did they start a book club or what

I wrote a thing!!! I didn't think I could write the characters in BG3, but I did it!

Also this is the first thing that I've written so please keep your comments constructive and kind. I mean it. Be kind.

It's a pre-romance Sharos + Astarion thing, about 2100 words long

-o-o-o-

“Are we nearing the camp yet? We've been walking for hours and my feet are killing me.” Astarion complained, as the party made their way up yet another steep hill. Hearing these words, the blood red tiefling in the bright orange robes stopped where he was for a moment and turned to face Astarion. His red-orange eyes looked about as warm and compassionate as they always did whenever Sharos looked at Astarion, if perhaps a little bit tired.

“Thankfully, we're nearly there, ” Sharos replied, sounding just as tired as Astarion. “I can see Gale's bright blue tent through the bushes over there. Look.” He pointed with one clawed, red finger and sure enough, Astarion could see the camp – exactly where they'd left it.

“Thank the gods,” said Astarion to no one in particular, before picking up speed to jog. Sharos, who was left behind, had to almost run to catch up. Behind them, Karlach also picked up the pace, which left the only other party member in the dust, twigs, small stones and dead leaves kicked up by their feet.

“Istiks,” Lae'zel muttered as she watched them go, irritably flicking a leaf away from her eyes.

--

“Oh man it feels so good to sit down,” Sharos groaned, several minutes later. The team had arrived in camp, had set down their packs, and had promptly flopped into the soft grass. There was a nice, juicy pork shoulder on a spit over the campfire and some potatoes baking by the coals, which Gale and Shadowheart were carefully tending to. Lae'zel was at her whetstone sharpening her sword, and Astarion had disappeared into his tent, the flap of material that served as the door had been rolled down, which meant he didn't want to be disturbed.

Not that anyone wanted to disturb him... They all knew how salty Astarion could be after a long day.

As for Karlach, the tall, curvy Tiefling had said something about heading for the nearby stream to wash off all the sweat. This of course prompted a couple of good-natured jokes about fish soup from Wyll that had made her laugh. Lae'zel, of course, had rolled her eyes again.

Eventually the food was served and consumed with great enjoyment. and the meal passed by devoid of any commentary. All of them were too tired after a long day to really talk as they stuffed their faces with perfectly seasoned, tender meat and nice fluffy fire-baked potatoes. At one point Gale called out to Astarion to see if the elf-turned-vampire would like to join them just for the company, but he was unpleasantly surprised to hear Astarion decline, claiming that he wouldn't be good company.

“Rather odd of him not to be out here, trying to be the center of attention,” Gale commented. "Usually he's all over us."

“That it is,” Wyll agreed. "Weird for him to be so quiet, as well."

“Chk. If he wants to wallow in his own misery, I say let him,” Lae'zel chimed in. The Githyanki's expression was fiercer than it had been a few seconds ago. She looked annoyed.

“Rude, Lae'zel,” Karlach chirped, having just returned from her dip in the stream. She now sported some clean, fluffy hair. Her one curling horn looked like she'd shined it up with something too, and she had her comfortable leisure clothes on now. She looked much happier and a lot more relaxed than she had before she had left.

“Chk,” Lae'zel responded, rising from her spot and heading over to her whetstone, where she promptly began to sharpen her sword again.

“Here. We saved a plate for you, Karlach,” Gale told her once Lae'zel was out of earshot, handing over the loaded plate of meat and potato that he'd been carefully keeping warm next to the campfire.

“Nice! Thanks,” was all the reply Gale got before Karlach busied herself with wolfing down her meal.

“I'm going to go check on Astarion,” Sharos told them all. “He might have an injury that needs to be looked at, and I'm a little worried about him not wanting to socialize. He's usually out here by now, sassing us and driving us crazy with his commentary."

“Please do,” Karlach implored him, between bites of pork and potatoes. “I'm worried about him, too.”

“Call for me if he needs a Cleric. I can't do anything complicated, but if he has pain I can at least do something for that. I know a fair few healing spells and herbal remedies,” Shadowheart added.

“Will do,” Sharos promised. “See you in the morning, if I'm not back before you fall asleep.”

--

The light scratching at his tent-flap was a surprise, though whether it was a welcome one would remain to be seen. Of course, Astarion had heard them all as they had spoken about him. He knew someone was coming, but was it actually the tiefling he'd had his eye on or was it going to be someone else?

“Astarion? Are you alright in there?” Ah... he knew that voice. It was the soft-spoken but warm voice of Sharos Helltalon. A blood red tiefling and the camp's resident sorcerer, whose magic had a tendency to run amok. At one point, Astarion would have been annoyed with the man and would have irritably sent him away... but now? All he could think about was how Sharos spoke to him with kindness, shared his blood freely, and looked at him not as a monster but as someone he considered a friend. The first time Astarion had bitten Sharos, everyone else had looked rather murderous as they'd converged on Astarion's tent, but Sharos had spoken up to defend him from them.

Then, Sharos had turned to Astarion and had spoken to him as if he were a normal person, with no condescension in his tone. Astarion could still remember the soft glow in those fiery, demonic looking eyes. He had seen no trace of malice, hatred, or fear in that gaze. Instead Sharos had offered him a gentle smile before offering him yet another taste of the thick, rich, deliciously salt-sweet lifeblood that flowed through his veins. He'd told Astarion they'd need to wait a couple days so the supply could replenish and Sharos could regain his strength, but once that happened, his neck was fair game again.

All Astarion had to do was agree to be gentle about it -- which he did.

Now Sharos was scratching at his tent flap with those long, pointed black claws of his, his silhouette just barely visible through the fabric. Sighing softly, Astarion moved the tent flap aside and gestured with one hand for the tiefling to enter. Sharos had to duck down as he entered so that his sharp horns wouldn't tear through the cloth that made up the top of the tent, but soon the tiefling had settled down in the opposite end, carefully avoiding touching Astarion's bare feet.

Yes. Bare. His boots had made the pain worse so he'd pulled them off, He hadn't bothered changing to his leisure clothes yet, wanting to wait until the pain in his feet subsided a little.

“Are your feet still bothering you?” Sharos asked suddenly, as if he'd read Astarion's mind.

“No, they're...” Astarion began, but then he paused. Did he really want to hurt Sharos' feelings with a lie? Was he truly about to push away the first person who had treated him like he mattered?

Of course not. He'd wanted Sharos' attention for this exact reason. He needed someone to care enough for him that he would be protected if Cazador ever decided to come for him himself.

“Yes, actually... They are. I thought it would be wise to keep weight off of them,” said Astarion instead, while looking Sharos straight in the glowing eyes. “It's nothing that some rest won't cure, but if you should happen to know anything that can help, I am all pointy ears at the moment.”

“I don't know any remedies, but if you are amenable, I could, well... rub them for you,” Sharos replied. “I might not be perfect at it but, my hands are soft and warm – and the pressure might help the pain.”

“I don't know...” Astarion's voice trailed off as he considered. He knew Sharos well enough to know he was soft and kind. He'd seen the way that Sharos interacted with the others – always ready with a kind word or a gentle touch. Sharos had even risked burning himself just to pat Karlach on the back for a job well done, and that was just after they'd defeated the green hag Ethel in her swampy lair.

“It's okay to say no, Astarion... My feelings won't be hurt, and I don't want to force you to accept a touch that you are unwilling or unable to handle,” Sharos told him. Then he was offering Astarion one of his hands and looking at him with the softest and most compassionate smile that Astarion had ever seen directed his way. “Shake my hand and I'll promise not to touch you, ever, without permission.”

“I-” Damnit, it was far to difficult to speak around this sudden lump in his throat.

-

“Astarion, are you okay?” Sharos asked, The vampire had tried to speak, but then he had seemed to choke on his own words and gone eerily quiet. He seemed much paler than normal, and between that and the brilliant white halo of curls that surrounded his head he was curiously devoid of any color.

“No, I am not okay,” Astarion replied, but then suddenly the vampire's red eyes were fixed on him in a fearsome glare. “Why are you in here, really? Is it pity? I don't want to be pitied.”

“What?! No, damnit,” Sharos told him, so forcefully that it almost came out as a snarl. “I'm not here out of pity at all. I'm here out of concern because in case you hadn't noticed... I'm your friend!”

“W-what?” Astarion stammered, staring at Sharos with big round red eyes as if he'd not believed. In this moment, he looked impossibly, and adorably, young – especially with his hair curled over his ears.

“You heard me. I'm your friend, and friends help friends.” Sharos told him, Now are your feet still hurting you, and will you allow me to give your feet a rub or not? A simple yes or no will suffice.”

“Yes, and yes... I'm sorry for doubting you,” Astarion muttered, in the subdued way that he did when he was actually being honest for once. He seemed to slump where he sat, staring down at his own hands. Then he stretched out a spindly leg and placed his foot in Sharos' lap.

“Damn... This foot's in bad shape, so it's no wonder you're in so much pain,” Sharos commented “When was the last time anyone checked your feet?” At the same time, however, he brought a hand down to pick up the foot in his lap so it wouldn't cause a reaction. Where the foot had been resting, it had been dangerously close to pressing against a place that Sharos didn't want touched. Astarion was already a stunningly beautiful specimen of an elf, but there was something about his vampiric features that just did it for Sharos. Having that slender foot with it's high arch in his lap had almost awakened parts of Sharos' anatomy that were better off left dormant, for now.

“I've lost track of the time since I've seen anyone for my health,” Astarion replied, still in that subdued way. “I don't remember.”

“Well, this might hurt a bit at first, but I promise it'll feel better as time goes on.,” Sharos told him. With that, he began to gently knead at the ball of Astarion's foot with the pads of both thumbs. He glanced up at Astarion in alarm when the pale elf let out a little hiss of pain, but after a few tense seconds where it looked like Astarion might try to kick him in the face, he was rewarded when the tensed up muscles in Astarion's leg loosened, He was rewarded even further when Astarion let out a low moan and flopped back against the pillows behind him,

“Oh, Darling.. you have forever to stop doing that,” said Astarion in that breathy, sensual voice of his.

Now Sharos would be lying if he told Astarion that his voice didn't affect him. It affected him very much, but instead of showing any sign of how that voice had sent a lightning bolt straight down his spine, he simply grinned a wicked, toothy grin at Astarion and began to work on the foot in earnest.

Neither of them could have said how many gasps and moans were pulled out of Astarion, but by the end of the night there was one thing that was certain... Astarion would be coming back for more.

That, and Astarion's feet wouldn't hurt him anymore.

Fin

-o-o-o-

The Century War of Wyverns: Prologue

God, it's been a while since we actually did longer writing on this blog, huh? Yeah, we're finally back, going through the old singularities. Don't expect much different in this part, since it's before we even get to France, but we hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

We'll have to set right what once went wrong, but first, things have to go pretty freaking wrong for it to count as a singularity. How wrong, you may ask? Let's find out!

Also, CWs: Religious Themes, Blood, Death

(The next part is here)

Footsteps rang down the corridor, the clatter of metal on stone. A grim young woman, dressed in chains and blackened armor, strode towards the central chamber of the castle. A spear was thrown casually over her shoulder. The screams had long since died down, but the metallic stench of blood still permeated the building. A fitting place for the beginning of the end, she supposed.

She entered the ritual room and was greeted by a scrawny man cloaked in dark robes. She sneered at him as he gave a report on the ritual. The sycophant was infuriating, but useful.

For now though, the ritual was ready: she had more important things to worry about. The man led her to the appropriate spot in the twisted mass of sigils and equations marked upon the floor. He then moved to his own position and began chanting. The woman invoked the incantation, as practiced.

“Heed my words. My will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny. If you heed the Grail’s call, and obey my will and reason, then answer me.”

A bright white light seeped out of the golden chalice in the center of the magic circle, tracing the lines drawn on the ground. As the light grew more intense, a wind picked up, pushing everything in the room away from its center. Everything but the cup and the woman.

“I hereby swear. That I shall defeat all evil in the world. But let thine eyes be clouded with the fog of turmoil and chaos. Thou art trapped in a cage of madness, and I the summoner who holds thy chains.”

The light suddenly shifted to crimson red, and the wind picked up speed. The woman had to shout the final lines of incantation to be heard over the gale.

“Seventh heaven clad in the great words of power! Come forth from the circle of binding, Guardian of the Scales!”

The tangle of light coalesced into seven points, fading into seven human figures. She addressed each of them in turn.

“Berserk Saber,” A young woman dressed in a pastel suit with a flowing white cape. She brandished a fencing rapier, giving it a few experimental swings.

“Berserk Archer,” Another woman, dressed in green. Her ears and tail twitched with discomfort as she glared at the rest of the assembly. Her longbow scraped the paneling of the floor beneath her feet.

“Berserk Lancer,” A pale man dressed in rich furs. He let a silver spear rest upon the ground as he looked around him, unimpressed.

“Berserk Rider,” A purple haired woman dressed in a veil and chainmail. She fidgeted with her staff as the black armored woman turned to her, struggling with herself.

“Berserk Caster,” A slight man in a black suit. He would be rather handsome, if not for the mask covering half his face.

“Berserk Assassin,” An older woman, wearing a mask and a fine red dress. She was surrounded by chains and spiked metal. She could barely contain herself at the sight of Saber, Archer, and Rider.

“And True Berserker.” A white-haired man in executioner’s garb. He polished his sword at a feverish pace.

“Thank you for coming, my fellow servants. I am your master. You know why you were summoned, yes?”

She looked around at the assembly.

“Destruction and slaughter, those are your orders. If a city is reveling in spring, destroy it. If a town is celebrating the new year, devastate it. No matter how evil or cruel, God will forgive your every transgression. Should He mete out punishment, that is fine in its own way. For this is no more than a means of proving God’s existence and His love.”

“Now, Gilles, bring him here.”

The man in black robes -Gilles- bowed. “Of course, my saint!” He ran out of the room. He returned shortly with another old man in tow, this one wearing extravagant white and red robes.

Gilles giggled as he pulled the man forward. “What do you wish done with this one, my saint? If I may be so bold, I do have a few suggestions.”

The woman in black sighed. “Please, Gilles, you’re ruining the moment.” With the source of her aggravation silenced, she took a split second to compose herself.

“Bishop Pierre Cauchon!” The woman in black armor greeted the new arrival. “It’s only been three days, but I can promise you not a second went by where I did not think of you! How has France been in my absence?”

The man simply stood there, wide-eyed and slicked in a sheen of sweat. He gave a few stutters, but coherence simply refused to leave his mouth.

Undeterred, the woman in black continued to taunt him. “Ah non, your excellency! This simply won’t do! Are you telling me you have already forgotten the face of Jeanne d’Arc?”

The bishop’s voice finally found him, and he screamed, “No, that’s impossible, she’s dead! This- This can’t be happening! It has to be a dream….”

Jeanne’s face fell. “Gilles, please make sure our guest doesn’t leave reality entirely, would you?”

Gilles brought his hand up to the bishop’s face. His sleeve fell away, revealing a twisted piece of metal wrapped around his wrist. He brushed it against the bishop’s face, leaving scratches that quickly began to bleed. The old man certainly didn’t calm down, but the feeling of his own blood dripping into his hands forced him to face the reality of the situation.

Jeanne smiled as the bishop’s situation sank into his expression. “Now that you are back with us, your excellency, it is time for your test. Here you stand at the gates of hell,” she gestured to the servants encircling them, “surrounded by demons, no less! Fortunately for you, I am nothing if not a devout follower of His word, so I offer you this one chance: pray to Him. For if He is to stay our hand, if He has judged this France worthy of existence, He must do so now.”

The bishop immediately fell to his knees, letting out wracking sobs. “P-please…”

“Hmm?” Jeanne d’Arc eyed him expectantly.

“Please, spare me!” He cried as he crawled towards Jeanne, snot-nosed and openly weeping. “Please! I’ll do whatever it is you wish; I beg of you! Please!”

Jeanne d’Arc kicked him away. He landed heavily a few feet back, still sobbing. “So, you pray to Jeanne d’Arc before you pray to God? Unfortunately for you, I am not a merciful god, nor do I accept indulgences. You beg for the aid of a heathen, and that makes you a heathen as well.”

A sickening smile crawled its way across Jeanne’s lips. “And you know very well the punishment for such a crime, don’t you?”

Somehow, the bishop’s face grew even paler as he scrambled to escape the room. Before he could even get to his feet, Jeanne d’Arc slammed the butt of her spear against the ground. Immediately, dozens of identical spears burst from the ground around the bishop, all set to skewer him. At the same time, a gout of fire rose from the ground, enveloping him completely. He was less than ash before a single spear pierced him.

Jeanne scowled. “That was disappointing. You all know your orders, it is time to spread this despair to the rest of France.”

“My saint-“ Gilles stepped in, “What shall I do with the other members of the clergy?”

“Let them go, Gilles.”

Gilles balked. “You can’t be serious!” he spluttered. “They are the ones who sent you to die! What about their punishment!” He whined like an impetuous child.

Jeanne gave a mirthless grin. “Oh, I never said anything about letting them live. I simply want to see how well our new servants hunt.”

Gilles immediately lit up. “Haha! Of course, my saint! I shall see to it at once!” He cackled as he ran out of the room, eager to fulfill her orders.

Jeanne addressed her servants once again. “Go on, make a show of it. And save room for the main course.”

Screams of all kinds filled the castle as its grounds turned into a slaughterhouse once again. The mad servants easily cornered the terrified clergy, and-

Then we woke up.

Campfire Conversations

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Astarion is bored at camp. And his target for the night... is Ferelith. Through persistence and bribery, she indulges him in casual conversation.

Read here on Ao3.

Despite the three bedrolls she had placed next to the fire, Ferelith still found it difficult to gain any comfort. She rolled up one side, placed her pillows against, and even placed a rock behind them to prop them well enough to use as a backing. She sat upright, flipping through her book, sketching in magic symbols and making small notes. At her side was another set of smaller books, one she would thumb through on occasion to double check her accuracy. All was quiet other than the whispers from the fire, which was precisely what she had asked for. But then again, there was always one who was never too keen to listen to what she wanted.

"What are you doing?" he announced his presence, bending over her shoulder as he peered into her book.

Ferelith blinked disapprovingly, giving him a side glance from the corner of her eye.

"Ah, yes, you're quite right," he sighed. "I don't care... I'm bored."

Again, she said nothing, but he took her silence as an invitation. He stepped over the log onto her blanket, with his boots still on, making her cringe as the dirt made a subtle foot print. He sat next to her, propping himself on one of her pillows. It appeared it was not good enough. And he removed it, fluffing it to perfection before placing it behind him once more.

"That was accident," he winced at the wrinkled and dirtied mess he left in his wake.

Kicking his feet to the side, he straightened his corner and brushed the dirt off lightly. It mattered little, as she had already to planned to wash it the moment he placed his boots onto her finely stitched threads. Her annoyance was made quite clear with a loud sigh, her book slowly lowering to her lap.

"I suppose I'm the one lucky enough to oblige you tonight," her face was calm but he could feel the irritation burning into him. "What would you ask of me?"

"You could light someone on fire," he shrugged with his bottom lip sticking out.

Her eyes shifted upward in thought of the idea. "I could. But I'm afraid I'm not so amused by your form of entertainment."

"You would be if you'd let me show you," he raised a brow.

Much to his disappointment, the only reply she gave was yet another one of her famous blank stares. He wondered where she went sometimes when she looked at him like that. Any normal person would have thoughts filled with disgust, though that was only humorous and much to his liking. But Ferelith was different than most. The look was usually empty. It was only until recently he noticed her eyes would often widen and her lip would curl upward at one corner. At least he knew he got some kind of rise from her.

"Where did you get those books?" he asked when he noticed he was losing her attention.

Ferelith was not easily distracted. When she was focused, there was nothing that could tear her eyes away. He had discovered this, unfortunately, through a series of trial and error in an attempt to know her true nature. Most things ended in eye rolls, rarely out of annoyance, but mostly with sarcasm. There were also multiple occasions where he was completely ignored. Which he found rude, but reasonable. It was actually a bit of a surprise she was speaking to him, now.

"A bookshop," she replied, tilting the book back up.

"Not an ordinary bookshop."

Her eyes flicked in his direction.

"Let's see," he picked a few of them up, many no bigger than a pocket book. "Arcane, Illusion, Mystic Runes... my, my... these look handwritten for personal use."

"Put those back where you found them, please," she commanded without so much as a glance.

"These look like spell books," he began to flip through the pages of one. "If I had to guess, anyway. I'm usually decent at guessing, though."

"You know if you look through the grimoire of another without permission, you'll gain the hex of that grimoire."

He suddenly dropped all three. Ferelith smiled wildly, her eyes still scanning the runes in her larger book. He hadn't noticed before, but while she was writing with one hand, the other held a book in place, often darting to another to scour through it's pages. It was like they had to separate minds of their own. The hand writing or sketching was moving very fast, but her penmanship was impeccable. He leaned over - careful not to disturb her- and saw she was copying whatever she was scanning from the other, smaller books.

"These are your grimoires?"

"No," she replied.

"So how is it you are able to look at them?"

"I have permission."

"I don't understand how someone so straightforward can have so much mystery about them," he shrugged. "It's somehow both annoying and attractive."

"That's precisely the impression I aim for," she smiled again, smaller and sweeter this time.

The sigh that came from him was intentionally loud enough for Ferelith to look up from her work. She observed her companion pull himself onto his feet, placing his hands on his hips next to her bedrolls. He looked about the camp when suddenly, he had a reasonably good idea. She had hoped his walking away would mean he had given up. On the contrary, however, she watched him walk over to Gale's things and begin to rummage through them. Suddenly, Ferelith was intrigued with the rogue. More than likely, she was interested to see if he got caught. Unfortunately, he did not. Instead, he came waltzing back across the camp with a rather large pep to his step, a large bottle in one hand and a goblet in the other.

Careful not to defile her blankets a second time, he seated himself next to her, closer than before. He fought with the cork inside the bottle for a moment, but sent it sailing into the air with a loud pop with the edge of his knife. He poured himself a glass, brought it to his nose, and inhaled it deeply followed by a satisfying exhale. He looked to Ferelith, who had regretfully not been able to look away. He had to admit, he won half the battle. But as he held up the wine as an offering, he felt there was more of a fight to be had. Ferelith rolled her eyes. Reached over to a flat stone next to her blankets.  And grabbed her empty goblet. She reluctantly held it out as he poured the contents into her cup. There was no hesitance as she brought it to her lips, her eyes dropping back down into the book without any further acknowledgement to Astarion.

"I don't even get a thank you," he complained.

"Thank you," she said before looking into the goblet a second time. "This is actually... quite nice."

"I hear the words, but I don't really feel the gratitude."

Ferelith looked up, finally giving him the contact he craved. There was always something unsettling he found looking into her eyes. They were yellow. But not like fire or the sun... no. Her eyes were pale. Like that of a once green plant craving attention; something to hydrate it, nutrients from the soil, or even just love.

"Fine," she said, tapping the ink to make sure it was dry before snapping the book shut. "I will indulge you."

"Words I've been waiting for all night," he shook his head and leaned forward.

Ferelith sat her work beside her, pulling her knees up and turning to her side. Her robe was of black lace and didn't do anything to add to comfort or practicality. But if there was one thing the traveling band of misfits learned about the warlock, it was that she wasn't always about the practical use of an item. She was very fond of beautiful things. And as she considered Astarion, she was inclined to admit the she was fond of his beauty as well. He knew this, using it to his advantage and tempted her at every chance he received. Ferelith was fully aware of the predicament she had somehow placed herself into. Which gave her more reason to ignore him. And as obvious as she made it, that did not prevent him from trying. Relentlessly.

"Tell me about the books," he said, propping his arm onto the rock they were leaning on.

"They were the last of a collection I was working on in the city."

"Anything interesting?"

"Just old spells and runes. Nothing anyone uses anymore. I've been transcribing them. They're spell books of old witches: long forgotten, tossed aside, half rotten old books."

"Witches you say?" he recoiled.

"Oh, yes. I believe there are a few useful things in here for banishments of the undead. If you're interested."

"Gods, no," he laughed, taking a sip of his wine. "But tell me more."

"I have one necromancy tome," she rolled over onto her knees. "And it's interesting. Not what I'm looking for, but interesting," she began to fan out her collection on the blankets.

Astarion leaned forward to examine them further.

"My job at the bookshop was to take these old grimoires and write them down into the bigger blank tomes. The ones that I found useful, I kept for myself. This is what is left of my findings. And the remains of my last project."

"What did you mean by 'what you were looking for'? Is there a certain spell you're seeking?"

"Not necessarily a spell. Just a translation."

"Have you had any luck?"

"A few words here and there."

"May I see the book you're translating?"

"Absolutely not," her eyes felt as cold as her reply.

"Ah, I see I'm reaching my limit for the night," he said with a tone of disappointment.

Astarion had grown accustomed to his interactions with his warlock companion being cut short. Rather it was her own doing or the work of another, he found their conversations always disrupted. It was a shame, truly, as he assumed Ferelith was the type to hold secrets. Even some that did not belong to her. The woman had been alive for quite sometime, though not nearly as long as he had. But he imagine there was something worth telling within the few lifetimes she had lived.

"Not necessarily," she replied lightheartedly. "After all, you've found this lovely bottle of wine."

"Humoring me for the sake of the wine, then?" a brow went up in confidence.

"I doubt I'd humor you for little else," her smirk was mocking his excitement.

"Remind to thank Gale in the morning, then," his mood went undisturbed. "I'd like to know how it is you intend to humor me now that books are off the table."

"Is that all you think I talk about?"

"I don't know," he shook his head, knowing she took the bait. "I've never heard you have a full conversation. With anyone."

"I converse very well, thank you," she took a sip of her wine. "I've just been lacking good company."

"You wound me," he lowered his gaze, but the tone was of sarcasm and he watched the corner of Ferelith's mouth turn upward.

Success.

"What is it you wish to discuss?"

"Discuss? I've no taste for lectures, my darling. I require something a bit more refined, something provocative. Tell me something interesting."

"Something interesting?" she appeared to be offended, her voice raising in pitch. "Well for one, when you strike a conversation with a person of interest, it's usually polite not to demand it from them."

"Very well," he rolled his eyes. "Tell me something interesting, please. I know you've got something just waiting to be told."

"If you're looking for exciting tales, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong colleague."

"No? Nothing, say, of your youth?"

"I assure my you, my early years are beyond dull."

"Surely not," he tilted his head down. "You have nothing? Dangerous spells? A jilted lover? A need for vengeance? Everyone has a decent vengeance story."

This time Ferelith laughed, tilting her head to the side away from him. But the sight of the smile caused him to straighten where he sat, leaning forward to see it fully. She rose a hand a to cover her mouth, but it was not enough for him to go without noticing... she was embarrassed.

"No vengeance here, I'm afraid," she looked back to him, her eyes meeting his. "But I suppose if you're interested in a horrible love story, I could tell you of my stay in Neverwinter..."

"Horrible as in tragic... or horrible as in just bad."

"Both," she nodded a finger to him.

"Even better!" he seemed overjoyed.

"Fine, fine. But I'll need a refill," she said passing her goblet to him.

Like the gentleman he was, he poured it for her. A bit too close to the edge, but he was eager for her to start the story to notice. She took a long drink, letting the contents give her the courage she needed. This was a bit of a defeat for her, but she was willing to let it go for the sake of his amusement. It was something to catch her attention, but to make her laugh was a feat of it's own. There was a sliver of a thought that perhaps she had misjudged him.

"This story is so humiliating. I can't believe I'm telling you," she shifted in her seat.

"Get on with it, then," he urged her to continue.

"Mind you, I had never been to a city before. Not even close to one. And I had just gotten a taste of what it felt like to wield magic. I found myself in the streets of Neverwinter in search for more knowledge. But I had no idea how to survive. There were so many others like me, just a crowd of beggers looking for work."

"Yes, I am aware. There are plenty of people swimming the streets looking for a better life in the city. A plague on society. Honestly."

"Indeed," Ferelith sighed, recalling the annoyance of the people who tormented her for those years of her life. "I offered my services. But found little coin in it. No one took my work seriously and no one was willing to give me the chance. I found myself resorting to other means of earning an income. Means that required a certain charisma."

"The vagueness of your statements is dramatic, but do go on."

"I acted as a smuggler," the bluntness returned. "It gave me good coin and the jobs I was hired to perform often involved a change of wardrobe. I was no good with the actual act of stealing or sneaking. A sleight of hand on occasion, but never anything that tactful. I was only a cover for whatever it was that I was charged with moving. It eventually earned me enough to rent a loft where I proceeded with my studies and transcribing work."

"Just a moment," he held out a hand to pause her. "The coin from working jobs like that... I don't believe that's enough for what had acquired."

"You are aware there are other ways of obtaining what is needed," the complacency in her tone was met with a guiltless stare. "Seduction."

"I'm starting to believe this woman you speak of is no longer with us," he teased with an exaggerated smile. "This talk of charisma and seduction, I've yet to see it."

"It's not for you to see," the wrinkle of frustration set on her brow and she turned her head, taking another long drink of wine. "I was young. And equally ignorant."

A long pause fell across Ferelith as she looked down into her cup. She could feel the affects and wished it would make the rest of the story a bit easier to tell. It was only a reminder of her failures. She wondered why she chose this to tell of all things. A jilted lover was not worth what she lost. With a deep breath holding back her hesitancy, she pressed on.

"There was a man who requested my services. He was a young human noble from a prosperous family of wizards. Nothing to himself, really, but he had access to the city. The fool that I was decided he was an easy way out of the slums. I charmed him, convincing him he was infatuated with me. And when it wore off, he was too polite to deny that he had invited me out for dinner."

"Commendable, if not a questionable choice," Astarion hid his surprise.

"The idea was to charm him at least in the beginning. And it worked," she shrugged. "I had charmed him enough times that he had fallen in love with me. Not entirely on his own, but still... it was his decision to place a ring on my hand."

"A ring?" he nearly choked on his wine. "You were betrothed?"

Ferelith slowly shook her head.

"You were married?"

"I was," her reply was far too calm for his liking.

An image flashed into his head. A memory he had once borrowed from her. He recalled the face of a young elven. Handsome. Proper. Filled with joy. But the way she spoke of him did not reflect the feeling he had felt when she looked at him that night. Then again, it was a human she had wed.

"Well," he cleared his throat. "I've dealt with this sort of thing in the past, but I don't think I've-"

"Astarion," she cut him off, causing him to look at her. "He's dead."

"He won't be a threat, then. Good," his face lightened. "Not that I was worried. But his death makes things much easier."

The sweet smile of hers came back onto resisting lips. The flirtatious advancements were completely unnecessary, as she was already glowing with a buzz from the wine. She blamed that rather than admitting she was getting any sort of feelings from Astarion at all. His confidence told him otherwise and he refused to be wrong. The more straightforward he was about it, the further it would take him.

"You didn't kill him, did you?"

A laugh burst from her, nearly causing her to spill her wine. "By the Hells, no. It's been nearly twenty years since his death, Astarion."

"I'm only making sure," he shrugged, a victorious grin spreading. "One can never be too careful."

"I take it your life has been threatened by other lovers of your past?"

"Other lovers?" he snapped his head, his brow lowering and his eyes watching her reaction deviously. "Are you considering yourself as a lover?"

Ferelith opened up her mouth to object. But her thoughts had halted her from answering. She did, in fact, word her previous sentence to include herself. Deciding there was no way around, she stared at him blinking unapologetically.

"I'm going to take that as a yes."

"No," she found herself unable to hold back.

"It's too late, I've already taken the first answer into consideration. And I'm very pleased to accept. You can't take it back, darling."

He took a sip of his wine, quite satisfied with the outcome and himself. Ferelith was not finished. However, the night had seemed rather pleasant and she felt genuine joy from their conversation. She allowed him to have his victory, if for anything, for making her laugh. It would be nice to have at least one good thing to remember him by if there ever came another time she considering slitting his throat.

"You'll have to tell me about them," she swirled her goblet.

"They're not important," he waved a hand casually. "Besides, you still haven't finished your tale."

"It's nothing, really," she looked down, not wanting to go into further detail."I lived the luxurious life of a noble for sometime. But it wasn't enough for me. I was greedy, stealing from the hands that were already willing to give."

"Naughty girl," his eyes widened.

Again, Ferelith smiled. "I was eventually discovered with nothing to blame but my own pride. I left behind everything. All my work, gone. Everything I cherished, gone. All my beautiful things... gone."

"Do I sense a bit of regret?"

The smile faded into a disgusted frown, a crease forming at the bridge of her nose. "The only thing I regret is allowing another man to become involved. If it wasn't for him, I would have likely inherited my own estate."

"And so the plot is revealed," Astarion tilted his goblet. "Alas, the husband was not the jilted lover after all."

"No. Just an impatient fool."

"So... you did intend to kill the husband."

"For purposes I'd like to remain unknown, I refuse to acknowledge you," Ferelith sat down her empty goblet. "But I feel no guilt for him. Either of them. I am only convicted with my own stupidity for allowing myself to lose everything that I had worked so hard for."

"It's a shame to lose such status... but still, there's nothing wrong with a fresh start," he replied flatly.

"Sometimes," she said with a sigh, "you must be stripped of everything before you can know true power."

Astarion looked at her with a cause for concern, noting the kindness in her voice. He seemed surprised and even somewhat shaken, lacking a voice for a response. But he quickly recovered and the usual smirk crept onto his face.

"If that's a way to say you'd like to remove my clothes, then I'd love to know your true power."

"Alright," Ferelith placed her hands across her lap. "I believe I've had enough for one evening."

"Already?" he whined. "We haven't finished the bottle."

"You are more than welcome to finish it... alone."

"No, no," he sat it down beside her. "You'll be up all night working. Take the bottle and relax. You've earned it."

"I'm flattered," she took the bottle by the neck. "Good night, Astarion."

The elf rose to his feet, dusting off his knees, leaving behind the empty goblet he brought with him. He gave one final bow to his companion.

"Good night, my darling."

reverie (NSFW)

doing some bingo card prompt fills to get back in the swing of things.

prompt fill: masturbation

you know me, it’s my usual. brief nero tol scaeva/wol but mostly this is just poor aurelia being helplessly feral over the dick that cursed her. 

set sometime during the crystal tower raid storyline. NSFW under cut, as always.

=====

In short order she had drifted into a doze and the memory became dream. No longer curled in a thin bedroll upon rock and crystallized sand, she lay basking in the comfort of sun-warmed grass with the soothing scent of lavender in her nose. A warm breeze stirred her hair and the fine crepe fabric of the soft and comfortable dress she wore, the hem tickling her leg with its fluttering. 

Over long moments the scope of the dream shifted, almost imperceptibly, in the hazy and oneiric way dreams so often did, and Aurelia knew without opening her eyes that she was no longer alone. 

She could sense the warmth of another body nearby, someone she knew. 

She could open her eyes, but she already knew who it was. She'd had this dream before: her best friend from girlhood, alive and well, lazing next to her and watching clouds drift overhead. Despite everything, it was a dream that never failed to leave her feeling better when she had it. 

She was already smiling as she shifted herself towards him in a lazy roll to one side. 

A warm hand caressed her cheek. She threaded her fingers through his hair to tug him in for a kiss-- and the moment he responded in kind, she realized this could not be Sazha. The soft, warm mouth upon hers was too full, his face was not clean-shaven but bristly with overgrowth, the nose too broad-bridged and prominent. And also not a Miqo'te-- her fingers tugged ungently at soft, dense curls rather than the fine silky strands she remembered. 

She kissed him anyway. 

In turn, he devoured her.

She tore her mouth away from his to catch her breath and he continued his conquest down the column of her throat as he feasted upon her softness: biting and nipping in tandem with the descent of slim hands and calloused, dexterous fingers. He rucked the thin fabric of her dress to her waist, and when his fingers hooked with a deft surety into the laces of her smallclothes to loosen and expose, she felt only heady excitement. 

He surged forward, slotting one thigh between her legs; she found herself rolling smoothly onto her back to bear the weight of a body that was lean muscle and sharp angles. The muscles of her calves flexed to wrap about his waist for purchase and nearly in the same instant she felt the sensation of fullness and friction: heat stretching and sliding into her own, made smooth and easy with desire. 

She moaned, a guttural noise that was almost a growl, the sound of it swallowed by her lover's mouth on hers as he found his rhythm. The heat of the sun seemed to warm her blood with each thrust; she could smell lavender and musk and cut grass, and the irregular sighs from his lips warmed the column of her throat.

Those fingers tangled in her hair, the roughness of them gathering it like strands of spun gold. 

His lips caught her earlobe, moving in that soft spot behind its shell as he rasped, "You know me."

She did. She tried to remember his name, tried and couldn't, not with all her focus bent upon primal need. Even as she racked her memory, she twined her arms around his neck and tugged on his hair so she could kiss him again. Teeth and tongue together grazed her lower lip. 

"Yes," she panted against his mouth.

Each breath become more labored, seeming to lodge in her chest. His warm hands trailed down her thighs to tilt her hips up; she clenched around him and keened into his kiss, her hips canting hard enough into his that it should have hurt. If she felt pain at all, it went unnoticed; all that mattered was that thread of tension she could feel coiling on itself and the blessed relief that lay in sight, just within her grasp.

If she could just say his name-

=

Aurelia sat bolt upright in the darkness, eyes flared wide and chest heaving and skin dewy with sweat, her lips still trembling. She felt sure she must have cried out but if it had been heard there was no response. The tranquility of sleep still reigned over the NOAH campgrounds as far as the others were concerned, it seemed.

Sleep was now very far from her mind. The sound of her own voice still echoed in her ears.

She exhaled, a trembling whisper of sound, and let herself drop back to the hard and uncomfortable ground.

Well.

That had certainly just happened.

She'd ask herself why, but it would be nothing short of denial, and he'd been on her mind as of late, she wasn't about to deny it. In her defense, of course, Nero tol Scaeva had been on everyone's mind since the moment he set foot on the dig site (and it hadn't been so much 'set foot' as 'sauntered,' really)--

Well, what did it matter? The occasional strange dream was to be expected, especially when one was under duress- and she had certainly been given plenty to worry about as of late. The Doman refugees, Alphinaud's new grand company, the move to Revenant's Toll, meeting Ser Aymeric, dealing with a seemingly unending stream of summonings requiring her to stamp out fires (and gales, and earthquakes)...

These dreams are perfectly normal and nothing to worry about, soothed the calm and collected clinician's voice in her own mind. Certainly nothing to lose sleep over.

Except she knew the moment she shut her eyes that she wasn't going to put it out of her mind, much less find any peace in sleep. Lying in the close and humid darkness of the tent she remembered the sharp pale blue of his eyes, bright with triumph, watching with avaricious ferocity as he took her apart. Gods, the way it had felt. That hot and grinding ache lingered still, unwilling to let her go.

Damn it. He'd cursed her without laying a finger on her. Gods damn it all.

She wet her lips with her tongue, staring at the peaked canvas above her head.

With a furtive glance at the closed tent flap she rucked her sleeping robes to her waist and lifted her hips just enough to wriggle her smalls down to mid-thigh. Slowly she ran her palm along the curve of one leg from the rolled waistband of her underclothes to the delicate flare of her hip and then inward, index and middle finger carefully encroaching between her legs with a light and questing touch that was almost embarrassed.

But she had to do this quietly, she tried to tell herself, the harsh sound of her breathing alarmingly loud in her ears. If G'raha or Cid or Rammbroes (or worst of all without a shadow of a doubt, Nero) found her in this state--

Well, short of sinking into the ground of her own free will until the next Age rolled round, the consequences defied imagining. She'd be the Eorzeans' first Warrior of Light to perish from sheer mortification, that was all there was to it.

She'd been on the verge when she'd awakened; she could still feel the throbbing pulse of her heartbeat, everything between her legs still acutely sensitive. It was difficult enough merely to measure her pace but the hardest part was trying not to think at all- trying not to think about what she was doing or why so that she could concentrate only upon the sensation of her own fingers: not half as rough, smaller and more delicate, rubbing against slick flesh in slow and careful motions.

Slow and careful, rather, until neither of those things were enough to satiate.

As her concentration slipped, so too did her resolve to remain silent. The pressure of her fingers increased, along with the speed and urgency of her rhythm and that ghostly and half-remembered thread of impending release quickly returned, built back to its boiling point. 

A small keening welled from the back of her throat and buzzed through the lips she had clamped tightly shut; her back arched and her neck bowed, pressing the back of her head into the thin pillow of her bedroll.

She bit the soft inner layer of her cheek hard enough to taste copper on her tongue. It hurt but the urge to cry out passed with it, briefly.

Her free hand slipped beneath the thin pillow in some last-ditch effort at self-preservation, tugged just enough of it free so that she could cover her mouth, muffle the sounds that wanted to escape. Her teeth clenched against linen and hemp, and her last cogent thought was the memory of that dream-voice whispering in her ear, goading her to say his name. She thought of flaxen curls snared about her fingers, the breathy sound that whistled from his lips as she tugged at them in a demand for his attention. The sensation of the muscles in his back shifting beneath her fingertips. The glorious frisson and friction of his cock, pistoning inside her-

That thought did it.

The breath left her lungs in an explosive and half-choked gasp as that coiling tension snapped taut like a wire, heat from her release radiating out from her core into her limbs. She writhed atop her bedroll for an indeterminate amount of time, legs twitching with small spasms, helpless to staunch the small flood that wet her fingers.

After a handful of seconds the aftershocks began to pass, rolling like an undercurrent beneath the hectic slamming of her pulse. She lay quiescent in the darkness with damp strands of golden hair sticking to her neck and one hand still pressed between her legs, chest heaving and ears ringing.

Willing her breathing deep and regular, Aurelia carefully flexed her hand after a few moments more to shake out the ache of an incipient cramp. Beneath the giddy feeling of afterglow she felt a mingled jumble of emotions that she tried to ignore-- guilt, mostly, and no small amount of confusion.

Her eyes alighted upon her staff, laid neatly alongside her journals and packs. The faceted surface of a crystal caught what little light existed in the close space, glimmering feebly.

"You could have at least had the courtesy to let me dream about someone I actually like," she whispered. She laughed, but there was precious little mirth in it.

Aurelia sighed and rolled herself into a sitting position on still-wobbly limbs, reaching for something to pin back her hair, then rummaged in her bags for her canteen and a scrap of hemp cloth for washing. If she was to spend a sleepless night, she might as well tidy herself.

Maybe in the morning she’d be able to look him in the eye.

DARING DO and the ADVENTURE of the X'IBIAN VASE! : MLP Fan Fiction : Part 10 of 21

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Daring Do

and the Adventure of the X'ibian Vase!

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

And

Carmen Pondiego

Cover Art by

Doctor Dimension

52630 words

© 2015 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 08/26/15

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge.  I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images provided that I receive a copy of each image for my archive.  

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fictions is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

Robber was getting upset.  The fool Lock Keeper was not paying any attention to the importance of getting these five motor trucks across the canal!  

“SIR!  I must speak to you!” he demanded imperiously.

Signaling the line of peasants to halt, the Lock Keeper stepped around his counter and glared at Robber.  He gave the slight inclination of the head of one of great importance to one of little value and snapped, “We HAVE SPOKEN! You are rude.  Your trucks cannot use this bridge in ANY CASE.  They will not fit.  You must find better courtesy and a different way to cross the canal!”

A watching pegasus in the same cotton robes and flat conical hat as the other watching peasants stepped out of the line for the bridge, courteously yielding his place to the mare behind him.  He stepped behind some bushes nearer to the Dunn See and a poor young beggar came out.  He had dark blue fur with an orange mane and tail.  His robe, though clean, was much worn.  His flat conical straw hat had straws fraying away from one side.

He approached Robber imperiously, and offered only the slightest of nods.  Robber might be a slow learner, and he was, but he had sorted out that he needed to fix whatever it was that had gone wrong.  He returned a bow of equals to the beggar.

“What do you want, umm … Sir?”

The beggar gave back another bow of superiority, though not quite so great.  “It is rather what YOU want.  Also, what you need.  Your greatest need is courtesy, especially your bow.  Being foreigners here gives you no special privilege.  The importance of the one you face is not in his social station, but in whether he can aid you or not.  Recognize that in your bow to him or suffer the consequence.

“All the ponies here know Shun Yu.  As the Master of the Lock, he is vital to all who wish to cross the canal, bring cargoes to the canal, unload cargoes from canal boats, ship or receive goods from the rail line.  You treated him worse than a beggar like myself.  He will not even accept a bribe from you, so badly have you done this.”

Robber nearly ground his teeth at the rebuke from so lowly a pony.  The only reason that he did not was his already spectacular failure.  As a prominent lawyer, he was used to listening only for the purpose of gaining information to use in a case.

“What of bribes?  We have heard that this whole place runs on bribes but if they do take ours they act as if insulted!”

“They were.  You do not understand the bribe at all.  For that I will not help you.  All that is needed is to look, think deeply of what you see and learn from it.”

The blue and orange beggar held out a hoof.  “For an alms reasonable to the importance of the information, I can help you to pass this canal.”

Robber was about to offer a few of the odd copper cash used in the Empire.  Thinking like a lawyer, he reviewed what he had just been told and instead offered the same twelve golden cash, with their funny square holes, that he had tried to offer to Shun Yu, the Lock Keeper.

The beggar smiled as he made the coins disappear.  “Come back up the road a little.  It is not marked but this side path down to the river’s edge is your answer. It leads to a tether barge for large equipment and other awkward objects.”

Robber turned to inform the others of the development.  The beggar passed behind some bushes.  An old earth pony, also blue and orange, trotted down to the empty barge toll house.

It took some serious effort but Robber did negotiate their passage.  One at a time, the first three of ROT’s motor trucks was loaded, chocked, strapped and hauled upstream to the other side of the canal.  It took over an hour each.

Overthrow grew impatient at the slow pace.  “It is just past noon already!  We have not got all day to do this trifling chore!  Here!  Put both of our remaining trucks on the barge!  There is plenty of deck space!”

He thrust five more cash into the blue pony’s hoof.  The coin vanished.  “This is most unwise. You must load, place them, and secure them.  I will see to the pulling as I have already.  The consequence of your action is upon you alone.”

The old pony stood by while both vehicles were placed on the barge and tied by Overthrow, with Robber’s help.  None of their hired ponies would go near the task.

The old pony, staying on the downriver side, managed the pulling gear for the tether barge from his toll house.

ROT’s team cheered as the barge settled into its dock.  Now that the barge was across, ROT’s hirelings swarmed aboard and untied both trucks.  With the roar of its mage/tech engine, the first truck inched forward to the barge’s exit ramp.  It was about half on the dock when the barge began to tip away from the dock.  The untended truck, free of its ties, was rolling slowly toward the river side of the barge.

With a loud gurgling hiss of escaping air, the tipping barge started to take water!  The roll of the barge pulled the ramp free of the dock.  Both truck and ramp fell into the gap with a huge splash and more burbling.  Free of the nearly balancing weight, the barge flipped up almost on edge, dropping the second truck into the muddy water.  Free of the pesky, mismanaged loads, the barge flopped back to upright, neatly covering both trucks!

The horrified hirelings managed to rescue the pony driver of the first truck by throwing ropes and dragging him to a maintenance ladder.

In the toll house, the blue pony neatly set the controls and left.  Passing behind some  bushes he seemed to vanish.

By nightfall, the barge had been pumped out and removed.  The salvage cranes meant to handle river wrecks had hold of the first truck and lines secured to the second one.

All was being managed by a furious Shun Yu, whose lock facilities had been seriously damaged by these bungling foreign amateurs!

He was not buying any tale of mysterious blue and orange ponies, either.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

As word of amusing disasters will, the tale of ROT’s trucks falling from the barge and the ghastly salvage situation that the idiot foreigners caused, ran up the river Dunn See like a wind driven wild fire.

Daring Do and her two students were sitting at an outdoor restaurant enjoying noodles, stir fried veggies and tea when the table next to them erupted in gales of laughter.

Soree, who was better at understanding Chineighese than Jeremy, got it first!  Holding her sides, she told Jeremy, “ROT really fouled up!  They were trying to bypass the end of the canal back there with a barge.  They miss loaded it and dropped two of their five trucks right into the river! They were still lifting them out by salvage crane this morning!”

Jeremy, giggling like mad, turned to Daring Do and suggested, “Remind me not to get on your bad pony list!  Did you know that they would run into something like that if they tried to use trucks?”

Failing miserably at looking innocent, Daring Do replied around a mouth full of excellent stir fry, “Not in detail, no.  I did know that they would not do bribes correctly and I was sure that the bows of courtesy would not be done right.

“That is certain to anger anypony important to them.  Especially officials like Canal Lock supervisors.  That pretty well guarantees that they will have trouble at such places.

“I am wondering about something else.  The mysterious blue barge keeper with the orange mane.”

“Why?” asked Jeremy.

“Because that color pattern is extremely rare in the Empire.  It is believed to be the worst sort of bad luck.  There is a long history of the worst pony caused disasters in the Empire being caused or connected to ponies of those colors.”

Soree said thoughtfully, “That sounds like a superstition.  Is there any reason to think otherwise?”

Daring Do nodded.  “The most recent of them was Admiral Wong Weigh.  He led over 90% of the Empire’s Naval forces in the attack against Qushi Han Le’s Formasa Archipelago headquarters base.”

Suddenly Jeremy remembered a thing that he had been told about the Pirate Queen.  “Qushi had a major in Naval Architecture, Strategy and Weaponry, right?”

Daring Do nodded as she sucked in more noodles.

“How bad was it?”

“The Admiral ordered no surrender to all ships before the attack.  They followed orders.  All Imperial Navy ships in the attack were sunk.  Qushi lost about ten of her fleet.  They rescued almost 45% of the Imperial Navy sailors.”

Jeremy winced.  “How did she wind up owning the Imperial Navy?”

Daring Do returned to her narrative.  “There is a big difference between being an outlaw and being disloyal to your nation.  The attempted Nippony invasion brought home to her the magnitude of the disaster to the Navy.

“She hit the Nippony fleet from behind and, working together with the Imperial Army on land, crushed them.  She used that victory to arrange a truce to speak to the Emperor and his advisors.  She offered to BE the Navy to make amends for the loss to the Empire.

“She remains based in the Formasa Archipelago and PAYS the Empire a percentage of her travel duties and other incomes.  The Empire has REFUSED offers by other nations to replace the fleet because the Navy was a huge drain on the Imperial coffers.  The present arrangement gives better defense and PAYS the Empire to boot.”

Jeremy and Soree grinned. Suddenly, Jeremy got it.  “It was a blue pony with an orange mane and tail that lost the Empire’s navy!  Any other examples?”

Daring Do nodded as she mopped up the last of her luncheon with a steamed bun.  “Lots of them, going all the way back to the gate keeper who let the Mong barbarians through the Great Northern Wall.  Blue ponies with orange mane and tail are all through the Empire’s history.  Connected to disasters.”

Soree gave Daring Do a sort of admiring gaze as she asked, “Is there anything in history that you DON’T know about?”

Daring Do looked up soberly and replied, “Far too much.  This whole expedition would have been unnecessary if I knew enough.”  She sighed, “Eris was so unhappy about having to open her love’s tomb.”

Jeremy’s brows pulled down in puzzlement as he asked, “What does Eris have to do with Im Farst’s tomb?  Her love?  Are you serious?”

Daring Do looked about to be sure that no pony was listening in before answering, “She has EVERYTHING to do with it.”

Soree sucked in a breath of surprise.  She said softly, “The Dragon Queen.  That was Eris? That was way back before the Nightmare Wars.”

Daring Do nodded slowly.  “It was.  Never forget how OLD Eris, Discord, is.  The Dragonequis was made in the earliest days of the world’s creation.  She is older than Celestia and Luna.  I know from both experience and being told by Luna herself that Eris prefers her female form and is only male when that is needed to accomplish her mysterious purposes.”

Jeremy sort of snorted, “And SHE loved Im Farst?  How could an Immortal being like her love anypony?”

Daring Do gave him a bleak stare that sent shivers down Jeremy’s spine.  “I don’t know, Jeremy.  I do know this.  Eris spends time in Memorial Meditation to this day. She has a shrine with the ORIGINAL Weeping Dragon painting that you have a copy of in your materials and offers incense and tea.  And still weeps for him.”

Jeremy suddenly sat up and looked about in puzzlement.  “Where is Guardian?  Come to think, I have not seen him since Singapone.”

Daring Do smiled.  “You are the observant one, aren’t you?  This is his land.  The Guardians have more work than keeping an eye on us.  Though I do believe that his replacement is not far away.”

Jeremy paused. “Would it be impolite to try to see who he is?”

Daring Do grinned at his suddenly found caution.  She replied, “It would be REALLY HARD to see HIM.  She is here, though.  And yes, it would be rude.”

Soree was happily filling her notebook with details of the Inn that they were rooming at.  She looked up from her task and commented, “Since we are going to Hong Wa, and this is where you met the Dromedaries that were such good support on the Darkling Expedition, I guess that is why we are waiting here, now?”

Daring Do nodded affirmatively. ”That is correct, Soree.  We are specifically waiting for Sang He and her herd.  I am really anxious to see her reaction to the new rifles that I had made for her and her followers.”

It was just then that there was a slight commotion at the front of the Inn.  A big Dromedary mare was seeking entry.  The top of the door only reached as high as her shoulder.  There were six more mares out in the Inn’s courtyard. They had bared swords that were only slightly curved, maintaining a uniform width almost their full length and clipped to sharp, angled chisel point.  There were fullers running most of the length of each blade.  These were sometimes called “blood gutters” by those whose imaginations ran wild.  Their real purpose was to both lighten and stiffen the blade.

Daring Do called out in delight, “Sang He!”  She ran out, bowing the bow of equals to the enormous dromedary.

As Sang He bowed back, Jeremy got a rough idea of just how gigantic a dromedary was.  Suddenly, thinking back to the pirate attack on the Sea Sage, Jeremy appreciated the design of the huge rifle that Daring Do had used.

Soree was in an utter transport as she sketched the scene of Sang He, hugging Daring Do, and in the process, lifting her hooves over a meter above the ground.

Daring Do bowed as one seeking a favor to the Inn keeper.  “An open tab for my friends, please, good Inn keep.”  She bowed a second time, offering three of the Empire’s square holed golden cash.  With a pleased smile, the coins vanished into the Inn Keeper’s big sleeves.  

A Wok big enough for a pony bathtub was set out in the courtyard.  It had its own fire box with a big fire of charcoal lit in it.  Oil was poured in by the gallon. From the kitchen came the near machine like hammering of cleavers chopping vegetables.  They were brought out by the basket load and stirred into the oil to fry swiftly.  The stir/strainers were the size of shovels.  And needed.  Cooked vegetables were lifted up to draining racks, ready to serve.

Using platters, instead of plates, the Sang He’s herd lined up, getting huge rice beds first, loading up on the vegetables and then pouring sauces over the whole thing.

As they sat to eat, the Inn’s wait staff became even busier filling four-liter sized mugs with water and tea.

Jeremy was about to comment that this did not look like the kind of help needed for a desert journey, when Soree pointed out, “It was in the Adventure of the Darkling’s Tomb.  They will fill up now and won’t need food or water for a week or more.”

Jeremy nodded,  “That was a part that I found hard to believe.  I think that I understand it better now.”

“Listen, Jeremy!  They aren’t speaking Chineighese at all!   We are hearing our first X'ibian!”

It was obvious from his reaction that Jeremy had not been paying attention.  Again.  He was looking at the fact that all seven of the dromedaries’ swords had been sheathed and the Inn had set out the huge seeming feast.

He growled, “So much for the courtesy of bows and bribes!  They just walk in here brandishing swords and get treated like royalty.  Nobody mentioned Threats!”

Soree and Daring Do stared at him in shock.  Soree shook her head sadly, “Doctor Do, is it too late to leave him in one of Qushi Han Le’s prison cells?”

Picking at batter fried broccoli with her chopsticks, Daring Do nodded glumly, “I am afraid so.”

Turning to Jeremy, she demanded, “HOW could you not know that the X'ibian dromedary herds declare peaceful intent by displaying their weapons in a non threatening stance?  It is mentioned many times in the Darkling’s Tomb, which you told me that you have now read, after the Qushi Han Le debacle.”

Sullenly, Jeremy muttered, “X'ibia is part of the Chineighese Empire.  I read the part about the Chineighese bowing and bribes carefully.  Since it is all the same country, I sort of skimmed the rest.”

Daring Do put a hoof over her eyes.  “Jeremy, do you even understand what an Empire IS?”

“It is a big country built on conquest of smaller ones, obviously.”

Daring Do said bluntly, “If you gave me that answer in the RU’s class on Ethnological Geography I would flunk you.

“An Empire is built mostly by conquest but it is a conglomerate of states held together by common political and economic interests as well as force.

“The Chineighese Empire has existed for 1500 years.  It has fifty two individual states, each with a unique spoken language and dialects.  Each one has been allowed great cultural autonomy as well.  They share a common written language.  Chineighese Ideographic representation.

“A poet in X'ibia can be read in any state of the Empire.  Likewise, anything written anywhere else can be read in X'ibia.”

Jeremy was looking sick.  “I did get a D in that class.  I never dreamed that it could be important.  I mean, why waste time studying inferior cultures?  We have Celestia and Luna.  We are the oldest culture on the planet.”

Soree’s eyes flew wide.  “That is insane!  Equestrian culture and society were so shattered by the Nightmare Wars that even the official dating places the year zero at 250 PNW.

“The Empire is roughly equally old.  Saddle Arabia is older, though not much.  The Nippony Isles are the oldest culture that I know of from my studies in that same class.”

Daring Do pointed out, “We are seeking a tomb that dates to only 224 years after the founding of Fortress Canterlot.  That makes its date roughly 1000 years BEFORE the Nightmare Wars.

“The X'ibian Empire lasted about 2000 years.  A thousand years ago, it was taken by the Chineighese Empire.  Following the successful practices of 1500 years of conquest, they allowed much autonomy, local language and culture to flourish.  We are going to a place where the local culture is nearly 3000 years old.”

Feeling cornered, Jeremy snapped, “And still nomads!”

Soree sweetly pointed out, “Just like the Rom?  You know, the nomads of the Equestrian Roads that Celestia and Luna both join whenever they can?  The ones who invented the first Mage/Tech engine?  The same who made the first successful heavier than air aircraft?  Who invented the Magic Net that we all use?  Those nomads?”

The discussion was ended by Sang He putting her head under the door frame, bowing as an equal, and saying in perfect Equestrian, “As fascinating as your discussion is, Doctor Do, we do have your expedition to get under way.   We have been examining your bills of lading to divide up our loads.

“We found listed rifles and ammunition that we wondered about, since there appears to be seven of them.”

Daring Do returned the bow and grinned.  “Seven rifles and seven in your herd.  It seemed to be about the right number of weapons for you!”

Sang He called back over her shoulder in X'ibian and her words were greeted by cheers.  The other six of her herd made an orderly stampede for the warehouse where the expedition’s equipment was stored.

Soon a very impressed Jeremy was looking at the loaded dromedaries.  It had taken little time at all. They all knew which boxes of supplies that they wanted.  Most of their time was spent examining the rifles and ammunition.  The literally small books of care and specifications.  They were happily pointing out the features and field stripping the weapons.  It was obvious that this was something that they knew how to do well.

Sang He gave some orders and the whole expedition put up the rifles and assumed their loads.  Sang He knelt and said, “Friend Daring Do, and lady Soree, it would be my pleasure to carry you.  Sadly, we will not make good time across the desert.  

“We are limited by the pace that your Jeremy can set.  After his offensive remarks and demonstrated willful ignorance, none of us will carry him.”

<==Previous   Next==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Inuvember day 23: Bend and Don’t Break (Prologue)

This will also get cross-posted to Ao3 and FF.net but for now I’m just going to put the prologue here because Tumblr does rather like hiding posts with links to other sites (at least when I make them :p ).

Title: Bend and Don’t Break

Rating: PG-13/T

Content warnings:

For the prologue - Canon-level violence (Inuyasha), major character death, mentions of death and injury to minors, torture

For the whole story - Canon-level violence (Inuyasha), major character death, swearing, body horror, psychological horror, torture, sexual intimidation, physical abuse of minors, psychological abuse of minors,  mentions of death and injury to minors

Pairings: Inuyasha x Kagome, Onigumo/Naraku > Kikyou (unrequited), Akitoki Hojo > Kagome (unrequited), past Inu no Taishou x Izayoi, male OC x male OC, female OC x female OC

Genres: Fantasy, Adventure, Drama, Romance

Summary: Fifty years have passed since the Avatar's disappearance. Fifty years since the war between nations came to a bitter end. A new world has risen from the ashes of tragedy. Yet the embers of war threaten to rekindle. Faced with a precarious future, a simple Water Tribe girl seeks to restore balance to the world. 

Author’s notes:  

Okay, I realise I'm not the first person to do an Inuyasha AtLA AU. Nor do I expect to be the last. However, this was one of those ideas that just wouldn't leave me alone. And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to give it a shot. So here we are. :)

This is going to be a long one. I'm estimating it's going to run for at least 30 chapters.

All of the original characters featured in this story are my own creations. All of the other characters belong to the parties mentioned in the disclaimer.

This story combines various elements of both canons, so there will be some differences between the world this story is set in and the world of Avatar: the Last Airbender. You'll discover those differences as the story progresses. For now, here's where it all begins...

She'd fallen for the last time.

Kikyou had held them back with all she had. She'd stood tall, her face set firm against the onslaught. She'd weathered the storm as the island was engulfed in frost and flame. None of the invaders had escaped her thunder.

They hadn't gained so much as a step without a fight. She'd shattered every wave of troops. The Fire Nation's army had scattered like leaves in a tempest. She'd stood her ground until her legs could bear no more.

Yet it all came to nothing in the end.

She hit the snow at the Goshinboku's feet. So near and yet so far. Her weary arms did little to break her fall. Her strength had bled away through a thousand cuts.

"Such a shame. It's not like you to disappoint me, Avatar."

The traitor's voice was poison in her ear. His smile was even more venomous. Satisfaction oozed from his every pore. She was in his hands now and he knew it all too well.

She shook her head, wincing as pain shot up her neck. Even that effort cost her. Her vision had blurred to a haze. Her limbs were frozen hard as the roots beneath her. The remains of her sodden robes lay crumpled around her. Standing was far beyond her now, let alone bending. Even the pain was leaving her.

No. She forced her eyes to focus on her wavering hand. The full moon's light gave her a glimpse of its outline. There was still time. She reached for the tree.

He raised a hand in response. She touched the trunk for the briefest of seconds. He flicked his wrist and snatched her away with a sneer. Her outstretched finger left a streak of blood.

Laughter followed in its wake. A cacophony of voices rose to join it. Even the firebenders took mirth in her current state. The Avatar, master of all four elements, crushed in the jaws of defeat. No match for a common soldier, let alone a bloodbender. She set her teeth against them. Let them laugh. Let them laugh out their final breaths.

That only fuelled their amusement. Laughter rose around her.  Laughter colder than ice. Shadowy forms writhed above her, drawing ever closer. Hunger glittered in their eyes.

He noted their presence with a frown. For all his power, he had yet to bend a spirit completely to his will. He wasn't about to give her up just yet. He drew back his arms and hoisted her into the air.

The pain drove what little breath she had left from her lungs. Her body hung like a broken doll. One movement and she'd be shattered.

His grip was cruel but the sight that met her eyes was far crueller. The shrine was little more than blood and ashes. Fire took no prisoners. Even the children hadn't escaped their onslaught. Those who still drew breath were nearing their last.

Not even her own sister. Her eyes sought Kaede's. She was hunched over the chief elder's body, one finger pressed to her fading pulse. Her other hand clasped the side of her own face. Her remaining eye fixed her with a silent plea. Her voice had given out long ago.

Kikyou's bile rose with her fury. The reek of charred flesh was thick enough to bring tears to her eyes. She clenched her teeth against them. He'd get nothing from her. Not even if it cost her life.

"So here we are."

His voice dragged her gaze back to his face. She sharpened her glare. It was the only weapon she had left.

It bounced off him like a pebble. A smirk rose to his lips.

"I suppose I should get the formalities over and done with." His tone was heavy with boredom. The soldiers snickered at his blatant contempt. "If you're quite finished, of course."

He didn't deserve a response. Her eyes said more than enough.

"Of course. I would expect no less from the Avatar." There was mockery in every syllable.  He motioned towards the encroaching spirits. "Very well."

There was no need for his encouragement. The spirits thronged around her, scrambling and tearing at one another as they fought for their prize.

The largest one - half woman, half centipede and all monster - had already staked her claim. She'd wrapped her hideous coils around the tree, encircling her in their deadly embrace. She bared her fangs at any who dared come near. The traitor gave her a look of mild reproach. He waved a hand towards the shrine's remains.

"There's plenty to go around. The Avatar and I will continue our conservation in peace." His tone brooked no argument.

Kaede uttered a soft gasp. Horror dawned in her eyes.

"No."

The word clawed its way out of Kikyou's throat before she could force it back down. He turned on her with a smirk.

"Oh? You object?" He beckoned the spirits onwards with a smile.

That was all it took for her rage to peak. "You will do no such-"

Her voice broke into a shriek. He flung her to the ground in an instant. Agony tore its way up her spine.

His smirk widened. He watched her torment with the same dispassion he'd show a fly. His hands stayed poised in threat. When her struggles finally ceased he crooked a finger towards her. He forced her gaze back up to his.

"It's for the greater good, after all."

His words stung sharper than her wounds. She steeled her glare against him. He could bend her any way he chose but he would never break her. She drew in a ragged breath and sent the Goshinboku a final plea.

Never.

A single spark glinted in response.

"The tree!"

The soldier's cry was urgent enough to tear his attention away from her. He released her with a curse. Her face slammed into the snow. She uttered a curse of her own before she forced herself onto one elbow. Not a moment too soon. The spirit tree had answered her call.

The firebenders muttered in confusion as a sudden wind stirred the tree's branches. Some reached for their weapons. Some drew out their flames. Buds of light flickered in response. The light of hope kindled in Kaede's eyes.

Only he remained unruffled, his stare fixed firmly on the tree. It made no difference. The spirits were already backing away. They knew when their time was up.

The earth gave a sudden shudder. The firebenders' mutterings gave way to cries of dismay. The branches were blooming into brilliance. Their blossoms lit the night brighter than the aurora.

That brought the frown back to his face. He steadied himself, only for the next shudder to send a crack splintering down the Goshinboku's trunk.

The cries gave way to screams as the tree's spirit portal flared open. The wind rose to a gale. Several firebenders turned tail and fled. Most of the others backed away. Their triumph was crumbling into terror.

A faint smile broke through her pain.

The earth ceased its shuddering. The gale became a squall. The spirits scattered as the tree burst into blossoms of light. The traitor's confusion gave way to horror. A gasp escaped his throat as the same light flared in her eyes. He'd lost his chance long ago.

She reached within herself and drew strength from the Goshinboku's roots. The tree blazed like a bonfire. Life flooded back into her limbs. She reached for the squall and drew its energies around her. She gathered her breath and launched herself into the air.

The fleeing firebenders halted in their tracks. Some dived for the ground. Too late. She flung out her arms and thrust them all away. The remaining spirits were swept aside like smoke.  Even the traitor couldn't stand before her.  His scream was lost in the tempest of her fury.

Her smile was still on her lips as she gave herself up to the light. This was all the time she needed.

Time to make an end.

Constructive criticism is very welcome!

I update once a month.

The Line [3]

…and where to draw it.

SERIES: Destiny WORD COUNT: 6,335 SHIP: Quinn/Drifter CHARACTERS: quinn leonis (AU), glyph, ash, finn, adebole, the drifter

iii. learning curve

n. the rate at which something can be learned, or the degree of difficulty in learning something.

The deck is utterly silent when Glyph transmats her down to it.

The air around her is still; the only sound she can hear is the creak of heated metal from her ship as it slowly cools and the occasional soft whisper of displaced air from whatever oxygen filters the larger ship uses.

With how beat up and old the ship looked on the outside she’s thankful the air even works--it would’ve been pretty damn embarrassing for Glyph to need to transmat her right back into her ship because she hadn’t thought to ask if there was atmosphere. She’s used to relying on her fireteam leader letting her know whether her typical avoidance of helmets would fly.

Luke called it her ‘allergy’. She called it ‘not liking to feel encased.’

Habit or not, forgetting to ask if she would be able to breathe upon leaving her ship wasn’t a lapse she would’ve made if she were running on all cylinders; she needed to get some decent sleep soon.

There are two ships docked to the left of hers, both devoid of any signatures within as per Glyph’s deduction; the ship to her left was specific to New Monarchy’s development line. Her eyebrows drop lower over her eyes in distaste.

There was always room for exceptions, but she doesn’t hold out hope that she’s not going to be dealing with a prick in the very near future.

Directly in front of the line of docked ships is an open platform with a set of triangular, dimly glowing pads, penned in by a glass barrier. She steps out onto the platform until she’s in front of the barrier, noting first that the bay the platform is in is much longer than it was wide, stretching a hundred yards into the distance to her left.

She’d almost think it looked like some kind of docking bay in and of itself, but with a glance behind her at the line of ships she lifts an eyebrow and wonders why it’s so empty save for the platform.

Across the bay from the platform she’s on is another one, identically penned in and featuring the same four glowing pads. If she squints she can just barely see the outlines of more ships beyond that other platform; definitely a four-versus-four setup, if all eight guardians present were divided to both sides of the ship.

Illumination finally draws her eyes to the left where another raised platform stands, almost resembling a podium and lifted above the other two in the bay. It’s connected to either side of the bay by a set of bulkheads.

And the illumination is coming from--

--gooseflesh ripples violently over her skin and she sucks in a startled gasp of air at the sight of what stands beyond the podium. It’s some kind of tank or enclosure, but what’s within is what leaves her cold and filled with terror.

Twisting forms of viscous, liquid-like darkness curls and writhes behind the glass, contrasting with the brightness of the glowing energy. The all-too-familiar contradiction of the paracausal and eldritch power of the Ascendant Plane, wielded by the Taken King to twist beings to his bidding.

And it was trapped within a tank like a spectacle in a zoo.

Flashes of a nightmarish, blackened landscape of endless gales and primal roars rush through her mind as she stares, unable to tear her eyes away for fear that the power she looks upon would reach out and rip her to shreds.

‘Breathe, guardian.’ Glyph says, the chirp in her head snapping her back to reality and allowing her to finally drop her eyes to the deck below her feet.

She lets out a shaky breath and closes her eyes, blocking out the blinding darkness and forcing her focus inwards until the sharp edge of panic ebbs and her breathing slows to normal. It’s been years since that botched mission on the Dreadnaught that killed Gil, and yet…

If only Eris hadn’t disappeared when the City fell. Quinn wants desperately to ask her how she’d put the fear of Darkness behind her.

‘We have another waypoint.’ She blinks at Glyph’s careful statement. The tone in its voice tells her that, with the sight of what was being contained on this ship, it wants her to turn around and leave. If she were being honest with herself, she wants to turn around and leave.

Once again, she’s left asking the same question: who the fuck is the Drifter, and what the fuck is he up to hauling around his own little chunk of the Ascendant Plane? And she knows that’s what it is--even with two barriers between it and her she can still recognize its awful power.

“Right,” she swallows the stone that had lodged itself in her throat, blinking rapidly and turning away from the glass, “which way?”

‘That bulkhead down to your left. I’m seeing light signature in that direction, too. Just three. The other four are on the other side of the ship.’

Well, she’s willing to bet that meant she’s about to meet her teammates. 

Her eyes drift back up to the twisting darkness just beyond the docking bay she stands in as she begins to move and then quickly return to what’s in front of her. A shiver ripples up her spine; there isn’t any obvious creature through that glass, but even so she can feel something looking back at her.

She leaves the docking bay behind, following Glyph’s directions. She’s so used to letting her team give her direction ad warning--it’s frustrating and unnerving to know she’s going to have to use her helmet while here.

Listening to Glyph tell her this way and that way, especially if they were going into a high-risk situation, would be inefficient at best and downright deadly at worst.

Pulling her armored duster’s hood up as she passes through a third bulkhead and into a room that stretches around a corner, voices reach her ears and Glyph goes silent as she approaches.

“I’m getting tired of waiting. I wanna fight something.” A woman whines.

“Calm down, Ash. We all had to pass through the Cabal exclusion field to get here--our fourth is probably taking it carefully.” A deeper voice responds; though it’s a statement meant to calm the first speaker, Quinn can hear irritation in it.

A snort follows the second voice. “If our fourth is so incompetent they cannot pass through such a threadbare fleet, I doubt their ability to contribute to this team I must work with.”

Her expression darkens with humorless amusement. Found the New Monarchy supporter.

The first one that spoke lets out a frustrated, impatient groan. Quinn imagines she was about to say something else, but all conversation halts when she rounds the corner and grabs the attention of all three.

She bristles at the sudden intense scrutiny and her eyes narrow at them in turn; hunter, titan, and warlock. The whole trifecta of classes.

With her being the odd one out.

The hunter is small, probably only a few inches taller than herself and clad in the typical lightweight but functional armor favored by hunters, painted in bright pinks, vibrant and obviously meant to call attention to herself.

She’s Awoken, her skin a dark purplish gray and eyes glowing silver, face heart-shaped and features petite and cute--but the look in her eyes is almost manic, contrasting entirely with the gentle upwards tilt to her lips. Her hair is wavy and cut to the line of her jaw, a light lavender in color.

“It’s about time,” she says, flipping a knife in one hand and settling the other impatiently on her hip, “I was promised a good fight and you almost ruined it!”

Impatient, trigger-happy.

“Don’t mind her. We were on Io and made it here first. That’s Ash, I’m Finn.” The titan introduces the two of them with a sigh and a glance at the hunter.

Their features are longer and more androgynous than Ash, body wirier than the usual titan but no less large. They’re Awoken as well--light blue skin, orange eyes, and a white painted marking down the middle of their lower lip and chin with short, blue hair.

They wear inky black armor that’s much heavier than the rest of those in the room is painted with bright splashes of white like a direct contrast to their hunter friend, and the fan-like sash they wore over their hip is white.

Patient, a mediator. But their armor is also banged up to hell and back, suggesting the titan is just as much into a good fight as Ash.

“Quinn.” She introduces herself in turn, shifting her weight and turning to scrutinize the warlock next. She nods at him in greeting. “I got held up on Earth, not by the Cabal.”

“It matters not.” He sniffs derisively, squaring his shoulders and standing with his hands clasped behind his back. His robes are swathed in whites and golds, gilded with elegant patterns and decoration, and he wears a black-and-gold patterned scarf tucked into the neckline. His skin and eyes are dark and his head is bald. Gold shadow matching the patterns on his robes covers his eyelids. “You were inefficient and I hope that does not extend to your participation in this challenge.”

Arrogant.

Of the three, Quinn thinks she may only be able to truly tolerate Finn.

Lips pursing she turns back to Ash and Finn. “I’m guessing we’re all in the dark on what we’re doing here?”

“Uh-huh.” Ash halts her knife-flipping long enough to reach back and adjust the black cloak on her shoulders. “Not sure what we’re waiting for now, but I’ve got half a mind to kick that weirdo--and you--for making us wait.”

Quinn ignores the threat and settles a pointed, stony glare on the warlock. “A challenge we’re all new to, so don’t act like you’re better than the rest of us.”

“We will see.” He replies with a curl of his lip. “My name is Adebole, and many do it but I would ask that you do not shorten my name to ‘Ade’. I do not like it.”

“Nice to meet you, Ade.” She fires back with as much false cheer as she can manage, smiling when his countenance grows angry. Well, they were off to a good start.

Across the room Ash laughs. “I’ve changed my mind, I like you!”

That makes one of us, Quinn thinks, quietly adding ‘fickle’ to her mental list of Ash’s personality traits.

A nearby door hisses open and, like her own entrance, all conversation or attempts at it halt, the four of them turning to look at whoever had entered.

The Drifter stops just inside the doorway and looks over all of them, his eyes settling on her last and a wry smile finding its way onto his lips. “Glad you made it, darlin’.” He says, and she frowns when she feels like there’s some kind of private joke in there that she’s missing. “Alright, rookies, ready to learn what you’re all here for?”

“I am no ‘rookie’, Drifter.” Adebole responds vehemently. Ooh, her petty response had struck one hell of a nerve in the man.

“Prove it on the field, rookie.” Drifter neither misses a beat nor acknowledges the aggression, and Quinn fights down a smile at the way the response aggravates Adebole further. Turning, Drifter steps back through the doorway and gestures over his shoulder for them to follow. “C’mon, this way.”

“You can’t just tell us the rules now?” A whine colors Ash’s demanding question as they all file after him.

“You wanna get dead, sister?” Drifter asks.

The question throws Ash off balance for a moment. “No?”

“Then pay attention and follow me.”

‘Quinn, if this ‘Gambit’ is dangerous enough that death is a possibility, you realize I can’t revive you, right? If you die, you die for good.’ Glyph opines to her, its discomfort heavy and grasping at her heart through their bond. ‘I don’t want to lose you, guardian.’

The swell of emotion that hits her after that threatens to topple her and her steps falter as she fights to get it under control. She says nothing, not wanting to speak aloud in her present company and hoping the determination and promise she dredges up can be picked up by her ghost.

She has no intention of getting herself killed--she wouldn’t go down easy even if she did.

She focuses on the Drifter’s back as they follow after him, her eyes narrowing; operating a dangerous, unsanctioned competition out of the Tower under the Vanguard’s nose, seemingly aloof about guardians that may die within it, and then the giant chunk of something his ship was dragging around and the damn tank of Ascendant power he kept--who was he?

She can’t think of a single reason for someone with good intentions to have enough interest in the power of the Darkness to keep something so dangerous in close proximity.

“Why are you keeping a chunk of the Ascendant Plane’s energy on your ship?” She asks abruptly, the question leaving her mouth before she can think better of it.

All of them stop when he does, her three other teammates turning to stare at her, bewildered. She pays them no mind, her gaze unwavering from the Drifter’s form as he turns to look at her sideways.

That damn smile of his doesn’t falter.

They stare each other down and there’s a look in his eyes that, for the first time since meeting him, she can safely identify--he’s daring her to back down from her demand for answers and the thinly veiled accusation.

He’s daring her to recant it and show a lack of spine.

But she doesn’t back down, and like with their first meeting the longer he watches her the wider his smile grows. Whatever he sees in her he apparently decides he likes. “Noticed that, did you? It’s a conversation piece.”

She bites down her immediate response to call bullshit as he keeps walking. She’s the first to resume following, pulling ahead of the rest of the group as the only one not still stuck on processing what had just happened.

“Hold on, you've got a chunk of what on this ship?” Finn falls into step next to Quinn.

“An alternate plane of existence, rookie. Try ‘n keep up.” Drifter replies breezily.

“How did you manage to do that?” Adebole demands, the tone of his voice having changed entirely--now he sounds dangerously interested. “You cannot just capture an entire plane of existence like a beetle in a jar.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes narrow again; she has a feeling that whatever he’s keeping it for has something to do with why they’re here on his ship, so she keeps quiet as they follow him while the rest of the group tries and fails to get him to answer their questions.

He turns a corner and stops in front of a sealed bulkhead, leaning to the side to input some kind of code into a keypad next to the door. Archaic, by City standards. It reminded her of the old Clovis Bray facilities half-buried in the sands that had swallowed Freehold on Mars--Golden Age tech and security. Had he appropriated it for his own purposes, or had it always been part of this ship?

The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss and they follow him inside, all eyes drawn to the object in the center of the room as he walks towards it. It’s an upright, clear cylinder with a wide base and what looks like input slots on four sides, twice as tall as herself.

Some kind of container?

“The fuck is that?” Ash asks, squinting at it suspiciously.

The Drifter stops next to it and raps his gauntleted knuckles on the clear chamber, resulting in a series of hollow thunks. His smile is lopsided and--proud? Did he make whatever it was? “This is a bank,” he answers. “Specifically, it’s a mote bank. There’s gonna be one in both teams’ arenas.”

Plural. More than one arena. Already different from the Crucible--no playing in the same pen, killing and being revived for points and objectives. But he had implied there was an inherent danger to the game, and that meant there was going to be more to it than the two teams being kept separate.

“Now, don’t you worry--your opponents got the same explanation you’re gettin’, but pay attention ‘cause you’re all in for a fight tougher ‘n more involved than any kiddie games like Capture the Flag.”

Damn, the Drifter must really not like Shaxx to be insulting him so openly; half the guardians in the Tower held the superstitious belief that the Crucible handler had some kind of supernatural sense for insults and slights, and no one wanted to be on Shaxx’s bad side.

He continues, stepping towards them. “Both teams transmat down to their respective arenas. In both you’re gonna face enemies you’re already familiar with: Cabal, Vex, and the Fallen--”

“What, are we racing to see who can kill the most enemies first?” Ash interrupts.

“I said pay attention,” The Drifter says sharply, and then continues as though she’d said nothing at all. “I wanna be clear: these enemies are as real as any you’d put a bullet in elsewhere and make no mistake, they will put a bullet in you and your ghost same as. This ain’t any kinda game to them. You got a problem with dyin’ for good, now’s your chance to skitter back home with your tails between your legs.”

None of them move, though she can feel Glyph’s open discomfort through her light and it’s probably silently begging her to take the chance while she still can.

The Drifter’s expression turns pleased in a way that has her shivering; she was beginning to understand why Glyph had said that something just wasn’t right with him.

He paces towards them again, gesturing idly with his hands as he speaks. “Now, whichever enemies chance decides to throw at you, you gotta kill ‘em. Simple, right? Well, all these enemies are gonna drop things called ‘motes’.”

As if to punctuate the statement, a small, glowing, pyramid-shaped object is transmatted into his hand--presumably by his ghost, who they all had yet to see. He turns to her and tosses the object over to her.

The second it lands in her palm she immediately fights not to throw it away. Her skin burns where it sits in her hand, even through the light gauntlets she wears and she again feels the distinct pull of the dark energy she’s so uncomfortably familiar with.

The mote glows softly as though innocent, but she knows instinctively that this thing isn’t any further from the Darkness than the Taken energy in that tank.

“Your jobs,” Drifter’s voice returns her attention to him and he gestures to all four of them, “is to collect the motes and drop ‘em in the bank, and to do it faster than your opponents do. You drop enough of those motes in the bank at once and it’ll send a nasty surprise to the other team’s side, blockin’ their bank and makin’ their lives miserable.”

She takes the moment of him looking away to quickly pass the mote off to Finn, trying not to make it look obvious how uncomfortable she was. “What kind of ‘nasty surprise’?”

“One of the Taken.” He answers, grin widening at the way she goes stiff in response. “How nasty it is depends on how many motes you got when you bank ‘em.”

Her chest tightens with discomfort; if the other team got this same explanation, it means they could do the same.

She supposes she can’t avoid fighting the Taken forever, but Sky-be-damned she isn’t excited to know that this competition was going to involve them, much less to know that she’ll be actively sending those monsters to attack the opposing team.

“Having second thoughts, darlin’?”

Quinn blinks up at him and tries to school the uneasy feeling away. She hadn’t even realized her focus had lapsed. He’s smiling at her and the challenging look in his eyes is back; he’s still reading her like an open book. “No.”

Stop calling me that.

He watches her for a moment longer before moving on. “Your first goal is to fill the bank before your opponent does.”

Unlike her, Finn, and Ash, Adebole is still holding onto the mote that the Drifter had tossed to them. They’d all passed it on as soon as they’d gotten a good look at it, but he’s still studying it with rapt fascination to the point Quinn wonders if he even heard any of the Drifter’s explanation.

“I assume,” Adebole says as though to prove her assumption wrong, turning the mote over in his hands and staring at it intently, “there is more to this competition than simply filling the bank.”

Drifter crosses the floor and snatches the mote out of Adebole’s hand, striding back over to the bank and completely ignoring the threatening glare boring into the back of his head. “You assume right.”

But he says nothing more, and after a length Finn lifts their eyebrows. “Are you planning on telling us what else, exactly, is involved?”

“Nah. You’ll figure it out. You’re all smart like that.” He replies with a kind of muted humor that Quinn just knows means nothing pleasant.

“And what do we get for winning?” Adebole asks.

“What do you get?” The Drifter laughs as though it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “You get paid, brother. Shaxx ever pay you to play his kiddie games?”

Competitive Crucible players did get paid, but that was by the Factions rather than by Shaxx himself, and not everyone made the cut for Competitive.

Ash slumps forward like a pouting child and Quinn wonders if she’d been one of the ones that hadn’t made that cut. “Not unless you count pats on the back and congratulations as payment.”

Finn frowns at her, but they share the same interest in their eyes. They fix a look on the Drifter. “You said our first goal was to fill the bank. Is there a second?”

A brief, darkly excited look passes his expression, so quick she nearly misses it. He lifts his arms in a half-shrug with easy cheer. “Your second goal is to be bad guys.” He tosses the single mote in his hand into the air, catching it and then with a deft motion slotting it into the base of the bank.

A silent gale of Taken energy fills it.

Quinn feels the blood drain from her face and her whole body goes rigid with pure, animalistic fear. Though the room itself is silent, the howling of that storm of Ascendant energy is loud in her mind and an echo of the Deathsong she’d missed hearing the end notes of by scant seconds more than a handful of times hides in its winds.

None of the others react, and with a clench of her jaw she fights to reign her fear in.

Oryx is dead. Her team had entered his throne world and killed him once and for all. The Taken had no King, and they were all the weaker for it.

She can handle this.

“What d’you mean ‘be bad guys’?” Ash frowns.

“Simple,” he answers, tapping the bank with his knuckles again, completely unbothered by whatever Darkness those motes were made of, “there’s the obvious--send Taken grunts to play merry hell with your opponents, maybe kill a few in the process, make ‘em lose their motes and set ‘em back. Put your team at an advantage.”

“And the not obvious?”

“Each team’s gonna have a gate in their arena that’ll open a portal to the other arena at intervals. You jump through, you get thirty seconds to play merry hell with ‘em yourself. Feel what it’s like to be the enemy.” He says, his grin turning wicked.

There’s something heavy to their silence this time. Something was significant about this particular difference from the Crucible--still guardians-versus-guardians, but something inexplicably off about it at the same time.

The sudden manic smile on Ash’s face makes Quinn nervous. “I like it. When do we start?”

Is she the only one unhappy that this whole thing involved the Taken? Is she really the only one that cares about how dangerous they are?

Just like that, the Drifter’s demeanor melts back into the unnervingly easygoing, friendly one she was becoming familiar with. “Head back to the docking bay you all got here in. We’ll get started soon as both teams are ready.”

“Wait, that’s it?” Finn asks.

“What, you want someone to hold your hand? May as well go back to the Crucible, ‘cause I ain’t gonna.”

“What about rules?” A scoff leaves Adebole. Did the man’s entire repertoire of moods consist of exclusively ‘arrogant’ and ‘irritated’? “You have only given us how the game is played.”

The Drifter laughs again. “Rules? There are none. Fill the bank, kill things, beat your opponents, and make it happen by any means necessary. How’s that for rules?”

“Fine by me.” Quinn says after a pause, hoping her voice doesn’t reflect the thick, uneasy feeling twisting in her gut. Adjusting the hair under her hood she turns and heads for the door. “Always preferred trial by fire.”

“Yeah, yeah, no one’s impressed, blondie.” Ash calls after her, pointedly loud, footsteps following after her nevertheless.

She ignores the insult; the thin boast hadn’t been much more than an attempt to ward off the way her skin crawled at the thought of being in an arena with Taken than anything else. No holds barred, and they were going into it almost completely blind.

Discomfort aside, she found herself actually anxious to get started.

‘You ‘prefer trial by fire’?’ Glyph asks her, nearly hysteric and fully incredulous. ‘Quinn, you could die. You could die and for what? I really don’t think Zavala would ever find out what killed you--I doubt it would spite him half as much as you think it would!’

“I don’t have a death wish and I’m not--” she stops herself from finishing the whispered statement, knowing damn well that she’d been about to lie not only to her ghost but also to herself. “Okay, so I’m also doing this to spite Zavala. How is this any different from when I’m active out in the field, Glyph?”

‘You’re not doing that for fun, for one thing!’

Ash cuts off anything else Glyph tries to say. “Ugh, great, I’m on a team with a loony that talks to herself.”

The lamenting whine nearly gets to her, but Quinn inhales deeply and forces it to roll off her shoulders. Save it for the enemies, Quinn.

They reach the docking back without any more words exchanged and file into it. Across the large bay stands another four-guardian team, fanned out onto their set of glowing pads on the floor.

Glancing at the others, she and the other three follow suit and fan out onto their own pads. They must’ve been heavyweight transmat pads--meant for longer-distance movement than what ghosts and field kits were capable of.

Reaching up to lower her hood she winds her fingers through her hair and loosely ties it back; when she lowers her hands Glyph transmats her helmet onto her head and she lets out a soft breath to steady herself, then lifts her hood again.

Footsteps catch everyone’s attention and all eight guardians in the bay watch as the Drifter makes his way up onto the podium between the two transmat platforms.

He looks between the two teams with a wide, toothy smile and produces several of his jade coins out of thin air. Like when she had met him, he rolls them out over his knuckles with deft ease. “Alright, mavericks--ready to see what you’re fightin’ today?”

No one says anything.

He’s left many impressions since she first met him, but Quinn amusedly tacks ‘show pony’ onto her what-the-fuck-Drifter list.

He snaps his wrist out and one of the coins sails into the air; all eyes are rooted to it as it arcs up and is caught again, then slapped down onto the back of his opposite hand. A heartbeat passes.

“Cabal on the field!” He calls out, lifting the coin and holding it out to them as though they were even remotely close enough to see what was on it. “Watch out for those Scorpius turrets, they sting worse than a left hook from Lady Efrideet.”

She nearly chokes out a laugh at the statement, thoughts of her scant few interactions with the Iron Lady that had briefly taken over Lord Saladin’s duties as handler for the Iron Banner tournament drifting through her head. She was a firecracker of a woman with a short fuse but otherwise good humor--how the hell did he know what a punch from her felt like?

Better question: what had he done to deserve it?

‘That coin has an engraving of the Red Legion’s sigil,’ Glyph remarks, ‘he must have separate coins with an engraving representing each enemy type. I guess that was what he meant by chance, earlier.’

She watches the Drifter as he steps over to a workstation set into the podium next to him and begins to work at it. He took the whole ‘chance’ thing seriously if he had to take the time to set up the matches immediately prior to them beginning.

“Am I synced with the other three?” She glances down the line where her teammates stood.

Glyph beeps in confirmation and a moment later their voices filter into her helmet. Ash mentions wanting to be the first to get a kill and Finn let out a long-suffering sigh. It isn’t until Adebole demands they all stay out of his way that Quinn speaks up herself.

“We’re on a team, asshole.” She snaps.

A laugh catches her attention and she looks back up at the Drifter, finding him nearly doubled over with mirth; a glance at the other team shows them all standing relaxed and still. Either the Drifter was tapped into their team comms and thought the vitriol was funny as hell, or he was just plain batty.

She’s not sure which to bet on. Yeah, this is gonna go great.

“Get ready to drop!” The Drifter calls out.

The glow from the pad underneath her intensifies as the transmat fires up and space rips apart around her.

“How old are you, little girl?” “Nearly nine.” “And you want to be a wizard when you grow up.” “I want to be a wizard now,” said Esk firmly. “This is the right place, isn't it?” Cutangle looked at Trestle and winked. “I saw that,” said Esk. “I don't think there's ever been a lady wizard before,” said Cutangle. “I rather think it might be against the lore. Wouldn't you rather be a witch? I understand it's a fine career for girls.” A minor wizard behind him started to laugh. Esk gave him a look. “Being a witch is quite good,” she conceded. “But I think wizards have more fun. What do you think?” “I think you are a very singular little girl,” said Cutangle. “What does that mean?” “It means there's only one of you,” said Trestle. “That's right,” said Esk, “and I still want to be a wizard.” Words failed Cutangle. “Well, you can't,” he said. “The very idea!” He drew himself up to his full width and turned away. Something tugged at his robe. “Why not?” said a voice. He turned. “Because”, he said, slowly and deliberately, “because . . . the whole idea is completely laughable, that's why. And it's absolutely against the lore!” “But I can do wizard magic!” said Esk, the faintest suggestion of a tremble in her voice. Cutangle bent down until his face was level with hers. “No you can't,” he hissed. “Because you are not a wizard. Women aren't wizards, do I make myself clear?” “Watch,” said Esk. She extended her right hand with the fingers spread and sighted along it until she spotted the statue of Malich the Wise, the founder of the University. Instinctively the wizards between her and it edged out of the way, and then felt rather silly. “I mean it,” she said. “Go away, little girl,” said Cutangle. “Right,” said Esk. She squinted hard at the statue and concentrated .... The great doors of Unseen University are made of octiron, a metal so unstable that it can only exist in a universe saturated with raw magic. They are impregnable to all force save magic: no fire, no battering ram, no army can breach them. Which is why most ordinary visitors to the University use the back door, which is made of perfectly normal wood and doesn't go around terrorising people, or even stand still terrorising people. It had a proper knocker and everything. Granny examined the doorposts carefully and gave a grunt of satisfaction when she spotted what she was looking for. She hadn't doubted that it would be there, cunningly concealed by the natural grain of the wood. She grasped the knocker, which was shaped like a dragon's head, and rapped smartly, three times. After a while the door was opened by a young woman with her mouth full of clothespegs. “Ot o0 00 ont?” she enquired. Granny bowed, giving the girl a chance to take in the pointy black hat with the batwing hatpins. It had an impressive effect: she blushed and, peering out into the quiet alley-way, hurriedly motioned Granny inside. There was a big mossy courtyard on the other side of the wall, crisscrossed with washing lines. Granny had the chance to become one of the very few women to learn what it really is that wizards wear under their robes, but modestly averted her eyes and followed the girl across the flagstones and down a wide flight of steps. They led into a long, high tunnel lined with archways and, currently, full of steam. Granny caught sight of long lines of washtubs in the big rooms off to the sides; the air had the warm fat smell of ironing. A gaggle of girls carrying washbaskets pushed past her and hurried up the steps - then stopped, halfway up, and turned slowly to look at her. Granny set her shoulders back and tried to look as mysterious as possible. Her guide, who still hadn't got rid of her clothes-pegs, led her down a side-passage into a room that was a maze of shelves piled with laundry. In the very centre of the maze, sitting at a table, was a very fat woman with a ginger wig. She had been writing in a very large laundry book-it was still open in front of her-but was currently inspecting a large stained vest. “Have you tried bleaching?” she asked. “Yes, m'm,” said the maid beside her. “What about tincture of myrryt?” “Yes, m'm. It just turned it blue, m'm.” “Well, it's a new one on me,” said the laundry woman. “And Ay've seen brimstone and soot and dragon blood and demon blood and Aye don't know what else.” She turned the vest over and read the nametape carefully sewn inside. “Hmm. Granpone the White. He's going to be Granpone the Grey if he doesn't take better care of his laundry. Aye tell you, girl, a white magician is just a black magician with a good housekeeper. Take it -” She caught sight of Granny, and stopped. “Ee ocked hat hee oor,” said Granny's guide, dropping a hurried curtsey. “Oo ed hat -” “Yes, yes, thank you, Ksandra, you may go,” said the fat woman. She stood up and beamed at Granny, and with an almost perceptible click wound her voice up several social classes. “Pray hexcuse us,” she said. “You find us hall at sixes and sevens, it being washing day and heverything. His this a courtesy call or may I make so bold as to ask -”she lowered her voice -“ his there a message from the Hother Sade?” Granny looked blank, but only a fraction of a second. The witchmarks on the doorpost had said that the housekeeper welcomed witches and was particularly anxious for news of her four husbands; she was also in random pursuit of a fifth, hence the ginger wig and, if Granny's ears weren't deceiving her, the creak of enough whalebone to infuriate an entire ecology movement. Gullible and foolish, the signs had said. Granny withheld judgment, because city witches didn't seem that bright themselves. The housekeeper must have mistaken her expression. “Don't be afraid,” she said. “May staff have distinct instructions to welcome witches, although of course they upstairs don't approve. No doubt you would like a cup of tea and something to eat?” Granny bowed solemnly. “And Aye will see if we can't find a nice bundle of old clothes for you, too,” the housekeeper beamed. “Old clothes? Oh. Yes. Thank you, m'm.” The housekeeper swept forward with a sound like an elderly tea clipper in a gale, and beckoned Granny to follow her. “Aye'll have the tea brought to my flat. Tea with a lot of tealeaves.” Granny stumped along after her. Old clothes? Did this fat woman really mean it? The nerve! Of course, if they were good quality .... There seemed to be a whole world under the University. It was a maze of cellars, coldrooms, stillrooms, kitchens and sculleries, and every inhabitant was either carrying something, pumping something, pushing something or just standing around and shouting. Granny caught glimpses of rooms full of ice, and others glowing with the heat from red-hot cooking stoves, wall-sized. Bakeries smelled of new bread and taprooms smelled of old beer. Everything smelled of sweat and woodsmoke: The housekeeper led her up an old spiral staircase and unlocked the door with one of the large number of keys that hung from her belt. The room inside was pink and frilly. There were frills on things that no one in their right mind would frill. It was like being inside candyfloss. “Very nice,” said Granny. And, because she felt it was expected of her, “Tasteful.” She looked around for something unfrilly to sit on, and gave up. “Whatever am Aye thinking of?” the housekeeper trilled. “Aye'm Mrs Whitlow but I expect you know, of course. And Aye have the honour to be addressing - ?” “Eh? Oh, Granny Weatherwax,” said Granny. The frills were getting to her. They gave pink a bad name. “Ay'm psychic myself, of course,” said Mrs Whitlow. Granny had nothing against fortune-telling provided it was done badly by people with no talent for it. It was a different matter if people who ought to know better did it, though. She considered that the future was a frail enough thing at best, and if people looked at it hard they changed it. Granny had some quite complex theories about space and time and why they shouldn't be tinkered with, but fortunately good fortune-tellers were rare and anyway people preferred bad fortune-tellers, who could be relied upon for the correct dose of uplift and optimism. Granny knew all about bad fortune-telling. It was harder than the real thing. You needed a good imagination. She couldn't help wondering if Mrs Whitlow was a born witch who somehow missed her training. She was certainly laying siege to the future. There was a crystal ball under a sort of pink frilly tea cosy, and several sets of divinatory cards, and a pink velvet bag of rune stones, and one of those little tables on wheels that no prudent witch would touch with a ten-foot broomstick, and -Granny wasn't sure on this point - either some special dried monkey turds from a llamassary or some dried llama turds from a monastery, which apparently could be thrown in such a way as to reveal the sum total of knowledge and wisdom in the universe. It was all rather sad. . “Or there's the tea-leaves, of course,” said Mrs Whitlow, indicating the big brown pot on the table between them. “Aye know witches often prefer them, but they always seem so, well, common to me. No offence meant.” There probably wasn't any offence meant, at that, thought Granny. Mrs Whitlow was giving her the sort of look generally used by puppies when they're not sure what to expect next, and are beginning to worry that it may be the rolled-up newspaper. She picked up Mrs Whitlow's cup and had started to peer into it when she caught the disappointed expression that floated across the housekeeper's face like a shadow across a snowfield. Then she remembered what she was doing, and turned the cup widdershins three times, made a few vague passes over it and mumbled a charm which she normally used to cure mastitis in elderly goats, but never mind. This display of obvious magical talent seemed to cheer up Mrs. Whitlow no end. Granny wasn't normally very good at tea-leaves, but she squinted at the sugar-encrusted mess at the bottom of the cup and let her mind wander. What she really needed now was a handy rat or even a cockroach that happened to be somewhere near Esk, so that she could Borrow its mind. What Granny actually found was that the University had a mind of its own. It is well known that stone can think, because the whole of electronics is based on that fact, but in some universes men spend ages looking for other intelligences in the sky without once looking under their feet. That is because they've got the time-span all wrong. From stone's point of view the universe is hardly created and mountain ranges are bouncing up and down like organ-stops while continents zip backwards and forwards in general high spirits, crashing into each other from the sheer joy of momentum and getting their rocks off. It is going to be quite some time before stone notices its disfiguring little skin disease and starts to scratch, which is just as well. The rocks from which Unseen University was built, however, have been absorbing magic for several thousand years and all that random power has had to go somewhere. The University has, in fact, developed a personality.