
Once upon a time, the drakefolk tales began, there had been riders: two-legged creatures who would clamber up onto their backs, perched like a raven in between their wings, and cling on as they flew to hunt their mutual prey, explore uncharted lands across the lakes, and even to wage war against the others of their kind.
It had been a prosperous relationship. In exchange for the drakefolk's flight and breath-fire, which more than outclassed the riders' own crude spears and slings, they had provided healing balms and tonics, woven blankets for the winter chill, and even care for fresh hatchlings - which, thanks to their tiny, delicate limbs, had been known to surpass even a mother's own.
But then, one day, they had vanished. It may have happened gradually, over time, or perhaps all at once - the stories were unclear, but all agreed that riders, like other creatures from the myths, were now gone from this world. All that remained were a few relics that the elders had preserved: a tattered blanket one more tear away from rags, a broken spear without a hand to hold it tight, and a tiny skull the size of Pyra's eye.
At least, that was the way the stories all ended. Pyra didn't accept it, couldn't accept that such magical creatures were gone from the world for good. They had to be hiding, she decided. For some reason, they had come to fear the drakefolk after centuries of peace, and thus had fled into the hard-to-reach places, the secret passageways and bolt-holes hidden underneath their claws.
She resolved to find them, to make her belated peace, and bring them back again into the light. So it was that she'd begun her long campaign, out of her mother's worrying sight - she'd found another spear, which she'd kept hidden in a grotto of her own, and then the paintings, which had emboldened her resolve. Riders had lived here, within the caves, and that had bolstered her conviction they might also live here still.
Today was the vindication of that lifelong search, the conclusion of a journey that had begun in the dreams of her infancy, from her mother's first once upon a time. A rider, just ten talons ahead of her. A rider, sat in one of her caves. He would know that drakefolk existed, of course - they did not hide, could not hide, and their silhouettes were ever-present in the skies. But he had her at a disadvantage. Pyra could barely bring herself to breathe.
The man was leant comfortably against a wall, as if resting, but with his eyes fixed firmly on the entrance: warily watching for intruders, and now perfectly placed to track her own approach. Pyra wanted to speak to him, to say she meant no harm, but realised that he probably couldn't understand her language. A series of growls would likely only make him more afraid. So she waited, meeting his firm, unyielding gaze, until it seemed to soften in the light.
She padded closer, her claws clicking softly in the echo of the cave. He was not exactly as she had imagined him: not as beautiful as in the stories, or the wall-art, or the murals that the drakefolk had burnt into the sides of their mountains, talon-etched into the earth, or even blown as grey-smoke figures in the sky, for those that had that skill. But that was artistic licence.
Those who told tales were wont to exaggerate. The rider before her was not as wonderfully garbed as his fairy-tale peers, but that was only to be expected, and some would have worn rags instead. Not all of the riders could have been muscle-bound warriors, and many would be thus emaciated. Of course their hides had not all been stone-smooth, and no doubt many of their faces would be as mottled and colourful as his.
But he was hers, and he was here - and that made him the most beautiful thing that Pyra had ever seen.
She nuzzled him, by way of greeting, and encouraged him onto her back, where he fit that space between her wings - just as the stories said. As if they were made for each other: rider and drake, eternal allies who had written so many history together, their bond now revived for a bold and brilliant future. It was almost too exciting to bear.
With her rider - her rider! - in position, Pyra felt that there was only one thing for it - she had to teach him how to fly. That was the great gift of the drakefolk, after all: the sealing of their covenant, the wonder of the air exchanged for all the wonders of the earth. She took careful paces at first, making her way out of the caves, but once she was satisfied he could hold on she increased her speed, hardly able to hold herself back.
Pyra had been almost expecting a hero's welcome as she emerged from the cave, vindicated against all of those who hadn't believed, but of course the others were far away, back at the nesting grounds, as she had foraged far from home. That was no matter. Perhaps it was better, to steal a short while away from all of those staring eyes, who might wish to whisk him away for interrogation. She had him all to herself for a few hours more.
They spent that time airborne, swooping high above the mountaintops and low into the valleys, circling misty peaks and racing through sudden ravines, Pyra always careful to protect her rider's grip, feeling his touch upon her flanks, steering her to clear even the sharpest corners, impressed by his courage as they dropped and rose again. Then, finally, after one last lap of victory, they headed back to the nesting grounds. To the place Pyra called home.
"I found a rider," she called out, all breathless excitement as they landed at her family's perch. Her mother looked up at her approach, but there was no reflection of that enthusiasm in her emerald eyes.
"Oh, honey, that man's been dead for years," she told her, a broken note of pity in her voice. "They all have."
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heehee new token for Mickey! 🩸💋
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